Sally didn't want to be here. Nobody wanted to be here, all of them trying not to think too hard about the two bodies sprawled on the floor. Two little bodies. Children, a boy and a girl, half-draped across each other, blood everywhere. Sally felt sick, and Lestrade sent her a questioning glance. She waved him off. This sickened her, but she wasn't going to back out. She had a job to do.

And then they showed up. Freak and his dog. Now was not the time for him to show off and prance around this atrocity like the arrogant arsehole he was while his pet stood off to the side and gawped.

Sally was posted by the door, and Freak swept by her so fast that her hair shifted against her forehead. She brushed it away just as John came through the door at a much more reasonable pace and gave her the slightest nod in greeting. She didn't return the gesture.

Sally watched Freak squat down and peer at the bodies, then lay down flat and squint at them through his little pocket magnifying glass. John was pulling on gloves and looking down at the bodies with a look she'd never seen on the man before. His face was blank and grey, and he stared at the bodies for a long moment before he crouched down and examined them opposite from the Freak.

She looked away from the bodies, starting to feel sick again, and when she looked back, Sherlock was snapping closed his magnifier and rattling off his deductions with his typical pomposity. Then he turned and looked down and saw John, sitting back on his heels and pressing his wrist to his mouth with a bilious complexion, and he slowed. John stood up, cleared his throat, and quietly told them his medical opinion and then stepped off to the side, peeling his gloves off and looking uncharacteristically shaken. Freak finished his rant, then peeled off his own gloves, dropped them on the floor where he stood and silently swept over to where John was standing, pressing his wrist to his mouth again.

Lestrade was directing people to start moving things, and John briskly walked into the tiny cramped washroom near where Sally was posted.

And honestly, it wasn't her fault that her position was perfect for eavesdropping.

John lifted up the toilet seat and stood in front of it, slightly hunched over like he might vomit, and a few moments passed before Sherlock appeared, silently going to stand right behind his flat mate. He had the oddest expression on his face, barely there, and eventually it seemed like John decided he wasn't going to vomit and he turned around.

"John?" Freak asked quietly, and a hardened sort of expression fell on John's face.

"Sherlock, they were just children. Neither of them could've been older than eleven, if that," John said, pale. "Who would- they were poisoned, Sherlock. Maybe a large dose of superwarfarin, judging by the urine smell and the bleeding. It wasn't quick. It would've taken days of bleeding, internal and external, without food and water, for it to kill them. Necrosis. Paralysis. Vomiting, bleeding from the gums and the eyes and the skin, and you said that he stayed and watched." John turned back to the toilet and put his hands on his knees, screwing his eyes shut.

Sally covered her mouth and tried not to vomit herself. She didn't know what exactly was going on, why John was even saying those things. It's not like Sherlock would care, it was all just a case to him, just a damn puzzle.

Eventually John turned back around. Freak was making a pained sort of face, the outside of his cheeks narrowing his eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. "You said that the killer stayed. And watched." John's back was ramrod straight, and his hands were balled up and shaking.

"I know. I don't-" Sherlock inhaled like he was going to keep talking but John barreled on.

"Look. I know that I'm a doctor, and a soldier, and a veteran, and I'm supposed to be able to deal with this, but I can't. Not when they're so young. I've seen too many children die, sent in waves over minefields, and I don't want to see anymore, Sherlock I don't understand-" John scrubbed at his face and clammed up, and Freak looked vaguely horrified, staring at John with his eyebrows barely slanted, eyes wide, mouth just open.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said, and then he moved forward a step and grabbed hold of John's hand in both of his own. Sally went wide eyed. "I didn't- I wasn't trying to upset you."

John sighed. "I know you weren't, Sherlock. It's not your fault."

Freak let go of John's hand and sort of haltingly put his hand on the line of John's jaw, like he wasn't quite sure how to do it right. "Do you want to go back to the flat? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson could-"

John shook his head, and Sherlock let his hand drop. "No. No, I want to find this guy. I want to find him now, and I want to find him first." John looked like a bomb about to explode, held in only by military resolve and woolly jumpers. "I need to have a talk with him."

Sherlock nodded resolutely, and John nodded back. They looked like they were about to leave, so Sally quickly whipped her head to face front and tried to wipe the expression off of her face.

Freak swept out of the door next to Sally, making her hair flutter again. As John passed her by, he gave her another little respectful farewell nod, and this time she returned it.