Lines and Numbers (Johnlock)

Chapter 9

Aight bitches, I'm back. Let's continue. I dunno what to say about this chapter. Not that much drama, really. I might write smut next chapter lmao.

It was about a week and a half later when Lestrade next contacted Sherlock again, on a Thursday. Sherlock had stayed safe, stayed with me. He'd let me stitch him up and check if there was anything else I needed to take care of. We'd wrapped his arm in bandages and now his older cuts were mostly gone and the newer one was healing well, and was soon to be gone. Lestrade contacted Sherlock about a case. He hadn't been told what was really going on, but obviously, a rumor has gotten out that he was anorexic. There was nothing going around about him self harming.

Sherlock had been cooped up in the flat for too long, and I knew he needed something to keep his mind off of the fact that he was eating, or that he wasn't hurting constantly. We decided to go check it out, and we headed to the scene of the newest crime.

What happened was this: Several people, all gingers, had been contacted by a stranger over the phone. The stranger had made them an offer- give the stranger £1000, or a sacrifice. Obviously, nobody believed them and just hung up. That was a mistake. The sacrifice turned out to be them.

Sherlock and I arrived at the scene of the crime, the fourth. They'd only found the first and second ones Tuesday, and the third and fourth yesterday. It was in an alleyway, behind apartments. The others were in places like that- dark, deserted. As we arrived, I noticed the talking quiet down and heads turn to us. I ignored them, as did Sherlock, although he nervously pulled his coat's sleeves down father. He went up to the police tape and held it up for me. We both went under and closer to the scene. Lestrade shook himself, like he just realized he was staring, and came up to us. Sherlock and I both grabbed a pair of rubber gloves and slid them on. I saw Sally (Donovan, of course) whispering to Anderson, and I clenched my fists. She was looking at Sherlock out of the corner of her eye, and I was sure I knew what she was talking about.

I felt like punching her.

"Okay... Erm, the... The scene's just over here. I'm sure you read what I sent you, about what's going on?" Lestrade said. Sherlock nodded his head stiffly. I could see Lestrade observing him but not recognizing the symptoms. Sherlock was looking just a little bit better. He wasn't as tired as he was looking a couple weeks ago. Lestrade led us over, and I saw the scene. It was worse than I pictured, really.

The charred, burnt skin and missing hair, smoked clothes... I knew what happened. This poor man was burned alive. I glanced over to Sherlock to see his reaction, and I saw the familiar glint of interest in his eye. He got out his supplies and thoroughly examined the body. Then he looked to me.

"What do you observe?"

I looked down at the poor corpse on the ground. "Er... Well he was burned alive." Sherlock nodded slowly, giving me a look, and I laughed. "Sorry. Well, someone must've drizzled oil over him, because it seems like some places burned faster, and in a line. Erm... His face... He was beaten up by someone before he fell to the ground. I-I'm not sure what else."

Sherlock smiled. "You did well, John. I doubt anyone here would've gotten as much as you did." I felt myself flush with pride from his praise, and I looked down to hide my face. Sherlock walked to the corpse once again and pulled his sleeves up, then, glancing at Greg, pulled them down some. Lestrade didn't notice. Sherlock began talking, pointing everything out that was "obvious".

"If you look, you'll see the fire started from the back. The man was trailed, then lit. He's barely got clothes, so the fire was burning for a while. However, someone, or something, put the fire out. Otherwise it'd still be burning. This man biked here from his job at an office where he answered calls. This much is evident from the bike, of course, and the uniform..."

Sherlock continued, and Lestrade listened carefully, scribbling something down in his notebook every once in a while. I stood by, listening to him explaining everything, awed, as always, by his amazing abilities of deduction. When he finished, he went to go talk with some others working on the scene. I moved to follow him, but Lestrade stopped me.

I saw Sherlock look back at me, and I met his eyes. He nodded slowly, eyes flicking to Lestrade, and I got the point. I could tell Lestrade what he wanted to know, but don't go too much into detail. And make sure he didn't spread the word. I nodded back, and Sherlock continued on without me, people glancing toward him.

"What is it, Greg?" I asked, hands in my pockets. He glanced over at Sherlock and said, quietly, "Is everything... okay?" I looked down, pursing my lips.

"You know what's going on, don't you?" I asked. "Well, erm..." He stuttered, "people are saying that he... that he was... anorexic. Is that true?" I let out a sigh and nodded. "Yeah, apparently he has been. Just, please, don't make a big deal out of it, okay?" Lestrade nodded, and I left to go to Sherlock.

"He self harms. Doesn't he?" Lestrade said. I looked to see if anyone else had heard it, but in the hubbub of the investigation, nobody had. I faced him. "How did you figure that out?" I muttered quietly, walking back to him. He just shrugged.

"Just a guess. He kept, well, pulling his sleeves down. A lot. And I thought I saw something..." He said. I nodded, and we just stood together for a second, awkwardly.

"Yeah. He... He has. Just don't mention either to anyone. I don't want them to know," I told him. I left to go to Sherlock, who was over looking at the wall.

Was he ever going to be okay?