Lestrade came to retrieve them for a case.
It had been a boring week, and John was glad for the interruption. Sherlock was probably going to start counting individual mould spores or something.
"The victim left a suicide note," Lestrade said. "Really weird, so I thought you'd want to take a look."
Something strange passed across Sherlock's face that John couldn't recognize, and he nodded.
"Coming John?"
What else would he do?
They never went in the police car, but always trailed behind in a taxi. John questioned it sometimes, but didn't really want to delve into that particular issue, especially on that day. Maybe eventually, perhaps Sherlock would even share, but John was fairly certain that day was not today.
Instead he looked out the window and wondered what could have been so strange about a suicide note that he thought to call Sherlock it. The only other time that had happened was with the serial suicides, and those hadn't even turned out to be suicides. Perhaps Lestrade was suspecting something along the same lines again?
John sighed, watching his breath mist up the glass of the window for a moment before disappearing.
John didn't see what was so special about the crime. The scene was normal, for a crime scene anyway. Abandoned building, one victim, female, wrists cut open. She hadn't been dead long, maybe since the previous night. Sherlock would be able to tell, and if not here, at the morgue. There was nothing unusual about the scene. Perhaps it was the victim?
The victim and yeah, she was a victim, even if she did this to herself, because no one picks suicide as a first resort, he should know, was a woman, in her twenties. Lestrade hadn't been able to identify her yet, since she was found with no identification, and no one had reported her missing. Yet, anyway. John had to hope that someone would indeed miss her.
"Sexual assault," Sherlock said before even going near her.
Lestrade nodded. "Likely."
"No, definitely. She was raped, likely by more than one man, five going by the footprints. They beat her, but no where that is noticeable. She died before the bruises could develop on her soft tissues. They made sure not to hit her face." He frowned. "They probably thought she wouldn't report them. I guess they were right."
John swallowed. "Yeah, instead she just bled out."
Sherlock glanced at him, concern evident for a split second before his neutral expression returned.
"Yes, she did. But she left us a note."
He gestured to the crumbled ball near her right hand, ink smears obvious. John couldn't make out any of the words, but there weren't many things it could be. No one bothered to write a grocery list as they were dying.
Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "May I?"
He shrugged. "Everything's been photographed, so go for it. Just don't tell Anderson."
Sherlock snorted, and carefully extracted the piece of paper with his gloved hands.
He unfolded it on the floor, careful not to get it in any of the blood.
John crouched down next to him to read it.
It was smeared in places with ink and blood, and hard to read, but he could still make most of it out. The words that he couldn't, he could certainly fill in the blanks.
It has been ~~~~~~~~ that some victims ~~~~~~~ would retreat from their world into an act of fantasy from ~~~~~~ could not wake up. In this ~~~~~~~, the victim lived ~~~~~ world just like their normal one except they weren't ~~~~~~~~~~~. The mind of the victim would often try to wake up the victim by leaving hints around the victim's world to help them realize ~~~~~ asleep. Sometimes, even after the ~~~~~ knew what was ~~~~~ on, the ~~~~ still refuse to
The note trailed off suddenly, but underneath the pen scribblings were large letters, drawn in what must have been blood.
Wake up.
John felt cold. Nothing about this case was okay. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, but his heart was uneasy.
Sherlock didn't seem phased.
"That is strange," John commented, trying to keep his voice steady. "How did you know it said that?" he asked Lestrade, straightening up.
"I didn't," he said.
John frowned. "Then why did you ask Sherlock to come?"
Lestrade looked confused for a moment, but Sherlock intervened before he could speak.
"I need to check the rest of the building. Lestrade, have some of your men watch the front. John, come with me around back."
John nodded, and followed, trying to shake off the unease that this case had brought him.
"What do you think she was doing? Did she think that this wasn't real? Was she delusional, trying to wake up, not knowing she was already awake?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know yet." He pointed to an alley around back of the house. "You go that way," he ordered.
As John went where he directed, he couldn't help but think he heard Sherlock mutter something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like "maybe she was right..."
But that would be ridiculous.
Ten steps into the alley and John realized he had no clue what the hell he was supposed to be doing. He paused, looking at the surrounding buildings. 'WAKE UP' was graffitied on the wall in front of him in bold, red letters.
There was a pain in his head. Someone yelled, but not him. Sherlock.
But the pavement was greeting his head, and this was familiar, but he didn't have to time remember how before he faded.