Hey guys, decided to try my hand at a suspense/mystery type story. Think you can figure it out? I look forward to hearing your ideas as to who you think the killer is and any criticisms/questions you may have. Hope you like it and don't forget to review. Bear in mind that I have nothing against Mrs. Hudson, but I needed someone to find the body and it couldn't be Sherlock or John so...yeah. Well, enjoy :)
Chapter 1
It had started simply enough.
Poor Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning up the flats and, innocently, had stumbled upon a body. So, naturally, hearing her screams, Sherlock bounded gleefully down the stairs and grinned at the horrendous sight as he exclaimed joyfully that it must be Christmas due to the violent crime scene laid out before him. Smiling from ear to ear, he walked into the room and allowed his pale blue eyes to deduce just what had occurred. There were two bodies, both male and in their early thirties and both clearly stabbed multiple times, and large blood splatters covering the walls and floor of the flat. There had been a struggle from one of them, the one farthest from Sherlock, but the other one had been taken by surprise and not been able to fight off the attacker before the damage had been done. By then, it had been too late. Weak and dying he could but watch as the killer turned on his friend.
But how had the killer gotten into the room? Sherlock wondered.
All this he had gotten in seconds to jolted quickly back to reality as John raced into the room after Sherlock and quickly rushed over to find a pulse and, as Sherlock suspected, found none. Quickly, the kind doctor pulled the hysterical elderly woman out of the room and comforted her while phoning Lestrade. Sherlock did nothing to help him. He stepped gingerly over the pools of red that shimmered on the floor and examined to bodies. No sign of strangulation or bruising...only stab wounds. So, the killer probably hadn't over powered him as Sherlock had originally thought. So what was the defining factor here? Speed, Sherlock thought. The killer had rushed in and stabbed him and before recovering, he was on the ground and bleeding to death beside his...friend?
No, he suffices. Brother: younger brother. Okay, so a family renting a flat: two bedroom, one bathroom, small kitchen. Their clothes indicated that they were down on their luck, not poor but far from wealthy, and the few possessions in the room were cheap and generic; so it wasn't an attack of greed or simple robbery.
No, it was an attack of passion as was evident from the brutality of the attack, but did the killer desire their deaths, or were they merely a substitute for another, more elusive prey? There were no broken windows, no forced entry. Who ever had entered had had a key. Maybe a 'concerned' family member 'paying a visit'?
An ex-girlfriend?
The one closest to the door had a tan line around his ring finger indicating a former marriage: ex-wife, then?
"You need to get here. Now." John said before describing what had transpired. It took only six minutes for the police and ambulances to get there.
"Where is he?" Lestrade demanded. "Where is Sherlock?"
John shrugged, "I don't know, outside probably. I think he's trying to figure out how the bloke got in. It's crazy, you know? One minute we're talking about Moriarty, the next Mrs. Hudson is screaming." Another shrug, "It's just weird, you know?"
…
Sherlock examines the exterior of the house and rocks back on his heels. Yep, definitely no forced entry...so how did the murderer manage to get a key to flat...or even hunt the brothers down? They had only lived there for a week...so how?
HOW?
…
The case was going no where, much to Sherlock's intense displeasure.
And then another body was found three days later.
And five days after that, three more, all with vicious lacerations and knife wounds.
What was going on? Who was killing these people and WHY?
…
"So, who do you think it is?" John asked Sherlock.
"I don't know yet."
"Do you think it's him?"
"Him?" Blue eyes narrow in confusion.
"Yeah, him. As in Moriarty? Surely if he can strap bombs to random citizens with nothing in common to link them, he can hire someone to kill these people, hm?"
"Maybe." Sherlock muttered distantly and placed his fingers absently under his chin as he lay on the couch and stared blankly up at the wall, his mind going a thousand miles a minute.
"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson chirps from the doorway before walking in, "What are you boys up to, hm? You solve that murder yet, Sherlock?"
"No." He growled in irritation. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Cleaning maybe? Or, better yet, not here?"
She walks back down the stairs.
"Poor, woman. Must be terrified stiff." John remarked only to receive a dramatic eye roll from Sherlock.
"She'll get over it." Sherlock states in a bored monotone voice.
"Can we not do this right now?"
"Do what?"
"You, acting like a machine."
"We've been over this before, John." Sherlock sighs in irritation with having to repeat himself, "Caring will not help her or anyone else for that matter. Now if you'll excuse me." He hops lightly to his feet. "I must be off."
"And where, exactly, are you going?"
"The homeless network."
"What? Now? It is two o'clock in the morning and snowing, Sherlock! You can't just go out there alone in a storm like this!"
"Who says I'll be alone? You're coming with me." And with that, he dawns his scarf and walks out the door.
"I'm not coming!" John shouts out to him. The door slams shut. For a minute, John stares down at his computer screen and then, with a loud groan, he throws on his shoes and darts after his friend.
"Wait up!" He yells.
…
To Sherlock's utter disappointment, not a single soul on the homeless network had been able to offer them any information on the killings.
"How is it even possible!" He storms.
…
The next day.
"Sherlock, you've got mail." John lightly tosses the letter at Sherlock's head before plopping down in his chair and searching the web for any new victims that could be linked to this serial killer.
"Hm." Sherlock's eyebrows scrunch together.
"What? What is it?"
"A poem."
"What?"
"Listen, John:
A need for vengeance, a lake of blood;
Poor detective; can you escape the flood?
An angered widowed soul, a bloodied knife.
Someone has come to take your life.
So, try to run, and try to flee,
But you will never, ever find me.
Four more victims will soon die:
Tell me, can you save their lives?
So, come and find me, and please, try your best...
Because soon it'll be your turn to be put to rest."
John is struck silent. "This…this is not good."
"Really, John?" Sherlock says sarcastically, "Please, tell me what your first clue was!" The detective snaps.
"It's got to be him! It's got to be Moriarty, who else could it be?"
"Explain." Sherlock mutters.
"Well, didn't his wife die recently? That would make him widowed, right? So, he's out to take revenge or…take his mind off the pain? Maybe he's started up this little game again as some sort of distraction, yeah?"
Finally, Sherlock nods in silent agreement. "You might just be right, John." But he knew, deep down in his gut that, despite John's logic, Moriarty was not to blame for this, but, if thinking he knew who the killer was put John at ease, then so be it. He'd play along, for now and wait for the killer to make a mistake.
Hopefully, he thought, it would be soon. This was growing quite tedious.