I Know

The little girl had barely been two, and her father had decided to throw her in the Thames when her Mum got a new boyfriend and had left him. Two. Two years old. A precious little life, thrown away due to the stupidity of an adult tasked with taking care of it. Greg thumped a fist against the door, anger manifesting as frustration. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. He had stopped crying long ago. His fingers uncurled, and he laid his palm flat against the wood. Normally he would get drunk, blank everything out, but he had to be to work in a few hours and it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t.

He allowed himself one slow inhale, one slow exhale. Fought to get himself under control. Eventually his trembling lessened, became shivering, caused by cold instead of anger. He straightened up, turned around. And froze.

Sherlock was standing near the entrance to his kitchen, eyes slightly narrowed, and obviously tracking Greg’s every move. “Fuck - bloody hell, Sherlock, how the fuck did you get in here?”