Hey, guys! So we know some of you have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of this story and so have we! Truth is we never really told you on our other accounts what this story was going to be about. I guess we just really didn't want to spoil any of the surprise!
We decided very early on in the writing process that we would divide up who wrote what chapter based on the POV stance of that chapter. Lady Gisborne 15 (a.k.a Ariana) will write for Sherlock, and lightinside (a.k.a Jillian) will write for our OC.
We cannot tell you how absolutely excited we are for this story and for being given the chance to write alongside each other for so many of our amazing readers! We hope to see some familiar faces, and some new ones along the way!
Finally, we just hope that you will enjoy our very first collaboration story "Only Human".
Disclaimer: We own nothing, except for our lovely OC. Everything else belongs to the BBC and to the amazing Steven Moffatt, Mark Gatiss, and Benedict Cumberbatch.
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Sherlock Holmes stood in the window that looked out over Baker Street, watching the cab that held his former flat mate sitting idle at the curb. He could faintly make out, through the duskiness of night fast-approaching, that John was waving a hand against the smudgy window of the car, but he did not return the gesture. He just stood there, watching with eyes that never seemed to blink as the cab began to move. And then, it got lost amongst London's busy traffic.
The flat was quiet. Sherlock couldn't help but notice this simple fact as he turned away from the window and set his lips into a thin line.
"Well of course it's quiet, you prat," he muttered to himself, "What did you expect? John to leave and you to become one of those drunk and rowdy bachelors?" Though, if he was being completely honest Sherlock could go for a drink, something that could fill his ears with drumming, if only to take away that damned silent!
He picked up his violin a bit too abruptly, his fingers quickly finding their place along its slender neck and masterfully tucking it under his chin. Sherlock brought the bow across the strings and he began to play. It was a soft melody at first, for he really couldn't even hear himself play. He was far too busy thinking. About John. About his leaving. About how he would need to find a new flatmate, though that idea didn't sit quite right in his stomach. The idea of someone coming and filling John's spot almost seemed to be betrayal. But no, that bastard had left and would be gone for months, perhaps years. Just left, abandoned him. Who the hell was he supposed to find to help him in his cases now?
Just then, Sherlock heard a knock on his door. It broke through his muddled thoughts like the crack of a whip. "Come," he commanded in his deep, baritone voice. Mrs. Hudson entered, holding a tea tray in her small but capable hands.
"I just thought I'd bring you a spot of tea, dear, after all of this. Terrible thing, John just up and leaving you like that." Sherlock didn't reply, just tossed the violin aside and plopped down into his chair, knees hugged to his chest and his arms wrapped firmly around his legs. Mrs. Hudson spoke again. "Don't you think, dear? Sherlock!"
The detective turned to her. If looks could kill, his certainly would have and Mrs. Hudson held up her hands in surrender. "Very well then, I'm just sayin' it wasn't nice for John to leave his partner all alone for God knows how long!"
"Mrs. Hudson, please don't bore me with your useless chatter. John and I were in no relationship."
"If it suits you, dear, but you know, I find it hard to believe you two were only friends."
Sherlock smirked then. Had John been his friend? Yes, he would have said so. Granted, probably his only friend. That had meant something special to him, buried underneath his hard exterior. Then, he wiped the small grin off his lips and sighed.
"Mrs. Hudson, please. Go clean something." He shooed his hands towards the door.
"Not your housekeeper, dear," the landlady put in, as had become a habit of yours. She turned and walked to the door only to stop once more. "Sherlock-" she was met by a groan from the man as he buried his head in his arms. "Just one more question. I promise." There was no sound and so she took that as a go-ahead. "Are you alright?"
His head shot up so fast it startled her. "Alright?" He scoffed. "Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?" He didn't know if he reassured her, but he certainly didn't reassure himself. God. These infuriating emotions and thoughts. He had to get rid of them. Unconsciously, his fingers brushed through the lengthy curls on his head, at a foolish attempt to do just that.
"Well, fine then, Sherlock. But your violin sounded awfully angry. I haven't heard it sound like that in a long time." And then, before he could so much as open his mouth, she was out the door and the room and the room was once again empty. Besides him.
He glanced over across from him at John's armchair. Correction. What had been John's armchair. Now it was just a chair, worn, unloved, and insignificant like everything else. Sherlock swallowed and shook his head. He practically leapt out of his chair, so on edge was he, and began to frantically pace the room.
Silence had never bothered him before, but now, with the knowledge that he was alone, yet again, it burned a hole into his head and heart. He wanted to scream, to run, to fall upon the floor and throw a tantrum like a child. It wouldn't be the first time. After all, John had made him cease many of his tantrums.
A beep resounded. It seemed to echo in the emptiness around him and he fumbled for his phone, hands digging in the pockets of his robe. Could it be...? Was John texting to say that he had reconsidered the whole venture and was coming back?
He grabbed at the mobile and flipped it open.
- 1 New Text Message –
With bated breath he opened up the message and his heart instantly fell. It wasn't John. It was that buffoon of an Inspector.
Found a body. Could use your help.
-L
Sherlock supposed he could've been more upset that it hadn't been Watson messaging him, but then again, a case would be the perfect thing to help him get his mind off of this whole messy situation. So, he quickly responded.
Where?
-SH
He closed his eyes and waited for the response. As it always did, his blood curdled deliciously with the prospect of a new crime to solve. His mind palace roared to life inside his thick skull, shaking off the dust that had been deposited there by his despondent thoughts. His body became taut with a combination of tension, anxiety, and excitement. He loved that feeling. The feeling that only a good murder could bring him.
His phone buzzed again.
49 Chiswell St on the corner of Chiswell and Silk. The Jugged Hare.
-L
Sherlock quickly threw the robe from his shoulders and rushed to the coat rack by the door. His fingers fondly grasped at his coat as he pulled it over his arms. He tied the black scarf tightly around his neck and pocketed both his mobile and a pair of gloves. Then, Sherlock opened the door and practically bounded down the stairs, nearly running over Mrs. Hudson as he came to the bottom.
"Sherlock, what's the matter? Where have you gotten yourself off to now?"
"A case, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock beamed as he grabbed the woman by the arms and placed a quick peck to her cheeks. "A real, genuine murder!"
She couldn't help but laugh along, her voice trying to sound scolding. "Show some respect, dear. It's a murder. Poor soul." But her eyes betrayed how happy she was for the detective to have something to distract himself from the phenomenon that was John Watson. And without another word, Sherlock raced out of 221B Baker Street and hailed a cab.
"49 Chiswell Street, and step on it," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. How could cases like this really affect him? He was like a child at Christmas time, trying to keep a grin from surfacing upon his lips.
All along the way his mind focused and unfocused on John. That empty seat beside him should have been filled by his friend. The two of them should be going to the case together. Sherlock always loved it when John complimented his level of intellect during what he called the "debriefing stage" of solving the crime. And sometimes, John would surprise him and offer a piece of information that Sherlock had just somehow forgotten.
But then, he managed to just shove Doctor Watson from his mind and focus on the job at hand. Thoughts and ideas spun around in his head, anxiously awaiting the actual view of the body. Gender. Nationality. Species. Murder weapon. Victim's clothing. Employment. All means to the end. That's what they all were, and Sherlock could find them very easily.
The cab stopped and he opened the door, stopping once to pay the driver his fare. Then, he stuffed his hands into his pocket and blocked out the annoying sound of people scurrying about. Police had previously taped off the area. That was good. No need to have civilians where they shouldn't. The red and blue lights whirled and flashed. It was dark by now, giving them even more strength and threatening to blind Sherlock before he even made it to the door.
"'Bout time you made it 'ere," he was met by the snippy tone of Donovan and tried to conceal a scowl. God, he hated this woman. "Lestrade's been waitin'."
"You forget that it's rush hour," Sherlock responded in just as snippy a voice as he ducked beneath the police tape, "In the middle of London. How fast did you think I would get here?"
Instead of answering, the woman just ignored him and walked. "This way." And she led him into what was known as The Jugged Hare.
It appeared to be a London bar, a very neat place, but kind of tucked away, a rarity in the City of London. She swept him quickly through the front room to the back, where there was an opened door that apparently looked to lead to a basement. She didn't wait to see if he was following her as she proceeded down the stairs.
"Freak's here," she called out and then was gone to a completely separate side of the basement, as if she wanted nothing to do with Sherlock, which was probably true anyway.
"Ah, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted warmly, a bit strange considering they were standing in the middle of a crime scene. He held out his hand which Sherlock took and then quickly released, once again stuffing his hands into his pockets. The Detective Inspector cocked his head and wondered if perhaps it was just him, but Sherlock seemed different today, quieter, if that was even possible. "Has John left yet?"
Sherlock seemed to stiffen then but gave a curt nod, nonetheless. "Yes, he has. Off on a cab, never to return."
If Lestrade wasn't wrong, he might've sensed a touch of bitterness in the man's voice. Shaking the ridiculous thought away he smiled softly. "Now, Sherlock, he did say that he wouldn't be gone forever."
"He also didn't say when he'd be back." Then, Sherlock sniffed as a sign that the conversation was over and that there was business to intent to. "Now, where is this body you spoke of?"
"Right this way." Lestrade turned and walked through a small and thin door frame. The fact that there was no door upon the hinges was what Sherlock almost instantly noticed. When he bent down lower he found that there were still shards of wood stuck in between the hinges that looked as if they too would come off the door frame at any moment. He mentally stored that information away for another time.
"Sherlock," the other man called, "This is Claire Bennett from the Police. She's just down here to see to it that everything appears in order."
Without even looking up from the hinges, Sherlock waved a hand. "Get her out of here."
"Sherlock," Lestrade tried to reason, "She is just doin' her job."
"And consider it a mercy that I still allow you in here," Sherlock retorted with a glare.
Lestrade licked his lips while Sherlock went back to inspecting the hinges upon the door frame. The Inspector walked over to the woman who was kneeling beside the body, a camera in one hand and a notepad in the other. "I'm sorry, miss, but I'm afraid you'll have to be leaving."
The woman didn't even look up from her work as she asked in a voice that portrayed that she was more involved in her work than in the conversation at hand at the moment, "Leave? Why would I do that?"
"Well, you see," Lestrade tried to explain, "There's a man down here, a man that we call down only when we are in need of help. He finds the things that no one else can seem to find. And we need him. So, you will have to leave."
She chuckled wryly. "I'm sorry, but I too have a job to do. Pictures to take, paperwork to get typed up. I need a paycheck at the end of the week, same as you. I don't know who this man is but you can tell him to bugger off."
Lestrade bent lower and said in a soft whisper, "Wish I could, but you see, the man is -"
"Sherlock Holmes," the man himself interrupted as he stared down upon the kneeling woman. Normally his eyes would have been drawn to the dead body first before anything else, but this woman truly was being an absolute hassle. He didn't even offer his hand to her.
"You're Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes?"
"There is only one, yes."
She smiled slightly up at him. "Well, I understand how you might want me to leave so I don't interrupt you and your – what do you call it – your mind castle?"
"Palace," he rudely interrupted.
"Whatever," she rolled her eyes, "But I've got a job that needs doing. So I'll be staying, thank you very much, sir."
Sherlock wanted to scream at the likes of this exasperating woman. If John's departure wasn't bad enough, now he had her to deal with! And this crime scene had only supposed to make him feel better, not leave his body full of so much tension he feared he would snap.
"Fine," he grumbled as he too knelt to the ground, "But if this operation goes down because I couldn't think properly, it'll be on your head."
"I think I can handle the consequences." And there was that insufferable smile again. The one that was too cheery to be cheery. It was false and he knew it. She gave a single shake to her head, tossing her shoulder-length brown hair before settling back down to taking pictures of the corpse.
Ah, right. The corpse, Sherlock seemed to suddenly remember. He looked over the body. She was a woman that much was obvious. She lay on her back, one leg tucked under the other and an arm resting above her chest.
"Who found her?"
"One of the workmen said he came down here looking for supplies. He was in quite a shock when he called."
"I bet he was." The scene really was quite gruesome. The woman's top was nearly all but torn to shreds, hanging limply upon her bluish-pale body. Prostitute was the first thing that came to Sherlock's mind by the way she was dressed. Short skirt, fishtail stockings, and an indecipherable shirt that looked really gaudy in material.
"Do you think she's a prostitute?" Lestrade seemed to voice the thoughts in Sherlock's head.
"Perhaps, but perhaps not -"
"She's not," came a curt tone that Sherlock had almost forgotten was even there. He turned sharply to the woman.
"And why not, Ms. Bennett?"
She scoffed. "And you call yourself a detective. It's quite obvious really. Her shoes. They're pumps. If she were a prostitute she would've worn heels, four, maybe five inches tall. She's dressed nice, so that means she was goin' out. She would've chosen pumps only because she would want to be comfortable doing whatever it is she was going to do."
"So, what? Shopping, getting a drink with friends?"
"Clubbing."
Sherlock nodded his head and looked back down at the body, trying to hide his smirk. This woman had a mouth, but she was certainly smart, that much he could give her. "And how do you know all of this?"
Claire shrugged. "Elementary." That's when Sherlock nearly couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his lips as he ducked his head to hide the infernal reaction. She had said that one word so like him. With a voice that was dull and spoke waves of boredom. As if this was all merely child's play. Which it was.
"And what else can you see, Ms. Bennett?" He lifted his eyes to hers once more, his voice having lost some of its cold edge.
She smirked. "Plenty," came her confident response. "But I would prefer I see the great Sherlock Holmes at work." She quirked her eyebrow and then snapped another picture with her camera. "Considerin' I already solved where she was going that night."
He nodded his head. "Very well then. My guess is that she was a waitress who worked here, or perhaps, more likely, a bar hand, judging from the overpowering scent of liquor on her clothing." Sherlock then leaned down and gently sniffed at her mouth, "But her lips smell nothing like alcohol. So, she serves drinks, but doesn't drink on the job. Now," he said, not even stopping to take a breath, "Onto the cause of death itself. Blunt force trauma. Anyone can see that by the significant welt on the side of her head. She was smacked against the wall where her skull was crushed, probably internal bleeding."
"But why kill her?" Lestrade asked, only for Sherlock to raise a quick hand.
"Quiet." The man closed his eyes for a moment and then smirked. Perfect. "It's really very..." he turned to Ms. Bennett and smirked, "Elementary, dear Lestrade. There was a struggle."
"How can you tell that?" The Detective asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The door, obviously."
"The door?" Lestrade asked with a confused look that Sherlock thought made him look quite like the stupid ape that he was. "Sherlock, what door?"
"'What door?' Precisely, Lestrade. There is no door. It was clearly ripped from its hinges, as is evidenced from the loose quality of the hinges themselves and the fragments of wood still remaining in them. This woman must have known someone was following her. She came down to the basement. Knowing that there would be a window in this room," he stopped to glance up at the window that was a bit too high for the young woman to reach, "She barged in through the door, hard enough that she ripped it from the hinges. They were weak anyway and needed to be replaced."
Claire looked at him. "But where is the door, then?"
"Well, the killer removed it, of course." Sherlock glanced at her.
"Removed it? Why would he do such a thing?" She furrowed her brow.
"And here I was thinking you were the clever one," he scolded, earning a rather frustrated sigh – no, more like a growl – from the woman kneeling beside him. He smirked and pointed to the door frame. "The fact that the killer removed the door is very important. Why do you think that is, Ms. Bennett?"
She sat in thought for a moment, her tongue sticking out between her lips and her eyes suddenly vacant as her mind whirled through all of the possible means. Then, she smiled proudly. "It means that he didn't want us to find out that there was a struggle. That she had been running for her life. He didn't want us to discover that he had been chasing her."
"Exactly," Sherlock replied, trying to hide the fact that he was impressed and pleased by this girl's startling intellect. She was not necessarily the type that looked as if she would be incredibly smart. That is if you could tell how intellectual someone was just by their physical appearance.
Claire cocked her head to the side, calculating the evidence in her mind. "So..." she started slowly, "She was running for her life. The killer threw her against the wall. He must have been a rapist." This time, her tone sounded definitive.
"It would seem so, Ms. Bennett," Sherlock solemnly nodded his head and then looked up at the Detective Inspector. "But, Lestrade, I can certainly say that the killer never intended to kill this woman."
"And what makes you say that?"
He sighed in exasperation. "Because," he drawled in a careless tone, "The whole thing screams unintentional."
"How so?"
Another sigh and then Sherlock looked to Claire yet again. "Ms. Bennett, would you care to enlighten this poor, ignorant soul?" He didn't know why he kept asking for this woman's input, but he supposed it was because he was full of curiosity about just how smart she could be.
The woman frowned. "Just because he's slow doesn't mean he's ignorant."
"I think it does."
"Well, that's the difference between you and me, isn't it, Mr. Holmes?"
Despite himself, Sherlock found that he was smirking. "Indeed, it is, Ms. Bennett. Now enlighten him."
Claire huffed and then stood to her feet. "I don't take orders from anyone except my boss. Good day. See ya later, Lestrade." And then she moved to leave, her notebook in one hand and her camera in the other.
"Alright then," Sherlock called after her, "If I must be the one to explain everything -" Sherlock sighed and the woman stopped. Her skin itched with the need to speak, to show Sherlock that she knew just as much as he did. She more than wanted it. She needed to show him up. But he was merely goading her into it, she knew this.
Nevertheless, she seemed to turn around, completely against her own will, and raise her head, eyes flashing defiantly. "If you insist, then, Mr. Holmes." She walked up to the body. "The killer didn't mean to kill the girl. He intended to rape her, but inexperience is written all over this case. For one, any man seasoned in the act of rape would never do so within a restaurant, especially with all of the security cameras watching their every move. He, furthermore, allowed the girl to lead him down into the basement. It could've easily been a trap." She took a breath and knocked a stray hair behind her ear. "Once she went into this room, she had nowhere else to go. He grabbed her. She struggled, perhaps screamed. He threw her against the wall and, accidentally, the blow was hard enough that he cracked her skull. He knew that any sign of a struggle could ultimately point to a rape. Probably wasn't even thinking properly. If this was his first try at it, how would we ever know it was him? Anyway...would you like to continue Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock had never thought she would be able to carry the explanation this far. He was amazed and yet a little annoyed that she had stolen away much of the only enjoyable part of this job, his showing off.
He nodded his head in mere thanks. "Yes, thank you." His clipped tone spoke. "Ms. Bennett has been right so far. The killer was clearly on his first try. And he was so frightened that he did everything in his power to cover his tracks. He removed the door. Foolish, really, since it was child's play figuring that out. Furthermore, I guarantee if you look at the security footage, you may not be able to see his face, but you will be able to deduce his stature, weight, and possible hair color, something to provide us with a sketch. But, really, you won't need any of that, because you have the fingerprints." He knelt down next to the body again and help up her wrist, turning it ever so slightly so that Lestrade could see the faint purplish-black haze of bruises on her upper arm. "I doubt he was smart enough to wipe away the place where he grabbed her. You should be able to scan the prints and find him in half a stride."
"Very good," Lestrade nodded his head, "But in case the fingerprints don't check out, could you give me any more information on the killer."
"You're more than likely looking for a younger fellow, late teens to early twenties, still impressionable and easy enough to be frightened." Lestrade looked shocked, not because of the information, but because it was Claire who had spoken. "Now, if you'll excuse me," the woman added, "I have to file a report to the office before morning." Then, she was gone.
Lestrade stood and watched her thoughtfully. "Extraordinary woman, don't you think, Sherlock?"
"Hmm?" The man responded, trying to act as if he hadn't noticed.
"Oh, come on," Lestrade argued, "She very nearly has the same brains as you. Best not tell Donovan, she'll have someone else to be callin' 'freak'."
Sherlock, still acting as if he was ignoring everything that the Detective Inspector was saying, left the room without so much as a word.
Another crime, a children's riddle really, solved by Sherlock Holmes.
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We hope you all enjoyed the first chappie! Let us know what you thought in the reviews!