It was a dull and grey October morning when DCI Lestrade called John and Sherlock to a particularly gruesome crime scene in Islington. "Not worth my time," Sherlock had declared, but John had insisted they go or he would either stab the detective with his own pen knife or shoot him. He would not, and he was very clear on that, tolerate Sherlock's mood swings and tantrums any longer. For a fortnight, the younger man had been without a case, and he had coped well at first, busying himself with all sorts of experiments, then busying John with all sorts of errand jobs, before he had taken to more (self-)destructive pastimes. John was literally tired of those. Four 'danger nights' in a row, keeping both a watchful eye on any substance Sherlock brought into the house and a patient suicide watch on the changeable character of his flat share. He knew that Sherlock would not just go and top himself. But he'd go on cutting until he fainted. He'd done it before. And eventually he would bleed himself to death. But after a deprivation of four nights' sleep, John was tired. TIRED! So any case was welcome.

Sherlock sneered and rolled his eyes all the way to Islington, but John found he preferred the arrogance of the consulting detective to the sulking detective of the past weeks. Silently smiling to himself, the doctor watched the city pass by his window and ignored the biting comments.

They got off the cab and shivered at the frosty air. John rubbed his hands and looked the street up and down. Sherlock was already eying the house. To an observer unfamiliar with the tall man his face might have seemed concentrated, distant, and devoid of emotion, but John frowned at the pale face of his friend. It seemed that Sherlock's alabaster skin had turned a shade whiter still, and his eyes were definitely not as distant as they usually were. For a second, John thought he had seen confusion in them, and fear. Moriarty? But he was dead, wasn't he? Yes, John mused, something was off. Sherlock was lost in thought, but he wasn't concentrating at all. John made a mental note to inquire, when Sergeant Donovan appeared in the entrance, cocking her head at the two men.

"Freak," she nodded at Sherlock, "Doctor Watson. Hope you didn't stop for breakfast."

"Neither have you, Sally," Sherlock flashed a false smile at the policewoman, "though you expected somebody to cook you some, if I'm not mistaken." The woman's face fell and she looked daggers at Sherlock who was quickly pushed into the house by John.

"Does he cook you breakfast then?" Sally spat, at which Sherlock turned on his heels, crashing into John who was still holding his left elbow. "Sherlock," John warned in a low voice, but Sherlock had shaken his friend off already and pulled himself into a very erect pose, "He does." God, no, John thought, he'd never hear the end of that. Shaking his head in exasperation he almost missed Sherlock adding, "And I take him out for dinner in return. Unlike your arrangement, I actually pay." Oh, God.

"In case you hadn't noticed – He's actually here," John cut in, "and he doesn't pay me for … that. We're not together, though that must have sounded-"

"Come on, John! I haven't got all day!" Sherlock barked and headed for the stairs, his coat flowing around his thin form. Half-way up, he realized that he still did not know what they were dealing with. Murder, yes, but that was rather vague, wasn't it? The detective put a gloved hand on the rail and frowned. Something was not right. He cast a suspicious glance around, taking in the wallpaper, the polished wood, the framed hunting scenes, and the lustres. He barely noticed he was holding his breath, but he was aware of a sharp pain in his bottom lip where he had bitten himself.

"Sherlock?" If the tone of John's voice was anything to go by, he had been trying to pull him from his reverie. Only now the sturdier man pushed him against the wall and stared at him.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock gulped and licked at his lip, growling, "As my doctor you should stop me from hurting myself. Not have me up against walls." The absurdity of the words was meant to sound light, but John would have none of that and shoving a handkerchief into Sherlock's hand, he shook his head, "You'll explain. At home," at which Sherlock, uncharacteristically, nodded.

The crime scene was indeed gruesome, and John heaved an angry sigh while Sherlock merely frowned. DCI Lestrade who was standing over the victim nodded gravely at the two men. The room they found themselves in was a child's bedroom. A boy's judging by the adventure books and model kits. And the lack of dolls, toys, and make-up, John added in his thoughts. The sparse room was antiquely furnished - a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, a chair. It was the drawings, collections, and great number of books that added life to the place. There were butterflies, leaves in various stages of decomposition, stuffed animals, sea-shells, and stones. A bit unusual, John thought and found the room reminded him of Harry Potter. They were 2012 after all. This looked more, John thought hard, Victorian. Conservative, traditionalist. Posh, too. Definitely posh. He cocked his head at the books. Some had not been written until the 1970s. That figured, the doctor decided, recognizing one chemistry set from his own school days. In fact, this was more a room that he could have grown up in. Well, not he really, but Sherlock.

The detective had not even looked at the room, John realized. He had been staring at the bed and at the dead little boy who was tied to its headboard. John felt sick at the scene. The child could not be much older than eight. He was small, pale, and undernourished. John could make out sharp hipbones and some protruding ribs. His face was undefined and innocent, framed by dark curls. There was a lot of blood on the sheets, and it was obvious that they were dealing with sexual abuse as much as homicide. John noticed some bloodied objects on the floor. Tools. The child had been tortured. This was sick. He turned to Sherlock who was standing motionless, the blood on his lip caking. A quivering lip, John noted. Sherlock was deeply moved, he realized. His eyes were narrowed and his features controlled, the very image of a cold-hearted bastard. John saw beyond the cold mask and shuddered inside.

"Let's go," Sherlock croaked and turned.

"Oy," Lestrade called, "Just a minute! Any ideas?" He stared at Sherlock who stared back and shook his head, "It's obvious. And not worth my time."

John cast the chief inspector an apologetic look and shrugged before he followed his friend outside.