Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

[six]

Blistering waves of heat spat out from the sun, soaking up the ground. A rare moment for England: a heatwave. Sherlock slouched on the park bench, his arms moodily crossed and his legs energetically and impatiently twitching, expelling his constant, infuriating, excess energy. 

"I complemented Molly!" Sherlock groaned, "and then she tells me to come back later,"

"You asked her to see a dead body!" John hissed, shocked at his own confidence, "Would you care to tell me why I'm here? You don't seem the type of guy that's trying to make friends,"

"I dont have friends, I don't need them," Sherlock snarled, his whole body rocking back and forth now. 

"Then why am I here?" John cried.

"I dont know!" Sherlock shrieked, darting up erratically, "I asked you if you wanted to see a bloody corpse and here you are,"

"Because I want to be a doctor! Not because I want to be your friend," John snapped scathingly.

"Well good, being your friend was the last thing I intended!" Sherlock barked.

"But now I'm sitting on a park bench with you!" John riposted, a growl in his voice.

"I didn't ask you to stay," Sherlock derided, glaring at John in contempt.

Sherlock stalked off and John sat, alone, on the park bench, shuffling more central as if that would make him appear less lonley. He swung his short legs in a bored, child like manner, contemplating whether to get a taxi back to the boarding school or whether to wait for Sherlock and see what was happening. 

Sherlock wandered around the green of the park, his strewn thoughts tangling up in his pounding head. He snarled at the sound of a sickly voice belonging to Anderson.

"Freak, you were going to the morgue with John! What were you going to do? Show him what he is going to become - a corpse? Did you kidnap him?" Then, on noticing John was no longer present he added, "Have you already killed him? Uh-oh,"

"Anderson - oh wait? You and Sally? Oh dear, Sally's boyfriend isn't going to be pleased when he hears about what went on last night," Sherlock teased the baffled Anderson.

"Your stupid mind reading skills won't get you out of this," he spat.

"Mind reading skills," Sherlock sniggered, "ah yes,"

Anderson threw a punch, connecting his knuckles against Sherlocks jaw, which sent Sherlock backwards before he steadied himself and swung his own fist towards Andersons nose, kicking the backs of his legs too so he flailed unsteadily. The brawl continued - a tangle of arms and legs as Anderson threw weak punches and Sherlock lazily responded.

There was something in Sherlock that stopped him fighting back like he could, something that stopped him pinning Anderson down and ripping out his throat - not pity, oh no - it was like Sherlock felt he deserved to be punched, he felt like he needed to be hit as if that would sort out everything going on in his unstoppable mind.

Reluctantly, Sherlock sent his foot forward, keeping Anderson on the floor. He struggled hopelessly, eventually giving up and letting his body fall limp.

"Is this what all your victims look like?" He muttered to Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock retorted, shooting Anderson a crazed smile, "they don't get in my way," he paused, "and there eyes... so dead and lifeless, you can distinguish a dead mans eyes from an alive ones,"

Sherlock removed himself from his position, letting the slightly petrified Anderson free.

"You bloody psycho," He spat, "You're a bloody psycho,"

                                                                                           * * *

Cherry coloured liquid trickled from Sherlocks stinging nose, he gingerly wiped at it with his fingers, aiming to stop the flow of inexpensive wine. He trailed back towards John who was still on the park bench, his legs yet to stop swaying back and fourth.

"What happened?" John interrogated, aware of the browning blood plastered over his pale face.

"Fell over," Sherlock lied, unconsciously wiping at his nose.

"You... fell over? Believable," John accepted sarcastically, standing.

"I know right,"

It seemed to be John's natural instinct to tail Sherlock, although unsure why, he just continued going with the flow, shadowing Sherlock's every direction.

The sun continued to blaze down, unforgiving to all those who walked directly under it. They reached the hospital - and morgue - once again, gazing up at the tired structure.

"We're trying again?" John asked, uneasily fiddling with his hands.

"Yep," Sherlock replied, popping the P, "that's the reason you came here, with me, isn't it?"

"Well yeah," John agreed, although not fully convinced of his intentions.

"So it would be pretty disappointing if we didn't at least try again,"

John shrugged, minimally agreeing.

When Molly finally let them into the morgue she hovered nervously by the door, jumping at every little sound, the fear was clear: she didn't want to risk getting caught.

It's not that Sherlock wanted to get caught - it's just that the risk of it didn't alarm him and he was willing to take it.

"Molly, please don't worry yourself - if worse comes to worse I threatened you to let me in," Sherlock told Molly.

"Then you'll get into trouble - really bad trouble," Molly expanded.

"Yeah," Sherlock agreed carelessly.

The corpse was layed out on one of the scratched metal tables, coated in a thin, cotton sheet which distorted the bodies outline. Sherlock peeled back the white cloth and John groaned at the sight of it.

It's skin was a pale, sickly green, it's hair was like wire, short and hung loose just above it's shoulders. It had freckles: specks of brown paint flicked around her nose and on her cheeks. The eyes were dull and glassy, they say eyes are the key to the soul but these, these were like marbles, empty glass.

"Well, Dr Watson, any ideas how she died?" Sherlock questioned, examining the body himself.

"Sherlock... there's an actual... an actual corpse-" John stuttered fumbling for the correct words, "S-Sherlock,"

Sherlock seemed unfazed and slightly puzzled with John's reaction, he briefly gazed up at Molly to see if she could give him any clues as to what he might have missed, but she just dropped her eyes.

"Of coarse? I told you that?" Sherlock said.

"Y-yes, but - but I didn't expect t-to actually se-see one, I dont know wh-what I expected b-but not this..." John faltered, stumbling over his words.

Sherlock replaced the cloth over the body and let his eyes dart around the room awkwardly: a pot of pens, a stack of paper, a closed cupboard, a telephone.

"H-how are you not... why are you not..." John began in a croak.

"What?" Sherlock genuinely didn't know.

"How are you not reacting like a normal person?" John shrieked, annoyed at himself for reacting like that.

"It's just... just a corpse," Sherlock muttered, he felt slightly upset at Johns reaction to both the body and himself.

Molly stumbled to the side allowing John to escape the white walls that were closing in. Sherlock just stood there, dumbfounded, he didn't know what he felt, or why he had even considered it a possibility to bring John with him. He swayed slightly, like he was made of cardboard, any moment now he was to topple forward.

"Oh," he croaked.

Oh.