It's the same dream; always the same down to every minute detail. There he is, the only one I've ever really loved, standing at the top of a building, the buildings differ but it's always the same thing; he stands right on the edge looking down, phone in hand, ready to jump. Right before he jumps I yell his name but every time I'm too late and he falls, limbs flailing horrifically in the air, to his death. And as I reach his body, bleeding and broken, I know that I am the reason that he jumped. Every time I wake I feel a certain emptiness swelling within me and my heart breaks into shards.
That's why I barely sleep, he's concerned but I dread sleep. Each time I rest my head and close my eyes, every single time I fall asleep, I see him fall. Without fail. It's illogical, it's irrational, but it sits in my mind and lingers.
On this particular morning I woke well before the sun rose and even earlier than John. I spend rest of the early morning, before the sunlight seeps into the apartment, with my ear pressed firmly to John's bedroom door, listening to his heavy breathing and convincing myself that he is, in fact, still alive.
When I hear John stir through the wood of the door I shift myself into the kitchen and begin to pace, racing for a plan before John is able to lay his eyes on me. I take a deep breath and slip into a mask of nothingness. I let my mouth rest and my eyes empty, draining all emotions from my facial expression. I can't let him see the real me.
"I asked for your laptop an hour ago," I lie tonelessly.
"You usually just get it yourself," I can hear the irritation in his tone already but there is something different in the way he moves.
"Yes, well, it was over there," I make gesture in the general direction of his laptop. Ignores me, rolling his eyes as he shoves me gently out of the kitchen. I notice his actions carefully. Whereas he would usually lay the whole palm of his hand on my shoulder, today he pushed me using only his fingertips. Something is on his mind and I fear that he may have realised that I was at his door all night.
"I guess I'm having black coffee again," he sighs heavily. The milk! I forgot again, too wrapped up in my own terror to remember the simple things that John needs.
"You should really buy some milk," I try joke, but under my mask the phrase comes out emotionless and dry. John glares at me icily for less than a millisecond before he drops his eyes and refuses to make any kind of contact with me at all.
"I've been asking you to get some for the past two weeks," as he pushes past me again, I can feel the frustration emitting from him. The phrase "fuming with anger" only makes sense when I am with John. I can feel his anger even if it's not directed at me, although it usually is, and it sits in my heart like a boulder until I can recompose myself once again.
I flee before he can add any more to the statement and seek the refuge of technology. I open my laptop and his; my own laptop guarded with a 31 character password and John's protected with his middle name, 'Hamish'. On his laptop I open the evidence of our current case. It's only at its opening with one body and a gaping mystery; I expect many more to come before I solve it. On my own laptop I have a web browser open with a variety of websites open that I'd prefer John not to locate.
I've read through two websites on my own laptop before John makes any sign of re-entering the living room. When he does, I click away from the current page and pretend to intently read the evidence on his laptop.
John collapses into the chair across from me and noisily chews his overcooked toast; I've learned through observation that what I class as overcooked toast is actually perfectly toasted for John but I still never dare to make him breakfast in case he figures anything out. He's staring at me now, coffee in hand, wincing at how bitter it is with the lack of milk.
A notification pops up in the bottom right corner of John's computer screen. I click it and quickly scan the email that appears. "There's been another body found," I announce as I re-read the short paragraph from Lestrade. "We need to get a closer look," I think aloud. With no pictures, there's no telling if this murder is linked to the others.
I jump up and instantly head for the door, eager for anything that with distract me from John.
"I haven't eaten," John argues.
But I'm already speaking before he's finished his argument, "Do hurry, John." Slightly ashamed of my treatment of John, I leave for the road.
I wrap my coat around myself against the wind. I should wait for John; I've upset him enough today, even if it was an accident. The few seconds that I have to wait for John allows me to compose myself back into the tough, self-centred Sherlock that I hide behind. I hear the front door of the apartment click and I wait no longer, waving my hand in the air at a conveniently nearing cab. Luckily it is empty and we climb into the back seat as soon as it pulls to the curb.
"Trafalgar square," I command.
The cabbie turns in his seat to face me. He's young, much younger than the majority of the cab drivers around London, so young that I can assume with certainty that he is fresh out of schooling, probably too idiotic to finish college. He has a passion for cars; he wears a small automotive badge on his coat collar which is shined but not new judging by the circular friction stain on his collar. But he's new to the job; the cab is overly clean and shined and his clothes pressed and stark.
I choose his weakest points, his youth and inexperience, and scowl. "Take us anyway," I hiss, suggesting that I may become violent. The cabbie starts to panic at this, becoming overly stressed causing his eyes to water.
"Just take us as close as you can," John consoles.
"John," the whimper escapes my lips before it processes in my mind. Typical of John to ruin my plans, I sigh and let myself fall back into the seat.
The agonisingly long cab ride ends with the driver trying to assert his dominance by saying, "They're not gonna let you in," he feigns confidence weakly.
His idiocy tips my temper over the edge and I say, "Thank you very much for your service," with bitter sarcasm while I throw the few coins from my pocket at him rather than to him. I almost leap out of the cab onto the concrete with the anticipation of a distraction. I hear John call out to me but I am determined to forget everything; the dreams, John's actions, John.
I reach the square and scale the temporary fence with ease before my conscience forces me to freeze and acknowledge John's existence once again. I turn to find John has already reached the boundary; his face is flushed from running behind me. I push on a section of the fence that isn't weighed down by a concrete block so that John can join me.
"Hurry up, everyone else is here," I say before I've even seen who is already here. When I do, all that was left of my good mood fades. Far too many unnecessary people stand in a tight circle around what appears to be a young woman's body. I scan the faces briefly and recognise my least favourite face; Andrerson's.
"Morning, Greg," John mutters from my side with a slow breath. I am still not adjusted to referring to Lestrade as Greg yet, but I will try, for John, because it seems to make him happy.
"No time for chatting, John," I command, finally slipping into the release I need. I push my way towards the body, causing the huddle to disperse. I fall to me knees, snaffle for my rectangular magnifying glass and begin my investigation of the body.
Her clothes are dampened and the dewfall that we received very early this morning signals that she has obviously been outside for the majority of the night, however as I slide my hand beneath her body I realise that she has been submerged in water. I scan her face, neck and her arms. She wields a black eye, dark bruises on her arms a light bruise on her neck. I scan her body for death wounds and find no entry point for a blade other than the messily stitched wound on her torso. I glimpse at it briefly and settle for investigating it further in the morgue.
I place my hands over heavy bruising at the top of the arms, across the biceps, and deduce that she has been held down, quite possibly drowned. Although there is some slight bruising on the neck, there is not enough to hint that choking was the cause of death. I flick open her eyelids, her now dull eyes are bloodshot, a tell-tale sign of asphyxiation. Putting all my evidence together, the answer is simple; drowning.
Over the last few months I've been slowly teaching John to observe rather than to look and, with this blindingly simple death, I expect him to observe well. I stand and fondly tell him, "Your turn. Look at her," I am so confident with John's growing skills that I use the word 'look' rather than 'observe'.
I stand behind him and watch the cogs in the back of his mind click over as he takes in the scene before him. His trademark frown sets across his brow, the frown that means that he's using his brain and not annoyed with me; it's my favourite frown. But something stirs deep within his mind that causes his body to tense before he mutters, "She's been strangled."
"Wrong. Look again," I whisper into his ear. His eyes widen slightly when I say this but I always say the same thing, down to every word. What is going on inside that mind of yours John? I step closer and place my hand on his back, giving a reassuring pat before I have time to think about doing so.
Ever since I started having the reoccurring dreams, I have craved John's touch, even if it is me touching him. It always seemed silly to me, the need to touch someone to make sure that they are actually standing in front of you, because of course they are, you can see them; but recently I've needed to touch him more and more, just lay a finger on him, to make sure that he is real, that he's not just a dream, that he's not just a figment of my imagination.
He eventually jumps away from my touch. "I am looking," he growls. And then he turns to me, face turned up to mine. I slip my hand away from his chest as he steps towards me. I look down at him, eyes flicking to his lips when he bites them.
I have to use every ounce of energy I have to remain emotionless and focused. All I want to do is lean down so slightly and let him kiss me. In the end I have to spin him around before I do actually allow myself to lean down to him. "You are looking but you're not observing," I eventually say.
He kneels down again and observes. This time he observes, finally. He touches the woman's back and slides his hand beneath her just as I had done. He lifts his head towards the fountain, "she could have been drowned, I guess."
"Guessing is not good," I crouch by him and scan her body again. John thinks she drowned herself in the fountain, by accident or on purpose but there is a possibility that she wasn't killed here, her hair and the location of her bruises give it away. "But you're right," John slumps a little closer to me. "She was attacked," John furrows his brow, "There's at least 11 pins in there, she would never leave her hair a mess."
"Alcohol?" I refrain from groaning at the stupidity of his suggestion. Obviously not, how could she have strangled herself and held herself underwater then crawled out again? I brush it away and try to forgive the remark.
"Possibly," I say to be kind, he is only learning after all and I should be patient, not everyone is born with the gift. "But I'd say someone grabbed her by her hair, look at how far the hair tie has been pulled down. And the strangle marks and bruise on her eye and arms are clear giveaways but not the cause of death." I need to visualise the event, I stand an take a few paces. "John, stand here and face the fountain," he stands right in front of me without argument. "She was standing or walking somewhere by the fountain, the attacker came from behind an grabbed her by the hair," I take hold of John's good shoulder and drag him towards where her body is. "She was pushed back against the fountain and judging by the traces of blood under her finger nails, she tried to fight back and got a punch to the side of the head." I mime a punch at John who doesn't even flinch at my fist as it flies towards his head but he steps back as though he were about to fight back. "The attacker strangled her," I take my chances and wrap my hands around John's neck, he swallows sending a wave down his neck muscles, "Until she passes out," although she must not have, judging by her arms, "and he dumps her in the water."
"But she's not in the water now," John says as I lift my fingers gently from his neck.
"Yes," I turn to the laughable group of policemen, "Who moved her?"
"A small patrol of policemen discovered her about an hour ago on their morning sweep for drunks," Lestrade answers.
"Get to the point," I hurry him.
"They found her as she is now; on the ground, not in the water."
My body convulses, pushing John away from me a little harder than intended. Something is screaming at me from the back of my mind. Something wrong; and it is so blindingly obvious but just out of my grasp. "Why would they move the body after she died? Why?" I massage my temples; the source of the screaming. "Anderson."
"Yes," answers the obnoxious voice. I feel sick just knowing that he's there but to think that I am about to ask him for help.
"Go back to the office and get me-" I stop, opening my eyes to see a hideous scene where Anderson is waiting hopefully. I reconsider my requests, "Oh don't look so happy, go back to the office and get John and I some coffee. I can't stand you hanging around," I wave my hand at him dismissively.
He mumbles something under his breath and looks to Lestrade like an obedient dog would look to his master. That's essentially what Anderson is, however; a lapdog. The click of the temporary fence as Anderson slips through it triggers an explosion of clarity.
"Oh," I burst.
"What?" John asked inquisitively. I look right into his eyes, impressing John always makes me happier.
"She wasn't killed here!" I feel a grin creep into my lips.
"What?"
"She was killed elsewhere and they were moving her to the fountain to try and cover it up, make it look like she's a drunk who drowned in the fountain after deciding to take a swim. Look at the pull on her jumper. It's pulled tight on the side closest to the fountain and trailing out on the other. It's obvious she was dragged here…" I trail off because somebody behind me shifts uneasily and scoffs as though they hold some sort of superiority in the group.
"And how would you know this?" I glare at the officer. He's young and judging by his pale face, he's never seen a dead body before, this can mean one of two things; he was either on the morning patrol that located her or he's been newly promoted. Considering that he stands with a crippling slouch and idiocy is radiating off him, I'd say he was on the morning patrol.
Before I can even open his mouth, Lestrade is scolding him, "I know what you're thinking and don't. He's not a suspect." One of his puppies is misbehaving, I smirk to myself.
"You can leave too, help Anderson with the coffee; it's a hard task for humans with brains as small as yours."
"You said the last one wasn't killed where we found her either," John announces, drawing me back to the original purpose of my spiel.
"Yes, I did say that. John you are the only one with sense here." I glare at the rest of the group of officers, daring another to speak against me. I try to keep my eyes locked with the officer by John's side but I can't help but notice the gorgeous grin on John's face. "The other was moved to," I turn back towards the body before I started to replicate John's smile on my own face. "She died in almost exactly the same way."
"Almost?" John asks.
"The other had a fresh scar that had been stitched up on her stomach. I obviously haven't checked this one yet." I collapse at the woman's side and push her over onto her back. I lift her shirt to reveal an identical scar. "It's the same people. The scars are the same."