This is my fist multi-chapter fic, I hope it's okay!
Enjoy!
The White Spiders
It had just turned January, and the remnants of a harsh winter still clung to the window panes of 221B Baker Street in the form of snow. It had been Sherlock's first Christmas back at Baker Street since before his….time away. He had never been one for Christmas, and yet it was nice to be spending it with John and Mrs Hudson and others, instead of sitting in a cramped hotel room in someplace in Europe.
Now he was alone again, sat at the kitchen table conducting an experiment on a human ear. It wasn't the most engrossing of experiments but it was passing the time. Sherlock knew that if he waited, there was sure to be some sort of New Year murder or something.
"Yoo Hoo!" Mrs Hudson appeared at the kitchen door, cup of tea in hand. "Brought you a cup of tea, I thought you might be cold up here." She placed it next to Sherlock. He didn't reply and just continued to examine the ear lobe under his microscope. Mrs Hudson started milling around his flat, straightening up things a little.
"Where's John today?"
"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up from his microscope.
"John, dear."
"Oh, err, he's going to some sort of couples' thing tonight with Molly and…." Sherlock frowned in concentration.
"Tom?"
"Him. Said that they had to go shopping." the last word was said with revulsion. Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly. She could tell when Sherlock was lonely.
"Do you want to play Cluedo dear?"
But before Sherlock could answer his phone made the 'ping!' of a text alert.
'Body found. Belgravia. Coming? GL'
Sherlock smiled, already out of his chair. "Lestrade's found a body. Finally!" texting Lestrade back asking for the address, he took the stairs two at a time. "Should be back later!" he called to Mrs Hudson.
"Be careful dear!" She called back, finding herself suddenly alone in a freezing cold flat. Knowing she had to do it and not wanting to put it off, Mrs Hudson tentatively took hold of the dish which held the human ear, and scurried quickly to the bin, then stopped. She was quite sure that you couldn't just throw human body parts on rubbish tips.
"Oh, I'm going to have to call Molly," Mrs Hudson could not search through all of Sherlock's things in time to find a safe place to dispose of the ear in time, it would start decomposing. And she was not putting it in the fridge. "That silly boy!"
As Irene Adler's house had been, the site of the body was a grand townhouse, with a fancy stone façade outside and an inside just as sumptuous. Sherlock took in all of this as Lestrade led him up the large staircase and into the room with the body. Police and forensic officers milled around outside and in, and the scene was decorated with police tape. It was a living room, set out with upholstered sofas, a fireplace and a coffee table. As Sherlock first set his eyes the corpse, he felt a frown come upon his face. There was something about this that was familiar.
It was a man, flat out on his back, arms thrown out on either side of him. The man looked as he had in life; expensive Savile Row suit, perfectly clipped nails, neatly arranged auburn hair, but then there was a tinge to this all in the style of death. The skin too pale, too sunken, showing days of decay. And then there were the bullet holes. Three in the shape of a triangle, grotesquely puckered into the man's skin. One lay on the left of his torso, just above his hip, and the second in the exact same position on the right. The final went directly through his forehead.
Sherlock quickly surveyed the room, taking in every minute detail. Then returning to the corpse examined the man's body once more.
"So, what have you got?" Lestrade asked him once he had arisen from his examination. As Sherlock removed the forensic gloves he had put on earlier, he stated. "Well I think it's safe to say he wasn't murdered here."
Lestrade nodded his agreement. "Yeah, no blood splatters, we get it."
"Look at his trousers, there's grass stains on the knees. This man is a banker, without a happy family or kids to play with; there's no other reason why he'd have grass stains on a Savile Row suit other than that he's been dragged. But why would they move him?"
Lestrade took note of Sherlock's deductions, listening intently.
"Maybe they wanted to stage it? Make it look like he was murdered here?"
"Well they haven't done a very good job, have they?" Sherlock scorned.
Lestrade sighed, "Alright, what else?"
"He's a banker, that much is clear by his tie, but he's also a drunk. His driver's license in his pocket puts his age at thirty seven, but from the premature wrinkles he looks much older. From the current state of the economy it is certain that this has developed from stress, plus the fact that he is in enormous debt. And what would that lead to in a man whose wife has left him and taken most of their money with her? Alcohol! The effects of it can be smelt upon his body under that of rotting flesh, and in his teeth."
"His teeth?"
"Hmm, they're rotting and yellow. I can't say that would be a lifestyle choice."
"Hang on, how do you know about his wife?"
"Ex wife. He had an unhappy marriage that terminated a couple of years ago. He has an old photograph of her still kept in his wallet; he still loves her, but she hates him, because of his affair. He also has a photo of his mistress, now his current girlfriend whose spending his money on whatever it is the female sex purchases. The relationship is not a happy one. His suit is old; he's not bothered about clothes. He's more concerned about spending the money on alcohol and his gambling. Plus he's also got to pay his rent, and that's not cheap."
"Gambling?"
"Yes, I found a membership card for a popular club in his jacket pocket. We can only assume this is where his debt has arisen from. Take a look at the invoices on his coffee table, lots of large sums owed to wealthy men."
"Hang on; if he's a drunk, couldn't he have obtained the grass stains from simply falling over when inebriated?"
"The club that he attends almost everyday is on a direct path from his flat which does not pass any parks or grassed areas. Plus the pattern of the stains points to him being dragged."
"Yes but how do you know he would always go to that club?"
"I don't. But a man of his position would never let anyone see him that drunk out and about would he? No, he would begin with a game of gambling and a few drinks, and then would continue his alcoholic party at his flat. Look in his bin there; it's full of empty bottles."
"Well, I suppose you've got a point."
"Hmm probably. Now, I need to see the hall."
For five minutes Sherlock examined the floorboards of the stairs and the hall, officers getting out his way uncomfortably as he looked for clues. Lestrade stood awkwardly near the main door, waiting for his consulting detective to finish. It wasn't until Donovan swaggered through the doorway, and stood next to Lestrade, arms crossed and hatred plain on her face, staring down at Sherlock.
"You looking for your humanity down there, Freak?"
Sherlock arose from his work, taking his scarf out of his pocket and putting it on swiftly. "Ah, Sally." He glanced at her, "Disappointing night last night I see."
Before she could reply, her face contorted even more with anger, Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "I'm done here Lestrade, it's almost impossible to see what could have been promising evidence under the footprints of all your officers. But I can tell you you're looking for a man, size twelve feet with quite a large gait."
"Right, thanks." Lestrade followed Sherlock out of the house and into the dreary day, noting down Sherlock's words in his notebook. "Listen, Sherlock…." He started, but Sherlock was already gone, footsteps crunching on the icy ground.
As soon as Sherlock returned to 221B, he threw his coat and scarf onto the sofa and sat at his desk, pulling something out of his jacket pocket as he did so. He really shouldn't have hidden evidence from Lestrade, but something was agitating him about this case, and the Police would be a hindrance he could not deal with. As the Black Lotus had done, this murderer had left a token, a warning. And Sherlock had no doubt as to whom it was for. The token was a small, white spider made out of strong card. The white was tainted, however, with the blood of the banker.
Without hesitation he dialled Mycroft's number on his phone.
"What is it Sherlock? I'm on my way to an important meeting with the Prime Minister."
"The prime minister can wait, Mycroft, I have something that might interest you."
"What?"
"You remember the killer in Germany; Jacob Woodley?"
"Of course. You put him in jail."
"Well it looks like he has a fan."
"I'm sorry?"
"A body was found today murdered in Woodley's signature style. And the murderer left a message. You remember Sebastian Moran?"
I apologise for the awfulness of that deduction and that this was kinda boring! I tried, honestly! Thank you for reading, and please review etc :)
I'm starting on the second chapter really soon, which should be a bit better!
(i got the name Woodley from the original ACD story 'The solitary cyclist' which i really enjoyed :))
Happy reading! TheBritishBourbon x
