A/N: I apologies for the long wait on this one. Hopfully that won't happen again. I want to thank you all for such the lovely reviews! They make my day! You are all too kind.

7th Chapter: Wrong

John had never felt anything while looking at dead animals. Hell, he felt nothing while looking at dead humans. If he did not have an emotional connection to the one deceased, then he simply saw them as a victim, not a person. His inability to feel for the dead was defiantly not as bad as Sherlock's of course. He did not shout with joy when there was a confirmed serial murder, obviously. He did not grin at corpses, but he rarely felt much for them. Of course they were people, dead people, but that seemed to be all they were. John Watson did not cringe or become nauseous even with the most bloody crime scenes. He was a soldier after all, he'd seen it all before.

So why...why then was he overwhelmed with emotions when he came across...when he saw...It didn't make sense.

John Watson did not grin at corpses.

He had been outside of the flat a few times since the accident. Sherlock had helped him to use the cane, it was remarkably simple once he'd gotten the hang of it. But still, John had never ventured out of the flat without someone beside him. He would have been nervous or scared if he wasn't so fueled with rage. He tapped the cane around in front of him, identifying where the sidewalk met the curb or where there would be a trash bin. He would hear people coming, and would be sure to move out of their way. Even if he couldn't see them, he could feel they're stares. They pitied him. He knew it. And by god he hated it.

"Oh look at that poor bloke with no eyes. He's obviously got no clue where he's going. He can't do anything at all on his own now can he?"

"Pathetic really. He used to be a soldier. He could kill men with his bare hands, now he struggles just to dress himself."

"He completely useless now. Why would the genius bother keeping him around then? If you ask me, I'd just dispose of him as quickly as possible. Can have and weak links on the Great Sherlock Holmes' chain. Just let him die.

The voices continued like this. All judging him, all getting more and more aggressive as time went on. John had tried to drown them out with the violin, but it would not play. No matter how hard he tried, John could not remember it's song. All he could think about were the voices and Algernon.

He often kept her in his palm while he sipped his tea. The mouse would usually curl up in the tiniest ball with her pink tail twisted around his thumb. Her rapid heartbeat thumped in her little body as she'd rest in the center of his palm. John never liked pets too much, but Algernon was good company. He would occasional speak to her when Sherlock wasn't home, or when he was.

"See that Algernon? That is the rare consulting Detective in his state of sulk. It's a fascinating thing to see, really. Maybe if we're real quiet, we can hear his brain struggling to cope with humanity's stupidity."

She could never look John directly in the eye, but if he got up really close to her she'd lick his nose. She really was just like the other mice. Sherlock had said that most mice have poor vision anyway. They rely mostly on their sense of smell and hearing. Still, John kept Algernon away from Sherlock's other lab mice. She was very rarely used in any experiments.

John didn't have Algernon for too long. Only about a month before-

A heavy structure stopped John in his tracks. He'd run into someone, someone much larger and heavier than himself. He'd almost been knocked over if he hadn't caught his balance.

"So sorry." He tried his best to seem apologetic.

There came no response.

He internally shrugged and attempted to carry on his merry way when a hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

It was his own fault really. Why would he expect any different from animals? Perhaps it was because Sherlock had assured him they held so much similar genetic makeup as humans did. But really, would John expect much better behavior from humans? No. It was all completely his own fault. In August, John had decided to place Algernon in the bin with the other mice.

"She could socialize a bit." He'd thought. What an idiot he was. He should have bloody well known.

"We don't fuck with the crippled ones much, but today we're a little desperate. Life's a bitch y'know?" The first once said into his ear. John smelt liquor on his breath and a cold night breeze made him suddenly shake. What time was it? How long had he been walking?

"We'll make it real easy, friend. Wallet, watch, and coat. Then you can be on your way."

Coat?

"Are you homeless?" John found himself saying. Sherlock couldn't have possibly sent the homeless network to come and get him. And if he did, they certainly wouldn't be robbing him.

"I don' believe that's any of your business. Now I'm not going to say it again. Wallet, watch, and coat."

John huffed. He may be blind, but he wasn't about to be scared into stripping off his own coat for these low lives. He really should have known better.

"And if I say no?"

It was silent for a moment, then three laughs erupted into the night. Three of them. The one behind him was leveled with his mouth to John's ear. That one was taller then. The one in front of him was too, also heavier. The other he didn't know. Either way, it didn't look well.

John returned to the bin later to fine what remained of Algernon and the 5 white mice that surrounded her. Fur painted in a brighter color.

Despite that, John was military trained, and fucking furious. He had a bit of an advantage of his own.

His first attack was an elbow blow to the throat of the one behind him. He wasn't laughing after that. Foot steps approached him, heavy ones. This one most likely had a hard head as well. It'd do no good to go for the face. Groin it was. A sharp kick to the stones followed by a hiss of pain. John momentarily grinned to himself before he was punched square in the jaw by number three. The blow disoriented him, as most facial blows do, and suddenly there were hands pushing him to the ground. They were coming at all directions, John couldn't pinpoint where to hit. His back hit the concrete with a loud thud and there were feet kicking him, stomping on him from above.

John told himself it was because rodents were territorial creatures, it was because they hadn't been fed, Sherlock had given them drugs. But some awful thought in the back of his mind screamed that it was because she was defective. He'd heard of mother animals killing off their young after finding a disability in them. They would abandon them, murder them, devour them. Mothers would devour their own children all because they were born wrong.

Another hard kick fractured two of his ribs. His humerus must've shattered by then. And here came the concussion. John's face was gushing blood by then. From his nose, his mouth, his eyes even. God damn his fucking useless eyes.

They were shouting at him now.

"Stay down, you're better off here on the pavement then anywhere else."

"Fucker bruised my balls, I'll bruise his face!"

"Tell us when you see red, faggot!"

They were eating her. The one Sherlock called Ulysses was gnawing on a hind leg, two of the rodents were hissing and shrieking as they fought over her liver, another two were practically buried in her abdomen, scarfing down her insides like their life depended on it. Algernon's body was torn into pieces. Her dismembered head lied untouched by the other mice. Her eyes still as dark as ever, he mouth open agape.

They took everything. From his wallet, to his shirt, to his watch. Just about everything but his pants. Then they left him to die on the bloodied pavement. He stopped feeling the beatings about 3 minutes in. He could faintly feel his skin buzzing but there was no real pain. His left eye felt as though it was probably swollen shut. It made no difference anyway. His eyes were useless, John considered getting the bloody things removed. Just decorations for show , afterall. He did not struggle or fight when The Dark came to take him. He had nothing to fight for this time. All was lost, from Sherlock to his dignity, all of it was gone. The Dark applied immense pressure to his back, it felt as though he was supporting two bookshelves on his shoulders. It seeped into his wounds and filled the scars and fractures with it's essence. John felt it in his chest cavity, a heavy weight that itched to burst out through his skin. It coiled around his heart before attempting to drown it under the weight of The Dark. John felt an ache somewhere in his mind right before he passed out.

Spit shined shoes clacked against the pavement. They gradually got closer to John before stopping right before the blood pool. A well manicured hand reached into an inner pocket of the Westwood suite and retrieved a single white hankercheif. The other hand gently lifted John's head from the ground and cradled it in it's arm. The blood, sweat, and dirt was wiped away with the white hankercheif. A satisfied grin danced on lips as John's face was revealed underneath it all.

"Hmmmm, John Watson." A finger pushed John's eyelid up to take a peek. "Blind as a bat."

John's head was placed back on the pavement and a hand patted his head. The now stained hankercheif was left over his eyes.

"Send this to Sherlock will you?" A light kiss on John's brow, then the sound of the clacking shoes walking away.