Sherlock: Dancing with Death, Part Two

Chapter Three

Sherlock

It was nearly one in the afternoon by the time Sherlock and Beatrice had finished walking to the flat, and he was never so relieved to see 221B.  Trying not to seem as if he were hurrying, he followed Beatrice into the flat, and then quickly barricaded himself in his room.  He needed to think, but his mind was fogged with emotions, and he was not happy about it--or, at least, he didn't think he was.  He was, quite simply, confused.

Suddenly there was a knock on his door, making him jump, and Beatrice's voice came through.  "I'm making tea, want any?"

He took a deep breath.  "Milk, two sugars," Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice normal.

What was wrong with him?  Why was his heart beating so quickly, and his palms sweating for no reason?  Was he sick?!  It didn't make sense to him.  He hadn't seen Beatrice in a month--perhaps he was just excited. Yes, he decided, that was it.  He was just happy to see her.  That was definitely it.

John

When John came back from seeing Mycroft, the flat was, at first glance, suspiciously empty of consulting detectives.  He found Beatrice sitting in the parlor, reading, but still didn't see Sherlock.  When he asked about this, Beatrice pointed to Sherlock's room.

"He's been in there since we got back," she told John with a shrug.  "He was acting kind of nervous during lunch, but I gave him some tea a little while ago, and haven't seen him since."

Remembering what Mycroft had said about Moriarty, John approached the door to Sherlock's room uneasily, and knocked.

"What?" Sherlock's voice demanded, sounding, as usual, rather annoyed.

"You alright?"

There was a slight pause.  "Fine."

"May I come in?"

John heard Sherlock sigh.  "If you must."

John opened the door to find Sherlock sitting on the side of his bed, looking rather stressed out.  His blazer had been tossed onto a nearby chair, and the tea that Beatrice had given him sat untouched on his bedside table.

"What's up?" John asked, closing the door behind him.

"What do you mean?"  Sherlock watched John carefully with his cold, slate-blue eyes, showing nothing as to what was going on in his head.

"Something's wrong," John sighed.  "Just tell me."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, a bit too quickly.

"Is it about Beatrice?"

"I am fine," Sherlock repeated, beginning to sound irritated.  Suddenly his phone beeped, and before John could say anything, he had already taken it out.  Then he gave a small smile.  "Lestrade.  He says there's another killing--by the same person, he thinks."

"In the same day?" John said incredulously, raising an eyebrow.

"Obviously."  Sherlock jumped off of the bed quickly, grabbing his blazer on his way, and rushed past John into the parlor.  "Beatrice, get your shoes, there's been another killing."

"What--Where?" Beatrice demanded, jumping up from her seat as John came in after Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at his phone again, then seemed to go a shade or two paler.  "The flat downstairs."

Sherlock

With John and Beatrice hurrying behind, Sherlock ran down the stairs, taking three steps at a time, and, with thoughts of Mrs. Hudson, banged on her door loudly.  "Mrs. Hudson?" he shouted, as his flatmates caught up.  "Mrs. Hudson--"