Chapter 2: THE GAME IS ON
NOTE: I should've mentioned this before, but this is post-Reichenbach, after the reunion. In this universe, Sherlock came back after two years and John helped to clear Sherlock's name. At this point, it has been 2 months since Sherlock returned, and the Yard was still hesitant about letting them in on cases. I know it wasn't mentioned in the first chapter but Lestrade usually has to fight the Chief Superintendent to invite Sherlock to a scene, although essentially he often lies to the Chief. But in this chapter we will see more of the tension between Sherlock/John and the Yarders. I apologize for the slight lack of continuity, I originally wrote some scenes out of order and I wanted to keep the original dialogue, but then I sort of forgot that I emphasized later in the story about Sherlock having gotten back recently. Yeah. Feel free to throw things at me. If anyone really has a problem I will edit the first chapter. -hides-
The next morning, John came down to find Sherlock curled up on the couch, clutching something. It looked like paper. Sherlock was actually asleep, and his hand was covering any identifiable aspects of the scrap. John decided it was best to let him sleep, as he had probably been up all night. He quietly made himself some tea and toast, settling in at his computer, ready to start typing up their current case. Sherlock shifted and mumbled something. John watched him cautiously. He went back to his hen-pecking until Sherlock finally twisted onto his back and simply said, "tea". John squinted at him and decided to just get him the tea. It was too early to argue with a cranky Sherlock.
As John walked over to Sherlock with the tea, Sherlock's eyes still closed, he noticed the piece of paper in Sherlock's hand was actually a picture. It was fairly worn and hard to make out from the angle he was looking at, but he could see a face; a man's face. He stared at it until Sherlock snapped, "just leave it on the floor, John. For god's sake, don't just stand there," John startled a little, not realizing he was hovering, and cleared his throat. He wanted to ask who was in the picture, but he had a nagging sense he shouldn't. Sherlock must have read his mind because he slipped the tiny portrait into his dressing gown pocket without a word. John rolled his eyes and set the mug down, returning to his blog.
After he had managed to slowly type out the preliminary case information, wondering to himself why Lestrade hadn't called yet, Sherlock stood swiftly, picking up the mug and standing by the window. John licked his lips. Damn it, Sherlock, talk to me.
"Lestrade hasn't phoned," Sherlock stated. John blinked and nodded, even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him. Sherlock huffed and continued to stare out the window for a few minutes, before John got up to take his dishes into the kitchen. Sherlock strode in front of him and stopped an inch from his face, staring intensely into his eyes. John stared back, expressionless, used to this sort of thing by now.
"I don't understand," Sherlock said, searching John's face for something. John furrowed his brow.
"You don't understand about what?" he contemplated Sherlock's hard gaze.
"The titanium crate, John," Sherlock said impatiently. John sucked in his breath.
"Well, I suspect Lestrade got the crate open somehow and will phone us when he knows what is inside…it.." Sherlock was standing almost nose-to-nose in front of John, breathing on his face. John tracked his eyes, offering, "have you figured out why both siblings were there?" John tried not to flinch as Sherlock rolled his eyes and breathed hot air his face.
"Well, of course, John. I thought that was obvious," and then, cutting himself off, Sherlock's expression changed from one of annoyance to a softer one, a sadder one. John shifted his weight a little, unsure what to say.
"So, humor the idiot in the room, then?" John looked at him kindly, hoping for anything from Sherlock. He knew about Sherlock's moods but this one was odder than normal.
"You're not an idiot," Sherlock responded quietly and looked over John's shoulder, walking to the couch and plopping down on it with a flourish of his gown. "We know Mandy was an alcoholic, which probably meant she was not in good graces with her brother. It's plausible that they were having a row and that was when the killer captured them," Sherlock spoke without the usual air of arrogance.
"So, it was just chance, then?" John sat down in his armchair.
"It's possible. I need more information. Bug Lestrade," Sherlock then turned over to face the back of the couch and grew silent. John sat still for a minute before getting his phone and dialing.
"Lestrade," the DI answered the phone on the second ring.
"Hi, Greg, it's John, have you got any news?"
"Sorry, John, it's been a bit hectic here. We found four more bodies with the exact same wounds. I was going to call you soon but the chief wants a meeting, on account of it possibly being serial," Lestrade sounded exhausted and rushed. John swallowed hard.
"Jesus. Well, Sherlock's getting a bit restless. Might we come down and go over it?" John didn't want to plead, but he felt the few small cases they had worked on since Sherlock returned would've earned them some points. He heard some garbled speech on the other line, before Lestrade muttered something to someone at the Yard.
"Yes, alright, come on then," Lestrade said and hung up. John gave his phone a confused look before setting it down. Sherlock had not stirred. John padded over to him and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Sherlock, you ought to get dressed, they need us down there. They've found four more bodies," John leaned over a little to glance at Sherlock's face. His eyes were closed but he hummed. John stood over him for a moment longer until Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and looked at him distantly.
"Can't exactly get up with you standing there…" he muttered. John stepped back and finally took the dishes into the kitchen.
Lestrade had not been lying. Detectives and police were pacing around the Yard, exchanging papers; images of corpses tacked up on a white board. As Sherlock and John walked in, most people did not so much as acknowledge their arrival, but Lestrade looked up and the Chief peered out over his glasses.
"John, Sherlock. Come have a look," Lestrade walked them over to the white board, where pictures of evidence and documents were posted. The Chief followed them with his eyes. John still felt slightly nervous, even though it had been 2 years since he had - lost his temper. Once they were huddled together, Lestrade lowered his voice.
"Sorry I couldn't contact you guys earlier. We've gotten quite a few new pieces of information, but the Chief is… well.. he isn't exactly happy that you're involved again. But obviously we're-"
"Out of your depth," Sherlock said quickly, examining the photographed wounds. Lestrade sighed.
"Yes. Look, the most important thing to think about here is that we've found puncture marks in post-mortem. We're running toxicology screens now. It could be that the murderer drugged them before he abducted them," Lestrade then pointed to pieces of paper with pictures of Mandy and her brother. "The man's name was Alex. He was indeed the brother, four years older. You were spot on about everything, we're bringing his bosses in for an interview in an hour. The, um, only problem we have is this…" Lestrade pointed to a table in the office on which stood what looked like a speaker. John and Sherlock approached it and examined it up close. It was indeed some sort of piece of technology, a 2-foot by 2-foot black box with several buttons and what looked like a timer on the back. The front had the familiar stereo spiral and grating.
"What's this got to do with anything?" John poked at it, feeling over the buttons.
"This was what was in the titanium crate," Lestrade moved closer and pushed one of the buttons. At first nothing happened, but then what sounded like wind flowed through the grating. After a few seconds it turned into a voice - it was laughing. John and Sherlock stood back, perplexed. The laugh was deep and echoed.
"What the bloody…" John looked at the buttons again. Lestrade ran his hand over his face.
"It appears that this manufactures many different sounds. We tried every button, producing sounds varying from that, to beeping, to sirens, and even…screaming. Took us a while to figure out how to control the volume," Lestrade sat down by the table wearily.
Sherlock examined it and pointed to the timer. "What does this do?" Lestrade sat up and turned the dial to the first mark, and then pressed a sequence of buttons. He held up a finger and they waited for a minute. Then, the box started to produce noises in the sequence Lestrade had engaged the buttons.
"It seems that one would be able to time out a flow of rather disturbing sounds, for hours even. That dial goes up to 24 bleeding hours," Lestrade sighed heavily.
"If this was in the box… then… it must've been on whilst the victims were still dying?" John looked at Sherlock, who was oddly incapable of producing any deductions at the moment.
"It would seem so. We tried to lift prints, but it's clean. And I haven't even told you lot the best part," Lestrade glanced over at another table where files were set out. "Those folders are filled with pictures. Pictures of the crime scenes. We spent all morning comparing them, and the set ups are nearly identical. Each one had a stereo like this in some way, but also large, standing lights," Lestrade went over and picked up a folder, displaying some of the images. "These are blaring lights, guys. As in, one look and you can't see for a few minutes. When we came to this scene-" Lestrade pointed to one in what looked like a basement, "the lights were still flashing. The neighbors had called it in, saying they heard screams, screams just like the ones that stereo just made," he threw the files down and shook his head. "Sherlock, anything you come up with, you tell me?" Lestrade looked at Sherlock sternly. Sherlock had been incredibly quiet the whole time.
"Why do you suppose those lights weren't in the warehouse?" John sifted through some of the pictures.
"The bodies you saw were not as.. fresh. The murderer must have come back to get the lights before we arrived. In all likelihood he checked the bodies and they were still somewhat alive, so he left the stereo on and it just happened to turn off before we got there," Lestrade conjectured.
"So, can we see the other bodies, then?" John shifted his glance between Sherlock and Lestrade.
"You'd better go now if you want to look, the Chief is only giving you one chance here. He's decided to watch us like a hawk this time. The last case was a simple one, this one seems to have dredged up… doubt," Lestrade was being honest, even though it twisted John's stomach a little, he knew they had to deal with it. John nodded at Sherlock, who was still gazing at the images and the box distantly.
"Sherlock, are you ready?" John waved his hand at him slightly.
"Yes, of course," Sherlock spun around and started walking off.
"Sherlock, I have to admit, this is the first time I've seen you utterly speechless," John had finally summoned up the courage to point out Sherlock's dumbfounded expressions.
"I just," Sherlock started and swallowed, continuing, "this is a very strange method, that's all. It's rather haphazard, badly planned it would seem. I find that rather dull," Sherlock sounded a little less confident than usual. John decided to leave it alone. They opened to the doors to the morgue and Molly Hooper looked up from a corpse.
"Oh! John, Sherlock, have you come for the new ones?" Molly smiled a little at Sherlock and regarded John more tentatively. John knew that Molly's feelings for him and Sherlock had changed over time, after she took Sherlock under her wing when he faked his death. She seemed to have gained some more respect from Sherlock, and she didn't pine after him in the same puppy-dog fashion. Something John didn't realize, however, was that Molly now saw him as a quiet protector. She knew all along how important John was to Sherlock, but it wasn't until she had late-night conversations with a battered and heartbroken Sherlock that she discovered this was no ordinary army doctor. She had fought Sherlock to return to John, confirming her original suspicions that there was something deeper than friendship between them. When Sherlock had a particularly rough day and ended it by yelling at her, yelling that he wouldn't put John in harm's way nor would he hurt him any more by ever returning, Molly had to softly state to him that Sherlock, you love him. And when Sherlock had protested, coming up with the excuse that John wasn't gay, Molly had simply looked him directly in the eyes and responded that's not what I said. She had begun to consider their stolen glances differently, holding back the suggestive comments about Sherlock's need for John's continual presence. It would have seemed everyone at the Yard had reconsidered the situation. John's ultimate loyalty to Sherlock and the guilt piled on by John had swayed their manner, for it was no longer one day we'll be standing over a body and Sherlock will have put it there, it was one day we stood over a body and Sherlock had put it there; it was he protected you all, he saved you all after everything you did, and finally it was no longer you're a couple, it was you, it was they. No one would know how right Molly was because Sherlock had been unable to process that piece of information. I'm not gay, and he's not gay, something Sherlock never even said, but did that time, was made to sound profoundly stupid when Molly would say it's not about being gay, and Sherlock, you'll understand. You already understand, you just don't know it. So, as Molly regarded John as though he were a savior, a man of such grace and dignity, John could not help but wonder what was going unsaid. Still, John would not want to think on it too hard. It was the spaces in between that were important, and nothing changed the fact that John was fine with whatever it was, it, that undefinable it, something that didn't even properly want to be defined.
"If you would, Molly," Sherlock followed her to the tables and took out his magnifier.
"They're two men and two women, one each found at the scenes," Molly pointed them out. John leaned over a man's corpse.
"Lestrade mentioned puncture holes, where are they?" Molly lifted the sheet back for them and pointed to one on the inside of the man's right thigh.
"The toxicology screens should be finished soon, unless of course you want to do your own experimenting, Sherlock," Molly laughed softly.
"I'll take a few samples," Sherlock said, the right corner of his lip turning up a little. It's the little things that count, he was always told.
"So, puncture wounds, here…here…god there's three of them. There's some bruising nearby and it looks like Lestrade was right, the lacerations are identical. As well as the electrocution…" John straightened back up. Sherlock had been following along John's commentary with his magnifier, examining each wound carefully and squinting his eyes occasionally. "These wounds are not as old as the first victims, it looks like the killer got impatient and decided to speed up the process, because look," John pointed to an extra set of burn marks, "they must've done it several times, waiting for their victim's hearts to fail," John took a deep breath of air and sighed. Sherlock regarded him from underneath his eyelashes and simply nodded in agreement. He took some samples from the veins on the man's arm and his eye. John stood silently, waiting for Sherlock's commentary to begin.
"It appears, this time, none of the victims are blood relatives," Sherlock finally spoke, after several minutes of lifting fingers and comparing facial features. "They have tan lines on their ring fingers, though, suggesting these were married couples. Ask Lestrade if they found their personal effects," Sherlock clipped off some clumps of hair and proceeded to mumble on about a knee injury from biking, a nervous tic of picking at cuticles, and how clearly one of the men did not care for himself because just look at his nails and teeth. John found himself actually chuckling at some of Sherlock's reactions, and caught himself in time to just feel a bit guilty. Sherlock was a bit mad, and John felt he must've become a bit mad, too. For some reason, this didn't really bother him.
"I have all I need," Sherlock stood and strode to the door.
"But, you didn't figure out who they are," John glared at him in astonishment.
"No, you didn't figure it out. But you will in a short amount of time," Sherlock winked at him and John's usual look of oh for goodness sake painted his face. Perhaps John had been wrong, Sherlock was being ever so much himself.
