The Devil's Chord

Chapter Twelve

John read through a British Medical Journal article on narcotic withdrawal syndrome and grimaced. There were six stages of withdrawal and they weren’t pretty. In fact, they were downright horrible.

It had been two days since Sherlock had returned with Miss Walker. A sharp cry came from upstairs. His shoulders hunched. It wasn’t his fault, not really. She was the addict. How could he have known she’d react this badly?

He nodded. He’d done the right thing. It would have been wrong to allow her to have the morphine, not to mention potentially dangerous for Sherlock. He sighed. Too bad the right thing made him feel like complete shite.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, and Sherlock appeared in the doorway looking a bit worse for wear. Dark circles smudged the pale skin beneath his eyes. “It’s your turn.”

John looked at the clock. It was half past four. His turn wasn’t supposed to start for another half hour.

Sherlock stalked past him and out the back door, slamming it behind him.

He frowned. Not only was it bloody cold out, but it was also pouring rain. Hardly the best time for a stroll. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to grab his coat. Of course, said coat was currently covered in pink paint. His friend would likely rather freeze to death than be caught wearing it in its current state. John put on his own jacket and followed after him.

Freezing rain stung his face, and he bit back a curse. It felt like icy needles driving into his skin. He turned the collar up on his black shooting jacket.

A dark silhouette stood beside the pond. Sherlock.

The green weeping willows, choppy grey water, and yellowing grass blurred together like paint running together across wet canvas.

“Lovely view,” John said, as he came alongside his friend.

Sherlock stared off into the distance, unaware or uncaring of the downpour.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

John squinted at his friend’s profile. Right. Judging by his clenched jawline and rigid posture, the man was just peachy.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shot him a look he normally reserved for Anderson and people he found to be painfully stupid.

John’s lips thinned. “You know, bottling everything up like you do isn't healthy.”

“There’s nothing for me to bottle up. Now kindly leave me in peace and go check on your patient.”

He folded his arms. “Only if you come inside."

“No. I need some air.”

“Sherlock, there’s more water than air out here and there’s perfectly decent, warm air inside the house." He caught his friend’s arm. “Quit fooling around and come inside.”

Sherlock jerked his arm away. “Leave. Me. Alone." Each word ground out between clenched teeth.

“But-”

“Please.”

John rocked back on his heels. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had said ‘Please’ and in none of them had the word been uttered in such a weary tone. It bothered him that his friend refused to confide in him, but he had to respect his choice. Although, considering it was Sherlock, perhaps the detective was unable to articulate his feelings, whatever they were.

"Fine. I'll just go inside and check on Miss Walker then." John walked back to the house, leaving Sherlock to battle his inner demons alone.

He hung up his coat and toweled his head dry, before heading upstairs. All too soon he reached Miss Walker's door.