I really shouldn´t post anything new before I´ve finished the other two stories I´m currently working on. Well, as series 3 confirmed my ideas on whether Mycroft really did sell out his brother to Moriarty, this one just wanted to be release. It explains a bit of my turn on things in "The Movement of Bees", too.
Enjoy!
eohippus
P.S.: There will be drugs - so be careful if you´re in any way bothered by the topic...
Crime Scene
A cold winter breeze chases the pages of an abandoned newspaper over the cobbled stones of an Islington pavement. The paper turns and tumbles as if in confusion, then soars to catch hold on a human hand. A man curses heartily and pries it away from cold fingers, to throw it back into the current.
The street, deserted in the early morning hours, is crowded. Red tape parts the commuters who are rushing towards the nearest tube entrance from a small group of individuals huddling over the body of a middle-aged man. Most of them are clad in dark garments, keeping a careful distance. Two men and one woman, wrapped into transparent, green overalls, kneel at the man´s side, a pool of red caressing the tips of their feet. The group´s movements are measured, as if they are performing an intricate dance. A flashlight illuminates the scene, indicating routine but underlining the absurdity of this scenario.
A dark-haired man wearing a long, dark coat, its collar pulled up to his cheekbones, shields his eyes from another flash. "Could you just stop for a moment? How am I supposed to see anything in this light?" he snaps, his nose wrinkling in annoyance. He slips the magnifying glass he has been holding back into its case, stands, and cradles his face in his hands.
The man standing beside him reaches out and grabs his elbow. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"
"Just a headache," Sherlock grumbles. He can actually feel the doctor´s disapproving glance, and sighs, exasperated. "Nothing to worry about, John."
John Watson ponders mentioning that his flatmate hasn´t been sleeping more than three or four hours over the past weeks. He could mention that torturing a Stradivarius to produce wailing, disharmonic tunes at three in the morning isn´t only the safest method to keep everyone in a close vicinity awake, but most probably falls under an EU regulation on the protection of cultural property. He could ask why Sherlock resumes his erratic pacing when at the flat, but appears rigid and hesitant on a crime scene. But here is not the place, nor the time, and all he does is greet the approaching Detective Inspector with a curt nod.
Lestrade nods and waves a hand towards his consulting detective. "Is he in any shape to give a statement?"
Greg and John exchange glances, and John nods. Sherlock is still clutching his head, his fingertips buried in his hair, massaging his temples with his thumbs. Any other day, he would not hesitate to fire his deductions at Greg, but John knows from previous experience that all he wants at present is to get back to their flat as soon as possible to recover from his migraine.
"So what have you got?" Lestrade isn´t fazed by Sherlock´s portrayal of eternal suffering. "The sooner you tell me, the earlier our good doctor here can take proper care of you."
"Indeed, Lestrade." Sherlock lets his hands drop and turns towards the other man, stifling a sigh. The scathing note is gone when he continues. "The man was no Londoner. He was here on a family visit. He was alone when he met his murderer. He wore several rings. They are all gone except for one. The one which is left is not really of value, but carries a distinguishable stone. Whoever killed him took his rings, but left this one out. Why? This ring was special to the victim´s relatives. The killer wanted to send them a message. A very risky method of communication. Unless the killer doesn´t care about risk. Unless he feels safe, protected. Probably by a larger organisation…" Sherlock´s voice falters, and he freezes, one hand in the air, the other one flying to his mouth.
"An organisation?" Lestrade fails to see the connection. "A hitman? Surely there are easier ways to get rid of one´s husband or male relative."
"It´s easier to avoid getting one´s hands dirty," Sherlock replies. "Far easier to hire someone who will take care of the problem discreetly."
"What are you implying?" Lestrade has crossed his arms, already exasperated with Sherlock talking in allusions.
The detective doesn´t answer. Moriarty. His thoughts are racing. How could he have missed it? The criminal mastermind is probably still playing him from a distance, murdering innocent Londoners simply to amuse himself with Sherlock´s deductions. Playing me as he did at the pool, Sherlock thinks, suddenly feeling sick. The air around him fills with moisture, reeking of chlorine, and he coughs.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade´s voice is commanding, but he shakes his head.
"I can´t see more, I´m afraid. Now, if you please, Inspector, I´ll take my leave. It has been a very tiring morning. Send me the pictures and the report, and I will look into the evidence later."
John and Lestrade watch Sherlock´s retreating back, his hunched shoulders, and Lestrade sighs.
"Something´s off," he says, and faces John.
John rubs his chin. "Mycroft has already ordered me to watch him," he replies. "If Sherlock continues winding himself up like that, I might be tempted to take up the secret British government´s offer of booking us a very exclusive holiday."
Greg laughs. "Sherlock taking a break from the Work – I´d really like to see that." Concern creeps into his voice as he continues. "It might do him good, though. I haven´t seen him like that for a long time."
The unspoken sentence "ever since you came along, John" lingers between them.
"He´s changed, I suppose," John says.
"In many ways," Greg acknowledges. "I´m just concerned, that´s all."
"You´re not implying…"
"I´m not, John. But Mycroft is right – we´d better watch out for him."