Sherlock pulled his coat closer to him as he stared down at the twenty-ninth body to be found this month. It was freezing out as usual. It always was on the big cases. Like someone was trying to stop him from finding the killer. Sherlock's eyes scanned the body once more, taking in every tiny fact. It was the same story like it had been with the other bodies. Body black and blue from being tortured to death and then three bullet wounds to end the victim's puny life. It was the same for each and every one of them and the serial killer was always careful. No hair, no prints, not one speck of DNA. Every day a body shows up. Each body appearing in the middle of the road with a letter tucked tightly in their hands. The letters made perfect sense once you figured out the riddles. Each one informed them where the next body would be. Lestrade would set his men out to watch the area, but somehow the murderer always got the body there under their noses. Normally this would have been the perfect case for a detective like Sherlock, but this whole case was missing something…or shall I say someone. John had left to visit his family, which Sherlock thought was stupid. Harry was the closest family he had and he never wanted anything to do with her before. Why now? Sherlock let out a long sigh, turning away from the body. He'd have to wait till tomorrow when John returns.
"Find anything?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock approached the DI's Police car. Sherlock shook his head. It almost killed him to do so. He hated that he couldn't find anything. There had to be something the killer slipped up on, but what? Lestrade let out a tired groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. The man had clearly not gotten the sleep he's needed at all this month. How could he? Every day and night he finds a new body and a new clue. He must be on guard twenty-four seven. "Want a ride home?" Lestrade offered suddenly. Sherlock shook his head again, staring back at the crime scene.
"Going to walk. Maybe something will come to mind," Sherlock sighed, walking away from the Detective Inspector. He ignored the shouts Lestrade hurled at him about how he'll catch cold and all that. He had much bigger fish to fry.
Sherlock began to walk through the iron gate of the park the body was collected when his feet slipped on the slippery ice below him. Sherlock's body fell, his coat snagging to the gate as he went down. Sherlock groaned, hoping that Donavan and Anderson had not seen that. He didn't need them taping his klutzy behavior and sending it all around the world. He was about to pull himself when an idea struck him. This gate is the only way in and out of this private park. If the Killer had left through here he would have slipped as well. Sherlock's eyes quickly looked at where his coat had snagged. Sure enough, there on the sharp piece of the gate two ripped fabrics hung. One was from Sherlock's coat and the other was from the killer. Sherlock smirked. This little piece was all he needed to drag this case to a close.
"Molly, what did you get on the fabric sample?" Sherlock asked, looking through the case samples. Another body would turn up late tomorrow night and Sherlock had to catch him before then. Molly strolled over, fiddling with the containers nervously.
"A …um…hair sample," Molly stuttered setting the container with the strand of hair she picked of the fabric in front of the detective. Sherlock took the see through case and stared at the blond strand of hair. It wasn't very long so it must be a man's, either that or a woman who cut's her hair extremely short, but that's unlikely. Sherlock carefully took the strand from the case and began running tests with other hair samples, searching for a single match. Molly hovered over him a few seconds, watching him work like she always did and then turned back to the doors, probably getting some coffees. Sherlock didn't care at the moment. He was too focused at the case at hand. He was so close now. Bleep! Sherlock looked at the computer as it screamed with life. He had found a match. That's when Molly returned. She was carrying two coffees with her. She froze as she heard the computer bleeping. She set the drinks to the side and rushed to Sherlock's side, staring at the computer with him.
"Isaac Canary," Molly said out loud as she read off the name.
"Charged for abuse towards his now deceased wife and her sister. " Sherlock read, storing the information for later.
"Do you think it's him?" Molly asked in almost a whisper. Sherlock nodded. It had to be him. Sherlock got up from his chair, taking the steaming cup of coffee from Molly and headed out the door. He heard Molly wish him luck, but barely heard the words leave her mouth. He was too determined. He had to catch this brilliant lunatic before things got worse, or before things got boring.
Sherlock walked down the street in search of any one that fit the description of Isaac Canary. He had been walking all night and now the sun hung high in the sky. He was cold from being out in the freezing wind, but he refused to head back to Baker Street so soon. He was close. He could feel it. No body had been found yet and according to the temperatures of the bodies the killer waits till the day of to kill his victims. Isaac is most likely hunting for his newest victim right now-
Sherlock froze as a man with blond hair stepped out from a hotel room. He wore a brown coat with a tear in the back and his hands were scared from hitting. Sherlock pulled the photograph of the man the hair had belonged to and sure enough, they were identical. Sherlock had found him. He had found the serial killer. Sherlock was about to grab his phone when he noticed Isaac was staring at him with slit eyes. Sherlock looked up at the man and in that very instance Canary rushed down the street. Sherlock groaned with irritation, running after the man.
"Lestrade, Isaac Canary is our man. I'm chasing him right now on Maple Street," Sherlock called into his phone.
"What? Sherlock, stop! You can't go chasing after criminals on your own-" Sherlock hung up the phone before Lestrade could lecture him any longer. Yikes, couldn't Lestrade just say a simple thank you for solving the case for me or something like that? Why must he always have to lecture him? He is clearly capable of watching over himself. Although, most of those times John had been with him. Now John was nowhere to be seen. He no longer had his loyal doctor to assist him in the chasing and the fun. Sherlock quickly turned the corner, dodging the trash cans that Isaac smacked at him. The guy was going to have to try harder than that to get rid of him. Sherlock picked up speed. He was only inches away now. Just a few more strides and-
WHAM! A car raced in front Sherlock. The detective gasped as he flew backward from the force of the car rushing past. His back smacked against the concrete road, sending a jolt of pain up Sherlock's spine. That was going to leave a bruise for sure. Sherlock yanked himself to his feet only to find that Isaac was far away. Sherlock slammed a fist into the concrete, enraged that Isaac had gotten out of his clutches. If John had been here he would have pulled Sherlock out of the cars path. John would have had his gun and shot Isaac. John would be standing with him and Lestrade as they interrogated the dastardly weasel. Sherlock let out a long sigh, turning on his heels to return back to 221B. He needed John and he needed him now. John was coming home tonight. Once he's back the murderer will be behind bars and the two of them will be sitting back at Baker Street. John will be updating his blog and Sherlock will be looking for a new case. If only that really was what was really going to happen.
Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock up a cup of tea as he sat in his chair waiting for John to return. After all, two detectives are better than one. Sherlock sipped at the tea, starring into the flames that burned in the fireplace. His mind went through every speck of data in his mind. Isaac was cunning and was very careful. Sherlock would need everything and anything to take this one down.
Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson both perked up when they heard a knock at the door.
"That must be, John," Mrs. Hudson stated, walking to the door. Sherlock walked with her but froze as the second knock's pattern registered in Sherlock's head. That wasn't right. John's knocking pattern is quicker. This couldn't be John, but then who was it? Mrs. Hudson opened the door and paled when a gun was pointed at her. It was Isaac! Sherlock jumped in front of Mrs. Hudson, blocking her from the gun. A wild smile was painted across Canary's face, sickening the detective.
"You should be more careful when walking home after chasing a killer. You never know who will be fallowing," Isaac hissed. Sherlock glanced around the room, searching for anything he could use to distract Isaac for him and Mrs. Hudson to get out. John's case was close by. If he hit Isaac over the head he and Mrs. Hudson could escape and get Lestrade. He would have to be quick though. Sherlock took a deep breath and lunged for the cane. Isaac fired, but missed. Sherlock clutched the old cane tightly in his hand and wacked Isaac in the head. Isaac yelped, falling to the ground. Blood dripped from his head where Sherlock had hit him. Sherlock grabbed Mrs. Hudson's wrist and yanked her downstairs and outside. Sherlock could hear Isaac's footsteps running close behind. He knew there was no way both him and Mrs. Hudson could outrun Isaac, but maybe there was another way.
Sherlock turned into an alleyway, dragging Mrs. Hudson with him.
"Mrs. Hudson, stay hidden here, I'll lead him away," Sherlock said, pushing Mrs. Hudson behind some boxes.
"No, Sherlock, please…" Mrs. Hudson began whimpering. Sherlock brushed a tear from her eye and whispered softly,
"It'll be fine." with that said he ran.
He turned through streets and allies, trying to outrun the murderer, who was coming after him. Sherlock turned again, but found that he was at a dead end with nothing to hide behind. He was stuck.
"Well, looks like the chase is up, Mr. Holmes," Isaac's voice cackled from the entrance of the alley. Sherlock turned around in time to see Isaac's eyes glisten before three loud shots erupted from the gun and catapulted into his body. Sherlock gasped as the pain shot up all over his body, sending him to the ground motionless. "Farewell, Mr. Holmes," was the last he heard from Mr. Canary and soon all was quiet.
Sherlock sputtered as blood forced its way up his throat. His body was growing cold and his limbs were losing their feeling. He tried to lift himself, but it was no use. The pain was too unbearable. Sherlock glanced down at his body, watching as blood soaked heavily through his clothes. He had to try to stop the bleeding. Slowly he moved his hand to one of the wounds, the one that was bleeding the most. He pressed down, hissing through his teeth as hot pain burned up his body. He forced his mind elsewhere to rid himself of the pain. He thought about Baker Street and John. He wondered to himself if John had returned yet and was searching for him. How could he though? John had no way to find him…or did he? Sherlock pulled his arm momentarily from the wound to his pocket. There he found his phone. He just needed to turn it on. He needed to help John find him. He was so tired though. Every movement hurt. Sherlock lifted the phone up to his face, clicking it on before dropping it as the weight of the phone grew too heavy for his hand. Now he could only hope, but as he calculated his wounds and the amount of time he must have been sitting there already he realized that hope was not going to be strong enough to save him. He was going to die here. He thought back to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. What would they think if they found him dead here? John would most likely blame himself for not being there. He always blamed himself when Sherlock got injured when he wasn't there to help. Although, John was always saying how he wished Sherlock wasn't home sometimes. Sherlock closed his eyes. How will his death affect John? His gut tightened. It was his fault. He had to send John some kind of message. He needed to send a text maybe, but he was so tired now. No, he had to send it. Sherlock's hand slipped down to where he dropped the phone and he painfully flicked to John's number. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. His breathing was reducing, he could feel it. He didn't have long now. Sherlock punched in the message with great effort. With one last breath and all of his remaining strength Sherlock pressed send, blacking out into a lifeless sleep.
Messages to John Watson: Srry
This is Sherlock's POV of Chapter 4 of Anywhere but Home. i had promised if i got any reviews that i would write it and a promise is a promise so here it is. there will be more to this one so hang on tight. thank's for reading guys!