NOTE: Very dark, very edgy, very scary, but very Sherlock. I got this idea while watching The Machinist, for some indiscernible reason. I know the ideas do not hardly correlate, but nonetheless, I hope you don't hate me for torturing Sherlock and John...or you, for that matter.
Emblazoned
CHAPTER ONE
"Serial rapists," Lestrade said "Four of them."
Sherlock knelt in front of the naked body in front of him. He studied.
"John," he said expectedly. John grimaced and knelt down next to the body.
"Dead for...three hours..." he said.
"Good," Sherlock said, edging him on. John gently lifted the corpse and pushed it on it's side. He squinted.
"Multiple stab wounds," he said. "Looks like they weren't what killed him though. Not sure as to the weapon...looks like some kind of pocket knife. The wounds aren't deep enough to be any kind of combat knife or anything."
He leaned in towards the neck and face.
"Indications of attempted strangulation, but not the cause of death."
"Yes," Sherlock mused. "A violent bunch?" He turned to Lestrade.
"Revolting," Lestrade remarked. "This isn't the first we've dealt with from them. Call themselves 'The Merchants.' Gang rapists, not normally murderers, but of course that's why you're here."
Sherlock groaned.
"Oh boring," he said. "Just an insecure posse of middle-aged men, probably nymphomaniacs, ransacking London for a quick fix. Boring!" Lestrade grumbled. John looked sharply at Sherlock. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and mouthed a "not good?" to which John responded with one solemn shake of his head. Sherlock fell silent.
Lestrade sighed and continued.
"The Merchants tend to target men, though they've...violated women before. Usually there's no correlation between the victims, and like I said, they don't normally end up dead. But the three recent victims have been found just like this one. Stabbed, or bruised, beaten, things of that nature, and dead. We've done tests on the bodies, and it has been confirmed that rape had taken place as well and have been able to ID most of the perps. Most of the time we can't find any clean evidence, but recently they've gotten sloppy I guess."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the body.
Victim analysis: male, about twenty-four, left handed, athlete, cyclist probably, unfamiliar with London, most likely foreign, possibly Jewish, heterosexual, married, newly wed-
"...and we'll keep a look out, alright Sherlock?"
John's voice interrupted him.
"What?" Sherlock said, looking to his stout friend. John sighed and stood.
"I was telling Lestrade that he should keep analyzing the DNA samples they found, we'll keep investigating, and once they find more information, we'll keep a look out. Alright?"
Sherlock nodded at John and turned to Lestrade.
"When the tests come back, text me. Until then, I'll need the case records of all the previous victims to look over, any photographs, messages, you know. I'll read them over tonight and I should be able to get you a motive tomorrow. I won't wait up for you John."
Lestrade, sighed, nodded once, and let the two walk out. Sherlock's eyes were glued to the tiny screen of his phone while John scurried behind him. They were walking up the block towards their flat; the murder had taken place only a few doors down from them.
"Sherlock," John began gently. Sherlock glanced at him before returning his blue-green zirconium eyes back to the screen.
"Something has to have gone wrong with the group," he said. "No murders, just having a romp and leaving. But something went wrong. Someone got edgy. Now they're killing. Four of them...The Merchants..."
"Sherlock you need to be a little less aggressive with these types of things," John said as they reached 221B. Sherlock stopped at the steps and looked at John curiously.
"Aggressive?" he asked, his phone still in his hand.
"Yes, Sherlock," John sighed. "You have to remember that a lot of these people...these dead people...they went through such an horrific experience and it's...well it's a bit impolite to call it boring, to say the least."
"They're dead, John. They don't care."
"That's not...nevermind. You're right."
"I shouldn't have even left the flat. This case barely ranks a five, at best."
John shook his head and sighed heavily, and the two men made their way up to the flat and were greeted with an already opened door. Dishes clattering and water running were the sounds on the inside, beckoning for them to enter.
"Oh boys, home already?" a cheerful looking Mrs. Hudson said as she washed away the grime of the dirty dishes that were, no doubt, neglected by the two for days on end.
Sherlock nodded in her direction and made his way towards the mantle, while John approached the fridge, desperate for nourishment and hoping very strongly that there weren't body parts in the way.
"Thought you weren't our house keeper, Mrs. H," John remarked as he managed to rescue a half-finished jar of strawberry jam from the back corner, where a two week old severed hand was rotting rather nicely in a plastic bag. He grimaced, sniffed the jam, and decided he wouldn't die if he managed a morsel.
"The stink was getting to me, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Someone has to do these dishes, you know."
"It was Sherlock's turn," John said. He sat at the table with his jam and some bread, and began to eat.
"That would explain it," Mrs. Hudson said with a chuckle. They both looked to Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair, plucking his violin. His face was blank, but they both knew his mind was racing.
"Thought you said this case was barely a five," John called to him. Sherlock glanced up at him.
"Doesn't matter," he said distractedly. He picked up his bow and laid it on the strings, as if he were about to play, but he did not.
"Oh? Then what are you thinking about?"
Sherlock began to play, then, a slow tune that sounded melancholy but pleasant. John huffed and shook his head.
"He's impossible," he muttered as he munched on his jam and bread.
Mrs. Hudson sat across from John at the table with a cup of tea, and pushed a cup towards him as well.
"He's just different," she said. "Keeps it interesting."
John shrugged.
"Not sure interesting is the right word," he said, smiling. The song on the violin was getting faster, darker, deeper, and Sherlock had stood. John looked at him.
His back was arched slightly, his tight violet shirt (it must have been his favourite, if Sherlock was capable of such things, John had often thought) creased on his torso. His arm pulled the bow across the strings with such elegance and grace that it made John nearly envious of how this man could execute such simple tasks with such poise. His nimble fingers drew the notes melodically out of the instrument, his head tilted and his face only slightly contorting with the music. His eyebrows were furrowed just a bit, his eyes staring into nothing, his lips pressed together in thought and concentration.
"An enigma," John breathed. He shook his head. Often times, he found himself doing this. He would watch Sherlock, just for the sake of watching him, and he felt nearly out of breath afterwards. The mystery of the man, the equanimity and composure that he held himself with, only ever revealing the slightest, tiniest bit of inner emotion on accident through his crystalline eyes, intrigued John to no end. And his body itself was flawless. Porcelain skin, the figure of a Greek statue, and those damn cheekbones...John felt that sometimes he should be worried at himself for the interest he showed in Sherlock. But the idea of him, the very concept that Sherlock was, it eluded John massively and it made the man seem so unattainable that John couldn't help but want to watch, if nothing else.
"John dear?" Mrs. Hudson said. "I'm about to head out. Everything alright?" John blinked rapidly before looking away from Sherlock and turning to Mrs. Hudson.
"Yeah, " he said. "Thanks for the tea, Mrs. H."
"Never a problem, dear."
She moved into the living room, John getting up to follow her.
"Don't work too hard, Sherlock dear," she said as she passed through the door.
"No such thing," Sherlock replied half-heartedly over the violin. The door was closed, and John sat, slouched, on the couch. Sherlock drew the bow once or twice more over the instrument before he put it down in his chair and looked out the window, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"What's on your mind?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him.
"Just thinking," he said. His eyes told John that it wasn't "just thinking."
"What about?"
Sherlock looked nearly offended.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked. John shrugged.
"Seems like you're bothered, is all," he said. He kicked off his shoes and swung his feet over, so that he was laying comfortably on the couch.
"I'm not."
"Alright then, suit yourself," John replied. He closed his eyes. "I'm going to get a nap. Try to be quiet."
There was a beat, and John thought for a moment that Sherlock had left, but he opened one eye and saw that Sherlock was still there, staring out the window, a grimace on his face. John would have tried to pry more, but he was too tired, and he let himself drift into sleep.
John awoke to the sound of the Holmes brothers speaking viciously towards each other, something he had become quite accustomed to. He blinked himself to life and glanced over.
"Why do you feel the need to tell me what to do all the time?" Sherlock was saying. He was pacing the room angrily while Mycroft sat in John's usual chair, fingers poised around the top of his umbrella.
"Sherlock, do not be juvenile. And stop raising your voice."
"I can speak however bloody loud I want to, you egocentric bastard!"
"Calm yourself," Mycroft suddenly said, angrily and with striking authority. The command seemed to physically affect Sherlock. He stopped pacing and he seemed to shrink into himself. He then forced a calming breath and sat in his chair, glaring vehemently at his brother.
"Why do you always think I'm out to get you?" Mycroft asked more calmly. Sherlock crossed his arms.
"Because you are," he said, looking away. "You've always enjoyed being able to bully me."
Mycroft sighed, and looked at John.
"It seems you woke your friend," he said. Sherlock looked at John.
"No no," John said. He sat up. "It's fine. Evening Mycroft."
"John," Mycroft said affirmatively. He stood and looked at his brother.
"Behave yourself, and call me once you find something," he said with the same authority in his voice, slightly toned down. Sherlock sneered and threw his head back.
"Good bye, Mycroft," he said dismissively.
"Good bye, little brother," Mycroft replied. He nodded and gave a careless smile to John before he left. Sherlock lifted his head back up and began staring with an adamant protest at the door. John cocked an eyebrow.
"What was that about?" he asked. He stood and stretched as his friend looked at him and shook his head, tossing his ebon curls to and fro.
"Doesn't matter," he said with gruff indifference. "I made tea."
"Oh," John said, genuinely surprised. "That was nice."
Sherlock said nothing and simply watched as John went into the kitchen to fix himself a cup. Then he sat down in his regular chair, across from Sherlock, and he sipped his tea contentedly. Sherlock had retrieved his phone from his pocket and was texting rapidly. John cocked his head and watched Sherlock's nimble fingers dance across the touch screen so familiarly.
"Who are you texting?"
"Lestrade."
"Why?"
"Because."
John huffed and sat back in his chair, laying the cup and saucer on the small side table.
"Sherlock," he said declaratively. Sherlock glanced up at him.
"What was that all about?" John continued, gesturing to the door.
"What?"
"Mycroft. What'd he want."
"Nothing. As ever."
Sherlock gave a quick shrug. John sighed.
"So, think you'll look into that case about The Merchants?" he asked, not bothering to pursue the prior subject any further. Sherlock nodded once.
"It's something," he said off handedly. John nodded.
"It's a little bit interesting, no?" he offered. He sipped his tea again, and enjoyed the brew more thoroughly than whenever he fixed his tea himself. Sherlock always took great care in doing things just exactly as they were supposed to be done. He relished that in his cup while Sherlock set his phone on his lap, tented his fingers, and regarded John with an expression that said "hardly, but I'm bored."
John smiled secretly to himself, enjoying the tiny moments like these, when Sherlock and he could communicate with silence and gestures that only they knew of each other. The familiarity made John feel some odd sense of comfort. Warmth. Belonging.
"What is it John?" Sherlock asked suddenly. His voice sliced the wall of thought that John Watson had unconsciously surrounded himself with, and he looked at his friend.
"Nothing," he said cheerfully. He had finished the tea and set the cup down with satisfaction. "Fine cup, there."
"Mm."
Sherlock was thinking. John could always tell. His eyes would be fixed on nothing and his responses were short, sometimes even nonexistent. Mostly though, John felt it when Sherlock thought. He felt the enourmous sense of being pushed away by the man's incalculable intellect, and John pursed his lips.
"Well, I'm-"
Sherlock suddenly snapped his head towards the direction of the window.
"What was that?" he asked in a hushed tone.
John listened, and after silence, he narrowed his eyes questioningly and looked at Sherlock.
"What was what?" John asked. "I didn't hear anyth-"
But John did hear something. The backfiring of a car, just outside on Baker Street, more than likely right across from their flat.
"Twice," Sherlock said. He stood and looked out the window. "It backfired twice."
"Maybe we should go and see," John said, as he too stood and accompanied Sherlock at the window.
Sure enough, there was a large white van parked in the alleyway just across the way, and there were two men looking rather distressed, circling the car this way and that. It was getting dark, so the figures could hardly be seen by the street lamp.
"Think we should help?" John inquired, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the van, as if from a distance he was assessing all the facts already.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked at his friend and sighed, licking his lips.
"They're making quite a clamour," he said quietly. John nodded and glanced outside again as the van was making awful noises and the men were groaning and shouting at each other.
"Let's go see what we can do," John said. He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Sherlock lingered just for a moment by the window, chewing his inner cheek.
"Sherlock come on," John called from the doorway. Sherlock sighed, ran his hand through his curls, and made his way towards John, grabbing his coat and scarf. He began donning the garments as they walked down the hall and steps.
"You know you don't need to wear that damn coat," John remarked as he opened the door and a burst of chilly air whisked itself at the two.
"It's cold," Sherlock replied innocently. John simply smiled as they crossed the street, into the frigid, fast approaching night. The moon shone ominously above, shrill and apparent in its presentation, and the biting winter wind freely danced about the few remaining, lonely objects on the narrow London street, vacant, dead silent, at rest from the day.
Sherlock hugged his coat against his body while John paced ahead of him, approaching the misfortunate men first.
"Need any help, mates?" he said, sounding as friendly and cheerful as anyone could on a cold winter night.
One of the men turned, and John was slightly taken aback by the massive form that he now beheld in the dim light.
"John Watson?" came a slightly accented voice from the silhouette. Sherlock had now approached them, and he stood slightly behind John.
"Erm...yes..." John said confusedly. Sherlock noted that three other figures were emerging from the dark.
"John," he said quietly, cautiously.
"And you are?" John asked, taking a small step back. Sherlock looked around him.
Possible weapons: hanging bar from fire escape, lid from garbage bin, actual garbage bin, recycled glass-
Sherlock flicked his eyes quickly to John's back.
Carrying.
A small bit of relief swept briefly over him.
"You don't know me?" the man suddenly said. The other three were now drawing even nearer. John was growing tense.
"No...?"
The man chuckled deeply.
"Edgar," he said. "Edgar Merchant."
And two swift blows to the back of each head was enough to send both the detective and the doctor stumbling to the ground, unconscious.
They were loaded into the van like crates of heavy equipment, and the men then drove away with their newly acquired shipments.
Be warned, it's about to get a lot worse... -NH