Disclaimer: I own nothing, none of this is true.
Summary: Sherlock takes a liking to a severed arm. Prompt: Any, any, "My arm!" / "It's not yours anymore." (300), from comment_fic.
He approached the doors to the factory cautiously, scanning the area for the man he knew was hiding somewhere in the shadows. It was rather cliché of the murderer to choose the factory to hide in, but then this whole case had been rather dull.
Alcoholic. Had picked a fight for the thrill and taken it too far. Panicked and cut up the body, in this very factory, as a matter of fact, then dumped the body pieces into nearby bins. So very, boringly, simple.
He edged his way through the half open door, studying his surroundings carefully. His eyes outlined the shapes that filled the space, identifying each machine before dismissing them.
Suddenly the lights flared and the machines all whirred to life. Ah, sensory distractions. The murderer was trying to get clever, but a bit too late for that. Turning everything on had just given away his position. Going by the layout, the control rooms were at the back on the second level, only reached by the stairs to the left that joined to the balcony that ran around the outside.
The murderer had expected him to be confused and disoriented enough for him to get down the stairs and make his escape. His second mistake.
Sherlock quickly made his way to the bottom of the stairs. He could hear the wail of sirens getting closer from the distance. That was sure to make the murderer more desperate. He was right, and it was also the beginning of the murderer's third mistake.
Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs just before the murderer did. Frantic, the murderer started to run, wildly shoving at Sherlock, daringly attempting to leap past him to try and get away. Sherlock moved to block him, the murderer tried to dodge, but instead lost his balance.
His arms wind milled as he tried to right himself, but it only caused him to stumble more, right into one of the moving saws.
His scream was one of pure agony as the teeth ripped through flesh and bone.
He fell to the floor, his severed arm falling beside him. He panted, trying to breathe through the torturous pain, staring at his arm in shock.
Sherlock looked at the murderer emotionlessly. "I don't suppose the police will be too happy if you die here from blood loss." He watched disdainfully as the man made to crawl towards his arm, mouth opening and closing as he tried to articulate in his shock.
Sherlock approached the arm, picking it up delicately. That was all the man seemed to need to be able to talk once again.
"My arm!"
"Yes, very astute of you, I have no idea how you came by that great deduction."
"That's my arm!" he exclaimed again.
Sherlock sighed, looking back at the arm in his hands, it would make a delightful experimental subject.
"It's not yours anymore." he told the murderer plainly. "I've taken quite the liking to it. I think I shall keep it. Finders keepers and all that." he continued with a patronising smile.
The man spluttered in indignation, but Sherlock had already started to walk away, attention focused on studying his new possession. As he walked out the door, he barely acknowledged Lestrade, who had just arrived with the rest of his team.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade called, watching Sherlock walk away in confusion.
He carried on walking, not even looking back as he answered. "Murderer is in the factory, towards the back, only has one arm, you won't be able to miss him."
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
Sherlock let Lestrade's yell for his attention fall to the back of his mind, he had more interesting things to be occupying himself with. He studied the severed arm carefully, fascination writ across his face. It seemed something good had come out of this case after all.