Clipped Wings

Chapter Six

•Sherlock•

John was livid. He was absolutely, mind-bogglingly raging. But that was only because the average human tends to feed off of the emotions of surrounding others and I was just as upset, if not more, than him. We had been screaming profanities at everything in sight ever since I had dropped my coat on the hook beside the door only to hear a strange thunk hit the wall. The content of my jacket pocket proved to be an unwelcome sight.

"WELL. HOW DID IT GET IN YOUR COAT!?"

"IF I KNEW, DO YOU YOU THINK I'D BE ACTING LIKE THIS?!" I screamed back at John as I leaped across the island in the kitchen, sending years of cluttered research crashing to the floor. The only thing remaining unaffected by my rage in the entire flat was was a single opened envelope. And no matter how hard I tried, there was no information I could obtain from it. Nothing.

It was newly manufactured, London-printed stationary with small letters written in graphite found in Ticonderoga Pencils. Watercolour painted on the front was a mix of Crayola dye and the H2O from bottled water with no mineral enhancement. The only scuff was a slight dog-ear that had most likely come about from being jammed into my pocket. In other words, the letter was painfully ordinary. And that is exactly what made it so undetectable. Any prints or DNA on the letter had been wiped before being slid into my pocket. There was nothing, not even handwriting since it was too inconsistent, that could be traced.

I was a blood hound without a trail.

"SHERLOCK!" John raged, ducking just in time to miss a flying Mason Jar that I had violently made airborne. "I SWEAR IF YOU THROW ONE MORE THING AT ME I'M GOING HOME!"

"WITH YOU BEING IN DANGER?!" I screamed back, my mind reeling through the now-memorized contents of the newest letter. There had to be some sort of clue, some indication towards a direct target. But no! There was nothing! It was like a taunt and I was loosing it!

"I am NOT in danger! And even if I was, I wouldn't know since you wont show me the bloody letter!"

"YOU DON'T NEED TO SEE IT!"

"You are acting like a child, Sherlock! A child!" He exclaimed, fists by his side that were clenched so hard that his knuckles were white. His jaw was set like iron and his eyes like steel. "Show me the letter."

"No."

"Show me the letter."

"I said no!"

"Show me--"

I involuntarily cut him off with a hiss of agony. I bit back my surprise at the stinging pain with a clenched jaw. My destructive habits usually were purposeful. Deliberate, even. I had fallen into a habit of using the massacre of tangible objects to hide the ripping and tearing of what was left of my fragile sanity. But this was new. I hadn't even noticed the movement of my arm as it collided my fist with the steel edge of the stove, cutting a clear gash just above the knuckle joint of four of my fingers. Just one more piece of evidence to prove that my mind was being slowly disconnected with reality.

John stopped yelling immediately. Scarlet beads of blood ran down my fingers and dripped onto the counter top. It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't the only recent wound to have torn my skin, either. I had failed to realize that my fits were causing all sorts of injuries to my fingers. Even though the currently bleeding gash was by far the largest, the ranging scale of healing scars told of a much larger story. But only for a moment since John's inner doctor came rushing to my aid, gauzing and wrapping my knuckles in a neat, tight bandage. It was extremely uniform, displaying John's past in the military services.

He sighed as he looked up from my hand. "You seem worse every time I visit you."

"You act as though I am a hospital patient awaiting hospice care. I'm bleeding, not dying." I snapped as I sated my anger for long pacing. The throbbing in my hand dulled my need for destruction.