The Adventure of the Revisited Pasts
A/N: Hey guys, so this is my first fanfic in a while, I had to take a break due to school, but now I'm finally free and have a fairly large break before I start at uni, so I thought I'd take it up again. I felt a fresh account was necessary after returning to my old one and cringing at the frankly appalling writing quality – hopefully I've improve a little since then! Apologies in advance for any typos, I have edited but some things are hard to spot! I hope you enjoy this first chapter; I will try to update as frequently as possible, and please leave a review if you enjoy it! Thanks xxx
Disclaimer: Obviously I own nothing.
Warning: This story depicts scenes of child abuse, violence and gore.
Chapter One
A soft orange glow gradually crept inside the cramped kitchen, slow illuminating the clutter strewn across every available surface. Benches were stacked high bowls still clinging with unknown substances; the tabletop piled with an odd assortment of scientific instruments, leather-bound notebooks and a single cup of cold, long forgotten coffee. And yet the room's sole occupant continued his work in blissful ignorance, nose deep within a huge volume and long slender fingers grasping a thermometer, which he was using to stir the stench laden contents of a china vase. Content with its gloopy consistency, he placed it carefully inside the significantly worse for wear microwave, and set it spinning. Moments later vase and goo decorated the once white tiles with a loud explosion that shook the windows in their frames.
A groan followed by an exasperated exhalation quickly made it clear the window panes were not the only ones that had been shaken by the sudden yet not altogether unexpected blast.
"SHERLOCK!" came the barking growl, before slipper clad feet had even hit the tiles. John's eyes seemed pained with irritation and exhaustion as he rubbed them to fight the sleep. He scanned the room, summing up the severity with a quick efficiency that made it clear he was well-practiced at the task. "Another microwave?" he sighed, glancing at its charred remains on the counter, "that's the third one this week."
"Yes John, but I am making pleasing progress…" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly, having been undistracted by the chaos around him despite its innards slowly dripping from his unkempt hair and forming a small lake on the bridge of his nose. He was scratching his observations into a small, slightly singed notebook, oblivious to the barely contained rage standing in the doorway just metres away, which threatened to cause another explosion, perhaps more violent than the first.
"Sherlock," he said a little too calmly, enunciating each syllable and tilting his head down just slightly, pursing his lips. It took just a glance for Sherlock to note the warning signs, blinks held almost unnoticeably too long, a hint of muscle tension in his jaw, and a barely detectable twitch of the nose, tells so minute few would even notice them, but to the consulting detective they were as plain as alarm bells.
"Oh, err, I mean… Sorry, for ah, waking you, John," Sherlock stammered as he awkwardly backpedalled to avoid an outburst. They had been far more frequent recently with John residing in Baker Street whilst Mary had left town for a reason neither party had disclosed to him, but which he suspected was in relation to her past based on John's edginess surrounding the subject and her hurried farewell almost a month ago. Add to that the fact that Sherlock hadn't had a case in months, on top of his inability to deal with boredom, and it was unsurprising that tensions were running high.
It took all of John's self-control not to lose his temper, but he sucked in his rage and left the room in silence, though not before throwing a nearby sponge at his roommate accompanied by a look that made it quite clear to said roommate that the kitchen was to be spotless before he returned.
She cowered in the corner, visibly shaking as she tried desperately to hide behind a small table as tears streamed down her face. Her choking sobs were muffled by the hand she pressed across her mouth in an attempt to conceal herself. It didn't take long before the clumsy footfalls and slurred cries of rage echoed down the hall, the overwhelming stench of alcohol filling the young girl's nostrils and making her sinuses sting painfully.
"Hayy-leeh," she screamed, "unga-ful child, ge-ouwt here NOW!" Her arms flung about wildly, knocking over furniture with a swipe of her hand with deafening crashes.
Smashed glass and splintered wood soon littered the living room floor, but still Haylee remained concealed, knowing that if she were to be discovered she would be subject to the same treatment as the coffee table that now lay completely dismembered in the centre of the room. Already her left eye was swollen, eyelid drooping and gradually turning a vibrant shade of purple as a result of a punch the night before which she had failed to dodge. It seemed her mother had continued drinking into the early hours, and when Haylee had slept in just minutes past six she had lashed out. No amount of apologising could calm her, in fact it had only made things worse, and so Haylee was forced to flee. However, with all doors and windows locked, she was left with little choice but to play some sick game of hide and seek, for which the punishment for being found first would almost certainly be a severe beating.
"Ge-ouwt here ya useless kidd," she continued to howl, coming closer and closer to the table behind which the young girl was hidden. Haylee could feel herself hyperventilating, trying to gasp for air as silently as she could between violent sobs.
Suddenly the table before her was thrown across the room, smashing in half as it made contact with the wall opposite. Her mother towered over her curled frame as she shielded herself from the agonising blows she knew would come. She was yanked to her feet by the fistful of hair her mother had grasped, gasping in pain. The only thing that stopped her screaming was the knowledge that this would only make her mother angry, so she bit down on her lower lip until it bled and allowed the salty tears to stream down her face.
It had taken Sherlock until almost noon to return the kitchen to the still dishevelled but bearable condition it had been in prior to his unsuccessful experiment of the early hours. John, having returned to his bed and catching up on the sleep he had lost due to said experiment, had taken control of his temper, and having purchased a new microwave – the cheapest available, for he knew it would inevitably need to be replaced again – took up his place in the well-worn armchair and picked up a thick novel.
Sherlock was doing his best to quell his boredom by updating his blog with a new entry dedicated to the delicate art of removing a bullet from a fresh wound using only a piece of string and a paper clip, though his frequent exhalations made it clear this distraction was quickly losing its effectiveness. Just as it seemed that John would crack at the constantly increasing volume of these exhalations, Sherlock's mobile rang.
Less than half an hour later John and Sherlock were greeted by Detective Inspector Lestrade, who promptly helped them under the yellow tape and onto the fresh crime scene.
"It's been a while," he noted conversationally as they entered an abandoned factory building, their nostrils immediately assaulted with the unpleasant scents of rust, mould and death.
"It certainly has," John agreed, his relief that the reunion had finally occurred clear in his tired voice. "We've missed it."
"Mhmm," Sherlock nodded, though already his attention had been drawn far from the rather dull conversation, in favour of the body that lay on the dirty concrete before them.
Almost instantly he was on his hands and knees, scouring the corpse for the tiniest indications of what had occurred to cause his untimely demise. His thoughts spun as he picked out the details to paint a picture of the man lying before him. Male, mid to late 30s, likely late judging by the few greys just beginning to protrude from his scalp, barely noticeably within his curly black locks now hardened by dried blood. Married, about ten years judging by the wear and tear scratches evident on his wedding ring and the tan that had failed to develop beneath it. His callous free fingertips ruled out an occupation hard on the hands, his tailored, moderately expensive suit suggesting middle management, and the blank piece of paper in his pocket, still carrying the indentations of calculations from the page above it suggested a banking firm. This could be a potential motive, bank employees are not the most popular of people, though typically the targets are from the highest management positions. Unless this was a more personal grudge held against this specific member of staff, though nothing else seemed to suggest this.
Pen stains on his left palm made it clear he was left handed, as did his watch's placement on his right wrist. The purple marker on his forearm suggested a young child, though no longer an infant, as his face appeared well rested, no lines of tension or dark bags under his eyes.
His wallet and phone had been removed in an attempt to replicate a robbery, though the presence of his watch, cufflinks and wedding ring, all of which were likely to be reasonably valuable, made it clear this was only a guise for another motive.
From here Sherlock moved to the more peculiar aspects of the crime, starting with the wound inflicted on the victim's chest. It was a stab wound, likely the work of a relatively blunt metal instrument based on the torn rather than sliced skin surrounding the wound, perhaps a flathead screwdriver. It seemed the assailant had dragged this makeshift weapon through the victim's flesh in order to create the unusual symbol before him, a cross with a curved line coming off the rightmost point. This caused the consulting detective to furrow his brow, and he promptly examined behind the victim's right ear.
"Ah," he murmured with combination of understanding and confusion. He rose to his feet, and turning to Lestrade commented quite casually, "this is quite unusual."
"It most certainly is," agreed the DI, much to Sherlock's surprise, "the strange symbol on his chest and the missing wallet, it's all quite absurd."
"Oh no they're all quite simply explained," Sherlock brushed off the concern, and was met with an irritated glare from Lestrade and an exasperated one from John, who then raised his eyebrow, prompting further information. "The mark on his chest represents death, as depict on tarot cards dating as far back as the 18th Century. It's an image of a scythe," he stated matter-of-factly at a pace so astonishing his audience was left just as frustrated. "Oh, and the wallet is just to throw us off the scent."
"Alright," sighed Lestrade, "what do you find 'quite unusual' then?"
"Well, there was a case much like this when I was in school. I studied it via the newspapers, and then on weekends I'd catch the train into London to visit the crime scenes and talk to the local law enforcement. They were quite willing to accommodate my interest, and in the end I helped them solve the case. The perpetrator was intercepted and locked up, and the victims stopped.
"There were multiple vics?" Lestrade groaned, realising the impact of this information on the current situation.
"About eight if I recall correctly, all completely randomly selected from the population, most unlike the large majority of serial killers."
"So where is this guy now? Could he be responsible for this murder as well?" John queried.
"Quite unlikely, given he's been dead for almost a decade now. Killed in a prison brawl."
"Great," Lestrade said with feigned delight, "so we have a copycat on our hands? Bloody brilliant."
"Well, that's the interesting thing," Sherlock commented with entirely genuine delight, "the media caught onto the story pretty quickly, though the police manage to keep one vital piece of information from them. The carved symbol was not the cause of death in any of the murders." He knelt down, pulling the corpse's right ear forward to reveal a rounded hole its skull.
"So whoever killed this man had insider knowledge of the case you solved more than a decade ago," nodded John, Sherlock's interest finally becoming clear.
"Fantastic," grumbled Lestrade, swiping at a nearby rock with his foot in frustration.
Haylee had regained consciousness around midday, her mother snoring loudly on the couch. She had crept dazed and aching into her room where she had hidden patiently, reading to pass the time. Her mother had sobered up by late afternoon, though lately that hadn't made much difference to her explosive temper, so she remained out of her way until evening fell, and the whiskey came out once again.
As she listen to her mother yell at the characters of some stupid soap she so loved, Haylee knew she could take no more. Whilst getting a glass of water in the kitchen she swiped the back door key, then packed her few most precious possessions and the limited money she had into her backpack. She crawled to the back of the house, praying the racket of the TV would shield any noise she made, and eased the door gradually open, slipping through. It would be morning before her mother would notice she was missing – she had until then to get as far away from here as possible.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading, I really hope you've enjoyed this first installment. And please leave a review!
Thanks again, Emily xxx