Drip

Drip

Drip…

It was hard to fathom just how loud the drops sounded as they made their final destination. The room was dead silent. Silent enough that a sound that otherwise would barely be audible and might even have gone unnoticed sounded just as loud as fingers on a drum.

Drops of crimson, thick liquid hitting floor boards, leaving stains, catching the dim light. Sherlock Holmes swallowed hard. The muscles in his throat contracted and his mouth grew dry. He blinked.

He was counting each drop as it fell. His mind was calculating the blood loss; estimating the volume compared to the amount of blood in an average human and what was survivable. His body was paralyzed but his mind. His mind was active. Bloody active.

He stirred at the harsh and yet somewhat clear sound of metal hitting the bloody floorboards. The blade had fallen from her tensed grip. She seemed strangely peaceful as she leaned back in the chair. John's chair that now had a stain that would always and forever be there. Not even Mrs. Hudson could do anything about that.

…

"Do you mind if I…" the shivering female client had asked him. He hadn't bothered with her name at that stage. She seemed boring but he was willing to give her a chance. He was that desperate for a case.

She was beyond nervous as she sat there alone in the presence of the consulting detective. Her trembling fingers were in her coat pocket digging something out of its depths.

"By all means" He had deduced she was an occasional smoker who used nicotine to calm her nerves when they got the better of her; like this very moment. And quite frankly his own itching need for the stuff meant he was more than happy to breathe in the fumes from a cigarette. Grateful in fact.

His entire system went cold as she finally pulled the instrument from her pocket. She held it firmly between her fingers and her quivering seemed to subside slightly as she held it in the light. A blade. His mouth opened but not a word came from his lips. He froze completely and was forced to watch her. His eyes refused to sway from the scene.

She rolled up her left sleeve; trembling as she exposed a map of scars to him. He swallowed; his eyes wide.

She pressed the sharp end of the blade against her arm and it pierced the skin almost as it would butter. Incredibly sharp and she seemed an expert; she didn't stop until she was left with 4 deep cuts. Blood ran from her arm as she leaned back. No longer shivering.

…

Drip…

"John!" Sherlock screamed inside his mind. He needed help with this. This was not good. Not good. His mind palace was empty. What to do? And why on earth had this rattled his world? He had seen so many dead bodies. Blood was no concern to him.

Drip…

This was different somehow. She was not dead. She was dying. Right in front of him. He did not save lives. He solved the murders and John Watson saved the life.

"John…" escaped his lips. The young woman in John's chair smiled; he knew that smile all too well. The smile of an addict who finally had the fix she had so longed for. Those brief moments where the world didn't matter. There was only the calm. The peace. The freedom. He was breathing through his nose. Her face was too sharp a contrast to the gory sight that was her arm.

Drip…

"I need your help, Mr. Holmes" her voice was low and the smile was still plastered on her lips. All her facial muscles relaxed.

Help. No. no. no… not with this. Where was John? Why was he not home? And why couldn't he seem to produce him in his treasured mind palace either?

Drip…

"I think I did something bad" she straightened herself up. The movement made the blood flow even quicker. She had cut too deep.

"Yes…" Holmes was out of it; bad it was, indeed.

Drip…

"Something really bad" Her trembling was back. This time much more violently. The pain was too much to bear and she dug her fingers into the armrests. The cuts opened wider from her muscle movement. She was pale and a cold sweat was forming on her brow. "She's dead"

"Yes…" the detective's eyes were trained on the slithers and on the blood gushing from them.

"I think I killed her" she sobbed. No tears came from her eyes. But her crimson tears continued to fall onto the floorboards.

Drip… drip…

"Yes…" Sherlock wasn't there. Just his shell of a body. Desperate screaming inside for John to come and help him.

"I'm scared" she shuddered and whimpered.

Drip…

"you… what?" He shook his head and put his fingers on the temple slowly coming back to life, to the stark reality. She closed her eyes. She put her lips to the bloody mess that was her arm and licked her wounds. Her face bore the expression of sharp jolts of pain.

"I'm really scared" her breathing was ragged as she put her arm down again; allowing more blood to spill onto the floor.

Drip… drip… drip…

"John please" Sherlock gasped. He couldn't cope. He needed John back. His fingers fidgeted with his phone. He was shivering. He finally dialed the number. He was too shaken to text. "Please come" his voice was small and nothing but a whimper. He hung up and continued to watch her. His calculations in his head was glowing red, beeping angrily.

Drip…

"I don't… remember" she leaned back again; gritting her teeth as the wounds stung. "I blacked out, She's… dead" she was glaring at her arm.

Sherlock put his finger to his lips shushing her. He wanted to hear this. He did want his case. That was the point. He wanted this case. He did not want a dead woman in John's chair. He couldn't get up. He just couldn't. And right now he feared he might not be able to remember everything she told him.

Drip…

It seemed an eternity from the moment she lost consciousness. A smile on her lips. And to the moment John finally decided to show up.

It was a blur to Sherlock as John patched her up the best he could and called an ambulance and had her taken away. Sherlock only saw this in glimpses. Unable to focus.

…

"Sherlock?" John put a hand on his shoulder and he sprang back to life. He gasped. Looking up at John. "Are you okay?" Sherlock nodded and bit his lip.

"Why wouldn't I be fine? I have a case!"

"Case? Sherlock a woman is dead; a client died in front of you"

The brim of Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he looked at the pool of blood, the bloody blade and the stain on the chair; the only signs of the woman having been there.

"How long did she sit there like that?" John glared into the eyes of the detective. Holding onto his shoulders.

"Is she…?"

"Yes she is" John spat at him. "You could have saved her; what the hell happened?"

"I was… scared" the word felt like daggers to him. But that was it. That was why he couldn't use his mind palace. The worst feeling of all.