Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Forty Two

Sherlock wasn't entirely certain how long it had been since Margaux left. It felt like months. Yet the bullet hole in the ceiling was still shedding plaster and paint, so he knew it had really only been a few days. Mrs Hudson asked him to let the handyman repair it, but every time, Sherlock would refuse. It was the only thing that proved she had once been there, that she was real, so he wanted to keep it exactly how it was.

He paced around the flat, his movements so quick he created a breeze as he walked. His eyes darted around the room, struggling to focus on one thing for more than a second, and his fingers trembled as he gripped his phone in his hand. He stopped suddenly, an idea brightening his dull skin for just a moment as he rushed to a pile of books near the couch. He searched through them quickly, throwing the unwanted books over his shoulder until he found the one – The Encyclopedia of Plants and Flowers. He sat on the floor with his back against the arm of the couch as he flicked through it roughly, ignoring the sounds of tearing pages and papercuts forming in the nooks of his fingers. Finally, he stopped on a page and grinned, taking a photo of it with his phone and sending it to her.

Look, Foxgloves. S.

He waited. But a reply never came. He threw his phone across the room and stormed into the kitchen for another fix. It was all his fault. He had lost Mary and John, now Margaux and Vaughan too. All by his own hand; the same hand that was now injecting his arm with drugs, the same hand that had started pointing the finger at Culverton Smith and accusing him of murder, the same hand that picked up the gun from the kitchen table and began swinging it maniacally around the flat.

Mrs Hudson crept up the stairs, flinching at the sounds of smashing and shouting as Bill Wiggins hurried down the stairs past her.

"I'm out of 'ere," he said, panic-stricken. "He's lost it. He's totally gone!"

She carried on nervously until she got to the living room door as Sherlock's loud, manic ramblings grew clearer. She poked her head around the side to catch a glimpse of him. The walls were blanketed in pictures of Culverton Smith, articles, newspaper clippings, printed photographs. She looked around at the mess when a bullet whipped closely past her face. She gasped, shutting the door quickly as another two shots shook the walls of the house.

"The game's afoot," said Sherlock breathlessly.

Mrs Hudson opened the door again, peering around at him.

"Oh, hello," he said, swaying on the spot and looking down at the gun with confusion. "Can I have a cup of tea?"

"Tea!?" She shouted as she followed him into the kitchen.

He scratched his head with the gun. "Please."

She thought for a moment, took a deep breath and walked to the kettle. "Yes... Yes of course."

"He's a serial killer. Has to be. Why not? I mean, why not?" Sherlock rambled, pacing the living room again as Mrs Hudson made the tea.

"These pictures. They're the man off the telly, aren't they?"

"What pictures?"

"They're everywhere."

"Oh, these pictures! Oh, you can see them too, that's good." His head began to hurt. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Ugh. Cup of tea!"

Mrs Hudson turned around with the tea. Her hands were shaking, the cup rattling against the saucer as she stepped towards him.

"Oh, for goodness sakes," he said as he watched her. "What's the matter with you? Are you having an earthquake!?"