[COMPLETE] ??? ???? ?? ??? ??????「Sherlock」

002; A Trip to the Hospital

"That was a waste of my time."

John perked up, clearly irate by the detective's dismissive behavior. "You have got to be kidding, right? Sherlock, that boy was no less than ten!" he protested.

"Eight, actually," Holmes corrected quickly, brushing by someone in his way.

The veteran continued to jabber straight to his back as they weaved through the busy street. "His parents are probably worried sick, and now they'll be finding out that their son was found dead— disemboweled, no less! They'll want to hear it from someone who is understanding of the situation, and right now, you certainly do not."

"It's not a matter of whether I understand it or not. There was nothing left of him in order to decipher what had happened. Water dissolves evidence fast, and seeing as he was at the bottom of the river for more than a day really thins out our options," Sherlock explained, attempting to justify his actions. "What I do understand is that a killer's instinct is to kill again, and we'll surely see a pattern soon enough. Besides, Lestrade can handle the formalities. He's done these things before. Always has. It's really all he's good for."

John, slack-jawed, stopped in the middle of the bustling street. A woman bumped into him whilst on the phone and cussed under her breath, and he apologized quietly, embarrassed for having run into her. Quickly, he followed after Sherlock, befuddled as usual. His partner, in the meantime, was thinking nothing of it. He was restless and he couldn't understand why.

"Do hurry yourself Watson, we have places to be!" Holmes shot over his shoulder.

"Do you have to walk so damn quickly?!" John finally managed to fall in step with his taller companion.

Sherlock's eyes washed over every face in the crowd, wondering if this had been such a good idea in the first place to barge head-first into the heart of the city. "I need to move or else my brain becomes too slow and my thoughts clog up, you should know this by now."

"What— but that's— oh, never mind!" the veteran stormed, face becoming slightly red as he returned to the subject at hand. "I just don't understand: you're just going to wait for another child to die?!"

"I thought we already established this?" Sherlock stated bluntly, glancing over at his companion. John stammered, at a loss for words toward his companion's atrocious idea. He could not, for the life of him, understand why Sherlock was so willing to let another innocent light die out at the hands of their criminal. Who knew how many he could kill before they finally found him. Surely Lestrade wouldn't allow that to happen either, right? John grumbled to himself, following after Sherlock for the rest of the way in silence, gritting his teeth but bottling his anger. Finally, they decided to hail a cab and climb inside, refusing to look at each other for the rest of the way. There was nothing more left to do here, aside from go home.

When they finally reached the apartment, the door was unlocked. They headed upstairs. Sherlock was surprised to see that the entrance to the flat had been shut. Stepping into the living room, he expected to find the usual mess, only to discover that the papers neatly rearranged, the carpet vacuumed, and his violin resting comfortably where he had usually left it. Dread filled him for a moment as he wondered if Julia were anything like her aunt, but as soon as he laid eyes upon the foreboding skull settled just as he had left it, he relaxed. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon, seeing as she had probably burnt a stick or two in the scullery.

John physically brightened as he saw how organised the kitchenette was. "Perhaps we should have her come around more often?" he admitted, giving a breathy laugh as he stood in the middle of the room, hands tucked in his pockets and his gaze wandering along his surroundings. Sherlock then noticed something odd. The laundry that was being sorted between his and John's wasn't quite finished, as if she had gotten up and left in a hurry. His heart began to speed up as his eyes flew to the paper that was now in John's hands. The detective quickly examined the surface for any sign of blood or struggle, but soon found that it had only been written quickly in one of John's black ink pens.