And so, the second chapter. Thank you to everyone who offered feedback on the first; it was very encouraging. And it looks like I might have to bump the rating very soon. Things ended up being a little more graphic then I had planned. And depressing. Apologies if you are squeamish. Enjoy!
Warning: It's probably not wise to read this if you're sensitive. If you do, please remember that it's FICTION.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Chapter II - Victoria
Sherlock slunk past the police line before they even knew he had arrived. His mind was streamlined like an arrow, making him so focused that he barely heard the rookie officer calling at him to stop as he neared the actual crime scene. The only acknowledgment he had of reality was his brief backward glance to make sure John was following. He was, albeit hesitantly. That sense of discipline in him always made him hesitant to bend rules.
His sights grazed the pavement, littered with marks from wet shoe prints. The 'authorities' always managed to make a mess of the crucial surrounding area of a crime scene. Killers grew less careful the further away they got from the place of the murder or robbery. But this time, on the pavement around the house, there was nothing. Sherlock only glanced up when a familiar figure approached on his left.
"Sorry to break up whatever was more important than a violent crime." Lestrade growled, his impatience still thick. The Inspector looked incredibly tired, and one could bet that he was at the tail end of his shift.
"Pacemaker experiment." Sherlock said, smiling thinly. "Might just save your life one day - judging by your premature grey hair and alarming volume of coffee intake." Despite his snark, Sherlock felt an excited flutter in his chest. Violent crime. It was going to be a good day.
It seemed that Lestrade was in no mood for a losing battle of wits, because he shook his head and led the pair across the lawn and past the modest-sized house. "Thinking we've got a revenge killing. Premeditated to say the very least."
"Footprints in the frost?" Sherlock asked, not listening all that intently. He noticed the faded shimmer in the grass, in areas where the police had not trampled over like a herd of mindless cattle.
"We have photos."
"Ah good! You're learning." He heard John hiss something at him from the side, possibly telling him to cut it out. But how could he help it? His mind was giddy, and needed a whetstone before reaching the body. It was his mental warm-up, which he was sure the Inspector had caught on to years ago. That, or he just gave up on arguing. Either way, it was a convenient arrangement.
When they rounded to the back of the house, through the open gate, the body was in plain sight. However, Sherlock almost tripped over himself in surprise. It was placed perfectly in the middle of the garden, splayed on its side with grisly lacerations facing up for the world to see. Blood, unable to soak into the cold ground, pooled and flooded in the grass all around. Twine was wrapped around and cutting into the shallow muzzle. Four stubby legs were sprawled in awkward directions. Sherlock stared at the bulldog for a moment in shocked silence; in the corner of his eye he saw John flinch away from the scene.
"A dog?" the doctor croaked, his voice strained to the point where it sounded like he might be ill.
"A dog!" Sherlock threw his hands up and turned on Lestrade. "You called me in because someone killed a bloody dog! Is it a slow day, Lestrade? Did you just miss seeing my face?" He felt almost insulted. But the older man was unwavering, and only fixed Sherlock with a dark, hard stare.
"The owner is an old friend of mine, Holmes. That dog was the only thing he had in his life. That and her pups. Look," He shifted his stance and leaned closer. "Just examine the body and tell me what you find so we can clean this up. Five minutes, that all I ask."
Sherlock sighed with all of the annoyance of a scolded teenager and gave a lopsided nod and a curt 'fine'. He looked to John, who appeared very pale. Seriously? Over a dog? The detective rolled his eyes and approached the murdered animal alone. With his usual swiftness, he began his examination.
John could only observe from a distance, the horror still keeping him firmly in place. He had seen many terrible things in war, and in cases with Sherlock, but this hit him at an odd angle. It was simply, in his mind, savage to so such a thing to an innocent animal. Looking to the Inspector, he cleared his throat in order to rediscover his voice, but he was still a little uneasy in speaking.
"You don't know why someone would do such a thing? Revenge, you said?" he asked, eyes darting back to Sherlock. He was moving around and observing different parts of the animal with his usual feline grace, but his excitement was a little dampened. He was entirely in his own world.
"The owner is Mark Albany." Lestrade explained, also watching the detective work. "He is a recently retired prison guard. No real enemies, but you can imagine how many friends he had at work. I've known him for a long time, though, and he is a good man. Intimidating as all hell, but friendly. Victoria - the dog - was his baby. She was harmless." There was a hint of genuine sadness in his voice. "But the murder was somehow personal."
John took a deep breath and shook his head. It was sickening. "I'm sorry. That's... not right at all." He tried hard to focus on the practical rather than the emotional, like Sherlock would. "Is Mark still here?"
"Went to the station a couple hours ago with Donovan. I couldn't imagine he would want to stay here with her still in the garden."
"Right." John breathed. he would not think of going to talk to the man, anyway. He was likely too upset to talk to more people than necessary. He watched as Sherlock straightened up and looked to him, wiping the thigh of his pants as he had not bothered with gloves.
"Well?" Lestrade prompted, sounding quite anxious. John could imagine why.
"Well, what can I tell you about a bloody dog?" Sherlock tossed back. "Purebred English Bulldog from a registered breeder, going by the inner lip tattoo. Immaculately trained, but not for guardian work."
"How do you figure?" John tried to interject, already a little thrown off by such an observation.
"The collar, John. A dog built like that, stocky and all muscle, is powerful. Could drag a full grown man around the block. Her collar is thin, custom - made for the tags and decoration only. Her owner must be good with dogs, or have experience in a field that demands a calm, dominant mentality. Military or law enforcement. Which could support the theory of personal vengeance. She died quickly, with a knife wound that pierced her heart. Now, doctor, if you have control over your stomach, do you think you could assist me with these lacerations?"
In all honesty, John did not know if he could do it. He stared at his flatmate, his eyes pleading just a tiny bit. But it was countered with an unimpressed look that just screamed 'Really, John? Really? It's a goddamn dog'. With his usual look to Lestrade for permission, he reluctantly stepped over to the dead animal. He had to draw on his early medical school days, when all they got to use was dead pigs and rats. He always had more trouble doing that then cutting into human corpses. Slowly, he knelt down beside the animal, just out of the sticky blood pool. Sherlock, watching him more than the dog, lowered himself as well.
There was anger behind those cuts. Vicious slashes that had dangerous precision but all the passion of a bloodthirsty monster. And they had such a distinctive message in them, too. What it meant, however, he had no clue. He looked between those and the killing blow, a stab into the chest cavity like Sherlock had confirmed. He shook his head.
"Died very early this morning. Those slashes are postmortem wounds." he said, looking back up to Sherlock. "Done after the heart stopped pumping, so it didn't bleed too much. Looks like a practiced series of cuts. Definitely not medical, but precise."
"Very good. And what do you make of message in them?" Sherlock asked, his eyes now back on the dog.
"Numbers." Lestrade cut in, crossing his arms uncomfortably over his chest. "260708, we gathered."
"The twenty-sixth of July, two thousand and eight." Sherlock elaborated with a thoughtful, distant tone. "Her owner's got a dark day in his past, it seems."
"I'll see if anything jogs his memory once he's calmed down." Again, there was anxiety in the Inspector's voice. "Anything else you've got?"
"Yes, yes. Pups. You said she had pups. Are they here?"
They were lead to the back door of the house, and John was more than relieved to get away from the deceased animal. It give him such chills that he thought he may never be warm again. When they stepped inside, a circular pen of puppies in the sitting room exploded into excited, anxious yipping. Five clumsy piles of wrinkles rushed the side of the pen, climbing over each other to get a better look at the guests. John felt his heart sink as he approached.
"Was he going to sell these dogs?" Sherlock asked, glancing to Lestrade. He shrugged.
"Possibly. He's bred before. Same stud, and paid an obscene amount of money for it both times. He and the other owner are good friends. Never had a problem."
"So not one pup was stolen or harmed?"
"Not one."
Sherlock gave an exasperated snort. John had bent down to pick up one of the pups. He was the smallest one, and looked quite like his mother in the pattern of brown and white patches over his fur. The puppy was calmer than the others, almost lazy in the act of slobbering all over the doctor's face and neck in greeting. Still, he wiggled ecstatically in the presence of a new friend. For the life of him, John could not hide the sad smile that overpowered his solemn expression. He could sense in upset in him - in all of them. They wanted to know where their mother was.
"Let's go, John." Sherlock was already headed out the door. "There's nothing more we can do, here. Lestrade, call me in when you have details."
"That's it, then?" John asked, holding the puppy for a moment longer before setting him back down in the pen. "You've got nothing?"
"I need the footprint pictures, the owner's career history and a few hours to think. And, Inspector, a proper case next time if it isn't too much trouble. Come along, Doctor. I want you out of here before you consider adopting a little beast of your own."
Slightly abashed and a little insulted by Sherlock's lack of heart (yet not all that surprised), John looked to Lestrade, who gave an exhausted shrug. He wished they could do more at the moment. However, he knew that Sherlock would wave down a taxi and leave without him if he delayed, so he followed nonetheless. This was not without a backward glance at the clambering pile of puppies on the floor.
Epic Serious Disclaimer Footnote: Please don't harp on me about 'animal cruelty' or 'abuse'. I love animals. I walk and train dogs for a living. Perhaps that was what gave me the idea to start off on such a note - it's jarring to me personally. And I wanted to start off with something that would shock readers, yet keep Sherlock bored to tears. Every single animal, domestic or wild, deserves dignity and respect. I take animal cruelty very, very seriously. But the death of Victoria the bulldog is crucial to the story. I bet you can already figure out why. If you need any proof of my love of animals, you can see it obviously leaked into John a little bit.