The Bane of the Isis (BBC Sherlock fanfiction sequel)

Chapter 5 Data

Evanna's POV

At an angry shout of "For God's sake Lestrade!" I was startled from my sleep, consequently rolling onto the hard floor. Rubbing my now sore arm, I listened to the rest of Sherlock's conversation, or rather shouting match, with the DI Lestrade man.

"You're part of Scotland Yard!" he shouted into his phone, whilst pacing the length of the living room. "You can do anything!"

I heard Lestrade's tense voice vaguely, as he mentioned the word 'unrealistic' and the name 'Mycroft'.

My uncle's reply was "My brother is busy sorting out a mess in Thailand that the British Ambassador has gotten himself into, and explicitly told me he cannot help," After a pause he also continued with "He also told me to maintain this fact under the utmost secrecy so pretend you didn't hear that. Thank you for nothing Lestrade. Goodbye"

And with that he hung up and flung his phone in the direction of where I was sitting. It hit me in the face.

At my loud cry of pain he turned and said "Had a good nap?"

"I'm fine Sherlock and I accept your apology" I said sarcastically.

Sherlock completely ignored my retaliation and gestured for me to get up, at the same time saying "First good sleep you've had in-" he paused to think "-nine, no, ten months"

I was still facing in the opposite direction, looking solely at the ground, but the distinctive scrape of metal on wood told me that he was moving the sofa to my left. "Cut lips and the extensive use of medicated lipbalm suggests disturbed sleep" he continued. "Most likely nightmares during which you bite your lip. You've cut your hair because with all the tossing and turning when you sleep makes it tangled, and short hair tangles considerably less. When you wake during the night you automatically reach for your bedside light, which is on the left side of your bed, but sleep deprivation has given you a tremor in your hands and the red marks on your fingers and the lack of nail polish mean that you find it difficult to find the switch.

"A classic sign is an increased sensitivity to pain, as portrayed by your ridiculously loud cry of pain when my phone hit you -when before you would hardly have flinched" He muttered "You would've probably thrown it back at me" before finishing off quickly with "And finally your frankly profound and generous use of smudged black eyeliner is not only to hide your inability to draw straight, steady lines but also to conceal, rather feebly I have to say, the dark rings that surround your eyes"

I pursed my lips, and my gritted teeth held back the myriad of ripostes that were building in my mind. I whisked around to unleash them all at him for, well, exposing the truth.

But my words caught in my throat once I saw what was on the wall I was now facing. Newspaper cuttings, photographs, a map of central London, and lists all linked together with drawing pins and red string.

"Did you-" I began. "Did you do this whilst I was asleep?"

"Yep" was his reply, popping the 'p' and pinning up more photos near the bottom of the display.

I narrowed my eyes and took in a breath before asking "So you climbed on me?"

I walked into the space that moving the sofa had created and stood next to him. He shrugged and muttered "Maybe"

Sighing, I began "You know-"

"Probably"

I ignored his narcissism and repeated "You know, I just prefer to jot down my clues and theories"

His eyes were trained on the pictures, scanning them with great intricacy, and when he spoke his voice had a tone of nonchalance about it.

"Yes I know" he remarked. "That's what that tattered black notebook in your back pocket is for. Worn clasp and yellowed pages all suggest frequent use. At first I thought you were writing some sort of dramatic novel"

I snorted at this, earning a grin from him. I then made a mental note to hide my notebook somewhere safe. He didn't know I also wrote my nightmares in it.

I traced one of the strings linking the Royal Hospital in Chelsea and a newspaper article from this morning detailing the endemic and quoting Lestrade.

'Scotland Yard is working hard to determine the cause of the disease and most importantly to stop the spread. We will take no more questions now thank you'

"What did Lestrade say?" I questioned Sherlock, the article reminding me of what had happened a few minutes ago.

Sherlock's POV

"He's emailed me all he can get" I replied flatly.

"And you're angry at him, because..."

"Because we have no access to patient files, and photos come with that. No clearance to talk to patients. And overall -much less data" I answered tensely.

There must be another way, a way to get access to what we need and solve the case. I hate relying on other people, I feel helpless and useless and without purpose when I-

"Molly Hooper!" cried Evanna suddenly, therefore interrupting my train of thought.

"But no one has arrived"

"No I... What?... No I mean you could ask her. She's always smuggling you limbs and such for your experiments" said Evanna, pointing to the arm that still lay on the kitchen table from this morning.

Without another word I leapt over and retrieved my phone, sending a text to Molly.

Come to Baker Street

SH

Evanna slumped onto my armchair, rubbing her forehead and wincing. She looked in pain, not just great physical pain but also emotional. She was too emotional for her own good.

I meant to ask if she was okay, but a text alert distracted me.

I'm a bit busy at the moment

Molly ^_^

I sighed, knowing I had to compromise.

Then come after work. Please?

SH

A quick reply of 'Okay' lay my mind at ease. For now.

***

*wipes sweat from forehead*

Phew, that's some crazy deductions I done made up here.

Let's have a vote. Let's vote murder.

No I'm joking hahahahahahaha *shifty eyes*

Just a random little question to vote on here, and I would really like all my readers to answer this question vote thing.

Vote for the one which you prefer:

Sherlock's POV

or

Evanna's POV?

That's it. Simple as the division of polynomials.