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The Red Snow	By : orceena Category: S through Z > Sherlock Holmes (2009) > Sherlock Holmes (2009) Views: 2450 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters within. I am not making any kind of profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 7
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John wiped his tired eyes. They were blotchy again. Lestrade waited patiently pen in hand. He and Constable Clark had arrived merely twenty minutes ago. Mrs. Hudson made tea for all of them then left them to have their peace. Sherlock sat beside him smoking his pipe. Gladstone was propped against John's leg his tongue flopped out of his mouth. John scratched the creature's ears before he they continued.
"Do you have any idea who could've done this?" Lestrade asked.
"No. I haven't the slightest idea," John replied quietly staring at the floor.
"Perhaps a deranged patient?"
"I never give out my home address."
"And you're positive on this. Your positive no one snuck into your desk during work hours to snoop through your personal belongings."
John thought hard for a moment. "Yes. Even if a patient entered my office without my permission to "snoop" through my things, I always lock my cupboards. No one has the means to get in them without breaking them open."
"A pick perhaps," Clark spoke up.
"Lock's are too small," John countered growing slightly annoyed. He picked up his tea but didn't drink it. His hands just rolled the cup among his fingers.
Lestrade grabbed his taking a sip. Sherlock stared into space breathing on his pipe. "You have nothing to contribute, Holmes?"
"Only when it pertains to my information shall I say anything," Sherlock stated calmly. John smiled to himself. He so badly wanted to kiss him right now.
"Alright. So, assuming that this is not a patient of yours, then it must be someone you know. What about any of Mary's relatives? A brother, or a cousin."
"As far as I know, Mary had good relationships with her family members. She would've told me if she didn't."
"You're sure about that?"
"Positive." He felt his anger surfacing.
"Alright. How about her friends?"
"I didn't know them that well. She met with some of them once a week."
"Do you know what they did with their time?" Lestrade finished his tea and set the cup on the table. John's cup was still full.
"She told me they went shopping for clothes and played cards. She always brought something home to show for it. A dress, or a blouse. Hats. Sometimes she'd bring me something. I never had any doubts."
"Did she ever bring her friends to the house for a party?"
"Occasionally. About once a month." John's tea had gone cold in his hands. "I was home the entire time for the parties, in my office. No one snooped upstairs."
Lestrade sighed and shook his hand. It had started cramping. "What about your friends, John?"
"I haven't seen them in last couple months. Last fellow I met with was James Holten back in June. Knew him in medical school. We met in my office to catch up. He told me he was moving to Wales. Haven't seen him since."
"Any bad blood?"
"No. None." This was so frustrating. He tried to change the subject as he felt his blood rising. "Any more updates about my wife?"
"The coroner says she died from her impalement. The spikes had missed her spine, punctured through her ribs, and ruptured a lung. They found bruising on her hips and neck. He deemed it nearly impossible to inflict such acts on herself without some sort of outside influence, so we ruled it out as suicide. There was definitely some one in the house with her."
"Suicide? Are you daft? My wife was not suicidal," John barked.
"Anything is possible, Watson," Lestrade countered. "How do we know she didn't kill herself and stage the whole thing?"
John turned red, insulted. "She was not suicidal..."
"As we've said, it has been ruled out."
"What else have you found, Lestrade?" Sherlock piped up from the couch. "I asked you to perform a full investigation of the house and then some. You should've been following up the suspects alibis already."
"We've been working around the clock, Holmes. We swept through the entire home and everything leads to what you have told us. There was no apparent break-in, and nothing was stolen. What we can't determine is whether the culprit meant to murder the poor girl, or if it was not intentional. We're at a dead end."
"I want to see her," John piped up not removing his eyes from the floor. Sherlock set his finished pipe on a side table.
"You are in no state to see her just yet, old boy," he calmly stated.
"That is not your decision, Holmes," John replied his hands beginning to tremble.
"I've seen more than enough, dear fellow."
"Fuck off," John whispered. They weren't meant to hurt his friend, but John was in no mood to be told what to do. Sherlock ignored his words.
"John, we must think of all the possibilities here," Lestrade interrupted. "Did you notice any unusual behavior from her before she died?"
John looked up at that and scrunched his brows together. "No. Why?"
"Did she randomly disappear for hours on end without your knowledge of where she was at night, or during the day?"
"I - no..."
"Did she," Lestrade stopped himself and took a breath. "Did she have any gentlemen friends that you know of?"
John's heart stopped beating for a moment. "I...don't know. You, you think she may have been..."
Lestrade held in hands up in defense when he noticed John's anger rose. "It is a possibility, yes. A side fling, a confused maiden, a scorned lover. It's the perfect motive."
Tears welled behind John's eyes his fury suddenly taking shape. He rose from the couch with his fists clenched suffering from his nails digging into his skin. "No...she wouldn't have done that to me." He mumbled to himself as he started pacing. "She wouldn't do that, she wouldn't, she wouldn't." He sobbed letting the salty streams seep down his cheeks. His pacing became quicker and his heart beat faster. Another panic attack was on the horizon.
"John," the gentle voice of his friend called him back. It circled his torso and pulled hard making sure he did not fall into the pit that he imagined being full of hungry rats. And they were waiting to devour him.
He paced himself back to the couch kicking the spilled tea cup he'd forgotten about out of the way. Gladstone was gone, too.
"We must know. If there is anything you can tell us about her external affairs it would help immensely. It would help determine which way this person took their motive."
"Which is what, Constable?" Sherlock asked dryly.
"Holmes! Am I in no mood for your scrutiny. If you know something, speak up."
"I have nothing to share other than what I already have."
"Then you can keep your mouth shut. This isn't about your superior intellect. It's about his wife. You've done your job, let us do ours. Unless, you're hiding something from the rest of us. Are you sure you don't want to share?" Lestrade pointed at him in a mocking gesture. John felt his blood boiling but he sat there chewing on his lip to stop himself from saying anything. He felt sickened that he couldn't come to his friend's rescue. He couldn't save Sherlock from the accusing eyes. His knuckles turned white again as images of his wife crossed his mind. Her smile, her laugh, her blood. The snow. He closed his eyes because he couldn't focus. He took a breath and remained as calm as he could. "Where were you, Holmes? Where were you the night of Mary Watson's murder?" John watched helplessly as Clark wrote on his pad. He felt sick. He wanted to die. That thought had never crossed his mind before. Sherlock was his everything now. Why would he betray his trust? It couldn't possibly be the truth. He knew it wasn't the truth. Sherlock was incapable of killing his wife. He didn't do it. He didn't do it. He didn't....
"I was here at my flat, constable."
"Doing what?"
"Inventing. Ask Mrs. Hudson and she will tell you that I was here."
John let out a breath of relief. He knew Sherlock was innocent. How dare these pigs accuse his Sherlock of such nonsense. He hated them. "Until it checks out, Holmes, you are just as much a suspect as any one else."
John lost it then. He stood angrily lunging for the inspector. "You bastard!"
"Watson! Don't!" Sherlock was able to stop him before he slammed his fist into Lestrade's mouth wrapping his arms arm the doctor's chest. He was able to heave him back onto the couch, but he still struggled grunting as he tried to twist free. The constables reared back from the angry man watching in confusion as he thrashed his limbs crying out like a small child. Sherlock held steady not letting him free. His grip tightened. "Shh! Calm down, Watson. Calm down! It's over. It's over. Relax."
"Je les hais. Ce sont des cochons!" John shouted into the air. The constables settled back down staring at the helpless doctor. John calmed his body but he was still trembling as he relaxed against Holmes. Sherlock held him close pressing his lips to his ear. John started sobbing. "Comment osent-ils! Je baise les tuer!" Sherlock winced as John grasped it hard, but he didn't let go. This needed to pass. "Laissez-moi mourir ... Je suis un monstre. Sherlock, finir ma misère."
"Je ne vais pas. Je ne vais pas vous permettre de mourir," Sherlock replied quietly. He started rocking the doctor trying to sooth him. John's sobs turned into small noises now. "Mrs. Hudson!" The landlady entered the room tears evident on her face. "Will you be a dear and escort my colleague to his room? He's having a melt down."
"Of course." She approached the still man as he tried to take breaths. "John?" He didn't reply. She tried again bending to touch his arm. "John look at me." John did, but hugged Sherlock's arm tighter to his chest. "Let's get you to bed, dear. Come on." She reached out towards him gently removing Sherlock's arm from his chest. He didn't resist as she ushered him to stand up. "There you go." She was trying her best to comfort him as she lead him up the stairs to their room. The three watched them go till they heard a door close then focused on each other again. Sherlock cradled his arm.
"What was he saying, Holmes?" Lestrade asked.
The detective paused for a moment waiting for his stomach to settle before addressing the constables. "As you can see gentlemen, Dr. Watson has suffered an extreme amount of mental trauma. His psychological recovery is dire and I must proceed to care for him as much as I can. This will have to continue at another time. He needs more rest. If you will excuse us." Holmes stood and lead them to the front door. Sherlock was about to close it behind them when Lestrade turned back to him.
"See to it he gets mental treatment, Holmes. Attacking a police officer is against the law. I will have no choice but to arrest him if he has an outburst like that again. Understood?"
"Of course, constable. I'll see to it personally."
"Good. And, what did he say, Holmes?" Lestrade asked again.
"He said he hates you," Sherlock replied before shutting the door.
*******
TBC
- 7
- 8
- 9
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The Red Snow