Authors Note: I haven't finished writing the entire story yet, but I'll post the next chapter soon. I have about four or five chapters prepared. Comments are love! :)
CHAPTER 1: Crime
"The woman had, of course, her perfume on at the time of the murder. I smelled it first when I walked into the house. The odor was absolutely repugnant and I'm surprised nobody else picked it up."
The woman folded her hands across her chest.
"You think I'm the murderer just because I wear perfume? I've been here multiple times before then" she spat.
His head snapped towards her.
"Obviously. It seems you have quite a habit for appearing in bedrooms when you make a profit."
John flicked his eyes up at him. "Sherlock."
The consulting detective nodded nonchalantly and continued.
"Yes, and then there's the obvious sign from her hands. There were many scratch cards displayed upon the living room table, and she has yet to clean her hands from the abrasions" he gestured. "That would place her as the one woman in the flat during the crime."
She quickly concealed her hands beneath her sweater. Sherlock grinned.
"The night of the murder it was also raining. I noticed that her coat was damp and slightly smudged with mud." Everyone in the room looked towards the coat hangar. Sure enough, the coat that he had described was indeed, dirty.
"But that wasn't enough evidence to call you a criminal. No, I needed something else, something more accusing." He grinned. "A motive. My investigation eventually led me to look into your employment records."
Her face became pale.
"Of course, your job back then was quite significant. Accounting. Quite boring if you ask me, but you made it that much more interesting. You transfered the money from the employers' paycheck to your account. Of course, your solution was switching the money with another customer. Your house was behind it's payment, and you desperately needed the money. At first, you felt terrible. But after a few more times, it became a normal daily basis. You bought a few nice cars, a new house, and everything was beautiful." He paused.
"Well?" Anderson asked, his hair on end.
"George Macintosh."
John raised an eyebrow.
He continued. "One day he walked past and saw you transferring the money. He immediately ordered you to turn stop the scheme or he would go to the authorities. But no, you wouldn't have any of it. You couldn't be locked up. Not now. Not ever. And so you started a 'romantic relationship' with the man. You 'stole his heart.' He led you into his flat and then you murdered him."
Her mouth was ajar. "That's...That's not true," she stammered. "You can't prove any of this!"
"Oh, but I can." Sherlock rummaged around in his trench coat until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out the thumb drive.
"What is it?" Lestrade asked, reaching for it. Sherlock gladly gave it to him.
"It holds all the logs and information for each and every transfer that she had activated. It's...how you could say...a backup. I'm sure you can take a look for yourself."
"No need." Lestrade gave the thumb drive to Anderson. "Put that in evidence." He grasped the woman's arm and handcuffed her. "I place you under arrest for the murder of George Macintosh. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law..."
The consulting detective and the doctor traversed outside the building. John turned towards Sherlock.
"You ever going to tell me how you figured it out?"
Sherlock grinned.
"It was quite simple, really. I realized she was hiding something, so I returned back to her flat. I discovered the thumb drive under her dresser and there seemed to be a few floorboards loose. Under it was the thumb drive. As I said, any normal person could have figured it out, given a bit more time."
John stopped walking.
"You know what I mean."
He nodded. "Right, then."
They continued walking down the street in silence. John was the first to break it.
"What now?"
"I suppose we could head back to the flat, but that would be boring. No new cases have arrived, and I don't feel like putting holes in the wall again."
John stopped in his tracks. "Wha-Again?"
Sherlock did nothing but clear his throat.
The doctor pinched his nose and did not reply. They both walked on in silence again until John's stomach rumbled. Sherlock chuckled.
"Dinner?" he asked.
"Starving."
"What'dya say old chap? Wanna get to know eachother?", asked a man in a suit. He was middle-aged, short-cropped black hair, and an amazingly rancid breath. He clapped John on the back while holding his drink in the other. He was a masculine man, who had quite an odor.
Sherlock pretended not to notice and turned the other way, holding back a smile.
"Uh, no thanks." John tried to escape him, but the man and his muscles squashed him between his chest and arm. His revolting breath surrounded the doctor and John gagged.
John had insisted when they arrived at the restaurant that he didn't want to drink. Only to fill his stomach. Sherlock wasn't much of an alcoholic, but the idea of celebrating seemed nice. However, John's situation right now proved to be much more amusing.
"Aw, come on, laddie! It'll be fun! I'll even show you the moves!" the stranger shouted. Sherlock choked on his drink, failing to hold back a chuckle.
"Sir, I would like to inform you that your breath is absolutely detestable." John could even feel his eyes burning. The man laughed and 'accidentally' sloshed some of his drink onto the doctors shirt.
"Oh, I know. Absolutely rotten, isn't it?" The man smiled, teeth showing. They were rotten as well. John's lip curled.
The man sniffled. "But you know, how many times do I have to tell ye? I don't wanna be in the business anymore. Hybrization" he slurred. "DNA. It's all rubbish. All of it. Not once piece of it is real. No sir. Not anymore." He let John out of his grasp and started rubbing his eyes. The doctor breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be free from his vise.
The man burst into tears. John froze stiff. He kept his head motionless and his eyes wandered towards Sherlock for support. The consulting detective just sat there and grinned. There was a loud crash, and John looked back to his side. The man was sprawled across the floor and drool began to slowly dribble down his cheek.
"Seems like he's had too much to drink" chuckled Sherlock.
"No shit, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes. "You know, it wouldn't hurt to help me, your only friend in the world, once in a while."
He paused. "But it looked like you two were having fun."
John grumbled something unintelligible and rolled his eyes. He grabbed his jacket. "Let's get out of here." John harbored a grin of his own.
Sherlock opened the door to the flat with John following close behind. They had managed to return after midnight, and John was famished. And, of course, the great Sherlock Holmes was not.
"Goin'tobed" John slurred, not even turning to face Sherlock. He tossed his jacket onto the chair. Sherlock replied, "Going out."
John stopped in his tracks and turned back around. "This late?"
Sherlock shrugged. He seemed bored.
John rolled his eyes and clunked onwards to his room. He figured that if Sherlock wanted to something, then he wasn't the man to stop him. Besides, he was too tired to care at this point.
The doctor trudged into his room, his eyes only halfway open. He took a half a moment to himself and stretched. He felt his limbs expand and he grinned. Better. The doctor closed the door, and securely locked it. Never can be too sure considering where and how they both lived.
John flipped the light switch on. His eyes instantly expressed a man in a black suit and a blue tie, sitting on the edge of his bed. He was wearing a full black mask save for the eyes, which were visible. A syringe was held in his gloved-hand, full of some strange green liquid.
John quickly sprinted forward, and his fist contacted the man's face with speed. The syringe dropped to the floor with a soft click. Another punch was administered to the intruder and he quickly retaliated with a fist. It targeted John's torso and caused him to double over in pain. He clutched it for dear life and tried to remember how to breathe. From the corner of his eye, John could see the man bending over and reaching for the syringe. He quickly returned and John attempted to prepare himself but he was too late. By the time John had stood back up, the syringe pierced his neck. His body hit the ground with a loud thud.
John woke up to the familiar ceiling of his room. Looking to the clock at his side, he saw that it was 9:02. Good, he didn't sleep in too late.
Looking back up, he observed the patterns on the ceiling. During his long stay here, he had managed to remember every mold, design, and object in the room. He was like a mini-Sherlock. Staying with such a man does that to you.
The doctor leaned up and a short groan escaped him. His abdomen felt like a freight train had run through it. Lifting his shirt up, he saw that his belly was horribly bruised. Purple and red colors tinted his torso. How the hell...
An uncertain hand reached up to rub his neck. Something happened last night. But for the life of him he couldn't remember. He only remembered coming back here and then...And then...
His brows furrowed. And then nothing. Odd. He frowned. He couldn't remember a thing after they got back. To be honest, it turned out to be pretty late when they arrived home.
John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He would have to worry about it later. John carefully stood up from the bed, dressed, and shuffled downstairs towards the living room.
Sherlock, always up and around by seven in the morning, sat in his chair beside the fireplace. A laptop was placed upon his lap whilst an ignored cup of tea was beside him. His fingers fled across the keyboard.
"Morning" Sherlock announced without looking up. John grunted and trudged into the kitchen. Grabbing a cup, he fashioned his own cup of tea. Finished, he shambled towards his seat. Another grunt escaped him when he sat down. Ignoring his abdomen, he snatched the newspaper and began reading.
Sherlock saw all of this with a watchful eye. He had noticed that something was off about John. It was obvious of course by his walking pace, his hair (which had been disheveled quite a bit more than usual), and it was also the fact that he was in pain when he seated himself. Obviously.
"You too?"
John turned a page. "Me too what?" His eyes continued scanning over the paper.
Sherlock paused for a moment. He closed the laptop and set it to the side. His hands moved in front of his face in a sort of prayer. All the while, his eyes were placed on John. "Do you remember?"
John stopped reading. The paper was still set in front of him as it blocked his view from Sherlock. "Remember what?"
Sherlock observed as John gripped the newspaper a bit tighter as well as the single tap of his foot upon the floor. And Sherlock knew. He knew that John hadn't remembered. The really strange thing was, he didn't remember at all either.
The consulting detective closed his eyes for a moment and contemplated.
This morning, he had woken to the blaring sound of a siren. He quickly discovered that he was in the familiar flat named 221b. The noise that had woke him was the authorities on a chase of some kind of which he did not care for. Sitting up, he wondered what had occurred the night before.
His mind palace had told him that it was late last night, and that he went back out for something...His feet led him down the stairs and nothing else could be remembered. Nothing at all. Sherlock's mind always records and files information. Everything of importance, that is. But why didn't he place anything from last night? Obviously something had transpired, but he had no memory of it whatsoever.
He cocked his head to the side, confused. Immediately following, he felt a sort of slight pain emanating from his neck. This led him towards the bathroom.
It was barely noticeable, but seeing as Sherlock noticed everything, he observed. Looking in the mirror (quite early in the morning) he appeared to have quite strange bruising on his neck. It was as if someone had choked him. On the right side, he found a that a small needle had pieced it. Judging by the size of the fissure, which was quite large, the syringe would have had to be practically stabbed into his neck. So there would have been a struggle. But he didn't remember.
Obviously they did administer something in his blood stream. Why would they go to all this trouble not to? The problem was, he had no idea what was put in his body. He desperately wanted to discover what it was, but he hadn't the time go to the lab. He wished to see if John was the same. Which was true.
Of course, Sherlock had wondered if someone had broken into the flat. Earlier he had attempted to ask Mrs. Hudson if anyone had been in before him, but she was out on vacation. For a week it would seem. "Need some time for myself" is what she had said. Something about the husband was his guess.
And so, he started the long process and began to inspect the apartment to confirm that nothing had been moved or altered. He discovered that no one had messed with the front door. The lock hadn't been tampered with. To be sure, Sherlock had checked it twice. Once, when they arrived back at the flat last night, and once again in the morning. He then proceeded to inspect the windows. In a case long ago (which John had named The Blind Banker in that fancy blog of his), he had learned that any fit, agile human being could easily a crawl up building and enter through the window. Thankfully, they had not been interfered with either.
His eyes then proceeded to scan over the entire room. The same result occurred: Nothing was different. All was the same, and not a thing had shifted. To the naked eye, that is.
Dust was the following concept he investigated. "Dust is eloquent" as one would say. If there did not appear to be any dust on an object ( in which he specifically knew that had not been messed around with) then the flat had an intruder.
It took him about twenty minutes to do the entire living room. He had to be absolutely sure, of course. After that, he roamed into the kitchen, and eventually finished the entire flat. It had consumed quite a lot of time. A few hours, to be precise. However, the result was still the same. Nothing had been touched.
There was also still a very strong possibility that a man (or woman, you can never be too sure) broke into the flat. They would have to be quite intelligent as to make sure not to bump into anything, considering that there was practically everything thrown about the flat (thanks to Sherlock Holmes), as well as to clean up their mess. No dust, no fuss.
Also, this person(s) would have to have been in their apartment at least once or twice. However, this would obviously not cut down the suspects. Hundreds of people had been in his flat, not including the large amount of enemies he had manage to acquire during his time as a consulting detective as well as multiple clients for his past cases. So it have could been anyone.
And don't forget the chance that his flat mightn't of been broken into in the first place. Based on the facts he had (which was easily pointing towards this point), it was quite possible.
Yes, he was assaulted. Yes, he had proof. The bruising on his neck said as much. The question was, where was he attacked? This is what perplexed him. He had no evidence to help point him in the right direction.
Even if he did, it wouldn't matter because he did not remember. And neither did John. So around he went in circles.
"Hm" was all Sherlock said.
John became motionless despite the newspaper covering his face. "What?" he asked, carefully.
"Hm?" His eyes opened and his gaze returned to John.
John sighed and flipped the top half of his newspaper down. "You ask me if I remember, you see that I don't, and then all you say is hm?" he mocked. "Are you going to tell me what happened or not? Or am I going to have to figure it out for my own damn bloody-well self?" John paused. His nostrils flared and he slammed the newspaper down on the armchair. "Is this another one of your bloody experiments?" he shouted.
Sherlock frowned. "Experiments? Where did you get that from, and why are you so upset?"
"No, Sherlock. I'm not upset" he exaggerated.
Sherlock did not seem to understand. He sat there, confused as ever.
"Your facial expressions prove otherwise, John." He paused for a moment, seeing that John was not responding. John's head was turned to the side, possibly trying to hold a lid on his anger. Was it anger?
"I don't understand" Sherlock declared.
John rolled his eyes. How unbelievable.
Sherlock asked again, "Why are you upset?"
"Because every time you use me as your subject for your experiments it always ends up with either me not remembering anything or me having to hold a piece of string while you set it on fire!" he spat.
Sherlock immediately responded, "I told you that would never happen again, John. After you created a riot, I simply discontinued my expeditions. I have never done such an experiment on you since. Neither have I done one for which you described previously since. You must stop assuming these things because it's actually quite irritating. Especially when your assumptions are false." Sherlock kept his eyes fixed upon John. That was as close to an insult that Sherlock would convey. To John, at least.
John paused for a moment. After a short time, he leaned forward in his chair. "So, you don't know either?"
"I don't know what?" he snapped.
"You don't remember?"
"Obviously" he responded quite quickly.
"Then..." John blinked. "What did ha-"
"I don't know" he growled.
The one thing that Sherlock did not like was the unknown. It tore at him, it ate him, it created nightmares, the ones that only Sherlock could have. The mysterious unseen was defintely not something that he favored.
John, the only man who could see this, silently nodded and leaned back.
Only a moment passed before Sherlock imposed: "Come along, John." Sherlock stood up, snatched his trench coat from the hangar and headed out the door.
John bent to his will and raced after the man.
