Haven for the recluse

daughteroctober:

“Who’s this then?” asked Sherlock, not giving the young man much more than a glance. (irish, junkie, homeless, notoneofhis, suffering from bruised ribs…should have John take a look at them before turning him away. He didn’t deal with hopeless cases.) 

“This is Cathal,” John said carefully. He’d seen that particular look from Sherlock before, when he’d already made up his mind not to take a case.

 ”He’s…in trouble.” 

“Aren’t we all?” Sherlock said dryly, thinking of Moriarty in a cell, waiting for his farce of trial to begin. He was about to call Mrs. Hudson to make a pot of tea when Cathal took his eyes off the window, and gave Sherlock a hard look. 

“I know how you die,” he said in a quiet voice. ”I know what he’s going to do.” 

John glanced up at Sherlock, and saw a glimmer of shock and curiousity pass over his features. John didn’t need to ask who the “he” Cathal referred to was. 

Sherlock slowly took a seat on the sofa and set his feet up on the coffee table, hands perched on his knees. 

“Tell me everything.”