There had not been an interesting murder in months. There were murders, of course, but none interesting enough to stir the interest of the Detective. There were other cases he had been attending to, also, but those were mundane compared to murder. Yes, only a truly delicious, clever, diabolical murder could assuage the Detective's lust for mental stimulation. There was no challenge without high stakes—and what higher stakes then mortality?
The detective lusted for a challenge, he lusted for a crime, for a murder, for bloody footprints only he could see, down a hallway only he could follow, to end with a conclusion only he could draw. Without satisfaction, he devolved into nothing more than an restless shadow of his former self, stalking the halls absentmindedly, drumming his fingers at his side, slapping nicotine patch over nicotine patch, plucking the strings of his violin, half composing and half—His mind was focusless, drifting—Yes! Drifting he was sure that is what it was. He wanted to focus on the violin, on the cases, but they were all so boring that his mind drifted…. It was such a peculiar drift, too, so out of character. If only there were a murder, a truly, confounding, all consuming murder, then maybe he could finally stop thinking about—
"Watson!" The Detective breathed as he pulled the bow from the violin strings frantically. The sound had risen to a loud cacophony and ended with a quick, violent screech when he noticed the Doctor standing in the doorway of their flat. The Detective felt his face growing warm, he cleared his throat frantically, and then reclaimed his composure. He cleared his throat again, but without the urgency or strangeness. "How long have you been standing there?"
The Doctor seemed wholly unaffected by the Detective's odd behavior. In one arm he had a brown paper bag filled with groceries and tucked under his elbow he had the days newspaper in the other. He smiled in his no nonsense way and lifted his eyebrow with accepting suspicion. It was a face the Detective was used it by now, a face of exasperation but adoration, bemusement but adoration and recognition. It was a nice face. The Detective rather liked it, actually—He looked away quickly and replaced the violin on its stand.
"Good afternoon, Sherlock," The Doctor began in his casual tone as he moved toward the kitchenette, where he relieved himself of the groceries and began to unpack the brown bag, tossing the paper mindlessly onto the counter. He shouted at the Doctor from the distance. "I was thinking a nice lamb roast would be nice."
The Detective was still slumped over his violin, studying the strings, running his fingers over their smooth, uninterrupted whiteness, observing every minute dent in the varnished body of the instrument, trying to focus like honing a knife to precision, trying to focus on the violin.
"Sherlock! Are you listening to me?" came the Doctors voice from the other room, "Lamb? And potatoes I was thinking…"
"Huh?" The Detective breathed, finally building up the will to turn away from his instrument and face the Doctor. He smoothed his hands against his jacket. His hands? They had become wet with precipitation he realized suddenly and rubbed them against his jacket again before the Doctor would notice anything amiss. He then placed his hands behind his back before he stalked into the kitchen, with his chin raised and his body stiff. "Lamb? What for?"
"Dinner?" the Doctor said with bemusement, "Tonight?"
"What is tonight?" the Detective asked, trying to run through his mental catalogue to remember all the appointments and dates he had coming up, all the possible holidays he could be missing, but his mind had been so clouded since the Doctor walked in.
The Doctor sighed heavily and stopped unpacking the groceries. "Oh, Sherlock, you didn't forget, did you? Gah."
"Forget what? Of course not," the Detective stuttered.
"Mary is bringing her friend over—you know, Lacey? The four of us are eating in. We've been talking about it for weeks. You could not have actually forgotten."
"Lacey?" the Detective wondered out loud. The name did stir a sense of familiarity. Yes, he was sure he had remembered hearing those syllables pass through the Doctor's lips a few times. He remembered because he liked the way the Doctor formed them, heavy and high all at once—"Wait? This is not a date, is it?"
The Doctor rolled his eyes obviously. "Please do not do this again, Sherlock."
"Do what?"
The Doctor grunted a small sigh and placed his hand on the Detective's which had been rested against the counter. He gave it a small tap, a squeeze, and an electricity, ungodly and irrational, moved through the Detective's body from his hands to his heart, making his breath catch. He looked up to meet the Doctor's eyes that held so much love in them, so much deep and meaningful love, a love the Detective never felt before. But a love, a love that was not what the Detective was looking for.
"Please do this for me," the Doctors pleaded as he moved his hand away.
The Detective tried to make the words come, but he could feel the warmth in his cheeks, and his mouth was dry. All he could do was nod, and then finally, "Of course, anything for you, Watson."
The girls came wearing party dresses that matched the late January weather. Mary's skin was like milk against the dark, deep blue of the velvet t-length number and her pale blonde hair was tied up in a neat bun. She arrived with a cherry-red lipped kiss on the Doctor's cheek as she handed him a bottle of wine and moved into the flat. Behind her emerged a young woman, younger than the Detective. He quickly glanced over her, reading her like the daily newspaper. Her red dress with tighter than Mary's. She was petite, naturally, he could tell from the way her waist cinched. Her dark, auburn hair was cut short in a neat, boyish pixie cut. Her nails were glossy with fresh, charcoal nail polish, and she used the tip of her nail to brush a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, drawing the Detective's attention to the black, compass rose tattoo behind her right ear. Her skin was pale, freckled across her face, and her knees blemished with fading bruises. The Detective had began to make the usual deductions when Mary cut into his thoughts by leaning in and kissing his cheek, drawing his attention away from the woman who could only be Lacy.
"How have you been, darling?" Mary asked the Detective as the Doctor took the other woman's coat and clutch. She held his left hand in hers, squeezing affably.
"I've been wonderful," the Detective said, but his tone betrayed him and Mary frowned dramatically.
"John, what is wrong with Sherlock?" she asked her husband with a singsong voice and then flashed the Detective a smile.
The Detective forced a grin and placed his right hand over hers. "Truly, I am fine."
Mary giggled smartly and then leaned in to place another peck on the Detective's cheek. This time, her face lingered near his momentarily, her breath against his ears, and she whispered, "She is a cute one, isn't she?" The Detective only nodded vaguely before looking away from the Doctor rubbing the arm of the other woman.
Mary dropped his hand and the Doctor led the woman over to the others. "Sherlock, this is Lacey Leverett. Ms. Leverett, this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."
The young woman extended her hand toward him, her fingers thin and fragile. "How do you do, Mr. Holmes?" the girl asked in a voice distinctly American.
The Detective hesitated before taking her hand and giving it a formal, short pump before their hands fell away. He was left starring there, at this pretty, young thing, exotic in a boring way, dangerous in the usual way. Her fingers stained from nicotine, her teeth darkened by coffee, dark circle covered over with foundation. She was a pretty girl, yes.
"Well," Mary broke in, startling the leaden silence that had somehow befallen them, "the lamb smell's delicious, and I am absolutely peckish."
"Ah, yes," the Doctor agreed with his wife and led her toward the dining room table where he had presented the spread that currently peppered the air with the vague warmth of spices and tenderly roasted meat.
The Detective watched as the Doctor pulled out his wife's chair and mimicked the action for Lacey Leverett who took the seat politely. The dinner commenced with the awkward clinking of silverware against china, of glasses of wine resting heavily against the table cloth. The Detective sat adjacent to Lacey Leverett and opposite the Doctor who spent the dinner making small talk with his wife and the younger woman, trying with urgency to draw the Detective into the conversation. The Detective, on the other hand, spent most of the dinner drawing sips out of his wine glass, trying desperately to follow the conversation, but kept getting distracted, hung up, on the man across from him…
"Lacey is from America," Mary interjected at one point as she sawed gracefully into her share of lamb when the conversation stalled.
The woman seems to be taken off guard by the sudden change in conversation. "Yes," she admitted, "That is true."
"Hmm," the Doctor hummed between bites of mashed potatoes and sips of wine, "Sherlock, maybe you should ask Lacey why she is in London."
The Detective suddenly became aware that he had not spoken the whole of the meal and quickly swallowed the bit of lamb he had been working on and wiped at his face with his napkin. "Well I imagine you two met at work. I cannot imagine a nurse being relocated overseas for any arbitrary reason, so then the move must have been personal. For a boyfriend, perhaps. If so, that did not work out. Or maybe she left a poor fellow back in the states, trying for a fresh start. It must have been a bad break up if it drove her across the Atlantic. That is also why she cut her hair. Maybe he cheated on her. But from the bruises on her knees and the height of her heals, I would say that Ms. Leverret has been making good use of all London has to offer—."
"Sherlock!" the Doctor exclaimed, cutting him off abruptly. The Detective blinked absently and starred at the other across from his. The Doctor's jaw was tense, his neck throbbing, and the Detective felt simultaneously ashamed of himself and strangely excited.
"Oh, I have forgotten myself," the Detective breathed, breaking eye contact with the Doctor. He realized now the girl next to him was staring down into her hands. "I do apologize—."
"It is fine," she said, standing up and tossing her napkin next to her plate, "I just have to use the restroom, if you don't mind." She rubbed her reddening nose and Mary stood with her, escorting her to the toilet in the back of the flat.
"What the hell, Sherlock!" the Doctor chided.
"I know, I know, I am sorry," the Detective muttered.
"Please, do not ruin this. She is a nice girl."
"Nice girl? Ha," the Detective grunted to himself.
The Doctor's eyes widened with indignation. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," the other said with a wave of his hand and leaned back into his chair. The Doctor just grunted.
When the girls returned, they finished the meal as if the incident had not occurred, although it's occurrence hung over them like a specter, haunting the rest of the conversation. The Detective barely engaged after that point, and when the others retired to sit near the fire and sip sherry, he offered to clean the dishes. The girl sat together for a while, gossiping about the other nurses at work, but soon Lacey Leverret grew tired of the tensity and said goodbye to Mary and the Doctor, and only waved at the Detective before exiting.
It was soon late and Mary also rose to go. The Detective expected the Doctor to go with her, to which he was thankful. He could not be in the presence of the man any longer. It made his whole body tense, his mind spasming and dreamy, his face hot. He wanted only to lay in bed and dream of murders, of ghastly, confounding, mystifying murders. He wanted to fill his mind full of blood and gore, he wanted to erase from the back of his eyes the image of the Doctor's face, his loving eyes, his indignant scowl, his easy suspicion.
He collapsed back onto his sofa and covered his face with his hand, slowly rubbing his temples methodically as he heard the door shut and suspected the two had gone.
"What was that?" the Doctor's voice came and the Detective opened his eyes to find his friend standing over him with his hands on his hips.
"What was what?" the Detective asked as if he did not already know.
"That girl, why did you treat her like… like… a pariah," the other explained, "she was a nice girl."
"God, not now, Watson," the Detective moaned and looked away.
"Yes, now, why have you been acting this way? She is the fifth girl you've turned down in a row without even so much as a second date. You barely even looked at this one, much less spoke to her—except when you were calling her a whore. What has gotten into you lately?"
The Detective moaned and threw his body off the couch languidly. "Nothing," he said, turning his back on the other and moving toward his violin. He reached out for it, but then changed his mind.
"She was a nice girl. Please, tell me. What was wrong with this one?" The Detective could hear the Doctors footfalls bringing him closer to him without even turning around. "Tell me, so I can do better next time. What the bloody hell do you want?"
"I do not want nice girls," the Detective replied coldly, and turned on his heals to face his friend. "I want… I want…" He could not bring himself to say it. He could not bring himself to even think it. The Doctor just stared at him blankly, angrily. The Detective was almost shaking now, his lips trembling, his body on fire, and then suddenly he could not stop the impulse—so irrational and dark—that had built up in his crux.
The Detective seemed to become almost completely unaware of himself as he lunged forward, grasping with spider like hands to the Doctor's shoulders, and pressing frantically their mouths against each other in a violent farce of a kiss. It was clumsy and unromantic, but it happened messily and unpremeditated. The Doctor's body was rigid in the Detective's grip at first but he seemed to melt into the strange contact, or maybe that was the Detective melting for both of them.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!" the Doctor was shouting as he shoved the other away.
The Detective stumbled back, blinking rapidly, and feeling all the heat in his body rush about. He could not feel the tips of his fingers. "Watson, please, I'm sorry. Please, don't you feel—Don't you feel this?!"
"Feel what?" the Doctor yelled, incredulously.
The Detective could not stop now. He stepped forward again and grabbed the Doctor's face, kissing him more, harder, his thoughts completely singular. He had become deaf to the Doctor's objections, unfeeling of his struggle as the collapsed to the ground under the Detective's weight.
"Get off me!" the Doctor got out, crawling out from under the Detective, stumbling back, running into the violin stand.
"No, please! I need you—!" the Detective had never let the thought occur to him, but now he had said it out loud, and now it was the only thought he had. Yes, he needed the Doctor more than he had ever needed anyone. And he was sure that if the Doctor left now, the Detective would surely die.
The Doctor was struggling to his feet now and heading toward the door. The Detective blinked, his eyes burning with tears, his hands numb, his muscles contracting and expanding involuntarily as he scrambled for his feet. "No, you can't leave," the Detective mumbled, and mindlessly wrapped his hand around the neck of the violin.
The instrument broke over the Doctor's head with a furious crack that knocked him to his knees. It struck the back of his head three more times before breaking and splintering. Then the wire from the string was salvaged and wrapped furiously about his neck, tightened and tightened and tightened by hands slippery with blood pouring profusely from the cranium wound, until finally the Doctor's body fell limp onto the floor of 221B Baker Street.
The Detective breathed heavily. His white dress shirt was now soaked in splatters of cherry red blood, not unlike the color of Lacey's dress or of Mary's lips that evening. The air smelled coppery and slick with human bodily fluids, a smell that the Detective was familiar with to a fault. The site before him, a familiarity, actually, more than that. It was a friend. It was a murder—bloody and awful and tinged with darkness and melodrama. It was the thing he would hope to stumble upon, to solve, not create.
But suddenly, to the Detective, covering up a murder seemed just as exhilarating as discovering one.