Hey guys! This is my first story!
I hope you all like it! I really like Sherlock so I thought I would write about him first!
"Bang." A gun shot out in the dark, the bullet went into her head and a large lady looking like she was dressed for an afternoon in the sun came crashing down onto the floor in a dingy abandoned office building. An invitation to a school reunion falls out her shorts, and a man mutters, "Thanks for playing Russian Roulette." Hours later, the police come storming in, and find the lady on the floor. Her body is taken away, and the police find a gun under a desk in the corner slowly collecting dust. The DNA testing finds the woman's fingerprint's on the gun, and it is put away in the records as a suicide.
Two weeks later, a man awakens in a dimly lit room in what looks to be a library. A man in a black hoodie hands him dice and a gun, and says to roll. The captor in the hoodie is holding a gun, so the man knows to do as he is told. Figuring this is probably a dream considering he doesn't remember getting to this place, he rolls. A six shows up on the dusty old dice, yellowing with age. The gruff man in the black hoodie places six bullets in the gun chamber. The man spins the chamber and places the gun is the prisoners hand, and a gruff voice emits from under the hood. "Shoot or I shoot you." Feeling he has no choice and he will wake up when its over, the prisoner pulls the trigger. As the man is falling off the chair to his death, the gruff voice once again rumbles, and the last thing the man hears before darkness is, "Thanks for playing Russian Roulette."
Sherlock sits on the couch in his flat, twiddling his thumbs. He muttered, "Can someone just die already." John walks in and flops down next to Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock gazes at John's hair and his eyes, then he remembers to snap out of it. He needs to focus. They are just beginning to relax when Sherlock notices something inside the paper. He rockets out of his seat, and grabs the paper. Two suicides, both with barrel guns, both seemingly happy people. There is no way this is just two unconnected suicides. Sherlock begins to do what he is famous for. He picks up his phone and texts the whole police detective group he knows are in their weekly meeting. As Sherlock makes his way to the meeting, all the phones in the room buzz in sync and read, "It's not just two unconnected suicides." At that very moment, Sherlock strides into the room. Everyone looks at him and knows what this means. He is not leaving. Sherlock walks to the front of the room and says to the person holding the clicker to the projector, "This is not just suicides. Call me when the next person gets murdered in the same unconnected circumstances.
On a cloudy and dreary day, another man finds himself holding a gun, and then pulling the trigger. He falls to the dusty floor of an abandoned school. As his body hits the floor and his world floods with darkness, a voice from under a dark black hood gruffly says, "Thanks for playing Russian Roulette." A man who took the dead one hostage strides out of the building and out to his car. He drives away just as the police arrive at the scene. Reports of more noises led them to think a group of teenagers horsing around in the house, but they found a dead body instead. Also a suicide. The thought of Sherlock briefly passes through the chief's mind, but he brushed it off for later.
Two weeks later, the thunder outside a room of a collapsing abandoned building echoed the gunshot of another gun to blonde head. Within seconds, a blonde woman's flowery dress spreads around her as she collapses to her knees. The hooded man mutters, "Thanks for playing Russian Roulette." She gasps for air one final time and crashes to the ground. A police officer doing his daily runs through the neighborhood notices the shot and radios for backup. As he goes to inspect for a dead body, and instead is knocked down when a gruff man in a black hoodie breaks through the door and scatters all the wood around him. When the force arrives at the scene, they find an officer down at the front door, and a dead body upstairs. The first thing the chief does is pick up his ratty old cell phone.
Sherlock is playing his 147th dart game of the day when his phone erupts into its ringtone. Sherlock finishes this game, and then he ambles over to his phone and presses answer just in time. The police chief mutters an address, and Sherlock grabs John's hand to follow him as he rushes out of the door. They arrive at the scene in ten minutes, but to Sherlock it seems to be almost an hour. He and John weaved through the caution tape, and John was panting to keep with him as Sherlock bounded up the stairs.
The top of the flowered dress was now a blood red as the blood from her head dripped down to give her a red bib. After a quick glance across the room, John found a gun strewn under a table. He walked over to place it with the other evidence, and happened to notice a handbag was also breaking the dust by the gun. He grabbed the handbag and put it with all the other evidence as well.
Even as the two were leaving, John could tell Sherlock was still trying to find connections between the 4 people murdered. "Not the same gender, they don't work together, no similar markings or tattoos." Sherlock was muttering all these non connections to himself, trying to figure out what could possibly make all of these people the same. The pair hail a cab, and Sherlock climbs in, tripping over the curb because his mind isn't totally on real life.
A ginger haired man wakes up hazily in a dingy old basement. A man covered by a black hoodie murmurs, "roll." A gun slips out of his jacket pocket, and the man has no choice but to roll the yellowing die. The die teeters on the table before landing on the number three. There are 3 bullets loaded into the gun, and the ginger haired man knows what is coming next. He gulps as he raises the barrel to his head, and fires. The gun emits three sounds. "Click, Click," the man takes a deep breath. One more shot until he is free. "Bang." The gun goes off with a deafening shudder as the man spirals into the blackness of death. The hooded stranger mutters, "Thanks for playing Russian Roulette," as he creeps into the darkness like a grumpy old cat.
Sherlock scurries into the scene of the crime. Another murder in an abandoned building. He walks past a group of detectives talking as he hears them mutter, "James Delicroux, age 45. " Then it hit him like a big yellow school bus. Sherlock spins on his heels and strides over to the men talking in the hallway. "Give me the records of the others murdered." The man who appears to be the lead detective reaches into his shoulder bag and pulls out a packet of papers. "Read me their ages," Sherlock demands. John walks up behind him panting, and grasps his shoulder. The man holding the papers mutters, "45, 45, 45, 45." Sherlock exclaims, "Ages! They have to be related somehow by that!" Before anyone can stop him, Sherlock drags John out the door and to the Station. On the drive over, Sherlock begins to page through the deceased. He puts them in the order of death date, and then again in Alphabetical Order. Exactly the same. Before John can put a word in, Sherlock Exclaims, " D! There has to be some connection that ties all of these people together!"
Sherlock skips every other step heading up to the station, and John scurries up behind him. As they sit talking, Sherlock thinks over the puzzle. "They are killed in alphabetical order, and they all have exactly the same age. They have to be part of something bigger than what we see right now." He sits their mulling over the information at hand, and yells to no one in particular, "Where did they go to school! Quick!" In less than five minutes, a woman with striking black hair and large breasts walks into the room smiling. "Rockwell Prep. They all went to Rockwell Prep School in London. Same class." The woman hands him a class list, and the five people killed top the five first people in the class list. Sherlock has the papers of the victims spread out in front of him when his lips begin to curl into a smile. "7 14 21 28. And today is 4." All five people in the room turn their heads to look at him again. "The first suspect was murdered on December 7th. Then the 14th, and then the 21st. Every two weeks, the murder kills another classmate." A detective wearing a red bow tie spins and says, "Classmate? How can you assume that?' Sherlock responds with ease by saying, "Who else would kill everyone in one high school class? It is no coincidence because they are being killed in exact alphabetical order, and who else would kill everyone but someone who was so close?" The snarky detective looks stunned by Sherlock's response.
Three days later, Sherlock is thinking about the killings when something triggers his memory. The day they were in the abandoned building collecting evidence, John picked up a gun. He reached down again to pick up something else, but what was it? Sherlock slowly replays the memory in his mind, thinking of what John could have possibly been picking up. Finally, it hits him. John reaches down and pulls out a pink handbag. In mere seconds since the breakthrough, Sherlock crashes through the door to John's bedroom and throws his hand over his eyes as John quickly rushes to throw a towel over his body. Sherlock mutters, "Why do you always have to shower at inconvenient times like these? Anyways, what was in that pink handbag you picked up as evidence at the murder of the woman in the floral dress?"
John pauses to think and responds, "I don't know. I handed it over as soon as I found someone who mattered."
"What are you waiting for!? Lets go find out!" Sherlock yells as he tears out the door.
By the time they arrive at the station, it is nearing five o'clock. Sherlock demands to see the handbag, and unzips it carefully. Inside is an invitation. It mentions a school reunion, to be held on the park the day she died. He figured everyone else has received an invitation, and also figured the next person on the class list will be receiving theirs soon. He glances down at the list and sees the name Mickey Elliot starring at him from below. He tells John to run up and tell the lead detective to swipe the invitation from the mail. Five agonizing minutes later, John walks into the room and mutters to Sherlock that he will be notified as soon as the invitation arrives at the station.
Within two days, Sherlock heard his phone buzz with the news of the invitation. Without bothering to grab John, he glided out the door and arrived at the station so fast he almost forgot to pay the cabbie. Sherlock grabbed the invitation and began to plan at his rapid mental speed. "I'll go to the park, and when this man, most likely in a black hoodie, comes out of nowhere, let him take me. I have outsmarted many of these folks before."
On the date of the "reunion," Sherlock arrives at the park 15 minutes early. He sees the man walk up behind him from a mile away, and senses him place the chloroform over his nose. When he awakens, the man walks out of the shadows. He mutters, "You don't look much like Mickey." Sherlock raises his eyebrows and rolls the dice. He gets a nice hearty 5. He takes the loaded gun and places it to his head. The gun goes off, and Sherlock crashes to the ground.
The hooded man stands there in shock as Sherlock gets up. He can barely mutter a shaky, "Thanks for playing Russian Roulette," before he tries to bolt out the door like a hissing cat. Sherlock mutters, "Not so fast," and beckons him back with a crocked finger. He glances at the hole in the ground the bullet caused, and then back up at his captor. As if on cue, the police rush up the stairs and buckled the man in handcuffs. As he was being dragged down the stairs, he screams, "They made my life hell, so I did that to theirs!"