Sherlock

IV

After my second meeting with Sherlock it didn't take very long before I saw him again. He helped Lestrade out with a minor case and he asked me out to dinner again. I never quite knew why he always did that, but it is entirely possible he just enjoyed the company. After that I didn't see him for months until he showed up at my flat to get a second opinion on a case he was working on. I was very surprised to see him, but he just waved it off when I asked him how he got my address.

Sherlock was becoming a conversation topic at the Yard, and I was surprised to hear people's somewhat coloured words on him. Donovan and Anderson had particularly harsh opinions about him, they were both convinced he was a psychopath and that one day we would be standing over a body he put there. At first I tried to defend him, but eventually I just chuckled to myself and let them have their fantasies.

Every time I met him I was captured by his talent. I put him up on a pedestal, often forgetting his humanity. Failing wasn't a word I linked with Sherlock Holmes, not in the slightest. I hadn't ever given it a thought that he isn't always right and that he too is a flawed human.

I remember when I realised all this. When I saw his humanity and his flaws. I hadn't seen him in almost seven months, but I'd stopped thinking about it - I figured he was busy. It was a regular case I was working on, and I found myself in an old building - more popularly referred to as a drug den - looking for a possible witness. The walls were dark with graffiti, all windows were gaping holes and everything seemed to be on the brim of falling apart. I walked up the stairs slowly and listened to the sounds coming from the upper floor. Heavy breathing, moaning, creaking. Most of the rooms had gaping holes where the door would have been, but I focused on the closed doors. I opened the first one with my hand on my gun, but inside was nothing but a young man sitting against the wall, clearly under the influence. I closed the door to move on. I opened the next door and stopped in my tracks. Frozen to the ground I looked at the scenery before me, Sherlock Holmes, slumping against the wall. He was wearing an old t-shirt, locks from his hair were stuck to his forehead and he looked dirty and tired.

I don't know how long I stared at him, but I eventually managed to croak out a quiet, Sherlock? He opened his eyes, before closing them again immediately and opening them slowly.

He looked at me with narrow eyes before smiling slightly, "Smith, what a nice surprise." His words were barely slurred and he seemed to have perfect control over his actions.

I didn't know what to do, I just stood there, frozen to the ground. "What are you doing here?" I asked, regretting the worried tone.

"I'm working a case," he said, as if it was the only possible answer.

I looked around him, at the cigarette butts and the needles. My chest lifted and sank in a deep breath as I closed my eyes to put myself together.

I opened my eyes, "I'm taking you home."

He furrowed his brows and pursed his lips. "No you're not," his tone wasn't mean or degrading.

"Well I sure as hell won't leave you here," I said, with frustration I didn't intend.

He stood up with much difficulty and walked to the door. He reached for the door handle, but I grabbed his wrist and slapped my handcuffs on it, then on my own. It was a childish move, but it was the best plan I had.

He looked down at the handcuffs, then up at me, "what are you doing?"

"I'm taking you home," I started walking towards the stairs and he followed me begrudgingly.

"No," he insisted, but I kept going down the stairs.

"Well, then I'm taking you to the hospital," I stated. He stopped and I was yanked back by my wrist.