The Devil's Chord

Chapter Twenty Five

"Oh my god." Another wave of nausea lurched at John's stomach. He stumbled forward and braced his elbows on the edge of the counter, hanging his head over the sink. The sight of his blood encrusted hands sickened him, and he turned on the tap. Scarlet bubbles ran down the drain as he scrubbed at his hands. Though they washed clean, the stain of his guilt remained.

Doctor Reed injured. Vivian taken.

It was all his fault.

Innocent people, not soldiers, hurt by his actions. It didn't matter that he couldn't have anticipated the consequences of placing the battery back in the car. He'd vowed to do no harm. And now his oath lay broken like Doctor Reed's blood-stained body.

John took in a trembling breath and let it out.

He looked up and found Sherlock watching him, the man's reflection marred by the bloody inscription across the mirror. Sherlock's eyes were cold, but his words were colder still. "This is no time to fall apart. Save your remorse for later. We have work to do."

John's control, as brittle as the scaphoid bone in the wrist, fractured. He wrenched around to face him.

"Don't you care that she's been abducted?" he shouted. "Or was Vivian just some pet project of yours for your own twisted entertainment?"

Sherlock's face remained stoic. "You foolishly continue to allow your heart to rule your head." His disdainful gaze raked over him. "Look at you. Your heart rate is accelerated, your blood pressure high. Your constant swallowing and gray pallor indicate nausea. Pupils dilated. You're under stress and not the adrenaline-boosting kind you prefer. This is emotional distress, stemming from guilt. Tell me. Where has your caring gotten you?"

In that moment, John wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into Sherlock's expressionless face. "You're pleased, aren't you? Another puzzle to solve. A life hanging in the balance. Does it feel like Christmas?"

"And what if it does? Despite our differing motivations, our end goals are the same. Save a life. Solve a death. If you truly cared for Miss Walker, you wouldn't be wasting my valuable time. Time that could be spent solving this case."

"Caring makes us human." John slammed his palm against the counter. "You should try it sometime."

"In case you haven't noticed, those we hunt aren't human. They're monsters, glutted on the hearts of the caring, the stupid, and the innocent. Preying upon the predator requires a similar mindset. My clarity of thought is dependent on cold logic, unfettered by sentiment. Surely this doesn't come as a surprise to you. You know my methods."

He shook his head. "You can't just excise caring like a cancerous tumor."

"I can. And I will." Sherlock stalked forward, pale blue eyes flashing. "And if you wish for us to be successful in safely retrieving Miss Walker, then you'll cease this foolish talk. We both know I'm her best chance. I can't afford to be distracted. Do you understand?"

The anger and frustration bled out of him so fast, it left his knees weak. "Yes."

He did understand. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't have the capacity for caring. He did. It showed in the way he included John in all his cases, a shared laugh with Lestrade, a violin song for Mrs. Hudson, and how he'd asked his trusted childhood physician to watch over Vivian Walker.

Sherlock's words echoed in his mind.

I can't afford to be distracted.

He doubted the man even realized what he'd revealed in those six simple words.

As requested, he wouldn't push Sherlock any further, but he wasn't about to concede defeat. This was just the first battle in a long anticipated war. The head versus the heart. He'd consider it a victory indeed if even a small piece of the latter worked its way free.