Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Forty One

In the weeks that followed Mary's death, Sherlock had traded his crisp neat shirts for dressing gowns, replaced sunlight with the darkness of his flat, fresh air for dust. His skin was sullen, his jaw coated in stubble, his hair falling in greasy curls over his forehead. He was a problem solver – a fixer. But Mary's death wasn't one of his cases. There was no solution that would bring her back, no way to fix everyone's suffering. His frayed relationship with John wasn't a case that could be solved, and it was driving him mad. He turned a piece of yellowed paper in his slender fingers, glancing over the words scrawled across it.

I need to kill someone.

Who?

But he wasn't looking at the words.

As he regarded the mousy-blonde, spectacled woman in front of him, deductions intruded on his thinking. They were like reflexes; involuntary, and not always welcome. He paced the living room of his flat, spouting information – everything from her sex life to the size of her kitchen. All from a single piece of paper and her long red dress.

His hands began to shake. He clenched his fist tightly and made his way to the kitchen, dismissing the woman as she pleaded with him to take her case. He picked up her handbag and threw it at her, noticing the weight of it as it left his hands. He slid open the glass door revealing Bill Wiggins sitting at the kitchen table in front of a bubbling drug lab.

"Please," she said desperately. "I have no one else to turn to."

"Yes, but I'm very busy at the moment and I have to drink a cup of tea."

Bill watched as Sherlock walked to the table and picked up a teacup full of syringes, carrying it to the kettle. "This cup of tea... Code?"

"it's a cup of tea," Sherlock snapped, emptying out the syringes on the counter.

"You're my last hope," the woman called from the living room.

"Really?" he replied uninterestedly. "That's bad luck, isn't it? Goodnight, go away."

He slid the door closed.

"What's bad luck?" asked Bill.

"Stop. Talking. It makes me aware of your existence."

Bill ignored him. Continuing to talk as Sherlock made his way back to the counter.

Suddenly, a thought hit him. A deduction that had taken a moment to click, like a delayed reaction.

"Handbag," he said.

He hurried downstairs, relieved to see her at the front door. Her hair and shoulders were damp from the rain, yet she hadn't brought a coat. The mark on her dress indicated she travelled by taxi, yet she hadn't called one to pick her up. While one hand held a walking cane, the other periodically pulled down at her sleeve to hide scars on her forearm. And her handbag – Sherlock knew – contained nothing but a handgun.

Losing Mary had made him realise that death didn't just take life away from the dead. Death, he had learned, took life from those left behind. His hands were shaking, his mouth dry, his eyes itching, but he couldn't let her leave. He couldn't allow another death on his watch. And so he reluctantly took off his dressing gown and replaced it with his coat.

Mrs Hudson opened her door and stepped out into the hall.

"Sherlock!? Are you going out!?"

"I think I remember the way, it's through there, isn't it?" He sniffed sharply as he spoke, his head swaying as if it weighed a ton.

"Oh, you're in no state, look at you!" she cried.

"Yeah well, I've got a friend with me, so..."