DI Lestrade
Damn. Lestrade cursed again. Why had he even hoped before? He was too late, as he had known yet refused to accept.
The strong rain still blurred the image, until it looked like a shifting scene hidden behind broken glass. As he scrambled out of the car, he knew there was no chance of catching the criminal now. He was long gone, and look what he'd left behind him.
Beside his hastily parked car another was already parked and the last was coming up behind him. When it stopped, he saw Donovan rush out of it, speaking into a walkie-talkie. What was the point? There was nothing that could be done, nothing left to be said.
For a moment Lestrade didn't move, didn't let himself come further forward as he observed the scene before him, one that he knew would haunt him with every shimmering dream he had.
Through the rain flashing out of the sky like ideas flying from imagination, he could see two figures in the road. It was a road with a dead end, so it was never used. There was a small alley leading off, and a bin next to the building.
One of the figures was John Watson. He was lying on the road calmly. He was dead.
The other figure was Sherlock Holmes. He was kneeling on the road, next to John. He was alive.
The detective was facing away from Lestrade, who finally started a reluctant walk towards them. His long brown coat was splayed out behind him and his head was bowed.
The world walked with Lestrade as he came next to Sherlock, and it walked in slow motion. Other police officers skidded round the scene as they searched for evidence. Now he could see the body's oblivious face, and he turned away, suddenly overwhelmed. This was John Watson. John Watson, Sherlock's first friend, Sherlock's only friend… gone.
Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed that anyone had arrived. He was still staring blankly at the ground beneath him. Water dripped from his hair, the curls almost gone, and ran down his face. And his face… his face showed nothing. Absolutely expressionless. Even the …corpse… showed more emotion. The Inspector thought briefly of how the man was a sociopath, and wondered how this death would affect him, could it affect him?
Sergeant Donovan
Sergeant Donovan was emerging from the police car when a voice began rippling words out of her walkie-talkie. It was Anderson.
Right now she couldn't be more angry with him. She knew that he had always harboured a dislike for Sherlock Holmes, right from the start. And she couldn't blame him. Sherlock had just waltzed into their lives with that confident smile, and instantly made all the police officers seem mediocre. After hours of scouring a crime scene, he'd arrive, take one look at the body and tell everyone the victim's life story. When he was proved right he'd exit the stage with that infuriating smug smile, leaving the others to clear everything up.
She knew many people would like nothing better than to see him trip up one day and make a mistake. Indeed, she herself had taken a strange delight in the fact that Sherlock Holmes was, if one looked closely, a loner.
Then John Watson entered the stage. For some unfathomable reason he could put up with that man, and became his flatmate. Ex-soldier, she heard. A doctor. The first time he tagged along to an investigation he had looked completely bewildered. Donovan wasn't surprised. Very few people could stay on Sherlock's wavelength for very long.
She tried to warn the Doctor away, but he hadn't listened and stayed with the detective, and now look what had happened.
But, of course, even though she wasn't fond of the world's only consulting detective, her job was to protect people, whoever that person was. When she had heard that those two were in trouble, her first instinct was to go and help. However, she had been busy on another case and asked Anderson to go.
He said no.
Sally couldn't believe that Anderson couldn't look past his own dislike of the man and help. Lives were at stake. He was a callous, weak, monstrous, pathetic excuse for a human being. Right now she loathed him so much, she wasn't sure she ever wanted to see him again. Ever. If he had just agreed to go, they could have saved the outbreak of an argument, saved time, saved a life.
Sighing, she grabbed her walkie-talkie, and began the battle against the beast again.
Jim Moriarty
I watched idly out of the top window as the police began to arrive, always in a hurry, always hopeful. Buzzing around the scene like flies. They were so stupid. Not like us, Sherlock, I thought, never like us.
It was quite hilarious really. Sherlock Holmes could probably catch me right now in an instant, but he didn't. He just sat on the ground. How long before that became boring? Boring, like everything else. I hope the murder didn't make the detective boring. To be honest, I only did it because I was getting bored and wanted to start a bit of fun. He should join in.
Yes, this was hilarious, because Sherlock knew but didn't tell, and idiots never think to look up.
DI Lestrade
'Sherlock?' Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder uncertainly, noticing as he did that the detective was shivering. He wondered how long he'd been here, how late Lestrade had been.
For some seconds he got no response, then he heard a quiet shadow of a word escape the other's lips and fall to the ground. 'Lestrade.'
Not a question, not a demand, just a fact. A boring unnecessary fact.
The Detective Inspector looked around, and motioned some paramedics over with an orange shock blanket. They handed it to him and he turned back to Sherlock, who still hadn't moved. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to get the body out of his eyesight. It lingered, edging into the corners.
'Are you hurt, Sherlock?'
'No.'
Each word he uttered seemed to be clipped, as if the question completely bored him. Lestrade… wasn't confused exactly, he just didn't really know what to say. The orange blanket was getting wet in the rain. He looked at it contemplatively, then decided to use it.
'Here, have this. You're wet through.' He wrapped the blanket around the detective's shoulders, and the detective stiffened. Next, Lestrade crouched down beside him, placed his hands round the detective's shoulders and tried to lead him away from the body.
It was then that Sherlock finally looked up. He gave Lestrade a blazing look of fury and stood up suddenly, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders and letting it drop to the ground.
'I'm fine.' He said, and he sounded it. The Inspector knew this couldn't be true. This man had just seen his best friend die, and he was trying to pretend he was fine? Well, this was Sherlock. He hated feeling out of control.
Sherlock turned round and tried to walk away, but Lestrade caught his arm and stopped him. The man spun round furiously. 'What? I said I was fine!'
'Sherlock!' Too harsh, too harsh, he berated himself, and began again softer, 'Sherlock, you're not fine. You're in shock.'
'I am not in shock! I'm fine!'
'Come on, that's obviously not true, come this way…'
'Lestrade! Let me go now!'
'I'm not stupid, Sherlock! You're not fine, so-'
'I am fine, dammit!'
'Sherlock.' Lestrade looked at him full on and finally the detective stopped struggling against the iron grip that held him, 'How can you say that? Can you put aside any pride for a minute and at least let the paramedics check you?'
Then he got a very strange look, almost an amused one, but it unnerved him. Outside the gaze, the rain didn't stop.
'Of course I can say that. It's just a normal day. Just…just a normal day. I'm fine.'
At these words Lestrade let out the exasperation gathering inside him at this ridiculous, stubborn argument, letting the lightning come after years of thunder. To hell with being gentle to people in shock.
'You are not fine. You are in shock. You will come this way. Now.'
The struggling began again, and Lestrade eventually pinned Sherlock's arms behind his back, not letting him move.
'Why won't you believe me, Lestrade?' The annoyance came out in hisses, and tailed off in a sort of despair. The walls were beginning to crumble.
'Because you're not telling the truth!'
'I SAY I AM!' Sherlock began getting angrier, angrier than Lestrade had seen him before. But he didn't have time to dwell on this because he was furious too, furious that the consulting detective refused to admit he was human.
'Ok, then,' Lestrade hissed, turning the man around until he was facing the corpse, 'Look!'
The detective wouldn't look. He turned his head away.
'Look I say! Or maybe you can't? And you know why? Because it hurts. And that is why you are not fine, Sherlock, and why you should listen to me and follow my damn instructions!'
At long last Sherlock broke free and raced away, around a corner and out of sight.
Sherlock Holmes
I like this alley. It makes sense. It's narrow. It's dark. It smells of damp and rubbish. The walls are wet. I'm wet. Because it's raining. That makes sense.
Why couldn't the whole world make such sense? I usually love problems, but not if I can't work them out. Perhaps I should just live in this dark alley, in a place that I can understand.
I suppose I'm heading back to the flat. There is nothing for me to do here at the moment. I left Lestrade. I left Lestrade because I don't like him anymore. He made me look, and I didn't like doing that. He was right. It did hurt. I don't want him to be right.
That last memory, it was black. It won't be of any use to me in the future. It is irrelevant, unnecessary and unimportant. I will delete from my mind to make room for other things.
Mrs Hudson
I decided to make some tea. When in doubt, make tea, I always say. My mother always made us tea after a hard day.
I was contemplating this when Sherlock exploded through the door. He looked like he had had a hard day too. Perhaps I should get a cup of tea for him too.
He was soaking wet. I was worried by this. He could get ill. There was no sign of the doctor, but he was probably busy with something and coming back later.
'Hello, Sherlock. Busy day?' I said, standing in the doorway of my flat. He turned and looked at me with a strange vacant expression, as if he couldn't really see me.
Abruptly, he ran up the stairs and slammed the door hard. I sighed. He was evidently caught up in a case again. Ah well. Back to that kettle of mine.
-OK, continued by popular demand, here is Chapter 2 of this story. But I warn you now, this was never meant to be a happy story.
