Eclipsed

'After an accident John is left permanently blind.

It isn't long before he begins to lose himself in the darkness.

It's up to Sherlock to find him again.'

First Chapter: Saftey

It was in August when Sherlock bought half a dozen white mice.

"They make excellent lab partners." He had said. "Humans and mice share about 99 percent of genes. That's exceptionally better than tadpoles."

John had made some kind of point that he was absolutely not going to be feeding and cleaning up after a 6 mice whenever the detective had a sulking episode. He had made it clear that they were Sherlock's responsibility.

To which the other man responded with:

"Oh come off it John, I've already potty trained them."

It was a few days after Sherlock had obtained the mice that John had found him cursing and grumbling about one of them being "incompetent".

"What do you mean? It's just like the others." John said, holding the mice at fault. It looked just like the others after all. White coat with pink feet and tail and shiny black eyes. John stroked the little creature's neck while it tilted it's head up, curiously sniffing the air. It didn't seem to have any obvious ineptitude.

"No no, John don't you see? With it's disability it will never qualify for half of the experiments I'm planning. It just won't do!"

"What's wrong with it Sherlock? It looks fine to me."

"That's because you're not looking hard enough. That one is blind."

John raised his eyebrows and looked back down at the mouse. Now that he looks closer, the eyes are significantly darker than the other mice. A dark black abyss with no hope or trace of light. The mouse continued to sniff the air, it's head turning towards the sound of voices but never once looking directly at the doctor.

It was indeed blind.

"I'll just have to dispose of it." Sherlock had muttered, reaching towards the mouse in Johns palm.

Immediately John pulled back in fear, cradling the mouse to his chest like it was his own daughter.

"No! You don't have to kill it."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to raise and eyebrow. "If my memory is correct, which it is 86% of the time, it was you that didn't want anything to do with these animals in the first place. Why the sudden compassion?"

Come to think of it, John actually didn't know why he cared to save the blind mouse. It was, after all, just an animal. Perhaps it was his doctorly instincts to save whatever living being he could. Perhaps it was just his kind heart that couldn't bare seeing a creature killed because of something that wasn't its fault. Perhaps he found himself relating to it.

What ever the reason be, John felt a certain connection to the mouse. It was sad and broken just like he was all those months ago. John was 'saved' by Sherlock, why can't John save this creature?

"I want to keep it." He finally announced. He noticed that his tone of voice and the true detail of the situations made him sound like a complete child! But he kept his face serious and held the mouse close.

Sherlock gave him a questioning look but eventually just sighed.

"Whatever you say John, but this one you have to take care of."

He made a satisfied smirk like that of a stubborn 7 year old who had just gotten his way.

He gently patted the mouse on the head and watched as it relaxed in his hand. Strange how it can feel comfortable with a presence that it can't even see.

"What is its name?" John asked. He knew Sherlock had dubbed all of the mice with rather unusual names the day before.

"Her name is Algernon."

It was in September that Sherlock accepted a case where several untraceable explosions were going off in seemingly random locations.

The first in a park.

The second in a residential neighborhood.

The third at a elementary school.

Sherlock had only accepted the case after the third explosion at the elementary school.

It was the only incident where someone was harmed by the bomb.

"These bombs were designed solely for acts of arson, their only purpose is to induce fear." Sherlock had said. "Each bomb is strategically placed somewhere with a lot of civilians, a lot of potential victims. However, once they go off, no one is harmed. There are always dozens of witnesses though. Dozens of frightened and panicked witnesses who begin to question their own protection. That is what the unsub is doing. He is making a statement that no one is safe by causing unexplainable chaos.

But, something went wrong didn't it?

He placed the bomb in Mrs. Kinnian's classroom and scheduled it to blow in the one and only period that there was no class in that room. Little did he know that 9 year old Charlotte was asked to deliver a borrowed stapler to Mrs. Kinnian during that same period.

He is very specific on where he places the bombs and what time he activates them, but despite his carefulness, someone died.

He made a mistake and now he is left to do one of two things.

He may kill himself...or he may get a taste for bloodlust.

You may have a budding serial killer on your hands Lestrade. A serial killer who uses fire and bombs as a signature weapon. That is why I am accepting this case."

Lestrade just stared, speechless.

He had only asked 'Why the sudden interest? I thought you said this one was dull?'

"Uh, yeah okay." Was all he could really respond with.

It was also in September that 'the accident' occurred.

Sherlock doesn't like calling it 'the accident' because really, it wasn't an accident. The bomb was as intended as all of the rest of them were. Only this one was designed to harm. The unsub wasn't just scaring people anymore. He wanted to hurt people.

He wanted to hurt John.

And therefore, calling it an accident was stupid because it simply wasn't.

They had been running, because they were always running. Never running away, always running towards the voice of danger. They were adrenalin addicts after all. They lived for this. This is what saved John.

Well, this and Sherlock.

Speaking of the man, he was shouting something.

"Keep up John, I don't want you falling behind."

The doctor didn't bother responding. He needed every breath he could get in order to follow Sherlock's order anyway.

The man was getting away. The boys hadn't pinned a name on him yet, but they knew just about everything else about him.

Well, Sherlock did.

They were racing through alleys, trying to keep up with this, stunningly agile, explosives expert. Sherlock had mentioned something about him being a chemist, or maybe it was a physicist. Some kind of doctor. The man threw a trash can to the ground, creating an obstetrical that Sherlock quickly leaped over. Seriously, he was like a bloody antelope! John had a bit more trouble maneuvering over the can.

Once he had gotten over it, Sherlock and the man had long disappeared from his sight.

"Sherlock!...Wait up!" He shouted, taking in deep breaths. He was hunched over with his hands on his knees and tried to desperately to catch his breath. He really wasn't as in shape as he thought himself to be.

He might as well leave Sherlock to catch the bastard on his own. John leaned against the alley's wall and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

He checked his wrist watch.

4:32

It had been a long night.

And it was about to get even longer.

Once his heart had stopped beating in his ears he noticed a soft ticking noise in the background.

Ticking, why did he hear ticking-?

John's eyes widened in realization and he turned to the trash bin.

tick, tick,

tick, tick,

"Oh shi-"

Several hundred meters away, Sherlock had pinned the unsub down on the pavement, his hand behind his back.

He was getting increasingly frustrated with this one. He wouldn't stop mumbling nonsense into the night's air.

His voice would rise and drop dramatically, similar to that of Moriarty's except much less deep. His hair was short, strawberry blond with large bald patches missing. The tips of his hair were cut short at different lengths, not done with a razor, it was pulled. Trichotillomania.

His skin was very pale. No tan lines, he rarely is outside for an extended period of time. He examined his hands. Red and raw, scrubbed until the skin broke. Possibly a result of obsessive compulsive disorder.

More mumbling, was that a stutter?

"Really, if you're going to disregard your right to remain silent, then at least speak louder so I may hear you."

He cracked a manic grin."You think you're safe now dont-don't you? You're never safe. We're all doomed, all the tim-time! Just loose your focus for one second and BOOM! You're life's been dest-dest-destroyed."

Repetition stutter confirmed.

Not a nervous tic, not developmental, recently acquired.

Possibly result of a head injury. Possibly a brain tumor. Could be fatal.

That would explain why he decided to go on a killing spree.

Nothing left to loose.

Sherlock just grinned back, almost amused by this one's stupidity. He could have just learned this man's reason for killing just by his talking.

"You think you're teaching them something then? Showing them that safety is as much as a lie as peace or innocence. Allow me to enlighten you then, they know. They know they're doomed. They just choose not to see it. Ignorance over fear I suppose." He reached into his coat pocket to retrieve Anderson's stolen handcuffs.

The man shrugged, then pressed his face back to the pavment. "So I guess you "chose" to kill you're friend, huh?"

"..What?"

That's about when he heard the explosion.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, his whole body froze in shock.

"John."

.

.

.

"JOHN!"

He took off in a full on sprint, forgetting completely about the unsub, who found this to be a perfect time to escape.

"Allow this to be a reminder Mr. Holmes," He called. "That-that you and your loved ones are never tru-truly safe! There is no sanct-sanctuary for you!"

Sherlock didn't even hear his words as he raced to the sound of the explosion.