_Chapter2_
Sherlock suddenly opens his eyes to a knock on the door. He parts his hands and swings his legs off the couch. He stands, strides to the door, and opening it, Sherlock looks coldly on his visitors.
"We're here to collect the body..." the small man's voice trails off under the glare of Sherlock, however, Sherlock steps aside, and allows the two men to enter. He doesn't say a word as they lift and stick John's body into a body bag, but simply watches, his face impassive, as they haul the body bag down the stairs, and through the doorway of 221B. The taller of the two clomps back up the stairs, slightly sweaty, and panting lightly.
"Thank you for being so cooperative." the man starts, "Some people are much more... well, resisting when it comes to taking away the body of a friend or family member." he says, looking slightly sympathetically at Sherlock.
Sherlock finally speaks, "That's just what it is," he says, holding the other man's gaze, his voice cold and emotionless, "A body. There is no longer any trace of the man I once knew." Sherlock's voice breaks, just a little, on the last word. He looks away, hiding the pain behind his veil, once more.
The man ducks his head in a slight nod. "Would you like us to clean up this… mess?" the man inquires, gesturing to the blood, soaked in the carpet.
"It makes little difference to me. Do as you see fit," Sherlock states unconcernedly.
The man ducks his head again in acknowledgment, and leaves to get cleaner and sterilizer out the ambulance truck.
Sherlock observes silently as the two men clean the carpet stain.
"We shall be, uh, taking our leave now." Says the smaller man, somewhat uncomfortably.
Sherlock simply inclines his head slightly, and the two men leave 221B, leaving Sherlock to continue pondering, until Lestrade and Sally arrive with endless papers of victims of the White Tiger. Sherlock looks satisfied, but he doesn't smile; he doesn't even come close. He delves directly into the papers, looking and reading avidly.
"I don't know, Sherlock, her victims and locations seem completely random," Lestrade says, shrugging slightly, and shaking his head, lost. "That's part of the reason no one has been able to track her."
"Oh, I don't think so,"Sherlock murmurs in a low voice, his eyes sharp and intent, "All serial killers have some sort of pattern, and she is not the type to be random. She is precise. Meticulous. She'd revel in the design."
Sherlock becomes absorbed, searching, consumed, fervently flipping through all the different files, cases, and deaths.
"Look here," Sherlock finally says, pointing to one packet of paper, among the hundreds, "The first place her trademark style ever appears is in Nepal, Okhaldhunga... Nepal is where the knife she uses originates. She must have lived, there in Nepal, possible even in the village that she killed in..."
"How do you know she didn't just... leave from her home and start her career of killing?" Lestrade says, not as much questioning Sherlock's reasoning, more as asking how it was reasoned.
Sherlock starts pacing, talking almost more to himself than to Lestrade and Dollovan. "Possible... but not likely. People in their right mind don't start killing for no reason. And she can't be seriously insane; she's too careful, and precise. Someone drove her mad, angry, and she is smart, very clever, and so, after killing whoever upset her, she discovered she enjoyed killing; a lot. She would then start her career in killing, after that first taste." Sherlock finished, sitting down, with his fingertips together, fingers spread apart and palms apart.
"Ok... so if she's not random, how does she choose her victims?" Lestrade asks, looking puzzled.
"I don't know..." Sherlock murmurs. "But I intend to find out." He suddenly stands, grabs a black pen and strides back to where the folders and folders and boxes of murder reports sit. He starts rifling through, reading the dates and marking numbers on them, starting with the kill in Nepal, he marks a number "1" and continues, marking all different papers, going up in numerical order, and stacking the marked papers in a neat pile on the table.
Lestrade watches with a bemused expression, "Um... Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"Would you like us to leave now?"
"Yes... good, fine." Sherlock says, paying little attention, and not glancing up as he continues marking the packets of papers.
Lestrade nods, "Ok then." He murmurs quietly to Sally, "Let's leave him... He needs to be alone... especially while he solves this one." Sally told him she understood him with her eyes.
"Well, bye, Sherlock," she says, with a slight, false cheer in her voice.
Sherlock finally looks up, and locks her eyes with his piercing gaze. "You always call me Freak. Why stop now?" Sherlock asks his rhetorical question, knowing the answer, and not expecting an honest reply, keeping his eyes steadily on Sally.
Sally freezes, looks at the ground, looking sad and worried, showing her own emotions about John's death for the first time. "No reason," she whispers, and then whisks off down the staircase before getting choked up.
Lestrade simply nods to Sherlock and heads down the stairs after Sally to find Mrs. Hudson. "Look," he says seriously to Mrs. Hudson, who is quietly sobbing into a handkerchief, "I know this is hard for you too, but I'm really worried about Sherlock."
Mrs. Hudson looks at him through her own tears and nods, gasping with grief.
"Keep an eye on him. I'm worried what he might do. He isn't... experienced with... this." Lestrade says, gesturing around helplessly, as if asking the air for an answer, unable to explain Sherlock Holmes and relationships.
In a tremulous voice, Mrs. Hudson says, "I'll look after him, don't you worry your head," before burying her face in the handkerchief again, overcome with sobs again.
Lestrade pats her awkwardly on the shoulder, and gives her a sympathetic look, before heading out the door himself, looking pained.
As Sherlock watches the door close downstairs, he gets up and closes the door at the top of the stairs. His face breaks into anguish and anger. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. And when he opens his eyes, he glares with a silent, deadly coldness at the stack of papers lying on the table in front of him. "You will not escape me," he hisses with pure venom into the absolute silence of the flat. And then his face resolves back into his emotionless mask as he continues to mark all the papers with numbers.
Okay, I know, there's still no Mentalist besides some foreshadowing. There probably won't be much besides foreshadowing for a bit- I have to build the plot.
I'll try to get the next chapter up in about two weeks, okay guys? Thanks for the continued reading and support! ^_^
