"Please, please I-I have kids, a family!" A man, crumpled in defeat and pain, lay broken and beaten on the cement. The man's pleas didn't even dent the iron casing that had grown around Sherlock's heart. He looked down at the defenseless man with disgust, no man, guilty or not, family or not, should use another's existence to beg for his own life.
"Those children will be better off without your scum around," he sneered. Without another word he arched the knife cupped in his hand, and with the gracefulness that comes only from extended practice, Sherlock slit the man's throat. A line of scarlet arced through the air and followed the path of his knife, splattering on the ground like a brushstroke from a painter's hand.
The victim slumped to the ground, a wet gurgle emanating from his lacerated throat. A red river flowed along the ground in intricate swirls and elegant curves that inevitably led it to the gutter just a few feet away. Sherlock leaned down indifferently and wiped his blade on the dead mans shirt before replacing it in the carefully concealed sheath hidden between the folds of his coat. Another job done and more money to pay off the rent.
Sherlock heard John coming long before his rhythmic thumps sounded on the stairs. Sherlock made one last sweep around the flat to reassure that all of the "tools of his trade" were safely stored away before slumping down in his favorite armchair and waiting for the onslaught of verbal abuse that was sure to come.
John's footsteps paused outside the door for just a brief second before he burst into the flat in a fury. Sherlock didn't flinch as John stomped past him, cursing under his breath and clenching his fists so hard his knuckles were white. Sherlock sank further into his chair, must've been a hard day at the station.
"Where, the bloody hell, were you last night, Huh?" John spun towards him, obviously trying to keep his anger in check.
"Working."
John let out a small laugh and rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand. "Right. 'Course you were. More of your, what was it, "aspiring forensic research" I assume."
This was as anxious as Sherlock had ever seen him, something major must've happened. "It was," he kept his answers short and emotionless as always, he needed to be as distant from John as possible without pushing him away. "What happened at the station now? Something serious obviously."
John clenched and unclenched his fists a few more times and turned back toward the kitchen. "They found another one. Another bloody ghost." He banged his fist against the table resulting in a large crash as a beaker shattered on the ground. Well Mrs. Hudson wasn't going to like that one bit.
"No trace of them anywhere? Nothing at all?" Sherlock leaned forward in pretend interest, he had to pretend to be interested to be sure that John never suspected him.
"Nothing. But enough with the questions, I'm not supposed to be sharing any of this at all, remember our agreement."
Upon becoming flat mates with each other three weeks ago they had both agreed that since John was a cop and Sherlock tended to keep to himself, that neither of them would dig into each other's professional affairs. For all John knew, Sherlock was an aspiring forensic scientist studying privately with a professional tutor.
Even with the agreement, it was nearly impossible not to gleam at least a little about what went on in their work lives, and Sherlock was more observant than most. John and a team of investigators had been trying to unravel the mysteries of these "ghost victims". These seemingly unrelated incidents have been occurring around London for about a month. Every time the body would be found by the police and they would attempt to identify it, to no avail. Even after questioning the friends and family of the victim and getting a name, when the police go to look them up no files can be found. It's like the victim simply didn't exist, there's no birth certificate, no registration, no identification of any kind. They're ghosts. But Sherlock knew better, all of the victims did have a connection, he had been the one to dispose of them all.
Sherlock's eyes followed John as he made his way to his room. As soon as he heard the click of John's door locking Sherlock uncrossed his legs and scrambled over to his laptop. Opening it up he checked his email for updates, there was one unread message from an untraceable sender.
"Everything out here is well and done. Hopefully the next time a name comes you will hurry and come along too. Don't try to ask too many questions!"
To the untrained eye it might look like a message from some distant family member commenting on his studies. But Sherlock spotted the pattern immediately: a skip code.
"Everything out here is well and done. Hopefully the next time a name comes you will hurry and come along too. Don't try to ask too many questions!"
Another order from his employer. Sherlock let out a heavy breath and leaned back in his chair, deleting the message immediately. In his line of work you don't ask many questions, but it doesn't keep you from wondering. He had no clue why he was being asked to dispose of all these people, and quite honestly he didn't care, but he was exceedingly curious as to why all of their files were being wiped afterward but their corpses left alone. Usually Sherlock would make a point to clean up his own mess, so to speak, but his employer's new, and somewhat surprising, orders had been clear: leave the body untouched and let them do the rest.