*catches Sherlock mid Reichenbach fall* LET THE FANFICTION BEGIN.
Sorry had to get that out of my system. Welcome to my Sherlolly fanfic with Sherlockian-ness thrown in the whole time. It's basically what I want the first episode of season four to be. A girl can hope. I hope you enjoy!
Jim Moriarty.
The name jerked Sherlock from his light sleep. Jim Moriarty.
He blinked the name away. It was much to early to gain a headache from the consulting criminal. The same consulting criminal that was supposed to be dead. Yes, the same consulting criminal that shot himself through the head right in front of Sherlock and was now living. Just scratching the surface of the mystery made Sherlock grimace.
So he shook himself from the thoughts and stood from his bed, padding into the kitchen and looking around. John wasn't up yet – that was odd. John was always up before him. Perhaps he had gone out.
All he needed was a glance at the coat hanger to confirm his theory. Probably gone to get milk or other petty necessities.
Sherlock pulled his blue robe around him and sat down in his chair, legs pulled up to his chin. His mind swirled with a million thoughts about their current case. Blood on the body, but not on the clothes. Murderer changed the corpse? Why go through the trouble?
A light knock echoed off the door. Sherlock knit his eyebrows together, but said nothing. The door opened a crack.
"Hello? Is anyone home?" a small voice called through the opening. Sherlock sighed, and Molly's head popped into view. She grinned.
"Oh! Hello, Sherlock. I wasn't expecting you to be up."
Sherlock grunted in reply. Molly let herself in and closed the door again, wringing her hands in the nervous way she always did in Sherlock's presence. Sherlock looked at her from the corner of his eye.
"I just came to tell you some news – I mean, I think you'll find it lovely but it's really quite grim. Then again, that's how you normally think of all things-"
"Are you aware you are rambling." Sherlock asked, but did not really pose it as a question. Molly shut her mouth and played with the sleeve of her lab coat. Sherlock finally met her eyes, the dark brown color quickly darting to a much more interesting object in the room. He waited another moment before speaking.
"What did you come here for?"
"Oh! Oh yes, of course…" Molly tucked an imaginary piece of hair behind her ear. "I've found –"
Sherlock's phone rang on the table. He grabbed it and answered.
"Sherlock – there's been another one. " Lestrade said on the other end. Sherlock instantly sat at attention.
"Where. Tell me where."
"I was supposed to take you there, actually." Molly said, now fiddling with a button on her coat. Sherlock stared at her for a moment.
"Well then why are you calling me?" he said into the phone. Lestrade sighed.
"Because –"
"Oh never mind why…" Molly said, waving her hand dismissively. Lestrade stopped talking on the speaker.
"Yes, Molly's right. She'll take you to the right spot."
And with that, Sherlock hung up. He squinted at the girl in front of him, trying to deduce her reasoning. Molly sighed.
"Really now, are you going to stare or are you going to follow me to the scene?"
Sherlock jumped up, wiggling free from the robe and shouldering his coat over the pinstriped pajama bottoms. "Let's go then."
As the exited the building, Molly led him in the opposite direction of Bart's. He thought for a moment.
"You saw the body. You saw it on your way to work and phoned the police. Lestrade arrived and was going to phone me, wasn't he? But you came to get me instead. Peculiar."
Molly stared at him as they walked, her eyes wide. Sherlock scoffed.
"Please. You people always look so surprised."
There was a pause.
"Lestrade sent me to get you, actually." Molly said simply. And before another deduction could be made, Molly made a sharp turn into an alleyway. A police car was parked on the curb, lights flashing. Lestrade stood with Sergeant Donovan over a body. "Here we are. Have at it then."
She turned to go when Sherlock clasped her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing, but paid no attention. Her infatuation with him was evident to the simplest of minds.
"I want you to try and deduce this body today, Molly. You've improved after spending so much time with me."
Molly blushed. Sherlock had indeed spent time with her in her own flat while he was 'dead'. Some of his Sherlock-ness had probably rubbed off on mousy Molly, along with the fact that he taught her basics.
"I- oh goodness, I – I don't think I can-"
"Just do it."
Molly took a breath and walked to the body. Lestrade blinked in surprise, but when Sherlock wasn't looking, the corners of his mouth tipped up. Sergeant Donovan stepped back.
"Have at him, freak." She said before turning to speak with some other officials.
Molly glanced at Sherlock, familiar with the nickname, before crouching next to the man.
He had brown hair, thinning in spots, combed back neatly. He wore a crisp button-down shirt that hung loosely from his thin frame. His trousers were plain, shoes not interesting. What were perplexing were the gashes and spots and cuts that oozed blood. Not fresh blood, and not gushing anymore, but his skin was battered and whipped and truly horrifying. You could never recognize the man's face. But his clothes were spotless, no wrinkles and no stains in sight.
"He's younger – perhaps late twenties. He is an avid athlete, judging from physique, and has some type or mid class desk job, judging from his clothes. But now – the cuts. The gashes." She took a glove from Lestrade and lifted his arms, inspecting his face, prodding at places.
"Gunshot wounds. Knife slashes. Whip marks. Almost any kind of weapon that draws blood was used on this man."
She lifted his shirt to expose his chest. Inhaling sharply, Molly ran a hand over the skin.
It was perfectly unharmed – not a scratch in sight. She looked under the sleeves, rolled up his trousers. Lestrade flinched at her moving the body so much, but didn't say anything.
"He must have been beaten and killed with the clothing on, or the killer was extremely cautious. The killer must have put fresh clothing on, but the wounds are so fresh, I don't see how it's possible. And why would someone go to such extents? Why not kill them in the normal, messy way?" She looked up at Lestrade, and then Sherlock. Taking a breath, Molly stood and unraveled the glove from her hand.
"How was that?"
"Moderate. You are improving greatly."
Despite everything, Molly beamed.
Suddenly, John whirled around the corner.
"Sherlock? And – Molly? What the bloody – is that a corpse? Good God…"
He put a hand to his head and walked to the group. "What on earth have I missed."
"You've missed nothing at all, no. Just Molly's exceptional deduction of the second un bled through victim. Oh yes – did I mention? Another murder without the blood on the clothing."
John stared at him. "Ok. Alright, great. Well what do you suppose this means, oh great and powerful Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock glared at the army doctor. "It means the killer is meticulous, ruthless, and doing this for fun. The suspicion of it being a man had decreased; the second victim is a man himself. The first victim was a girl – raped, beaten, etcetera, boring, boring. But this is a man. Why would a male murder take advantage of a girl, but go back and kill a man? Wouldn't he want the same gross pleasure? So it is more than one person murdering. First victim – female, raped. Second victim – male, shot multiple times and given a harsher death than the woman. So the female murderer is more vicious with her killings. She is the mastermind. She gave her first kill to her co-worker, to do what he pleased, to show they were in it together. So not murderer. Murderers. And not victim, but victims. There will be more, oh much more until we find the source of these killings." Sherlock took a breath, ignoring the stunned expressions of every soul around him. He was about to fire into a better explanation on the victim when John held up a hand.
"Alright mister 'I'm amazing at everything'. We get it. Why don't we wrap up and go to the morgue tomorrow."
Sherlock looked down at John, thinking.
"Fine. I will see you tomorrow with the body, Molly."
He then strutted down the alley, hand in his coat pockets, pajama pants fluttering from underneath the hem of the jacket. John rolled his eyes and followed short after.
"I cannot believe you made me do that." Molly said to Lestrade. Lestrade grinned.
"Listen, as long as I'm tangled in this mess of Sherlock, I'm going to push you straight into him."
Molly glared, heat rushing into her face. "How did you even know?"
Lestrade laughed. "Molly, everyone knows. You are not subtle."
"Ugh!" She whirled around on her heel, her white jacket flying behind her, and stomped down the street towards Bart's Hospital.
Back in 221B, Sherlock sat on the couch, thinking over everything that had recently happened, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Enjoying the case, Sherlock?
Missing you.
JM