This is my second Sherlock fanfiction and my first serious one. So don't be afraid to mention anything that you feel is out of character or incorrect.
This is set before the Reichenbach Falls and starts an Alternitive Universe with a different fall.
I do not own Sherlock; it is the property of the BBC.
Enjoy!
Sherlock stared at the body below him, the eyes staring lifelessly into the gloom, darkness surrounding both him and the body. Blood poured out of a single clean wound, staining the grey pavement within the alley that he was in. The wound had been made in the neck, the cut clearly came from someone with knowledge of the human body, usually the cuts would be deeper, or there would be many more attempts to kill the person. The night stars shone down, giving the only light, allowing shadows to be cast upon gloomy shadows. Turning his hand, Sherlock's eyes moved down to the object clenched in his fist. A knife, covered in blood; just like his hands, just like the floor.
Bending down, the detective began to study the body, scanning every feature, imprinting it onto his memory. It was a female, receptionist, unmarried, eighteen, unhappy family life, trying to make a start in London, in an abusive relationship with someone older than her - possible the cause of her unhappy family argument, a disagreement about him. But there was a larger problem. Sherlock did not recognise the body. Never before had he seen this body, but the little evidence that he had suggested that it had been himself that had placed the body in its current place. A memory of Donovan and Anderson accusing him of being a psychopath came into Sherlock's mind. Them claiming that he would get bored, and then place the body that would be investigated.
Standing up, Sherlock took a step backwards, staring at the body, and then at his own hands, before returning his gaze to the body. Returning his memory, the only consulting detective remembered walking through London, then the memory began to fade, something significant had happened, but his memory would not allow him to access the data. Had he been drugged? How log had he been unaware of his actions? Why was he unaware of what had happened? He always remembered things, he never forgot anything. So why did he have the problem that he now faced? A ring rang out into the cold night, and Sherlock grabbed his phone, looking at the number calling him before he answered. It was John.
"Hello," Sherlock said, his voice calm, despite the confusion within him.
"Sherlock, where are you?" Came John's voice, worry evident.
"I'm just returning. Sorry," Sherlock replied.
"It's nearly midnight!" Exclaimed John.
"Lost track of time," Sherlock didn't want to explain what had happened, not while he had too little data to figure out the truth.
"Well, don't expect any dinner when you get home," John said.
"Not hungry," Came Sherlock's reply, slow, and then hung up, looking down at his phone, which was now covered in drying blood, the knife still in his other hand.
Please review. I'd be lost without my reviewers.