This book may have Imagine, Preferences, and one shot.
Don't trust the tittle!
WARNING
SOME chapter might have : ANGST, SMUTT, FLUFF , DEATH, BLOOD, DEPRESSED, SELF HARM, FIGHTING. AND MORE!
Also, the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Sherloc...
Summary: As life in 221B Baker Street go on, John learns more and more about who Sherlock’s ‘friend’ really was. John finds ‘friend’ defiantly ‘wasn’t quite the word to use’.
Warning: blood, Sad, Mention of murder,
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After John first saw Sherlock with the skull, he found himself coming across the scene more and more. It wasn’t that he thought it was a new thing, instead he believed that Sherlock felt he had no reason to hide his… Intimate moments with it anymore.
The second time John came across it was in the middle of the night.
He’d woken with a jolt, bad memories haunting his dreams again, making it unappealing to go back to sleep, and decided to wander to the kitchen and get a drink. It was there in the kitchen where he saw Sherlock.
The detective was curled up in his seat, sitting in it sideways with his knees almost to his chest, the only thing stopping them was the skull cradled tightly in his arms. John had never seen Sherlock look so distraught before, it almost looked like he’d been or was about to cry, and it pulled at one too many heartstrings for John to not go and try to help.
John made his way to his seat opposite Sherlock, and once sitting down saw that Sherlock was looking at him, and was on the verge of tears. Even so John didn’t believe he’d actually cry, even if this did mean so much to him. He guessed that was why he asked that one, stupid, world-opening question to begin with.
“What happened?”
----------
Sherlock was still relatively young when it happened, but six years was still a long time.
He’d been working as a consulting detective for a while, managing to get cases as good as they paid every so often, but he found he was content with not minding, not when he could come home to some semblance of a family.
But one night he came back from a case away early, and there was no one there like he expected there to be.
He waited, and waited, and waited. The night dragged on for hours without end. But before he knew it the sun was rising for a new day and his apartment was still empty aside from himself. That’s when the panic started to settle somewhere deep and dark inside his stomach.
He instantly went to work following your normal to-work route, taking in every corner and side-alley on the way there and back, and still found nothing. Not even a scrap of fabric or drop of blood to point to where you went.
Then he took things to Scotland Yard, there he met a man called Greg Lestrade, not that he’d ever be able to remember Lestrade’s first name ever again. Lestrade helped Sherlock try to find her, seeing as by now it’d been 24 hours after Sherlock came home to find her not there, so fling a missing persons warrant wasn’t a problem.
The problem was where and how they found her.
Lestrade, while not knowing Sherlock for too long, warned him anyway about going to the scene, but Sherlock didn’t listen and went anyway.
Her state made him freeze in his stride.
They didn’t even cover her.
She was pale, the dark matter of what could only be blood making her even paler than what she would’ve been. Her eyes were open, staring into this very soul with a glossed over haze. She had cuts and bruises everywhere, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms to take her home and keep her safe. But he couldn’t.
What was worse, what really made his stomach lurch like it never had before, was that her neck was cut. Not a slit throat cut, but cut in a way he’d never seen before.
Even from where he stood he could tell the cut was precise, careful, the kind a surgeon would do on a patient. The cut was also, not on her front, but right across where her spine met her skull, the only thing keeping it attached to her body was a handful of muscle and the skin of her throat.
“Sherlock?” Lestsrade asked, sounding an awful lot like John. “Sherlock?”
----------
“Sherlock!” John said, snapping Sherlock out of his memory-induced daze. Sherlock looked at the blond man in front of him, subconsciously caressing the skull’s temple. “Thought I really lost you there for a moment.” John sighed, leaning back in his chair.
“Maybe.” Sherlock started, “I guess, basically, I… Miss her?”
“Sounds right.” John nodded, moving to stand and rub the bridge of his nose. “Hey, maybe you should talk to someone about it? I mean, it’s not like the guy’s still out there-”
“He is. He is still out there, and that’s the problem.”
“Surely he won’t do anymore to you-”
“He took her ring, John.” Sherlock snapped, turning to firmly place his feet on the floor, the thud loud enough to cause John to flinch. “I need it back.”
“Her ring?” John whispered, “A wedding ring?”
“Yes John! What other ring would I give someone? I’m not that sentimental, and she knew that.” Sherlock stood, choosing to place her skull back on the mantle. “She understood that.” he said softly.
After that, John tried to be more understanding, and started doing research on his own about the skull.
It belonged to a woman called (y/n) (l/n). She was on her way to work when she seemed to be abducted by a man in a suit, and due to the nature that her body was found in, and where she was abducted, her case became known as the ‘Baker Street Butcher’. What John realized, as he watched the video that accompanied the article, was that the suited man looked a lot like the man he’d come to know as Moriarty.
That psychopath had been after Sherlock long before Sherlock even knew who he was.
