Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Benedict Cumberbatch would be a great addition to my closet of kidnapped actors. :3
Author's Note: Hello Hello! Long time no post! I hope to get back on this site with this new story about my favorite Sherlock and Watson pair!
Night fell on Islington on the third day of the sixth month. Off to the side of a deserted road, a lone motel stood silently, it's only company the various odd couples inside. The motel itself was derelict, paint peeling off the floor and wall here, mold growing on the ceiling there. On both levels of the building, the lamp lights would flicker on and off at random intervals, perfectly setting the scene for a horror movie. The stairs to the second floor creaked and swayed, giving whomever had the misfortune of walking up them the feeling that they were on a rope bridge. On the second floor as far as the hall could go, a door slammed open, sending vibrations down the wall. A scantily clad woman rushed out, stumbling over her heels. Her breathing was fast and sharp, her face contorted in an ugly panicked look. She fell to her knees on the balcony as she cried out.
"Help! Please! Somebody!"
"Sherlock!"
Sitting with his back against the arm rest, legs stretched out on the seat of the couch, the consulting detective calmly opened one eye, the form of his flatmate coming into view.
"John." Sherlock said softly, closing his eye again. He placed his hands together in meditation, resting them under his chin. Vaguely, he could hear John Watson continuing to chatter away. Sherlock sighed. He needed silence.
"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John's irritated voice wafted through his ears yet again. Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, focusing on his friend.
"No." he said frankly, standing up and making his way to the cube seat, jumping onto it, settling down and grabbing his violin and bow. John let out an exasperated sigh for the umpteenth time since he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes, the infamous consulting detective, and threw his hands in the air. He should have learned by now that there was no point in trying to get the man's attention. Obviously he was in the middle of a deep thought, whatever it may be.
Sherlock drew the bow across the strings, sending a shiver down John's spine. Why that man had insisted on continuing to play an instrument he obviously had no talent in continued to stump him. It helps him think. John kept telling himself, trying to block out the sound. But when it started sounding like a kitten dying, John put his foot down.
"Sherlock, you haven't taken a case in weeks!" John said, moving to stand right in front of his friend. "I can barely support me from what I get at the clinic, and you're just sitting there, half asleep-"
"Lestrade is here." Sherlock interrupted, his ears perking up at the sound of a car approaching outside. John stopped mid-sentence confused.
"How can you te-"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade's car is overdue for it's checkup, since he never let anyone from Scotland Yard take it in for him. That being said, you can hear his breaks squelching even from two floors up, and no one would stop in front of here unless it's for Mrs. Hudson, or it's the police. Also, his footsteps-"
"It could have been Sarah, coming for me." John took the chance to interrupt, before Sherlock got out of hand. The brilliant detective rolled his eyes at him.
"No, it couldn't be." he said with his superior air. "Especially since she's in the Congo right now, working with Doctors Without Borders, missing you horribly. It's disgusting." He leapt off of the chair and walked up to their flat door, locking it in place. John stood, stupefied again.
"I didn't tell- How could you possibly have-" John started, unable to complete a thought. He stopped himself as he realized that he did not want to know, and asking would only egg on Sherlock's ego. He didn't need a thing like that to get any bigger. Shaking his head, he settled himself at his desk and opened his laptop, trying to ignore the other man.
"You write letters." Sherlock said, peeking through the peephole in the door. "Good, Ms. Hudson is distracting him with her nonsense." he mumbled to himself, keeping a keen ear out on the door. If Lestrade had come to him with a case, it could only mean the police were out of their depth again, and he would be asked to help. At this moment, all he wanted was a moment of silence to think about-
Rap-rap-rap.
"Sherlock, dear, there's a nice young man here to see you." Ms. Hudson's voice came through the door, and Sherlock recoiled from it, as if it had been electrocuted. Of course she would let him in, the little old woman. He cleared his throat.
"Uh, sorry, Sherlock's not here right now," he said, in his best imitation of John. Looking up from his laptop screen, John Watson mouthed incoherent words, before deciding it wasn't worth it. There's no way Ms. Hudson would fall for that anyway-
"Oh, sorry, John, but Detective Inspector Lestrade would like to talk to Sherlock, do you know when he'll be back?" again, the nice landlady's voice wafted through the closed door. John resisted the urge to bang his head on his desk. That bloody idiot.
"Uh, no, sorry-" Sherlock said, just as the other door from the hallway into their kitchen opened forcefully. In came Detective Inspector Lestrade and his trusty Sergeant, Sally Donovan. She had a pleased look on her face, as if she enjoyed breaking down his door.
"Heya, Freak." she said, as she came into the room. Sherlock rolled his head back, cracking the joints in his neck and looked at the intruding pair. Lestrade looked like his usual self: dull, boring, and old. Sherlock sighed and straightened his back.
"How can I help you today, Detective Inspector?" he asked, putting on the most normal voice he could possibly do at the moment. Last thing he wanted to do was to go on a case; no matter what John said, no matter what Lestrade had for him.
"Well, you could start by stopping with these childish acts." Lestrade said, crossing his arms. "Or I could arrest you for obstruction of justice." Sherlock just stared back at him blankly, waiting the real point. Lestrade sighed and turned to Donovan. "Show him the picture."
With a small look of disdain, Sally Donovan pulled out a folded up picture from the inside of her jacket and handed it to Sherlock. He took it half heartedly and unfolded it.
"A dead body?" Sherlock asked, boredom already starting to sink in. They were showing him a picture of a dead body, just a body, with a moth pinned to a piece of paper laying on top of him. The moth had orange brown wings, with two dark spots near the inner fascia. And, Sherlock thought, I'm pretty sure this is a- His thought process was interrupted by the officer.
"What do you think of the butterfly, by the way? Some new psychopath's M.O.?" Lestrade pushed. Sherlock flung the paper over his shoulder. John stood up from his chair and grabbed the photo from the ground, staring at it.
"It's an Northern Broken Dash. Commonly found in the US. Boring." Sherlock said, turning back towards the couch and flopping down on it. He gazed curiously at John as the man seemed to continue to be transfixed by the picture. "What's the matter, John?"
"Don't you know who this man is?" John asked Sherlock, waving the picture at him. Sherlock shrugged.
"Obviously he isn't anyone of importance, or I'd have him in my head somewhere. Does who he is matter, in an investigation?" he lifted his arms over his head, stretching, wanting more and more for this bother to be over.
"Not normally." Lestrade said, walking to John and taking the photo from him. He placed it in his trenchcoat pocket. "But this man is Rory Integral, an MP. And he was found dead last night."
"I voted for him." John said quietly, sitting back down at the desk. Sherlock scoffed.
"So, what is it you want me to do?" he said, gruffly. "Hurry and tell me, would you? Because I would love to get back to what I was planning on today."
"You mean, nothing?" John shot at him. Sherlock gave him a small smile. He was getting quicker in those comebacks.
"I'm setting up a team, and I want you to work with them. The House of Commons is placing this as a number one priority, so I have to put my best men on it. Unfortunately, for both you and for me, that means I need you." Lestrade said, sighing heavily. Sherlock leaned back on the couch.
"But I am not one of your men, Lestrade." he said, smugly. Lestrade clicked his tongue and chuckled.
"Not normally, no." he said, just as haughty. "But because you are a detective that is consulted regularly by Scotland Yard, we have every right to use our powers to ask you to do this. Or, I will find a way to force you. Perhaps another drugs bust?" He dug into his pocket and furnished a piece of paper. Sherlock glanced at it. It could only be a search and seizure warrant. He sighed, annoyed. Why not. At least now John would be quiet about not having a case. Besides, something like this could probably be solved in only a matter of minutes.
"Fine, I'll do it. Where is it?" he asked, getting up and trudging to the coat rack. He grabbed his own trench coat and threw it on, fully prepared for this new so-called case. He flung open the door and started down the stairs.
"Warren and 3rd." Lestrade said, following him. Donovan came right behind.
Poor John Watson looked up from his laptop to see himself alone in an empty flat. Swearing, he leapt up from his chair, slamming his laptop shut, grabbed his jacket and ran out of the building after them.
Off the abandoned streets of Warren and 3rd, a quaint little motel sat, surrounded by police tape and cop cars. John hurriedly got out of the cab and tipped the cabbie, and ran up to Sherlock who was standing next to Lestrade, peering up at the second floor.
"The victim, as I mentioned before is Rory Integral, a member of Parliament in the House of Commons. He came to this motel at approximately 8 last night, with that young lady over there." Lestrade said, pointing at a distraught looking woman with a blanket over her shoulders sitting in the back of an ambulance. "So far the only thing we've learned from her is that she goes by Taffy, and she was an escort hired by him. While they were, um..." Lestrade cleared his throat. "spending the night together, someone broke in and hit her in the head, knocking her out, and we can assume he then killed Integral. She claims to have woken up a bit later, and then ran outside to call for help."
Sherlock glanced at the woman. Besides seeming shaken up, she looked like the picture of health. Her hands were trembling as she drew the blanket around her tighter. He narrowed his eyes. Why do humans even bother to have affairs with these miserable women? He didn't see how it was worth it.
"Alright then, I'm going up to the crime scene." Sherlock declared, quickly stepping up the stairs, John hot on his heels. Most of the police tape was surrounding one room on the far left, the last room on the second floor. Glancing quickly at the number plate on the door, room 221, he pushed the door open. He felt along the edges of the frame of the door, feeling the frayed wood as he passed into the room, thinking to himself.
Almost as soon as he entered, he found his way blocked by four other people, standing over the body, which was laying spread eagled on the bed practically naked aside from a pair of boxers. Sherlock paused, and found his way into the room. He cleared his throat.
"You must be the team Lestrade mentioned." Sherlock said, trying to stay as civil as possible, if anything, just to get it over with as quick as possible. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."
"Yeh, I've 'erd of ya." said the man nearest to him gruffly, in a thick cockney accent. He held out his hand for Sherlock to take. "The name's Hardin'. John Hardin', Scotland Yard." He jerked his head at the other three people. "Them's Goodly, Rowling and Orpheous." The other detectives barely acknowledged Sherlocks' presence and kept eyeing the body. That was fine. Sherlock hated working with more than one people anyway.
"This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson." Sherlock said causally, nodding to John who had stayed by the door. "He'll be assisting me. Now," he pushed past the other four and made his way to the body. "If you will excuse me." he pulled on some gloves and leaned over the dead man.
Rory Integral was young, perhaps in his late 20's, with dark brown hair. He leaned down and sniffed the man's hair, and ran his fingers along his forehead. Sherlock then pulled the man's eyelids up, to reveal that both eyes were bloodshot red. He then looked down at the body. Integral had multiple bruisings around his temple and neck, as well as his arms and legs and chest. Most of the marks were consistent with hand marks, and yet, some others looked more along the lines of ropes, or something else tied around his limbs. Rigor mortis had already started to set in, so he knew that there wouldn't be much he'd be able to get out of the body other than that, other than-
Sherlock stood up and made a beeline for the two pieces of luggage that had been propped up on the side of the room, lifting the top up on the first one. Inside, as he expected, a multitude of dominatrix toys. That girl outside, definitely not a normal prostitute. He moved to the second bag and opened it, determining by the size of the bag and the contents, that the man had only been intending on staying in Islington for three days before returning back to the heart of London. Content with his findings, he stood up and gave a small smile to the other detectives.
"Come on, John." Sherlock said, making his way to the door. John looked at him a bit startled.
"You don't need me to look at the body? Not even for a second opinion?" John asked. Sherlock glanced down at him.
"Unfortunately, I can't see how a second opinion would do me any good on this one, since Lestrade'll be getting four other opinions in a matter of minutes." he said quickly, swishing out of the room and down the stairs. He brought himself up to Lestrade.
"Well?" the Detective Inspector asked him.
"Arrest the girl." Sherlock said.
"What?"
"Arrest the girl." he repeated. As Lestrade continued to give him a puzzled look, Sherlock sighed and started his explanation. "As I walked into the motel room, the door was still on its hinges, and the frame had not been busted up at all. That means, no break in. If, however, you still claim that there could have been another assailant, that means that they would have had a key for the locked door, since no one in their right mind would leave a motel room unlocked when you are planning on spending the night with a hooker, and therefore they are a member of this establishment. Since I know you fine men have had your witness giving testimony as to who this could be and have not arrested anyone working for the motel, I know that that is not the case either. So, no third party. What also gives it away is that there is no mark of an assault on the girl. She is shaken up, but no bruisings on her head, or blood, or even a paramedic treating her. She wasn't knocked out.
"Inside the room, the man is heavily bruised, as you could tell. What frustrates me is that you have removed the butterfly. I would have like to have seen it actually at the crime scene." he took a breath.
"We have it in evidence, you can see it later." Lestrade interjected. Ignoring his input, Sherlock continued.
"He has obvious markings all around his body that points to a submissive role. The woman is not only a prostitute, but also a dominatrix. Her job entailed that she had to use her toys to keep him submissive, and therefore most of the bruisings are unrelated to the case. However, his eyes are bloodshot, which points to a ruptured blood vessel in the eyes, causing the hemorrhaging. The best cause for this would be multiple hits to the head, as the blood vessels in the eyes break easily under trauma.
"So, whether it be an accident or not, she would have been responsible, so arrest the girl." Sherlock concluded, his smug look being replaced by one of boredom. See, that hadn't taken more than twenty minutes. A waste of time. Lestrade looked at him blankly.
"We just... we just released her to go back home." he said, his voice barely coming out. "She was too much in shock that we were going to take her to the hospital. But all she said she needed was a good nights rest at home. So she left." Sherlock just glared at him and rolled his eyes, stepping past him to catch a cab at the nearest street.
"Well, Detective Inspector Lestrade, that's your problem now." Sherlock said, stuffing his hands in his pocket and walking off. John quickly followed him.
"So, that's it then?" John asked, when they were out of earshot. Sherlock chuckled.
"Not by a long shot." he said. "My main question about this was why a gay man was in a room with a female dominatrix prostitute." John sputtered.
"He's gay?" he asked.
"Of course he's gay, didn't you notice the- Oh never mind." Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively at his friend. Explaining it over and over again was starting to get dull, as was John's continued eagerness at hearing his deductions.
Northern Broken Dash. Sherlock thought. Why?