Sherlock 1. Rain and Denial

_Note from author: I knew this was coming. There was absolutely nothing to stop it, especially when I had access to gin and insomnia and absolutely no internet access._

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Rain lashed the windows of the small flat of 221B Baker Street with translucent onslaughts, as it had for the last 2 days. The thunder seemed implacable that evening, rattling the aged glass in it's' casings. Violent cracks of white split open the skull of the heavens, illuminating the city in brief and flickering electric blue brilliance. Inside the brick walls a dark Victorian fireplace's contents cast a gentle amber hue across the room. Tongues of flame licked lazily around ember studded bark, lulling to and fro across the rough surface. The pendulum of a grandfather clock just down the hall from the door, swayed tirelessly, it's ticking punctuating the passage of the evening like a nagging ache in the back of one's mind.

A gaunt rail of a being – dark curls of hair spiraling out of his head like a thousand tiny rams horns – padded the length of the oak floorboards barefoot. His outline was defined intermittently by the windows' view of the flashing light, making his taunt shoulders and austere profile all the more distinct. His long fingers steepled under his chin as he inaudibly mouthed something slowly.

A stouter man, exhaustion clearly etched into his brow, sighed heavily as he leaned back into an arm chair and tossed down a newspaper onto the side table. "I'm not getting anything Sherlock. Maybe you've finally caught the lot." He rubbed a callous thumb under his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." The pacing man muttered lowly. "It's only a matter of time...it's only a matter of human nature." There were four creaks of wood before he turned on his heel and spun 'round again. "It _is_ deplorable, though, that intelligence does not coincide with average instinct."

The seated figure side-eyed his friend with some hesitation. It was hardly two days ago he'd spend several hours re-hinging the kitchen cabinets after Sherlock had tested the blood blistering of severed limbs in the doors. He wasn't entirely certain the man had eaten more than a pair of toast with jam in the last week. "Heard anything from Lestrade?" He questioned, swigging an amber bottle that had long since warmed to the temperature of the room.

"No. He hasn't responded to me." Lithe hands absentmindedly swept up a violin and picked notes at its ridged wires. "Not that there is something actually interesting the Yard would have for me anyway." His words seemed to be spat out sharper than usual and Sherlock broke his gait to let his breath ghost the window pane.

The street lamps and tail lights of cars whirring through the collecting puddles all seemed like a dark oil painting that had been flawlessly smeared straight down. The wet pavement stretched the gold and ruby glimmers in an unnatural perspective as if they were cascading into a pit. All the while a few sparse umbrellas seemed to dance over the void of the precipitation's wavering surface, defying gravity it's self.

Sherlock traced a little river of rain down the glass with his index finger for just a moment before it was swallowed up by a larger current. The dizzying orientation of lights below blurred together in the streams of the window, shifting the realistic into a moving abstract.

John settled the bottle on the table and shifted forward with hands folded between his knees, biting his cheek before continuing charily. His eyes cast down and paused before flicking up. "And Mycroft?"

The man at the window allowed his head to crook and pivot to the left just slightly as if to emphasize the pure vexation it took his brain to process the words. He plucked a sudden sour discord of strings and resumed to his pacing.

The remark "_No"_ would have been easy for someone to miss, and even easier to misinterpret if it had been heard by anyone other than John Watson. While in this context most would have believed that the detective's vigilant brother had not bothered to make contact with his kin, it was very unsubtle to the doctor what Sherlock had meant.

_"No"_ as in pride over-powering boredom.

_"No"_ as in the absolute refusal to allow his brother to see him cave.

John knew the question would be deemed rhetorical before he'd bothered to say it out loud. Now it was just confirmed, along with many other things even the incredible Mr. Holmes hadn't realized he'd given away to someone who had finally learned to pick up on his well guarded weaknesses.

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John had left Sherlock to his pacing some time after that, trudging upstairs to the solitude of his room where he could hear the screaking of the timber floors as less clearly. The veteran knew the ceiling above his bed like the back of his hand, having memorized the forming cracks and dips of plaster in the city tinted glow on such nights as this.

The man downstairs had fallen into one of his quiet moods...and those were the most disconcerting.

It hadn't been a long time since the last case, perhaps only five days. As Sherlock put it, though, it had been weeks since an even remotely challenging one. Dr. Watson had become accustomed to the roller coaster life that was living with Sherlock, but the thrill of the puzzle, the chase, and the climax sometimes had a terrible price to pay.

_The severe let down._

Medically it was the crash after the adrenaline high However, for Sherlock, it seemed to be more like someone had taken away a favorite childhood toy, burnt it, and then handed back the ashes as if they would still provide the same entertainment and nostalgia.

In this situation, the ashes were news write ups on how the case had been solved. Sherlock would sit poised on the edge of the couch, paper billowed out like a sail obscuring his upper body. After a minute or so he would scoff loudly and announce that they had left out _absolutely all of the important details_ and make a pointed note to debunk every other piece of writing the reporter would ever do. This was the stage where John, who actually wanted to read the rest of the paper, had learned to wretch the newsprint from the other man's hands before the whole thing was crammed into a tight wad and flung into the fireplace. Unbeknownst to the private detective, there was valid news that didn't involve mysteries or murders.

John released a lungful of air he hadn't realized he'd been holding and noted the light splayed across his ceiling was now a tell-tailing dusty royal blue. The sun was soon to crest over the townhouses and blaze steaming rays over London. The footsteps below him had stopped, but he still heard an occasional plucking of the G and E string. Sherlock had clearly given up on forming music tonight, but remained awake as always.

John threw a corner of his knit blanket over his eyes to block out the impending light.

If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that it would take death for Sherlock to finally get some sleep.

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Should I press for more?


	2. Secrets

_Note from author: I think I have started to get a handle on where this story may be going. On that note, I've changed the title "The Case of the Dangling Musician" to its current form "The Anathema and Beleaguered". Essentially, "The Hated and Harassed". Many of the chapters will stick to a brief format (though not as small as this one), mostly because writing twenty pages in one go intimidates the crap out of me right now__._

_It is also going to be going into far darker material than I previously anticipated for both John and Sherlock. If you are squeamish or like your characters squeaky clean, I'm warning you now, this is not fluff._

_Much thanks to my reviewers! You are AH-MAZING._

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John Watson was bound.

He thrashed as violently as he could in his current state at this escalating and sobering realization.

Everything spun with the stomach-turning and salty fogginess only being knocked unconscious could provide. The static that reverberated in his ears slowly subsided, giving way to an equally discomforting level of silence. His clothing felt damp, but hardly the 'just spent a lovely holiday at the beach' type. No…it was oil like, balmy and thick and reeking. He gasped in air – filthy scorching air – which made him feel all the more ill as he dared to open his eyes.

It was dark…everything was dark and yet so _blisteringly hot_.

He tested his constraints and found his limbs were knotted fast to his body, possibly ropes, but he wasn't certain. He was on a solid surface which given the sensation of touch in his right side and pinned hand, was the ground. With a shuttering breath through his nose, he calmed himself – pushing back the warranted panic - and tried to deduce his current situation.

Bound, but not gagged. Clearly his assailant was not concerned with anyone hearing shouting and coming to his aid. Not good.

It was pitch black before him, but last he'd remembered the sun had been rising. Either he'd been out for at least 12 hours or he was in a basement of sorts. His body ached terribly and _what was he drenched in?_ He shifted to roll on his stomach, but he seemed to be wedged against a mound of dirt.

Swiftly that slight movement alone made his shoulder feel as if it were exploding. White hot pain radiated outward, lighting up every nerve like one domino clacking down upon the next ceramic tile after it until the entire wave of agony had swept through him. He moaned softly, choking slightly on the sand that had molded to his face.

_Sand._

There was creaking and shuffling on the far side of the room. Had someone stood up from a wooden chair? Foot steps followed, but they were not coming directly at him.

"You finally wake, doctor." The disembodied words made John startle slightly, sending another roll of pain though him. It was a man's voice, heavy with an accent and baritone from what was more than likely a smoking habit. "It is good to see you have not died." There was a pause then, with audible shifting of clothing and rubber soles at least 10 yards away. "Now you will help us."

John withheld a snort at that, checking his temper that thrummed with adrenaline and fury in his veins. "Why on Earth would I do that?"

Two more foot steps, and then a click.

Blinding light seared though Dr. Watson skull and he blinked rapidly to allow his pupils to catch up. The vertigo he had suffered earlier doubled ten fold, nearly causing him to wretch right beside himself. Three dancing images reduced to two and then a focused one, before he realized he hadn't been wedged against a pile of earth. He was staring directly into the dead eyes of his commanding officer – throat slit garishly, flesh and vessels severed by a dull and jagged blade, blood soaking into the ground and consequently, his camos. John mimicked his horror struck face – forever frozen and lifeless. A low sound crescendoed from the back of his knotted throat as he grasped that there were at least two other bodies of British shoulders near him as well. They were young boys as still, silent, and gruesome as the one whose blood he was soaking in.

The shock wore off and John suddenly kicked violently, desperate to be away from it. His muscles physically pleaded with shudders just to be a centimeter farther away from the congealing life force - from the man he was wedged againt's unending stare - from everything.

And oh God all this blood and sand everywhere! All this slaughter of good men!

_John._

This, this was how he was going to die!

Draining out into the endless desert half way across the world where his corpse might be dragged through the streets in celebration.

_John._

This was it!

_JOHN._

…

John jolted suddenly, as if being dredged from the water's surface. True light of the sun flitted into his vision and his mouth was still agape, the scream having only died moments before. His lungs burned as he took in greedy amounts of air and his heart beat roared in his ears like a thousand step dancers upon a stage.

In England. In London. His bedroom.

Not Afganistan. Not Helmand.

A shivered took over him as the cold sweat that saturated his hair caught a draft from the wall he was against. It seemed he'd managed to wrap himself tightly in his sheet and had fallen from the bed.

"_John._" Sherlock nearly whispered it, but nevertheless it elicited John's head to snap 'round in dazed alarm.

His flat mate, still garbed in the previous night's crumpled suit, was crouched just beside him. A hand was extended out and his finger tips pressed into the doctor's shoulder firmly. There was an impassable expression on his face which was hardly surprising. _'It almost looks like he'll whip out his magnifying glass and start prodding for clues'_ John sardonically mulled. His gaze, however, held a depth and intensity that John had rarely seen. The emotion was complicated to pinpoint, though he was relieved that it seemed to be neither annoyance nor pity. It denoted a form of 'it's okay', but even that as a phrase was wildly broad in it's many given tones.

He gave the other a curt nod and whatever grateful smile he could muster. With that nothing more was said and Sherlock took the opportunity to dismiss himself, creaking down the narrow attic downstairs. It had been quite some time since it had all be so vivid. A weight of hopelessness crushed his chest and wrapped glacial fingers around his heart…he'd actually though those nightmares were over. The ache of his head had disappeared as quickly as the dream. He yet again prayed - begged the memory would do the same.

John felt like he should be more embarrassed than he was, having someone see him like that…especially Sherlock. It was in the Holmes nature to identify a flaw or disadvantage and capitalize upon it, but this was one time the dark haired man wouldn't. He wouldn't dare tread the waters of that insult and John knew it.

It appeared to be midday and sunlight cast hard shadows on the row of flats beyond his window. Everything was quiet but for clacking of dishes and the whistle of kettle in the kitchen. John allowed a genuine smirk to pass over his lips.

Sherlock was making him tea.

John choked on a breath, _which was absolutely not a sob_, closed his eyes for a moment, before gathering the will power to untangle his limbs from his bedding.

The shower he took was borderline frigid and no amount of scrubbing could removed the stains and grit that seemed imbedded in his flesh. He knew their names, the soldiers who had been in that room with him. He knew the pictures of the loved one's they'd tacked above their bunks and the letters they'd read until the edges of the paper softened like cloth. And he'd survived. Him, with the pictures of his family and the letters they had sent. Him…with no wife or children…no admiring community at home, was alive. Ella said he was experiencing survivor's guilt, but her experience was summed up in the pages of her volumes of psychotherapy studies. The butt of the joke was that it wasn't survivor's guilt, it was just plain sodding guilt.

John shivered under the water. He'd forgotten for a moment he was still taking a shower in a vain attempt to scrub off the filth of his mind. When he pulled away the loofah, it was a rosy pink. _'Pink?'_ He tossed it away from him like a child would do with a spider, wide eyes shooting down to his forearm, just next to his old scar. The flesh was raw with pricks of his own red budding up from his pores…he'd scrubbed to the point he'd made himself bleed._ 'Jesus Christ…'_ He muttered sickly. _'That will be quite enough with the shower.'_

He dried and leaned his hips against the cool of the ceramic sink, meeting his own eye contact in the mirror.

Sherlock had never deduced John had been a prisoner of war.

He had one thing, one secret from the great detective.

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Opinions? I'd really love to hear yours.


	3. Tea and Curtains

_Note from author: Sorry for the wait and small size of this! I've been traveling for the last week and really haven't had a chance to sit down and get into the zone of writing as much as I'll need to be for the upcoming plot._

_Please let me know what you think even if it's just from this. I couldn't let this rot on my desktop any longer before I would over do it. (And also, note any spelling or grammar errors too; It's currently 7am and things tend to magically auto-correct in my mind.)_

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It was disgracefully beyond noon when John Watson shuffled down stairs tugging his jumper over his under shirt. Sherlock had, at some point in the night, quite literally whipped open one of the window's drapes; The corner of one cloth was tacked up by the horn of the bison's skull on the wall.

The blue-skied light cascaded unbridled over the neglected flat. Mrs. Hudson had failed to make an appearance upstairs since a week ago when she'd found a plastic container under the sink containing a rat and an eyeball. She would come back though, she always did. John suspected it had mostly to do with the detective's genuine apologies to her when he yet again realized she was the only one who could stand to clean after him. The doctor had surely as hell been avoiding the bottom row of kitchen cabinets for some time. She knew the flash in Sherlock's eyes when he was being more honest than scheming even though –always- he found the most round about and dizzying ways to say 'sorry'. Manipulation was ingrained in the very fiber of his being and it had taken John with a swing of low horror when he'd realized he found it, though enraging, somewhat endearing as well.

Overall things appeared as they had been left the night before. His ale bottle was still making good use of yesterday's paper as a coaster. Sherlock's violin had been placed back in the corner of the desk, its leather case freshly oiled by no doubt manic boredom.

He heard a clatter to the left before his tall flatmate emerged from the kitchen with a tray. He balanced it precariously on a pile of books that overtook the coffee table and huffed down on the couch, sending up a billow of dust from the cushions. A scarce cloud rolled by, causing each dissolving ray of light to become more distinct by the particles in the air.

"Care for some tea?" Sherlock bobbed a string in the porcelain kettle eagerly as John broke the threshold of the doorway. The seated man brought up the pot to his face inhaling deeply before poring and swishing it in a cup as one would air wine. "Quite done."

"Thank you." John slouched into the far end of the sofa and accepted his cup, tapping his forefinger to the saucer absentmindedly.

Ah, there it was. The sensation of shame that he thought he had surpassed earlier at his unpleasant waking. It now heaved up from his stomach and rushed through is veins at an alarming pace, painting across his cheeks with heat. He scrounged desperately for something to spearhead small talk with.

_The change in weather? _

_Dull. Awkward. _

_Think…the Thai restaurant he and Stamford had lunched at yesterday?_

_Impossibly even worse._

He wanted little more than to slink back upstairs and hide at his desk for the entirety of the day. Maybe break out the bottle of bourbon he'd stashed beneath his dresser.

Sherlock, however, hummed happily along the rim of his cup as he sipped. It was obvious he hadn't actually slept, so it was surprising – no – utterly astounding he was in this agreeable of a mood. Judging by the ridiculous angles his curls had molded into, he'd been pulling at his hair in what was likely frustration for most of the night. He'd dark bags under his eyes, almost as if he'd been drawing again and had smudged charcoal there with his thumbs idly. On the far wall a knife had been chucked into the plaster, with at least a dozen puncture marks around it, so clearly he had been remarkably bored.

But something had distracted him.

John found himself letting out a breath of relief on various levels, only to suck it back in with some trepidation. His eyes scanned quickly across the flat in search of something he'd missed: a paper headlining a mass murder, a dissected rabid animal full human remains, a body shoved under the kitchen dining set. Everything _looked_ to be in place.

Sherlock clanked down his tea unceremoniously and flew up out of his seat to the far window, peeking around the cloth. John couldn't contain the roll of his eyes. _Yes because you couldn't just look out the window whose curtains you've nearly ripped off._ He could see it now, Sherlock storming over and throwing back the drapes in the dead of the night, glaring down at the city in sheer annoyance at how absolutely peaceful and quiet it was. He would have then assessed the effort it would take to fix the curtains almost whimsically, before throwing himself back onto the couch.

A muffled phone chirped from across the room and the lithe man dug into his day-old trouser pockets quickly, scanning the message. The smile that spread his refined features all the taunter was without a better word, practically sinister.

"Sherlock…what's that about then?" John started slowly as if he were negotiating with a drunken man waving about a gun.

"Lovely day isn't it, John? We should get out; maybe take a cab up town." He paced along the floor with even more determination now, practically pressing his face into the glass of the other window.

At this point John didn't even bother to restrain his sign.

"Someone's been murdered, haven't they?"

Sherlock's head whipped 'round meeting John's resigned gape. His body seemed to thrum like a just struck cord on his violin, waiting anxiously to release his pend up energy. The glimmer in his pale eyes radiated out as his grin widened with excitement.

"Oh yes…very much so."

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Leave your opinions at the door. No really. Doooettt.


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