"This murder was reported on the news hours ago. Why, if you are so desperate for my help, have you just now contacted me?" Sherlock demanded, standing outside a freezing London night. As always, he was dressed in his long belstaff coat (collar turned up), and his warm blue scarf.
"Well I didn't think this case would be of much interest to you, until one of my boys made a discovery; just found it about an hour ago." Lestrade answered, indifferent to the obvious irritation in Sherlock's voice.
"As apparently you neither see nor observe," Sherlock grumbled. John rolled his eyes.
"What exactly are we here to see, Lestrade?" John asked, trying to cut Sherlock off from insulting the detective inspector any further.
"Come right this way and you can see for yourselves," he said while motioning to the building before them.
Lestrade stepped in front of them, ducking beneath the yellow tape of the crime scene, and entering the domicile in which the murder had taken place.
Sherlock followed behind Lestrade with John on his heels.
"You best look at the body first, Dr. Watson," said Lestrade.
He nodded in assent and the group walked into a scantily furnished bedroom, covered in blood. There was not a surface in the room (ceiling included) that was not soaked with the victim's blood.
Neither John nor Sherlock were unaccustomed to seeing blood. John had seen his fair share as a soldier, and to Sherlock it was merely a sight that accompanied his eccentric choice of employment.
But the amount of blood they saw in that room was shocking; on John's face, it showed, and even though Sherlock tried to retain a stoic countenance, he could not help but widen his eyes and gasp slightly.
Snapped out of his trance by the direction of Lestrade, John went around the bed in the center of the room, and bent over to examine the body on the ground. The corpse, or what had been left of it, was mutilated beyond recognition, explaining quickly the blood that lined all surfaces of the room.
"Well whoever did it," John began, "Most certainly had something personal against this man. I'd say he's been dead about...twelve hours, at most. Looks like he died from a blunt force trauma wound," He said pointing at the man's fractured skull, "And afterwards, the murderer decided to mutilate his corpse for good measure. Both arms are nearly severed and his throat has been slit."
"Our murderer has a flair for the dramatic," Sherlock surmised, "He wanted there to be an unorthodox amount of blood, whether to try and get the attention of the press or to simply get the most out of what seems to be a routine revenge murder, I have yet to ascertain."
After taking in his surroundings, Sherlock opened his mouth again to comment, "Why am I here, Lestrade? There are dozens of murders every week, and you don't bother asking my help with those, no matter how gory. What makes this one so unique?"
Lestrade swallowed, "You were sent for. Special request."
Sherlock tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, "By whom, may I ask?"
"The murderer," Lestrade answered simply. "Follow me."
The three had walked halfway through the short (and blood-streaked) hallway before they were interrupted by a voice that made Sherlock's skin crawl.
"Hello, freak."
Donovan looked at him from across the hallway, arms folded across her chest. John and Lestrade turned to watch the rivals bicker.
John stiffened, and Sherlock turned around slowly, "Agent Donovan," he flashed her his best fake smile, "I'm delighted to see you as always. Give my love to Anderson," He paused, pretending to turn around, before resuming, "Oh, wait...Anderson quit seeing you, did he not? That is quite a shame."
Donovan unfolded her arms and walked to close the gap between herself and the detective. Lestrade and John backed away from the two.
"I don't know what happened with Anderson, Freak," she started, lowering her voice so that only Sherlock could hear her, "But I don't care what they say about you on the news. You were behind those crimes. No one is that clever, not even you. And what's more, I'll prove you've got something to do with this one, too. What murderer asks for a detective to solve his crime?"
Sherlock inhaled sharply before replying, "Not even I am that dramatic, Donovan, to hire myself to solve a murder I committed."
She smirked, "We'll see."
Sherlock raised his chin, and turned back to face Lestrade again, "Show me the muderer's invitation."
"Right," Lestrade answered curtly, "Come with me."
They walked down the hallway past several rooms before they came to the place of interest: The sitting-room.
All the furniture had been moved haphazardly so that the wall facing whoever entered the room was fully exposed. There, on the wall, written in blood, was this:
Oh, Dear Sherlock
It seems I was a bit careless,
It seems there was a friend I missed.
You see, the one the mattered most,
Is the one I'm after next
Solve this crime
And perhaps, just perhaps,
I'll grant her some extra time
Did you miss me?
Sherlock stared wide-eyed at the short crimson poem.
"Do you know what it means, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.
He received no answer.
"Sherlock?" John asked, before shaking him, "Do you know what it means?"
He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face before regaining control of himself.
"I know exactly what it means. We need to find Molly Hooper. Quickly."