AN: I said I'd get it up tomorrow... And I have =D

Don't know when I'll next update... Its going to be a busy week at school...

5ii

The memory fades, leaving Sherlock sprawled out on his bed, clutching the sheets tightly. Coughing, he turned round to face the wall, curling into a protective ball, knowing all to well that it wasn't over yet.

"No... no… please… Someone – help m…"

He shivered violently, trying to get rid of the memories, and to hold back those inevitable tears. It didn't work. The tears slid down his face freely, like a small stream. He couldn't stop them, he couldn't stop anything…

"Shh… I said… Shut up! Now… Be a… good little girl…"

The tears were now a fluent river, ceasing to end. He closed his eyes desperately, trying to block the images. Again, it didn't work. It wasn't fair… He had enough.

He wanted it to stop.

Just,

Stop.

But that could never happen, not with him… Never with him… Inadequately, he gave in, and let the memories once more take over.

'The screaming had quietened down to sobbing by the time Sherlock had reached the corner. He stopped himself from walking further, sighing in relief, and tried to back away. But found that he couldn't, he was rooted to the spot. He tried again, the same result. 'Damn it! Come on', he pleaded silently with himself, pulling at his hair in desperation, to no avail. So instead, he stayed, listening to the act of humiliation, the guilt piling up, along with the sympathy, and stored it into his hard-drive.

He didn't know how long he stood there, listening to the sobbing grow even quieter, and by the sounds of it, the attacker must have been long gone. It was just him, and the girl. If John was here, he'd have gone and sorted it out as soon as he heard the commotion, not just stood there, intrigued by it. But Sherlock was no John, he was helpless as he was cold. He was a sociopath, not a hero. They didn't exist. Never have. So why was he feeling bad about the girl? And why the guilt? Because he could have made the existence of heroes known, maybe? Because he knew what was happening, and didn't do anything about it? For once, he didn't know.

'Maybe I could be the hero now?' He thought sarcastically, building up the courage to face the scene just around the corner. Gulping, he closed his eyes, and took one-step forward, followed by another, and another, until he hit something soft. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, and looked down.

The girl was slumped across the alley, her chest faintly rising. Her clothes were ripped, and she looked a mess. And, as Sherlock has deduced, the attacker was nowhere in sight. Scowling at the way she had been left, he made his way to her, picking up the clothing she was missing. Once he reached her side, he sat beside the fragile, limp form, suddenly ashamed of his actions – more of his lack of actions – and of his curiosity of the whole situation.

Deciding to cover her up, out of respect, he made a move to put her missing clothes back on. But he was held back. Frowning, he inspected what kept him from proceeding with his actions. A hand, the girls hand, gripped tightly around his arm.

"D-don't.. Ple-ase… No… mo-re…" She whispered, making no move to let go. 'She must think I'm her… rapist…' Sherlock thought.

"I.. I didn't…"

"Mean to..?" She held tighter, "just kill… me already…" He frowned deeper, kill her? She must be joking. He won't kill her. There's no reason for him to. But the intensity of her glare made him think otherwise.

"That's… w-what they, do isn't… it?" She exhaled deeply, "Kill… after they – attack? Or… or risk getting… c-caught?"

"I…" She was right, and Sherlock knew it. Even though he didn't commit the crime, she didn't know. All she knew was that he was there, just moments after her attack. But he couldn't do it… Could he?

"L-look… at you… and you… think that – that I look a… a mess…" She laughed feebly. But stopped, suddenly remembering where she was, and sniffed. "M-make… it q-quick…" He nodded automatically, and looked around. There was nothing in sight to use… Except his hands…

He gripped her throat, feeling the vain pulse beneath his grip. He couldn't… He couldn't…

"Think of it as an experiment, how quick it takes for the body to… no… think that you're at the morgue, with a corpse… experimenting…" He murmured quietly to himself, looking away as his grip tightened… tightened… the tears building… laughing softly…

It was just him, and a corpse.'

He had killed her. He had killed someone… all because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, he had enjoyed it… hadn't he? Squeezing the life out of her… tightening his grip over her pale flesh… no… No!

"Sherlock?"

He froze.

"We need to talk…"

He didn't reply. He's caught me crying, damn it… He's going to ask what's happened… He's going to ask… John sighed.

"Just… Just stop!" He yelled loudly. That wasn't John, was it? He never yelled so loud… And it frightened him.

And he did stop.

Just like that.

"You disappear for hours, leaving me here… alone… worried. You don't reply to any of my calls. NOTHING!" John paused, glancing at the whimpering form."Then you return, not telling me anything about what you did, where you went… None of my business? Or are you hiding something…? Tell me, Sherlock… TELL ME!"

He said nothing. What could he say?

"Lestrade called, as you know…" He spoke quieter, scarily quieter. Sherlock didn't understand, what had he done to upset him so much? "So I went. It was a murder of a girl, Sherlock. Ring any bells? Or is it, like Lestrade said, a coincidence? With you disappearing, bored, then a sudden murder?"

He stopped breathing. He knew! He knew… Slowly, Sherlock turned round to face John, grief-stricken, whimpering. The tears stained his face.

"I…" he whispered, his voice hoarse from crying. I had no choice… He finished, I didn't want to… John froze, shock spreading across his features.

Nervously, John stumbled his way towards Sherlock. Once within reach, he grasped the whimpering form tightly into a hug. But he didn't return it. Upon touch, Sherlock tensed up, scared. What was he going to do?

"I'm… sorry…" John said after several minutes, after Sherlock had quietened down. He didn't know… Sherlock thought, relaxing. He didn't know what I did… That was too close.

But he couldn't reply, he was too confused, scared. Instead, all he could manage was a muffled whimper.

AN: Me again... Was it ok, and meet your expectations? Or was it a bit/too OOC..

Anyway... Review..!