Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

…

 There have been a series of serial killings all over London for the past three weeks. All seemingly accidents, until one Sherlock Holmes put the pieces together.

 Sherlock sat in his usual armchair, staring intently at his phone for over 3 hours before I interjected. He went off suddenly, bouncing around the flat on a rant about suspicious deaths all over London. I figured his brilliant mind was just underused, and grasping at straws to finally have something to do. But the more he spoke, the more it made sense. Every one of these deaths had been written off as accidental, but every single victim had a 13 in roman numerals, tattooed to their forearm. It didn’t take long for Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade to be swayed by Sherlocks reasoning, and a case was quickly opened.

 Each of the victims had nothing in common other than the tattoo, which appeared to have been applied posthumously. Two of the victims, #1 and #2, died from internal bleeding after they had seemingly fallen from great heights. #3 died tragically from an opioid overdose in a drug den, and #4 perished from apparent natural causes. Sherlock, somehow, figured out that there were 2 murderers after inspecting the bodies for less than 10 minutes. He explained that the first two victims were actually brutally beaten, and the last two were poisoned. Two different methods meant two different killers, or one killer trying new things. The second was more unlikely, so we went with the assumption of the more likely option.

-

John paused, rubbing at his temples. They had been on the case for only 17 hours, but hadn't found anything more. ‘The blog will have to remain neglected until another big break,’ John thought bitterly as he closed his laptop.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, just out of view, eerily silent. John was used to elongated silence in the middle of cases. Usually, it meant that a big break was coming.

Sherlock's mind was working furiously as he stared into his microscope. His tea had long since gone cold, neglected, Sherlock having instead opted to study the components of the ink tattooed on each victim, and the toxins found in the blood of the latest two victims.

It was a unique blend of compounds not found in normal tattoo ink, Sherlock noted. But what did it mean? The killers made it themselves? Did they special order it?

Sherlock backed away from the microscope to rub at the bridge of his nose in frustration, the back of his head throbbing with an oncoming migraine.

Suddenly, Sherlock's mind provided an answer.

The stool Sherlock was sat on scraped loudly against the kitchen tile as he suddenly shot to his feet. John startled in surprise, watching as Sherlock moved quickly around the flat, discarding his dressing gown and gathering his coat.

“Catch a break?" John asked, voice a little more hopeful than he'd meant it to be as he stood from his seat at the desk.

“Of course, obvious, why didn't I think of it before?” Sherlock muttered in response.

That was all the confirmation John needed as he grabbed his own coat and quickly followed the disappearing Sherlock down the stairs and out of their shared flat.

“Mind sharing?" John called after him, quickly catching up as Sherlock slowed to swing the front door open.

“The ink. It's different. I found a variety of compounds only attainable through special order mixed into the ink. The killers have access to a multitude of chemicals that, obviously, killed the latest two victims." Sherlock half explained as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and stepped out into the brisk London night air.

Their breaths fogged in front of them as they stepped toward the street, Sherlock quickly flagging down a cab.

“Okay, but where are we going?" John asked, processing the information Sherlock provided as they stepped into the cab.

“To examine the bodies again." Sherlock explained as he barked out the location to the cabbie, and they were off.

“What for?" John asked, ignoring Sherlocks irritated huff as he asked yet another question.

“The last two died from poison, but the first two were beaten. It doesn't make sense. Unless, the first two were horribly failed trial runs for the poison that didn't end up working. I need to reexamine the bodies for puncture wounds. Where were the last two injected?” Sherlock asked after explaining, pulling his phone out.

The pieces clicked together in John's mind as he listened to Sherlock explain, the conclusion Sherlock reached seemingly simple. How Sherlock's mind worked still boggled John.

“Er, number 3 was.. injected through the left forearm, and number 4 was injected through.. yep, the left forearm." John read out from his phone, reading the autopsy report.

“Excellent." Sherlock muttered, much too happily, as he texted away at his phone, most likely texting Molly to let her know they were on their way.

“What does all this have to do with the ink, though?" John inquired, remembering Sherlock's explanation when they first left 221B.

Sherlock sighed, barely audibly as he prepared to explain once more. John barely managed to bite back a scoff at Sherlock's irritation, wanting desperately to remind him that not everyone's mind worked at 400 kilometers per second.

“As always John, you see but you do not observe.” Sherlock reminded John helpfully.

"The ink had traces of the same chemicals in the poison, meaning, wherever they keep the chemicals is also where they keep the ink and therefore, their victims. What they're trying to do with the poison, I've no idea. Yet.” Sherlock explained.

“Sorry, ‘what they're trying to do with the poison?’ Is it not.. to kill people?” John asked almost hesitantly, racking his brain for other possibilities one would need poison for.

"They're obviously testing their drug on these people. Whatever they're trying to accomplish, they have yet to. Their ‘test subjects’ keep passing away, which means they're still refining their recipe.” Sherlock explained nonchalantly, casually calling the victims ‘test subjects.’ John wished he would elaborate.

Any other line of questions scattered from John's brain as the cab came to a halt outside their destination. Sherlock practically ran from the cab and into the building, leaving John to pay the cabbie as per usual.

John quickly caught up as Sherlock breached the front doors, and they both made their way downstairs to the morgue of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Molly awaited them, confirming John's theory that Sherlock had texted her while in the cab. The bodies were all already laid out on their respective slabs, awaiting Sherlocks keen eye.

“Just their forearms." Sherlock told Molly as she unzipped the first victim's body bag. He stared intently at the forearm with his mini magnifying glass, turning and moving closer ever so slightly.

“I've already examined them, there's nothing I've missed." Molly tried to explain, but it fell on, apparently, deaf ears as Sherlock completely ignored her.

John stepped closer, wanting to see for himself. The body was covered in dark purple bruising, so it was impossible to tell from his point of view.

Sherlock made a small humming noise and moved ever closer as he seemingly spotted something.

“Small puncture wound, 0.9 millimeters in diameter directly on top of the vein. Just like the others.” Sherlock announced coolly, his hypothesis proven correctly.

“Oh." Molly sounded quite disheartened that she had missed it, but with the harsh bruising she’d never have found it unless she was looking for it. John made sure to tell her just that as Sherlock moved to the 2nd victim, checking the forearm as well.

“Exactly the same." Sherlock announced, very pleased, only a few seconds later, having found the puncture wound a lot faster.

“Have you begun testing their blood for toxins?" Sherlock asked Molly without looking at her, putting his magnifying glass away.

“Oh, yes, it's working now. Should be done, any minute." She turned toward her computer, still analyzing the blood, but Sherlock was faster, stepping in front of the computer just as the results came in.

He took a few minutes to compare the toxins with the later victims. “The chemical compounds are mostly the same, slight variation in some of the chemicals’ levels. I think this proves my theory well enough. What do you think, John?" Sherlock announced, sounding quite pleased with himself.

John couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's tone, the familiarity of it bringing a feeling almost that of fondness, or pride, for his genius consulting detective.

“Yes, I think you're right. As always." John had meant to sound more bitter at the end, but his tone carried more amusement than anything.

…

After relaying his new information to Lestrade, Sherlock and John found themselves back at their flat, like nothing had happened.

John sat at his laptop, typing away their recent discovery, stopping every few seconds to remember details and form the words in his head.

Sherlock continued examining the compounds of the ink and toxins, hoping to find something of use. Occasionally, he’d look things up on his phone, but mostly he did things mentally.

He tried narrowing down old warehouses that still used those chemicals while he waited for Lestrade to text locations that recently ordered said chemicals.

The process was dull, and painfully long, but Sherlock could feel himself getting closer to the answer.

…

John hadn't realized he'd dozed off until he was awoken with a jolt. His head snapped up from its resting place on his arms that were folded above his laptop keyboard.

It took him a second to process what had woken him up. He realized it was the front door, slamming shut. John checked his watch; 3:23 am. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked out the window to see Sherlock, stepping into a cab.

John rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes. The only time Sherlock ever ran off in the middle of the night like this during a case was when he was onto something.

He quickly typed a message to Sherlock, only to have a message from Sherlock pop up just before he hit send.

Hatchner Rd, 697. Could be the killers' workspace. SH

John was out the door, hailing another cab within 30 seconds of reading the message. He silently cursed Sherlock under his breath for running off on his own again as he stepped into the cab.

He relayed the address to the cabbie as he double checked that his gun was tucked safely in the back of his trousers. He typed a quick message back as the cabbie sped off with John's special instruction to ‘book it.’

Idiot. Wake me up next time. Don’t do anything before I get there. JW

Sherlock smirked as he read the message, and his cab came to a stop. He paid the cabbie as he examined the empty warehouse from the outside.

Old, repainted 3 times, truck parked on the outside, drag marks leading from the truck inside. That could only mean one thing.

Their 5th victim was already inside.

He didn't have time to wait for John.

...

Chapter Text

…

Sherlock stepped warily into the building, strangely dark and empty for a supposed lab.

He followed the drag marks to a flight of stairs that looked relatively new compared to the rest of the building. Dim light radiated from the top of the stairs, beckoning him to move closer.

He kept his cautious pace as he glided up the steps, staying low to avoid detection. The second floor was as new as the stairs were, built probably only a few months ago, cleaned regularly.

The drag marks continued, scuffing the recently buffed floor. They led to a closed off room, where a bright light seeped underneath the heavy looking metal door.

‘I really should wait for John…’ Sherlock thought, but after a muffled scream echoed from behind the door, Sherlock abandoned that thought.

…

John’s cab flew through the thin traffic. ‘The cabbie doesn't get to ‘book it’ often,’ John supposed. 

He made it to the outskirts of London in five minutes, and paid the cabbie generously. He scanned his surroundings, noting the old looking warehouse and the new looking truck parked outside.

He too noticed the drag marks, dread filling his bones as thoughts of them possibly belonging to Sherlock settled in the forefront of his mind.

He shot a quick text to Lestrade.

Hatchner Rd, 697. Sherlock and I might need backup, killers’ possible location. JW

John pulled out his gun, and double checked the mag before sliding it back in with the palm of his hand. He stepped toward the door, and opened it slowly.

He followed the drag marks over the concrete to the back of the warehouse and up a flight of stairs. A dim light came from the heavy metal door now sat ajar.

He held his gun tight as he slowly pushed the door open. Sounds of a struggle quickly caught his attention.

The room was covered in a layer of plastic, and other than the now bright light, the only things decorating the room were a metal table in the middle with an unmoving figure lying atop, and a metal tray with wheels next to it, covered in needles and bottles of medicine.

John's eyes quickly scanned the room to identify where the sounds of the struggle were.

To his horror, his eyes landed on a big, bulky guy-- the muscle-- pinning one Sherlock Holmes to the floor with an arm pressed dangerously hard against his trachea.

Another figure, slimmer and shorter, was fumbling with Sherlocks sleeve, attempting to roll it up with a needle full of poison in hand.

Sherlock was struggling against the bigger guy who straddled him and was pushing all of his weight onto Sherlocks front. His face was turning a dangerous shade of blue at the lack of oxygen.

“Freeze! Don't move." John demanded as he pointed his gun at the larger man on top of Sherlock.

Relief visibly washed over Sherlock's still blue face as his eyes connected with John's. The slimmer man stopped fumbling with Sherlock’s sleeve, while the larger man slowly removed the pressure off of Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock gasped for breath, his face returning to its original, pale color. He coughed hard, wincing as his throat burned and his lungs tried to expand as much as possible, with the larger man still on top of him, to take in air.

“Slowly.. get off him. And drop the needle." John demanded once more, his gun still trained at the larger man's head.

Nobody moved, except for Sherlock, still trying to breathe, for a long moment.

“Now!" John yelled, voice firm and hands steady.

Slowly, they complied, the slimmer man first tossing the needle to the corner of the small, plastic wrapped room. Then the larger man slid off of Sherlock, eliciting a small pained groan from Sherlock, to kneel next to the smaller.

Sherlock sat up slowly, cradling his chest and neck, coughing a little more as his breathing struggled to return to normal. 

“Sherlock. You alright?" John asked, not taking his eyes off of the other men.

“Fine." Sherlock rasped, his voice croaky and sore. “You're late."

John huffed, though it sounded more like a sigh of relief. “You ran off on your own again. Hardly my fault.”

Sherlock only nodded as he stood up, stepping away from the suspects. 

"Number 5, not dead yet. I interrupted before they could dose him. Called Lestrade?” Sherlock explained, attempting to clear his throat of the croakiness, to no avail.

"Yeah, on his way.” John replied, relaxing slightly but keeping his gun on the two men.

"Now, I have a few questions.” Sherlock started, glaring at the two men who only glared back.

Before he could get off another sentence, all the lights shut off with a dull thud, sending the room to darkness. John blinked his eyes rapidly to adjust to the loss of light, but the two men took this chance to escape. 

They pushed past John and Sherlock, who yelled for them to stop as they flew from the room.

John, shoved a little harder than Sherlock, struggled to regain his footing while Sherlock ran after them. John followed only moments later, yelling after Sherlock.

Sherlock has always been faster than John, being younger and taller has its advantages. But John managed to keep a steady pace behind him, having much more stamina than the younger. 

Sherlock chased them up another flight of stairs, the complete darkness making it impossible to see well. Turns out, running up the stairs in complete darkness while chasing murderers is a bad idea.

Once he got to the top of the stairs, he was shoved backwards by the bigger man. He watched as the large man ran after the smaller one, exiting out of a back door. But soon, the door moved out of view as he fell backwards. For a brief moment, Sherlock felt as though he were flying as the world slowed down around him.

With a deafening crack, Sherlock hit the floor with his back first, followed by his head, which recoiled dangerously, and slammed against the concrete floor once more. Sherlock’s vision blackened, and soon, nothing mattered anymore.

John heard the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor, followed closely by a harsh crack. ‘That can't be good,’ John thought uselessly.

He turned the corner to see Sherlock laying spread eagle on the floor, unmoving. He rushed forward, adrenaline pumping like blood through his ears, worry settling, an awful lot like nausea, in the pit of his stomach.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up, please." John barely managed to keep the panic from his voice, allowing his doctor mode to take over. 

He examined Sherlock's head, a steady pool of blood spreading across the floor from the back of his head. John shedded his jacket from himself, folding it hurriedly and placing it gently beneath Sherlock's head in an attempt to stop the bleeding and add some comfort.

He quickly examined the rest of him, checking for broken bones and not finding any. He pulled out his phone and dialed 999, relaying the situation to the dispatcher. 

“How long before paramedics get here?" John asked, now incapable of keeping the panic from his voice.

“ETA, 3 minutes." The dispatcher responded, voice calm unlike John's. 

John thanked whatever gods that exist above that there was an ambulance nearby. He continued to try to rouse the younger man, gently tapping his cheek without lolling his head too much.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered for a second before opening halfway, eyes dazed and unfocused. ‘Not a good sign,’ John's mind unhelpfully explained.

“Sherlock, Sherlock. Can you hear me?" John asked, steadying his voice as much as possible as Sherlock roused.

“Jo’n…?” Sherlock slurred, voice barely above a whisper. 

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here.” John babbled uselessly. 

Sherlocks vision swam before him, black spots dancing in his vision as unconsciousness threatened to pull him back into its embrace. Sherlock almost let it, the sound of John's voice pleading with him being the only thing grounding him.

“‘m tir’d." Sherlock communicated, but his voice didn't sound like him. It didn't sound like him at all. It was slurred and barely coherent. That's not Sherlock. Sherlock is always composed, and at the very least, coherent. When he's not high. But he doesn't remember taking anything. He doesn't remember anything at all. Where is he?

“I know, but you have to stay awake, Sherlock. You hear me? C’mon, open your eyes, talk to me." John's voice lulled him back to reality as he tried way too hard to process John's words.

“Wha’ happ’n’d?" Sherlock slurred again. Was it Sherlock? The world in front of him danced dangerously as feet thudded toward them, making the dull ache in the back of his head throb with every thud.

“You had a bit of a fall. Paramedics are here to take care of you. You alright? Sherlock?" John explained, heart skipping a beat as Sherlock lost consciousness once more. 

The paramedics swooped in, stabilizing Sherlock’s neck with a brace to prevent any possible spinal injuries, and pulling him onto the stretcher. 

John watched as Sherlock's face contorted into displeasure at being touched, even while unconscious. John couldn't help a small smile.

Lestrade appeared beside him as the paramedics worked the stretcher downstairs. John desperately wanted to follow, but Lestrade had questions.

“John, what happened?" Greg asked, resting a comforting hand onto John's shoulder.

John really didn't feel like answering a bunch of questions. Images of Sherlock's limp form lying unmoving on the ground, his eyes unfocused and far away, were still very prominent on his mind.

“Someone.. ought to call Mycroft." John stuttered out, absentmindedly, shuddering at the thought of worse things that could've happened.

"I’ve a feeling he already knows. Wouldn't be surprised." Greg paused, becoming increasingly worried about John. 

“John. Come back to me. I need to know what happened, then I'll take you to the hospital to be with Sherlock.” Greg compromised, clasping both of John's shoulders in each of his hands as he stood in front of him.

John blinked, and focused on Greg. He was still in shock, so he willed it to go away.

“Right. Erm, Sherlock texted me as he was leaving the house. The address, this address, to the killers' workshop. Or what he thought it might be. Turns out he was right. I got here, later, about 5 minutes later. I followed the drag marks from outside, up the stairs and into the room where I heard a struggle.” John paused as the memories replayed in his head, like a movie.

“Er, there were two suspects, a larger one, most likely just the muscle, probably did in the first two. The second one was smaller, the brains probably. The erm, bigger one was holding Sherlock down, while the other attempted to dose him with whatever drug they were making. I interjected, got them off Sherlock. But.. then the power shut off, the lights went out. They ran, Sherlock ran after, faster than me. I heard a thud, came ‘round the corner and saw him. I assume he was, er, pushed from the top of the stairs.” John vaguely gestured toward the stairs next to them. 

Recounting what had happened did help his muddled mind come to terms with what happened, but John wanted nothing more than to be with Sherlock right now.

“Sherlock told me, he stopped them from doing anything to their 5th victim. Said, he's still alive in there.” John again, vaguely gestured toward the room around the corner, and Greg nodded in acknowledgement, scribbling down John's statement.

“Greg, I'd really like to…” John started but Greg interrupted with a comforting hand on his shoulder again.

“I know, I'll take you. C’mon.” Greg led John back around the corner, down a short hall and down the stairs again. ‘The lights had been turned back on,’ John barely registered.

Soon, John was placed into Greg's car, and they were off to the nearest hospital. The ride there was very short, but so incredibly long as well. Yet before he knew it, John was sat in the waiting room just outside the surgery, waiting not-so-patiently for news on Sherlock. 

Greg left almost as soon as he came with promises to return after he filed the report, and Mycroft didn't come until after Sherlock came out of surgery. 

John stood as the doctor walked into the room, less than an hour later, asking, “Family of Sherlock Holmes?" 

“That's me, how is he?" John replied almost immediately, scanning the doctor's face for any signs of pity, sadness or anything that would signal something bad had happened. No such emotion betrayed the doctor's face.

“He's in recovery, he should be okay. We didn't have to do a lot to his head. X-rays and CT Scans don't show any signs of skull fracture or lesions. But the next few hours are crucial for head injuries. We'll do an MRI then move him to the ICU. You can visit him then. He should be fine, you got him here in record time.” The doctor explained. John could physically feel his shoulders slacking as he relaxed, the adrenaline wearing off quickly.

"We're mostly worried about swelling of the brain, but we should know more once he wakes up. He'll have to take it easy for a while, he's got a pretty bad concussion.” The doctor continued. But John knew all of that already.

The doctor left John to mull over his words, taking it all in. ‘He’s fine, he’ll be fine. He’s Sherlock, of course he’s fine,’ John reminded himself as he sat back down in the uncomfortable waiting room chair.

…

It was 2 hours later when John finally got to see Sherlock. And much to his surprise, Sherlock was awake as he stepped into the private room, ‘Mycroft's doing,’ John thought briefly.

Sherlock looked disgruntled, and irritated, but he didn't seem to register John entering.

“Sherlock? How're you feeling?" John asked as he approached his bedside, eyeing the tightly wrapped bandages around his head.

“Great. Awesome." Sherlock muttered a reply, flinching slightly at John's sudden voice. He looked over at John instinctually, but instantly regretted it after John kept asking questions.

“You sure? Your eyes are still unfocused, far away." John noticed as Sherlock looked toward him, but straight through him, like he couldn't see him. His mind briefly scanned over old textbooks he remembered reading about head wounds and temporary blindness.

“Damage to the occipital lobe can cause temporary blindness depending on the severity of the head wound.” Sherlock muttered, his eyes fluttering closed. 

John instantly felt a pang of guilt settle at the bottom of his stomach.

"What can you see?” John asked, hoping it wouldn't be permanent, but it'll be hard to tell so soon.

“Light. Not much else. Hurts my head." Sherlock kept his voice low, as if talking hurt his head too. John made an effort to stay quiet as he turned the lights out.

“There weren't any visible fractures or lesions, you will have a raging migraine for a few days though, with that concussion.” John explained with a whisper as he sat in the chair beside the bed.

He could see that Sherlock appreciated the quiet and the dark as he visibly relaxed slightly. 

“Pain meds should help. Do you need it higher?" John inquired, checking the drips but not altering them. His morphine did seem rather low.

“Please." Sherlock muttered, sounding extremely tired.

John pressed the call button, and a nurse came jogging in seconds later.

“Can you raise his morphine a bit? Migraine." John asked quietly. The nurse got the memo and very quietly increased the drip, then left without another word.

John watched as Sherlock slowly drifted, finally relaxing as the pain meds kicked in. John knew the next few days were gonna be hell, but Sherlock is alive. That's almost all that matters to John right now.

A text notification brought John from his thoughts. He checked his phone. Text from Mycroft.

How is he? MH

John texted a reply moments later, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

Fine. No permanent or lasting damage that the doctors can see. Temporary blindness that might last a week or two. JW

He debated whether he should mention the blindness, but Mycroft would figure it out eventually, so he decided to save himself the trouble of two irritated Holmes.

…

John woke with a start, not realizing he'd fallen asleep. He seemed to be doing that a lot. He looked down at Sherlock to see he was awake, looking right past him.

“Sherlock? Everything alright?" John asked, keeping his voice soft but unable to contain his worry.

“You were snoring." Sherlock said simply, his voice raspy.

“Want some water?" John asked, reaching over to grab the cup on the bedside table.

Before Sherlock could answer, John guided the straw to Sherlock's lips, who took the straw and drank greedily.

When he finished the water, John placed the cup back on the table and checked his watch. 6:56 am. The sun was just rising, engulfing the room in the dim morning light.

"It’s 7am.” John told Sherlock helpfully. "How's your head?”

"Better.” Sherlock said shortly, voice still raspy. John thought it could be residual damage to his throat from when the suspect held him down.

He glanced at Sherlock’s throat and collarbone, just visible underneath the hospital gown, and visibly cringed at the dark bruises forming. He hoped there wouldn't be any lasting damage.

“John." Sherlock’s deep voice brought John back from his thoughts. John placed his hand gently over Sherlock's, eliciting a flinch. John felt Sherlock's body relax under his hand a second later.

“Yes, Sherlock?" John kept his voice quiet, watching Sherlock for any signs of discomfort.

“Are you alright?" Sherlock’s voice was small, almost hesitant. John raised his eyebrow, a little confused.

“You didn't get hurt during the chase, did you?" Sherlock continued, sensing John's confusion.

John chuckled before he could stop himself. “Yeah, I’m alright. I didn't sustain any injuries. Just focus on yourself, Sherlock.” John reassured him, giving his hand a slight squeeze.

John watched as Sherlock's eyes slipped closed, giving into the exhaustion.

John sighed when he thought Sherlock had drifted off, slumping back into his chair. His hand still rested over Sherlock’s, so he started rubbing small circles over the back of his hand mindlessly. 

This was going to be a long few weeks.

…

John went home a total of two times for the rest of the week Sherlock was in the hospital. Both times were to shower, and sleep. 

Mycroft visited once, on the second day. Sherlock remained seemingly unconscious during his visit, but John could tell he was awake, ignoring his brother's presence.

Greg visited almost as often as John, bringing food, usually between his shifts. Molly visited a couple of times with Mrs. Hudson, but they tended to stay away, seeing Sherlock in such a state was such a big contrast to how he usually was. 

...

The day Sherlock left the hospital, Sherlock was almost giddy. The doctor gave him a thick pair of sunglasses to protect his eyes against harsh light while they healed. Sherlock was hesitant to use them at first, but after being outside for just 2 minutes, he put them on, mumbling something about a migraine.

As Sherlock and John settled back into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock's eyesight improved exponentially. He could see blurry shapes and colors now, but still had trouble focusing on anything. He couldn't see any details, ‘anything useful,’ as Sherlock put it.

Just as John suspected, the next few days at home were long and tedious. Sherlock seemed to navigate just fine through the flat, but he was much more careful while moving about. Sherlock took a liking to prattling on about how bored he was. He made sure to get regular updates from Greg about their search for the killers. 

The 5th victim survived with little to no memory of what happened at all, but Sherlock seemed unamused from this information. 

John had to cater to Sherlocks food and water intake, making him breakfast, lunch, and dinner all while making sure he actually woke up. Sherlock complained constantly about headaches and John's meddling, but John could tell he was grateful, no matter what he said.

He tried not to take Sherlock's insults too personally.

…

“How's your vision?" John asked as he placed a cup of tea into Sherlocks hands. 

“Awesome. I can see shadows now." Sherlock said sarcastically, obviously bitter of his condition.

“It's a start. At least it's healing." John, ever the optimistic, replied.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes as he stared daggers into the wall behind John. They sat in their respective chairs across from each other while drinking tea.

It was the 5th day home, and Sherlocks eyesight was improving at a sluggish rate. He only ever wore the thick sunglasses when he went outside, and much to his disdain, he only ever went outside with the presence of John. 

Sherlock sipped at his tea after it had considerable time to cool down, still staring off while he thought. John watched him for a long moment, lost in his own thoughts.

He snapped back to reality when he watched Sherlock pull a cigarette seemingly out of nowhere.

“I thought you quit?" John asked, confused.

“I think it's warranted.” Sherlock said simply, going to light it.

"Well, take it outside, I don't want to breathe that in.” John said as he absentmindedly took another sip of his tea.

Sherlock stood without another word and swiftly made his way downstairs. He opened the door and stood on the stairs leading up to the door and inhaled the sweet, nicotine laced smoke of the cigarette.

He closed the door behind him, gazing at his surroundings lazily as he smoked. He still couldn't see well, everything being too hazy, and blurry.

He could see the shadows of figures walking past on the pavement, and the bright light of the clouded sky burned the start of a migraine into the back of his skull. He briefly wished he had brought the sunglasses, but just opted for closing his eyes instead.

He took another drag of his cigarette as a breeze brushed through his dressing gown. He closed it tighter around himself as he shivered, already missing the heat and comfort of his flat. 

Just as he decided to go back in, a sharp pinch in his arm made him pause, and the world slowly faded to black.

…