Author's Note: This is my first FanFiction. My main goal in writing this is improve my ability to piece together a coherent plot line (and hopefully entertain me and anyone else who reads this). Any reviews, comments or encouragements are more than welcome!
Hope you enjoy my story!
/
They had gotten involved with the crime in the first place because Sherlock was bored. Since moving into 221B John had developed a few fears. One was that he was being watched all the time (And with Mycroft being Sherlock's brother, he probably was). Another was of a bored Sherlock. It was bad enough when they went a week without a case.
It had been almost a month now.
Sherlock was driving him mad. He had woken up three days ago to see most of the flat swarming with bees. John ended up being stung eight times while Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes managed to avoid getting stung even once. He protested endlessly when John made him remove them (swarms of insects were on the ever growing list of things John would not allow in the flat). Apparently keeping bees in their flat (in the middle of London) was Sherlock's idea of a hobby. He had long given up asking Lestrade for cold cases. (They tended not to hold Sherlock's interest for long if there were no sudden realizations that inevitably led to confronting the criminal in a dangerous way- such as chasing the rouge down an abandoned alley) Instead he had taken up begging the inspector for ANYTHING. John would have sent the insufferable git after a purse snatcher if it got him a break. Sherlock's boredom was really hard on his nerves- he was beginning to jump at the smallest sound. Not only had he lost another girlfriend, but even the people over at Scotland Yard were giving him pitying looks. In other words John was desperate.
Which is why they were at the scene of an apparent mugging turned homicide, with Sherlock sneering down at the victim. It was a posh man who was lying on his side; slumped against a lamp post. He was middle aged, brown hair speckled with grey, and slightly overweight though not drastically. The back of his dark hair was heavily matted with blood. His clothes were clean though. John eyed him with detachment- he had seen worse. Oddly enough the victim of reminded John of Mycroft, though he could be projecting. Mycroft had refused to find Sherlock a case, citing Sherlock's high levels of stress as an impairment to his efficiency. John just thought he was vindictive.
"Cause of death?" Sherlock's voice carried equal measures of loathing and interest. John had long given up trying to get Sherlock to show some respect for the dead.
"Blow to the back of the head," Lestrade replied in a rather exasperated tone. "Mugging gone wrong..." Turning to Sherlock he added "Why don't you get a hobby?" Sherlock didn't seem to register Lestrade's attempt to change the topic,and was still staring at the corpse. John had taken to monitoring Lestrade's movements and dragging his uncooperative flatmate to every crime scene. While he knew that Sherlock knew what he was doing, the man had yet to complain. Lestrade on the other hand protested a lot.
Boredom was not a good look for Sherlock; he was standing motionless, gaunt and pale inside his ever present black coat, except for his hands which were whirling out complicated rhythms on his pockets. Signs of the abuse that he subjected his body to were actually showing for once- the lack of sleep and food making his face look like a skull. John would never admit it, but he was more worried about Sherlock's health than his own.
"I did- and it was going rather well until John refused to let me continue. Apparently he found it... unbearable." A sneer twisted his lips, but his eyes showed no emotion. Even his voice was strained- sometimes he would talk for days, keeping a running monologue that more often than not lost John with its complexity, only return to his normal haunting silence at seemingly random intervals. Lestrade glanced at John, but turned away quickly- probably figuring he didn't want to know. John, wanting to look anywhere but at Sherlock, (he knew what the Inspector was likely thinking) resorted to looking at the corpse.
It seemed your typical opportunistic killing, victim bashed in the head with what was likely the nearest bit of available material, stripped of all objects of immediate value, and left to rot in the alley or the Thames. Something about the wound though was odd. With your typical blow to the back of the head there was hardly any blood if the skull remained intact as most of the bleeding was internal. In some cases the blow could cause the spine to break- which, depending on the location, would mean death. It didn't take too much force to render someone unconscious. The back of the man's head was nearly matted with blood. Unnoticed by the Lestrade who had gone off somewhere, John knelt next to the victim and looked closely at the wound. The skull seemed intact and so did the spine. The placement of the wound was unusual. Gently he brushed the victims hair away from the wound and what he found was shocking. He couldn't believe that the police had missed this.
"Sherlock, come and see!" He whispered. The man had probably already seen it but it never hurt to try. Sherlock, who had been watching him, approached and knelt with his usual grace, the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly upturned. John found that his chest was uncomfortably warm and he nearly couldn't resist smiling.
"Your opinion Doctor?"
John broke down and grinned a bit madly. "This is most definitely a murder."
They had gotten involved with the crime in the first place because Sherlock was bored. Since moving into 221B John had developed a few fears. One was that he was being watched all the time (And with Mycroft being Sherlock's brother, he probably was). Another was of a bored Sherlock. It was bad enough when they went a week without a case.
It had been almost a month now.
Sherlock was driving him mad. He had woken up three days ago to see most of the flat swarming with bees. John ended up being stung eight times while Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes managed to avoid getting stung even once. He protested endlessly when John made him remove them (swarms of insects were on the ever growing list of things John would not allow in the flat). Apparently keeping bees in their flat (in the middle of London) was Sherlock's idea of a hobby. He had long given up asking Lestrade for cold cases. (They tended not to hold Sherlock's interest for long if there were no sudden realizations that inevitably led to confronting the criminal in a dangerous way- such as chasing the rouge down an abandoned alley) Instead he had taken up begging the inspector for ANYTHING. John would have sent the insufferable git after a purse snatcher if it got him a break. Sherlock's boredom was really hard on his nerves- he was beginning to jump at the smallest sound. Not only had he lost another girlfriend, but even the people over at Scotland Yard were giving him pitying looks. In other words John was desperate.
Which is why they were at the scene of an apparent mugging turned homicide, with Sherlock sneering down at the victim. It was a posh man who was lying on his side; slumped against a lamp post. He was middle aged, brown hair speckled with grey, and slightly overweight though not drastically. The back of his dark hair was heavily matted with blood. His clothes were clean though. John eyed him with detachment- he had seen worse. Oddly enough the victim of reminded John of Mycroft, though he could be projecting. Mycroft had refused to find Sherlock a case, citing Sherlock's high levels of stress as an impairment to his efficiency. John just thought he was vindictive.
"Cause of death?" Sherlock's voice carried equal measures of loathing and interest. John had long given up trying to get Sherlock to show some respect for the dead.
"Blow to the back of the head," Lestrade replied in a rather exasperated tone. "Mugging gone wrong..." Turning to Sherlock he added "Why don't you get a hobby?" Sherlock didn't seem to register Lestrade's attempt to change the topic,and was still staring at the corpse. John had taken to monitoring Lestrade's movements and dragging his uncooperative flatmate to every crime scene. While he knew that Sherlock knew what he was doing, the man had yet to complain. Lestrade on the other hand protested a lot.
Boredom was not a good look for Sherlock; he was standing motionless, gaunt and pale inside his ever present black coat, except for his hands which were whirling out complicated rhythms on his pockets. Signs of the abuse that he subjected his body to were actually showing for once- the lack of sleep and food making his face look like a skull. John would never admit it, but he was more worried about Sherlock's health than his own.
"I did- and it was going rather well until John refused to let me continue. Apparently he found it... unbearable." A sneer twisted his lips, but his eyes showed no emotion. Even his voice was strained- sometimes he would talk for days, keeping a running monologue that more often than not lost John with its complexity, only return to his normal haunting silence at seemingly random intervals. Lestrade glanced at John, but turned away quickly- probably figuring he didn't want to know. John, wanting to look anywhere but at Sherlock, (he knew what the Inspector was likely thinking) resorted to looking at the corpse.
It seemed your typical opportunistic killing, victim bashed in the head with what was likely the nearest bit of available material, stripped of all objects of immediate value, and left to rot in the alley or the Thames. Something about the wound though was odd. With your typical blow to the back of the head there was hardly any blood if the skull remained intact as most of the bleeding was internal. In some cases the blow could cause the spine to break- which, depending on the location, would mean death. It didn't take too much force to render someone unconscious. The back of the man's head was nearly matted with blood. Unnoticed by the Lestrade who had gone off somewhere, John knelt next to the victim and looked closely at the wound. The skull seemed intact and so did the spine. The placement of the wound was unusual. Gently he brushed the victims hair away from the wound and what he found was shocking. He couldn't believe that the police had missed this.
"Sherlock, come and see!" He whispered. The man had probably already seen it but it never hurt to try. Sherlock, who had been watching him, approached and knelt with his usual grace, the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly upturned. John found that his chest was uncomfortably warm and he nearly couldn't resist smiling.
"Your opinion Doctor?"
John broke down and grinned a bit madly. "This is most definitely a murder."