A/N: Alright. Here I go! Thanks for checking out my story, I appreciate it!
John's POV:
Sherlock collapsed into the seat next to Mycroft and I could tell he was thinking. His palms were pressed together, pale blue eyes were closed and shoulders were hunched.
"Sherlock, you okay?" I asked. Mycroft sat motionless beside him. Sherlock ran his hands through his black curls.
"Why wouldn't I be?" He asked. "John, would you go tell me what you think of the crime scene? I need a second set of eyes please." Sherlock dismissed me with a wave of his hand and turned to Mycroft. They started talking as I hesitantly walked into the children's section.
The sight was horrible. Books were stacked on every shelf and there was a happy and cheerful tone to the brightly colored walls. As soon as I pushed through a crowd of police officers, I could taste the blood in the air.
The woman's skin was a pale grey and she was laying on the carpet, face up. She had thin and curly brown hair with heavy streaks of grey in it. She was thin and had long legs. Red stained the floor from a puncture wound on her shoulder. Next to the woman was an open book. On one page was writing and the other page was a picture of a big bad wolf and a little girl in a red hood. A bloody handprint stood out on the pages.
"What happened to Sherlock? He left in quite a hurry." Lestrade asked. He was crouched down by the body and going through the purse that was strapped to her side.
I nodded away his question and started to poke and prod at the body.
"Do we have a definite ID yet?" I asked and knelt next to the woman. Lestrade took out her wallet and shuffled through some credit cards.
"The woman is…" He held up the driver's license. "Oh god…"
"Who is the woman?" Donovan demanded.
"Emily Holmes." Lestrade looked up at her and then they both looked towards the exit of the child's section.
"There's a miniscule mark on her neck." Sherlock made me jump a bit. "Only logical conclusion: That is how the poison was administered." I saw Anderson look closer at the dead woman and cursed himself for missing that mistake.
"Sherlock, are you sure you want to be here?" I followed his stare at the dead woman.
"Yes. It's just another case." Sherlock said.
"This is your mother, though."
"I know." He said, almost defensively. The grey scarf around his neck was pulled tighter as he knelt next to the body. Sherlock swabbed the injection sight with something probably stolen from Anderson and slid the sample inside his coat pocket. He snapped a few pictures of the picture book and one of the entire crime scene. "That'll be it John."
As always, the tall detective snapped his coat collar up and waltzed out of the room. I ran to catch up. We strode in silence until we got outside the yellow roped off police investigation area.
"What did you get from the crime scene?" He asked as he raised his hand and hailed a cab.
"Not to much. The body was clean and the cause of death does seem to be the poison. I'd say she has been dead for at most 10 hours, maybe less" I slid into the cab next to Sherlock. "221 Baker Street please." The car shuddered with a jolt and pulled into traffic.
"Interesting." Sherlock looked out the window at the passing buildings. Raindrops started falling down the window, trailing streaked water with every second. His phone buzzed and he whipped it out of the pocket.
"What, no more 'lady sighs'?" I asked, trying to break the tension.
"Not now, John. Any other day, but not now." He said. I apologized but saw anger written on his thin face. His freehand was clenched and his jaw line was set.
"Lestrade?"
"No. The killer." He said in a low tone.
"How do you know?" I asked, now aware of the rain that was pelting the taxi rooftop. Sherlock turned to me with his eyes lowered. I could tell he was about to show off.
"Simple. When Lestrade went through her purse, the phone wasn't there. Nor in her coat pockets. It's another 'catch-me-before-I-kill-again' game. And boy do I love playing these games." His speech got quicker with every harshly pronounced syllable. "This is my mother's cell phone number. I never forget phone numbers. I may also jump to the conclusion because who would want a picture of a dead woman and her family on their phone?" Sherlock hands me the phone and I read the text.
There is an attached image of Sherlock's mother. It is a picture of a picture frame. She is sitting at a dinner table. Younger. Two teenage boys sit on either side of her. Their mother looks exactly like the one on the right, Mycroft. They share every single quality down to the shape of their eyebrows. Except her eyes. Her pale blue eyes match the pair on the other side of her. Younger Sherlock and his mother have the same look in their eyes, but Sherlock is gazing off to something outside of the camera. He is the only one not smiling. I can tell you that young Sherlock hasn't changed at all. Still tall, lean, and dark curly hair. Young Sherlock had his coat collar flipped up as usual.
Underneath the picture is a message that reads:
London will be on fire tonight. Watch it burn, Sherlock.
Mummy dearest sends love XOXO
I wanted badly to say how dorky the brother's looked but withheld my joke until later. "What do you think this means?" The detective in the seat next to me was deeply thinking, his fingertips pressed on his forehead.
"This was a birthday party. A distant cousin turned 5 years old and he wanted to be a firefighter. My bloody aunt took the picture right as the firefighter cake was coming out." His fingers started rapidly dancing over the phone keys. "I'm forwarding it to Lestrade. My guess is the killer will try and find a way to burn something to the ground. My guess is that is the next murder."
"So, we need the fire department to send out teams to every part of London?" The cab pulled over and I paid him.
"Probable idea, John." Sherlock remarked and I opened the door to let Sherlock in to escape the rain and dreary clouds.
"Hello boys!" Mrs. Hudson smiled from her doorway. "I thought I heard the door open. How was the-" The old woman was cut short by Sherlock embracing her in a hug. She was quite a few heads shorter than the detective but she hugged back. It only lasted as second before Sherlock whipped away from her and took the stairs two at a time, his long coat trailing behind him.
"What was that all about?" Mrs. Hudson blushed and I squeezed her shoulder.
"His mother was the one at the crime scene." I said, my voice was hushed.
"Oh, dear." She sighed and looked at where Sherlock just ran off to. "Do you want me to bring up some tea?"
"No, I think I will try and talk to him." I assured and took to the stairs. As soon as I reached the doorway, a sad tune was being sung from the violin sitting in the crook of Sherlock's neck. It wasn't as sad as the melody played when Irene Adler supposedly died, but it still put a grim envelope over the entire flat. "Nice tune."
Sherlock barely even recognized my existence. The bow moved gracefully over the strings. Echoing off the walls and flooding the street below with the music.
It was about two in the afternoon but I wasn't that hungry. I made myself a sandwich anyways and scrolled through my computer. Saddening background music worked for the first twenty minutes before I was just about begging for a new tune.
I checked my phone and got a message from Lestrade.
The fire department has all unit on patrol. Thanks for that. How's Sherlock?
I told Sherlock about the fire department and he nodded, changed the song, and continued staring out the window.
A/N: Alright. Yay, I love writing or this area, it's quite fun! Please read and review and have a wonderful day!