Marriage and Mental Illness (Sequel to Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles)

Terror of the Oppressed

Towards the middle of the chapter, were will be a *** where it will switch into a sort of third person for political statement type stuff. It'll make more sense when you read it.

Four Days Later

John's POV

Sherlock and I were washing breakfast dishes when his phone rang. My stomach dropped, and I swallowed. I glanced over at him and saw face pale considerably. His hands were buried deep in the soapy water so grabbed the phone. I put it on speaker, waiting for the caller to speak. As suspected, it was Greg.

"You were right. A Mullah named Muhammud Kazim was attacked a few blocks from the Mosque that he teaches at. Fortunately, we had a couple people staked out there, and he's fine. Injured, but he'll live. But I think you're going to want to talk to him, come down to Yard. I'll brief you when you get here."

"We're on our way," I replied before hanging up. Sherlock sighed, drying off his hands. The cloth scraped against his skin as he visously dried his hands. He threw it back to the sink, biting the inside of his cheek. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head, mind spinning into the the thought that he could've done something more. That it was his fault. 

 I grabbed his arm, understanding the guilt he was feeling. "Love, this is why we called him. It prevented that guys death, it's okay. We're going to go talk to him, and it'll be fine. He'll get proper treatment, we know that. Okay?"

He nodded yet his eyes were still laced with angry guilt. I rubbed his arm, understanding the pain he was feeling on so many levels. "Come on, let's go. We can finish the dishes later," I murmured, grabbing our coats.

"Thank you," he muttered on our way to find a cab. I gave him a grim, tight-lipped smile.

"It's no problem. We can talk about it all when we get home." 

It, being how he felt, his guilt about the case, about Olivia, about this day a year ago. The weight of the world, pressing into his shoulders.

We finally found a cab and sat back as it weaved through the London traffic. 

"I know we're doing everything we could to keep people safe, but what if they attack someone else after a failed attempt?" I asked. I didn't know whether or not I really wanted to know.

"They won't. They gave us that clue, it was meant for us to figure out. A score keep. They'll wait a few days before doing anything else," he answered, shaking his head.

I nodded, reaching for his hand. Our fingers threaded together and he squeezed them gently, grateful. I ran my thumb across the back of his hand in response, understanding.

Greg was waiting for us in his office to brief us on the situation. His hair was unkempt, he'd been running through his hands through it. He did so again, sighing heavily. "Thank God you're here. And that you figured it out beforehand, it saved his life."

Sherlock merely nodded, asking for the details. Greg motioned for us to follow him out of his office and led us to one of the interrogation rooms. A Pakistani man around fifty sat inside, his left arm wrapped in gauze. He wore a turban and had a short, coarse beard. Exactly the kind of man the Skinheads hated.

A paramedic sat with him, checking his vitals as Donovan questioned him. Greg nodded his head to him on the other side of the one-way glass.

"Muhammud Kazim, a Mullah at the Mosque. He says he went in early to talk with a woman who was terrified about the Skinheads, and when he left not long after her, he himself was attacked. The Skinhead pulled a knife, but our guys were on him before he could do much damage. He's got a shallow laceration on his arm and he's understandably shaken up, but he seems to be doing well."