John struggled against Sherlock's grip, trying to hold him still as he writhed and screamed. His sobs were soaking through John's shirt, his sweat and blood covered John's hands and chest. John was holding him tight, cradling his head between the crook of his arm and his shoulder, telling Sherlock over and over, I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm so sorry. It'll be ok, just hang on. God, Sherlock please, it's alright, just try to breathe. The light blazed against their eyes and John tried to cover Sherlock's face, but he just kept writhing and John kept losing his grip on the long body. Sherlock would whimper John's name, and the whimper would become a garbled statement, and then a strangled scream. Then the sobbing. Then the nonsense. John would just say, I know, I know, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I can't fix this, just hold on, it'll be okay. And the blood was running down Sherlock's temple, and the sweat was coating John's arms as he held Sherlock, as the seconds turned into minutes and the minutes turned into hours, while they felt like days. Come on, Greg, John thought, where the fuck are you.
"This is tedious," Sherlock said between his little yelps of pain. John shot him a glance as he continued to stitch up the gash going across Sherlock's ribs. It was about six inches long, probably a quarter of an inch deep.
"Well, perhaps if somebody hadn't decided to devise an experiment involving a weight drop with a knife ready to launch through a part of a cadaver, you wouldn't be sitting here and I wouldn't be fighting you- ow, Sherlock, don't bite the hand that heals you, dammit," John rubbed the spot on his shin Sherlock had just kicked. That'll bruise, you git. Sherlock smirked. John didn't understand why he was always the one stitching Sherlock up, but then he supposed he enjoyed it. Taking care of Sherlock. It made him feel needed. It was the one area Sherlock couldn't beat him in. Aside from general social norms.
"What else I am supposed to do with my time, John? I haven't had a case in weeks. You've been blogging about the latest episodes of that dreadful talk show you watch. You must be feeling the same pain as I," Sherlock grimaced and flinched against the last stitch.
"You could do what normal people do, Sherlock. Read a book. Watch some telly. Drink tea. Go for a walk. Things that make life just a little less exciting, and a lot safer," John snipped off the end of the suture and went for the wrappings. Sherlock protested, but John pressed on the wound and Sherlock groaned, falling back in his chair.
"I don't want a dressing, John," Sherlock squirmed.
"You might get infected if this isn't properly cover- hold still you great idiot - no, don't do-" John fell back as Sherlock swatted at his arm and pulled his legs up to cover his chest, kneeing John in the abdomen and sending him backward.
John glared at Sherlock as he stood up. "Fine, then. If you go septic I'm not going to cry," John threw the wrapping back into his medical kit. Sherlock cocked his head to the side a little.
"You would cry normally if I got ill?" Sherlock's eyes glinted with mischief. John looked annoyed. He walked right into that one. Of course this was the one time Sherlock would actually listen and point out all the embarrassing remarks John made in attempt to show his frustration.
"I just mean I won't give a damn because it'll be your own fault, oh-fu" John had straightened up after zipping up his medical kit to find Sherlock an inch from his face. It startled John and he gasped, looking down.
"John, I need to do something. I am so bored. And you know what happens when I get bored," Sherlock said, snapping.
John licked his lips and hung his head, sighing. He managed to have the most interesting and most absolutely impossible flatmate.
"Look, Lestrade will phone if something comes up. You'll just have to wait it out like the rest of us boring people do," John stated, bundling up his bag and taking it to the toilet. He heard Sherlock let out the most obvious sigh of annoyance as he flopped onto the couch.
They spent a few hours sitting around, reading, Sherlock every so often sighing deliberately loud enough to get to John. John rolled his eyes every time. For once, he was sort of hoping for a really brutal murder. Would be terrible for the victim, but good for his own sanity.
About three hours later, at 7 in the evening, Sherlock's phone dinged. It took him exactly 1 second to answer the call.
John watched, eyebrows raised, as Sherlock hummed and said, "Yes, yes, alright, great, we'll be right there," and jumped up and down on the couch in glee.
"Wouldn't have happened to get a case, would you?" John said, almost satisfied with the timing. It was early enough that they could potentially solve it in a few hours, and John had only had to suffer through a few hours of Sherlock's whining.
"There was a double homicide. In a warehouse, by the Thames. Get your coat," Sherlock was already striding out the door, tying his scarf. John barely had time to slide his shoes on before Sherlock called out impatiently. John hopped on one foot across the room and then slid his coat on as he ran downstairs.
"Sherlock, thanks for coming. John," Lestrade nodded at them both. The warehouse was huge, with vaulted ceilings that only let tiny flecks of moonlight filter through. There were large square pillars extending from the roof to the ground, dotted throughout the expanse of the building. The Yard had set up lights next to the scene.
"A couple of youths were getting ready to graffiti the place when they saw the bodies," Lestrade pointed to two cadavers that were tied opposite to each other, one tied to a pillar, the other to what seemed to be a large container used on commercial transport ships. John grimaced. He may like the danger, but he still always had to adjust to the sight of bodies. No one but Sherlock could ever turn off that impulse.
Sherlock strode to the bodies, walking around them in a circle a few times. John watched, bewildered. Sherlock then stopped suddenly, and knelt in front of the body tied to the box. It was a woman, early thirties, blonde, with a pink shirt soaked through with blood. Sherlock observed the wound on her abdomen, the trails of blood on her shoulders going down her arms, the smears on her face and in her hair. These were brutal murders. Premeditated.
Sherlock beckoned in John's general direction, not bothering to look up. John walked over and knelt next to him, flinching slightly at how cut up the woman was.
"What do you think, John? Was it the wound?" Sherlock gestured toward the deep stab. John took gloves from Lestrade and put them on, and then lifted the woman's shirt to observe. It was deep, and it seemed that the murderer had actually shifted the knife around in her stomach before pulling it out. John slightly poked at the wound, but there was no fresh blood coming from the majorly injured organs.
"The wound is probably about 24 to 36 hours old," John touched the various cuts on the woman's shoulders and noticed how they were already forming scabs.
"The cuts are a few days old. I don't think she died from this," John then noticed a dark mark peeking out from behind the collar of the woman's shirt. The shirt was a scoop neck, so it revealed a lot of her chest. John gingerly peeled back the shirt and he closed his eyes, shaking his head.
"She was electrocuted repeatedly. There are burn marks on her chest. That's what killed her. The murderer must have been torturing her," John replaced the shirt and stood. Sherlock looked at the woman, puzzled. John never really saw him puzzled. What was going on?
Sherlock stood and motioned to the other body. This one was tied to the pillar. John immediately noticed the same markings on his body, accompanied by stabs in his thighs and one on his shoulder, not just the cuts this time. John lifted the man's white shirt and observed the same pattern of gouging in the abdomen. All of the wounds were the same age, same pattern. He asked Lestrade for a knife, and then cut the pants were the holes were. He poked at the holes in the man's legs a bit.
"Judging by the lacerations, I'd say this time he drew the knife out and drove it in a couple of times," John swallowed and examined the man more thoroughly. What kind of MO was this?
Sherlock lifted various limbs, combed back the man's sandy blond hair, observed fingernails through his magnifying glass and finally stood up.
John counted to three, and Sherlock started talking.
"They are siblings. The woman is in her early thirties, the man is a few years older than her," he dove into their pockets but all he found was a pen in the man's left jean pocket. Too easy.
"He is a runner. He also recently got promoted at his job in the development department of a software designer. Judging from the pen, he designs business programs. He also has a dog and a parakeet, as evidence from the hairs embedded in his shirt and the talon markings on his fingers. He rents a flat near his work. He doesn't go running in town, though, only by the water," Sherlock nodded toward the woman, "she's a smoker and an alcoholic, and, see the chalk there under her nails, she got sacked the other day from her job as a primary school teacher. She developed anxiety from being sacked, so no one will hire her. She needs a new prescription for reading glasses but can't afford them. She's been staying over at a friend's house a lot, probably another teacher, who has a pet cat," John looked befuddled. "The woman has a cat?" Sherlock was stopped mid speech, "what, John?" he said, annoyed.
"How would you know she has a cat?" John looked at the woman. "John, do keep up. She's allergic to cats but her friend has one, and she can't go anywhere else so she has to put up with the allergies. Just look at her eyes, bloodshot, her nose is red around the corners and cracked from rubbing it with tissue," Sherlock sighed and looked to Lestrade.
"I'd find out which primary school teachers recently got made redundant that fit her profile. The man would have participated in a marathon run, and his business probably funded it," Sherlock squinted at Lestrade, who was giving him his usual look of confusion, so Sherlock elaborated. "His shoes. They are running shoes, and a brand new model, but already the treads are quite worn down," Sherlock stopped and looked at the box. He narrowed his eyes and moved toward it.
Everyone watched as he paced around the box, bringing his magnifier to corners and dents every now and then.
"Have you got something to open this with?" Sherlock held out a hand toward Lestrade. Lestrade raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes.
"It's bloody titanium, Sherlock. We have to get tech in to break the lever in the back and unhinge it," he pointed to the door on the box. It was about 5 feet tall by 5 feet wide, silver and cold looking. John didn't like it.
Sherlock whined. "Well there has to be a reason for it to be here," he tapped on it. It didn't seem hollow.
"Maybe it was left here by accident by whatever lot used this building last to store their cargo. You'd need a pretty good pulley system to lift it," Lestrade's phone went off and he walked a few feet away to answer.
John followed Sherlock's eyes on the box. Sherlock kept rapping it in different places, trying to determine what was inside.
"Unless you have echolocation, that won't help," John said, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock snorted, "I listen, I observe, I deduce. Try to think, John," Sherlock said in a bored tone. John sighed and watched him.
Lestrade came back, shutting his phone, and nodded to Sherlock, even though he wasn't paying attention to the DI. "I just got the Yard to run some searches, they've found a school that just sacked a woman who fits the vic's description. The headmaster has agreed to meet us in her office. Do you want to come?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and his glance darted from John's puzzled expression at the box to Sherlock's equally confused look. They were all obvious quite nervous about the titanium crate.
"I don't do interviews, you know this. John, go if you want. Bring me information," Sherlock brushed everything off with his hand. John sighed, with the look on his face of a man who is quite used to this. Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look, but John nodded.
"Great, Sherlock I'm sure you'd like more time on the scene but the techs are almost here. They may need a while though. And they'll have to search by the water for evidence. If you aren't going to come, why don't you do some of that lovely inspecting with them?" Lestrade was obviously running out of patience. Sherlock looked up at him and gave him an irritated look.
"Alright, alright. If you're just going to send me out like a sniffer dog, I'll come along," Sherlock huffed. Lestrade had to suppress a bit of a smile. John knew the only reason Sherlock was agreeing to coming along was to avoid Anderson. Lestrade didn't even have to mention his name.
The office they sat in was standard for a school. It was a bit small, with the token brown desk and old computer. There was nothing extraordinary about the place, but the headmaster seemed rather uptight about it all. She probably wanted to be working in a more prestigious, private university. Instead, she was the head of a school losing funding and incurring absences. But you take what you can get.
"Thank you for speaking with us on such short notice, ma'am," Lestrade shook the woman's hand.
"Of course. I'm Ella Greene. They told me you wanted information on one of our recent redundant?" Ella said, poking her hand into a file cabinet. She was an upright woman, her chestnut hair gathered back into a tight bun, her lips a thin line decorated with dark red lipstick. She was wearing a very formal suit, and oddly enough it was a pantsuit. She was very pretty for her age. She must have been 50.
"Yes, well, we are investigating the murders of two individuals. One of them is a blonde woman in her early 30s," Lestrade got out his notepad to begin reciting what Sherlock had said, but Sherlock took over for that part.
With a bored expression, Sherlock recalled about the alcoholism and the anxiety. He said it quickly and deliberately in the amount of time it took Lestrade to flip through five pages of his notes and take a breath. John watched him with his usual look of astonishment. After living with the man for over a year, one would think John Watson was no longer awestruck by it all. But that was what solidified his friendship with Sherlock. Friendship. That was an odd word for a relationship with Sherlock.
Ella looked at Sherlock with a bit of apprehension, drawing her hand back from the cabinet, feeling perhaps upstaged by his elegance and arrogant attitude. John felt even more plain than usual between the two of them, and he tried to sit very upright, remembering his army form.
When Sherlock had closed his mouth finally, Ella licked her lips and looked down for a moment.
"Yes. That was Mandy. Mandy Weiss. She has been… unstable for a while. We unfortunately had to let her go after she came to work completely intoxicated three days in a row. She was struggling with some inner demons, and we tried to find her some help. But we are not responsible for her anymore," Ella was composed, her face numb to the situation. What a brilliant disguise against guilt, John thought.
"We're not blaming you, Mrs. Greene," Lestrade scribbled a note onto his pad and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a rather hurried Sherlock.
"Oh for god's sake. Let me guess, she came to you asking to go on leave to start recovery, but you rejected her request. You threatened to fire her if she didn't clean up her act and did nothing to actually reach out. She's been an alcoholic for a long time, and you did nothing to help her," he rolled his eyes, a look of disgust settled on his face. John looked at him out of the corner of his eye and furrowed his brow. Sherlock didn't usually get emotional about victims, John contemplated. And then he realized. Oh. Addictions.
"Excuse me? We are very supportive of our staff members, but we do not tolerate any misbehavior. Our actions were for the safety of the children and the rest of the teachers," Ella's voice was laced with resent.
"Oh, yes, because a woman who runs a primary school filled with future delinquents and scandals would obviously have had patience with one of its own teachers. You were ashamed and you fired her to save face for the school," Sherlock looked at her through cold eyes. John was tempted to put a hand on his shoulder, but he knew how wired up Sherlock was. He didn't want to set him off too far.
"I think you had better leave now," Ella stood up stock straight. Lestrade glared at Sherlock, before politely asking Ella for any contact information to get to Mandy's family. Ella obliged and curtly nodded to the door when they were done.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You nearly botched that up," Lestrade stopped Sherlock in the hallway and held him by the shoulder. "Are you alright?" Sherlock simply set his jaw. John gave Lestrade a look of not now, and Lestrade sighed, waving them off. As John and Sherlock hailed a cab outside, John nodded at Sherlock, "Alright, then?" Sherlock grunted a reply, settling into the cab and staring out the window. It was going to be a much longer case than John had wanted.