Voices raised, deep emotions, anger, rage, fear, resentment, lust. All these things were present in 221b Baker Street that night. The sound of angered, pained cries could be heard from the street, though the words were indistinct until you were inside.
Inside, the flat was a mess. Not it’s usual clutter of things here, there and everywhere, but the mess that can only come from a struggle, from a scuffle or a fight.
Books were torn, paper everywhere. Ornaments were shattered upon the ground, a few shards inbedded in the wall against which it had smashed. The coffee table was upturned and a laptop had been knocked off its perch on the desk.
Cowering against this desk was a man. A tall man with dark hair and bright eyes, usually the windows into a brighter mind. A brighter mind that was now dull.
"No!" The owner of said mind was trembling, his words loud and angry. "Just fuck off! You don’t get to do this!" He was trying with all his might to push away the second man in the room-the man who was slowly advancing on him, pushing him against the desk.
Sherlock, who was of course, the tall man with the remarkable eyes, had his hand on the strangers chest, pushing him away. But the stranger was bulky, largely built and much stronger than the thin man he was baring down on.
"Oh but my dear Sherlock, haven’t you missed me?" He asked, a glint in his dark eyes, dark eyes that hid a sick, twisted mind. "Admit it, you’ve been craving me.”
"No. I can safely say I have not missed you a single bit!" Sherlock’s eyes were now narrowed in a glare. "I assumed the restraining order was quite clear, now fuck off and leave me the fuck alone!" It wasn’t often that this man swore-it wasn’t often that he was angry or afraid enough to swear. "Get OUT!"
His roared order was ignored as the second man, Victor, pushed even closer, hand moving out to push Sherlock’s away. He was now close-too close-his mouth inches away from Sherlock’s and the smaller man trembled in revulsion. “Please.” The man against the desk all but whimpered.