M is for Murder, H is for Homicide

Darkfic! Rated M for: Violence, gore, sexual content, and subject matter (aka, murder!)

Set in an AU where Jim Moriarty has never confronted Sherlock Holmes, and the first five cases are carried out without his influence (Reichenbach hasn't/won't happen in this story).

(There's going to be a mix of Molliarty and Sherlolly. You've been warned.)

All glory and power to the Mofftiss

M is for Murder

H is for Homicide

These two things make Sherlock squirm inside

One half wants to be his killer

The other, his lover

Only time will tell which will be the victor

It was a mental war, no direct injuries, but with many physical casualties. Bodies lined up in the morgue, bodies in ditches, on tables, hanging from light fixtures, buried deep underground; a great bloody mess. Both sides were kept on their toes, their kingpins standing tall over the mess of the battlefield. One was grim, the other grinning. Neither could tear the other down, as hard as they tried. Walls went up where others came down, bolts loosened, bones broke, blood dribbled down faces.

It was a perfect stalemate of psychological warfare.

Case One, Ave Maria

It was a masterpiece.

Over the altar hung a single body, suspended by thick ropes tied tightly around the wrists, digging deeply into the flesh. A white cloth was draped around the shoulders, detailed like a pastoral stole, white with the bright cherry of oxidized blood. The dead man's face was peaceful, calm, his eyes closed and mouth pulled into a straight line. They had dyed his hair gold to match the angelic image.

"One of your better works, if I must say so myself," purred the voice behind her. His hands slipped from her shoulders down her arms.

"One of the more interesting ones, to say the least," she agreed. Angels in the sanctuary, definitely one of her more exciting ideas. "Do you think it's too flashy for a first go?"

"I think it's perfect, actually. Love the detail on the stole, the blood was patterned beautifully, pet."

"But you did that part."

"Hey, all I did was take a paintbrush to your blueprints, nothing more."

"And helped with the ropes."

"Right, I'm just your slave in this whole ordeal."

"What makes you think that…?"

"You're in charge, you make the plans, and I just do your dirty work." His breath was close to her neck, hot and feral. "So what's my next job, master?"

She laughed; he was being ridiculous. "If you want to assist so badly, you can help me get everything out of here before anyone wakes up."

"I'll be the smoke if you're the candle."

"Why am I the candle?"

"Because you burn brightly and melt when you get hot." He flashed a devilish grin.

Her jaw fell open. "Did you just—"

"I did. Come, help me with these?"

It was a crime scene.

Dust motes flickered in the lights of the sanctuary. The space was dark—perhaps Catholic, based on the decorations—with candles lit up and down the aisles, in the back, and around the altar. The red carpets were undisturbed, the marble of the floor wiped clean. The smell of incense was strong in the air, clouding out the decay and mildew.

Sherlock stood in front of the body, lips pulled back in a snarl. He'd seen people maimed, dismantled, twisted, bloody, and slashed open, but never something like this. The pose, the patterns, the execution. He felt sick. He understood why he was called in—they were dealing with a murderer of the most skilled kind.

"You can see why we went to you," Lestrade said quietly from behind. "We're not used to dealing with this kind of thing."

"That's because this sort of crime isn't to be left for the police," Sherlock replied, not turning from the body. "Have you found any other killings like it?"

"This is the first one." Lestrade stepped forward, standing beside Sherlock. "What can you make of it?"

"It's appropriate, since we're in a church."

"No jokes, Sherlock, this is a crime scene."

"It wasn't a joke, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, turning to Lestrade. "Look at the body, tell me you don't see the angel."

"I think I've missed it."

Sherlock sighed. "The body is held to the chandelier with ropes, outstretched like Christ on the cross, a mock-up of the stained glass directly behind. There are knives in the back—attached to the flesh, I'll need to see the backside to determine how—sticking out in an array like the feathered wings. White cloth is draped around the neck, hanging down like robes—modern and classic depictions put angels in white robes, but these are deliberately stained with blood. Maybe the victim was a sinner, or unclean in the eyes of the killer, not good enough to be an angel, though poised like one."

"What do you mean, deliberately stained?"

"The body is clean of blood; the wounds either bled little or were washed clean. Our killer was meticulous in the execution."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and nodded absently. "What about the pole sticking out of the chest?"

"Haven't quite pieced that one together yet. Could be a spear, could be a—"

"A spear?"

"A medieval instrument for a medieval crime."

Lestrade sniffed at his coffee and grimaced. It would be hard to stomach anything in front of the scene. "Where's John?"

"Out, for the week. Mentioned something about a family commitment." Sherlock turned to the inspector. "I need a partner."

"As you can see, I cannot spare any of my men at the moment. Besides, you wouldn't want to work with Anderson."

Sherlock scowled. "No." He sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I'll be back; I have to go bribe a pathologist."

Molly Hooper would do practically anything Sherlock could ask of her, if he asked in the correct fashion. Today, he brought the offerings of coffee and a warm smile, which he hoped would be enough of an effort.

He opened the door of the morgue, striding in as per usual. Molly looked up from a cadaver on her table. "Oh, Sherlock." She eyed him up and down through her goggles, squinting. "Is that a coffee?"

"Milk, one sugar, for you."

She frowned. "Thanks but I…well, I don't quite have the hands for it right now." She gestured to the body, where her hands were carefully removing organs for weighing. "I'll have to start this tape all over again."

"It can wait."

She frowned, confused. "Are you feeling okay? You can never wait."

"John's gone for the week."

"Oh." She nodded awkwardly, dejected. "I'm your replacement John, then, aren't I?"

Shit, that was not the response he wanted. "No, you're not my replacement John, you're Molly, and I really need Molly right now, not John."

She looked him up and down. "I have work."

"It's for a police investigation. I'm sure your overseer would—"

"A police investigation? Sherlock, that's not my line of work!"

"I thought your line of work involved examining cadavers."

"Well, yes, but—"

"But what? It seems to be your area."

"Sherlock—"

"You'll come with me, then?"

She took a deep breath, her hands held in front of her, curled in frustration. She bit her lip, looking around the morgue, searching for a reason to say no. "Milk and sugar, you said?"

He smiled. "We've no time to lose."

"I really, really should finish this autopsy."

"If we stall, we're letting the serial killer get farther away."

"Serial—Sherlock—a serial killer? You're bringing me out to look at—at the body of a murder victim? To a case related to a serial killer?"

"It's speculation, no one murders one person as intricately as this."

"If I vomit—"

"Molly, you cut open people for a living."

"Yes, but I don't deal with the crime scenes, ever. I deal with the bodies. You've got me under the impression that this is a rather disturbing one."

"Yes…it is."

"No, Sherlock."

"Please?"

Molly rolled her eyes, trying to avoid his begging face. "Fine. Fine. But I will finish this first, okay?"

Sherlock escorted Molly through the throng of police and crime scene team. She had insisted on keeping her uniform on, not wanting to be denied after coming all the way out in midmorning. Sherlock had assured her that she would be fine—she was with him, after all—but she wanted nothing to do with it.

"Oh my god," she breathed upon entering the sanctuary. "How long has—um, has that been there?"

"They think since the middle of the night. Lestrade is having a terrible time trying to get the body down."

"I'm really not prepared to do a crime scene analysis, you realize."

"I do, and I'm not asking you to. I just need you to be John."

"But you said I wasn't filling in for John."

Sherlock cursed himself internally. "You're not. I need to bounce ideas off someone, and you have a reasonable knowledge of the human body."

She laughed humorlessly. "Reasonable knowledge."

"I'll take you to lunch after."

Molly folded her arms. "Where?"

"The Ivory."

"Was there yesterday."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. The fancy little coffee shop you constantly walk by and stare at longingly."

Molly gaped. "How did you—"

"I'm me. I'll throw in lunch tomorrow as well, final offer."

She looked at him grudgingly. "You really do need me. Deal. Have they ID'd the body yet?"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called as they approached the altar. "What progress has been made?"

"As you can see, the body is still suspended," Lestrade grumbled. "Oh, hello Molly."

"Hello, Greg."

"Are you trying to put all of us out of work?" he asked Sherlock.

"She's here to assist me, since you won't. Now, what details have you found?"

"There's nothing on the body."

"Really? Could have sworn there was, perhaps I'm going blind."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Unless you can deduce the location of his clothes like you did that bloody suitcase, I don't want to hear it."

"Did you check if there are any spaces above?"

Lestrade turned to Molly, cocking an eyebrow.

"You have a body hanging from the ceiling; it's more than two-stories tall. I doubt they used a ladder."

"And that's why I brought her along," Sherlock said with a gloating smile.

One of the cops pointed Sherlock to a staircase upstairs. It was small, narrow, and cramped; too short for him to stand. There was an all-encompassing smell of rotting wood, and the stairs creaked as they trekked upwards.

"There are footprints in the dust," Molly remarked ahead of him.

He watched as her flashlight searched for broken steps. "How many sets?"

"Three or four—I think there's a possibility they use this passage to fix the chandeliers, though, there are some bolts scattered around."

"It's not safe to make assumptions without all the facts, Molly."

"Right, sorry. I'm not you; my brain's not hardwired for this mystery business." She stopped and turned around. "What if we don't find anything up here?"

"Then we check other places, we examine the body for prints, the scene for evidence, DNA—normal procedures."

"Ah." She nodded and turned back around, climbing quicker.

The ascent didn't take much longer, and the detective and his pathologist found themselves in an alcove overlooking the sanctuary, another staircase leading deeper into the maze-like infrastructure of the church. "How much farther up do you think it goes?" Molly asked, staring at the shorter door.

"Too far," he said with annoyance.

"I'm going to go check upstairs, okay?"

"I'll be right up," he said, distracted. Sherlock scanned the level. The platform they stood on was small, with an identical one directly across. That one was locked, said the cop downstairs, and they weren't about to break the door down for him. It seemed unlikely the killer had a key, unless he were involved in the church—based on the nature and intricacy of the crime, it was a possible case, but not a definite one. With a naked corpse and no visible evidence, he was working entirely on estimates and basic inferences.

Ten minutes after he drowned himself in thought, there was a scampering down the steps. "Sherlock!"

He turned to see Molly hurrying down and racing across to him. "I found something."

It was a scrap of clothing—a red shirt. He held out a gloved hand and Molly laid the material on his palm. It was…stiff…oh. It was a white shirt, stained dark with blood. A thin, off-white grainy substance coated the cloth. "Where did you find this?"

"Upstairs, practically in plain sight. I'm not sure our killer is too intelligent."

"Show me."

She led him up, up into the walls, climbing a spiral staircase to another wooden platform. It wrapped all the way around the perimeter of the building, hugging the walls tightly. It got wider towards the front of the space, where the long metal tubes of the organ erupted from the boards and clung like brittle ivy to the stony walls. The wood creaked under their weight, the railing shaking as they hurried to the center of the room.

Barely ahead of Sherlock, Molly disappeared into the wall, up another flight of stairs. "There's a false ceiling," she called behind her, "so they can adjust the chandeliers. I told you that's what this passage was for."

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"I did my fair share of snooping around places I shouldn't've been as a kid, it seemed only logical."

Sherlock grinned. He had made a good pick in asking Molly.

The staircase opened onto a wooden expanse that covered the entire space below. Chains were drawn up through the fake ceiling, mounted tightly to the actual roof, strange casings secured by thick metal bolts. A crank system was fixed by open spaces in the wood, allowing the chandeliers to be dragged up or lowered down.

"He pulled the chandelier up from here," Sherlock said, standing beside the thickest chain, looking down into the main body of the church through a wide, circular hole. It was bigger than the grand chandelier below. "He cranked it up and attached the body with ropes. This space, this hole here would have allowed them to pull the entire thing through the ceiling. It wasn't dangerous." He gave a tug on the lever. It didn't budge—the resistance was much more than he could handle alone. "This was a two-person job."

Molly frowned. "Could it have been one really strong guy?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Far too heavy. It needs two relatively strong men to operate. Where did you find the cloth?"

"It was caught in the chain. Completely in plain sight."

"That's…incredibly careless. Unless…"

"Unless?"

"It was on purpose."

"Why—"

"Profile of a psychopath, Molly. They want to be caught; it's an art form to them, a cry for attention. They want to be found. This one—or two—is no different. It's all a game." He turned to her, a glint in his eye. "And we're players."

"Should we go tell Lestrade?"

Sherlock shrugged, in no hurry to report to the detective inspector. "Might as well." He stood over the hole in the ceiling. "LESTRADE!"

Down below in the sanctuary, the detective jumped. Sherlock laughed.

"I could have called him, you know. I do have his number."

"So do I, but I find this more entertaining. You can send a text for me, though; tell him we need one of his stronger men upstairs to help with this contraption."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock found himself back in front of the altar, listening to Lestrade give his men instructions on removing the body. They had lowered the chandelier (with much physical effort) to a reasonable distance from the ground, with the bottom reachable with a short latter.

"We make a good team," Molly said beside him, indulging in a second coffee. "Can't believe we've never tried that before."

"Having both you and John around would be excessive," Sherlock said, folding his arms.

"I did help out."

"That you did."

"And you owe me lunch."

He nodded. "That I do."

"Think they've got it for now?"

"Who knows, they seem to be completely incompetent without me."

Molly laughed. "I have to make a phone call, but we'll go after?'

"Fine by me."

Molly slipped away to the back of the sanctuary. She punched in a number and waited anxiously through the dial tone, drumming her fingers on her thigh.

At last, the ring was interrupted by a familiar voice. "What is it, pet?"

"They're lowering the Messiah."

"You baited them, did you, Little Red?"

"Might have, we might have just fucked up royally."

"Oh, kibbles, what happened?"

"I—" she stopped, choking on laughter. "Did you just use kibbles as a swear?"

"I'm in a library, sweetheart, no swearing in here, it's bad karma. You're avoiding my question."

"Part of the shirt got stuck in the chain, so I used it to our advantage. It's for the best, I think, because now we won't have to wait ages for them to ID the body."

"You think they'll catch our guy?"

"Sherlock's pet is out of town for the week, and I'm the designated replacement. I figure if they're not going where we want, I can always steer them in the right direction."

"So on top of things, Molly. It's almost as if you take after me."

"Hey, I am in charge around here."

"Right you are. So…I'll see you after work?"

"Yup, we've got to catch ourselves a lamb."

A/N: Okay, wow, hi, this story is going to be long.

So yes, Darkfic. Let me know if you see any weird, awkward sentences, poor grammar, and general accidental use of incorrect words.

I don't really know what else to say except I'm not sure how much I like that last bit, so feel free to drop an opinion on that.

(Thanks for reading!)