John just sat at his laptop, unsure of what to write. How could he describe the case? Should he mention the... he couldn't even bring himself to say it. Oh bother. he thought to himself. Just draft it quickly. You can edit it before you publish. This case was just so different. Certain events made him almost not want to write about it at all. The solving of the case was already on the news though, so people would expect an entry from him. He sighed. Here goes nothing.
The cursor remained blinking, mocking him.
Deep breath, John. Think. What happened first?
~~~~~
It had been fairly normal day at 221B. Sherlock sat in his chair playing the violin. I drank my coffee, listening contently.
Should've expected it wouldn't last.
Someone knocked at the door four times. Only Lestrade ever did that. Of course, Sherlock merely continued on with the music, not even moved by the promise of the case. With a sigh and a sarcastic, "I guess I'll get that," I groggily walked down the stairs to the front door, coffee still in hand. I threw open the door. "What do you want, Gr-"
He pushed past me and ran up the stairs. "Sorry, John, it's an emergency. You may not want to be here for this." The door slammed, leaving me on the steps. I put my ear to the door, but I couldn't make out any of the words.
Lestrade explained something to Sherlock bluntly. Sherlock jumped for joy, literally, from what I could hear. Then I could hear "Now calm down!" followed by more hushed tones. Sherlock remained silent.
Footsteps approached the door and I stood back. I crossed my arms, trying to look like I'd just been standing there angrily the whole time. Sherlock's face greeted me, but not his usual face when someone told him of a crime. It looked...
sad.
"John," he said calmly. "I think you'd best sit down." He gestured for me to come into the flat.
I sat in my usual chair, slightly confused and very worried. "Sherlock, what is it?"
The detective sat in his chair and touched his fingers together in front of his face, as he usually did when he thought. "Mary is dead."
It took a moment to register before I said, "No."
"She's gone, John," Lestrade put in. "Three shots. One to the head and two to the stomach."
"The baby..." I trailed off.
They tried removing it, but the bullet hit it as well. It couldn't be saved." Greg's face was one of sympathy. "I'm sorry, John."
I tried to compose myself, holding back the tears. My wife. My child. Both dead. Murdered.
And now they were our case.
I swallowed back a sob, determined to remain cold and professional in the manner Sherlock so often does. Emotions would only slow me down in this case, and I wanted her killer caught. "Right then," I said, standing up with as much pride as I could muster. "We'll go to the scene then."
"John, are you-"
"I'm fine, Sherlock!" I snapped, then regretted it a bit. He looked a bit put out, and all my friend wanted to do was help. "Sorry."
"I understand." A look of pity replaced that of hurt. As much as he hated to admit to it, I knew it truly bugged Sherlock how sick and twisted this world is. Not just that, but we both cared for- well both had cared for- Mary. It was a mystery to me as to how he had forgiven her for shooting him, considering I never truly did. I keep losing people. Him I thought I lost twice.
And then outrage replaced my grief. "IS THIS SOME SORT OF SICK JOKE?" I shouted. My fists and jaw were clenched. I needed to hit something. Greg seemed to understand that and held up a throw pillow, which promptly became the receptacle of all my frustration.
After a few jabs I sat down, still shaking a bit in anger. "I want to know who did this."
Sherlock placed a hand on my shoulder. "We'll catch them, John."
"You two are the best in London," added Lestrade. "You'll probably have them figured out and brought to justice within a few days"
"Are you sure you want to work on the case though?" Sherlock's eyes were full of concern. I don't think I have ever seen him have such a full range of emotion as he did that day.
I was about to immediately reply yes, but then I thought about it like he would. Would emotions get in the way? Would the anger or grief I felt merely slow me down? Blind me from facts? Probably. But what about him? No one can stand him. He needs an assistant. If not me, then who? "I'll be fine," I assured him.
He looked at me for a while, no doubt deducing something about my complete state of not-fine-ness, before walking to the door and putting on his coat and scarf. Then Sherlock reached for the hat on the peg.
"I thought you didn't like the deerstalker," laughed Greg.
"It's to shield my face. I've got to keep a professional appearance. No doubt there will be reporters at or near the crime scene." I don't want them to see me cry. seemed to be the underlying message. He didn't want to look bad in the public eye. It was so ridiculously Sherlock that I could have laughed.
If, per say, my wife and unborn child weren't dead.
And maybe if my best friend wasn't tearing up.
Ear-hat on head my friend walked out of the flat. I, in a trance-like state, followed. It's odd how he just always expects that. It's also odd how I always am right behind him.
