Author's note- Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope everyone's holidays are going wonderfully! So, the fantastic OboeChica, beta extraordinaire, has polished yet another chapter for you, and I'm posting it as my Christmas present for all of you fantastic readers! I hope you enjoy chapter two, everyone! Reviews would be your Christmas presents to me, and I try to respond to everyone I get. Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!
Chapter Two- Freak's Pet and The Ghost
When the trio arrived at the scene, Sherlock allowed John to take the lead. He wanted to be discreet for a little while longer.
Lestrade led them up a set of stairs and into a large room. When he entered, Anderson looked up from where he was fruitlessly dusting for fingerprints. When John stopped in the doorway, observing the scene before him, Anderson groaned.
"Really, Lestrade? You brought the Freak's pet in on this one too?! Honestly, do you just come 'help' us because you miss your master, Watson?"
John forced himself to stay calm, and the tall man hiding behind and to the side of him- out of Anderson's view must have received John's telepathic command to stay silent for a few more moments. "Well, Anderson, that could be a reason- if I missed Sherlock. But I don't, so why don't you keep trying to think up something intelligent to say, hmm?" With this last biting comment, John stepped into the room, giving his friend the go ahead.
"Really, Anderson. What's there to miss?" Sherlock entered he room with his usual dramatic flair.
Anderson went as pale as the ghost he was surely comparing Sherlock to at that very moment. "But… But… This is impossible!" He nearly dropped his fingerprint duster, and Sherlock sighed.
"You're doing it again, Anderson." Anderson looked up at the man towering over him, a mask of disgust on his face.
"And what, exactly, am I doing again, Freak?"
"Lowering the IQ of the entire street. Now be a good lad and shut up, would you?"
Incensed, Anderson rstormed from the room. The three left behind looked at each other and simultaneously said "Donovan." Sure enough, 17 seconds later, the boys were all looking busy. John was hiding Sherlock's slender and stooped frame with his own while talking to the DI, when Sergeant Sally Donovan leaned against the door casing.
"What's going on, Greg, John? Anderson's just come out rambling something about ghosts and IQs."
John was concentrating on not bursting into hysterical laughter for the forty-seventh time that day when Sherlock said "That's because Anderson's an idiot," and stood.
Donovan managed a strained "Freak!" before having to lean even more heavily on the casing. Collecting herself, she looked back to the now serious John and Sherlock.
"I'm not even going to ask how you pulled it off, Freak. I don't want to know. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but welcome back to the land of the living. Life's been a bit dull without you to insult." With that, Donovan went down to where the rest of the police force was keeping the intrigued public away from the scene.
"You were right, Greg. That was worth every moment of having to listen to Anderson talk." Grinning, John bent to begin examining the body.
"Knew it would be. You blokes have five minutes. Hope you're not rusty, Sherlock." With a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Lestrade left them to their own devices.
The body was of a young blonde girl around 16 years old, John guessed. She was tall and fit, approximately 6 feet tall and 185 pounds, most of which was muscle. The girl showed no outward signs of a cause of death. John lifted one of the girl's eye lids. Petechial hemorrhaging. Hmm. There was no ligature mark around the girl's neck, nor any visible fibres around her mouth or nose. That eliminated strangling or smothering. As John leaned in for a closer look at the girl's hands to see if there were any defensive wounds, he caught a whiff of something.
"Sherlock, do you-"
"Chlorine, John. I believe it's coming from our victim. Smell her hair."
John leaned farther in, doing as the detective instructed. There it was again, the chlorine smell, stronger this time. Sherlock was right. Again. "Chlorine… Sherlock, go ask one of the forensics people for a swab." John's tone brooked no argument. And for the first time in the history of ever, Sherlock did what he was told without argument or comment of any kind. He knew what had happened, but he enjoyed watching his blogger piece together the puzzle Sherlock had already mostly finished. Returning with the swab, Sherlock watched as John carefully pried open the victim's mouth, dipping the swab in. It came back out wet and smelling of Chlorine. John gave a self-satisfied smirk. "She was drowned in a pool. Strange, though. Normally it's the Thames." John looked up at his friend to see how well he'd done.
He was rewarded with a large, genuine smile from Sherlock. "Fantastic, John!" John's jaw dropped. This was turning out to be a day full of surprises; first Sherlock not being dead, and then a shining bit of praise from the same detective that continuously called everyone idiots. "The fact that she was drowned in a pool is probably going to be one of the most important pieces to solving this case. She's obviously a swimmer; her shoulder and leg muscles are developed perfectly for the sport. From the muscle tone and the long, thin body type, I'd venture a guess that she's quite the competitor. Could be why she was killed. Not sure." Sherlock growled, the sound low and frustrated. "Damn it! I need more! This one's clever; nothing telling left behind. He was careful; the body was dry before she was placed here; there's no pattern on the wood where the water would have soaked in had she still been wet." Sherlock growled again, tousling his dark curls. He hated it when he couldn't solve a case with the first body. That always meant there would be another one, and even though this gave Sherlock more to find the killer with, he hated to see the waste of human life, though he'd never admit it to anyone. Except maybe John. John would understand. "There's nothing more I can do without an identity. Let's let the forensics team finish up and go home, shall we?" John nodded, understanding his flatmate's disquiet.
"Good idea. I'm knackered, and you should get a few hours rest too, so your brain can run at full speed for the next few days. I have a feeling you won't sleep for a while. Save up a few hours that you can fall back on as this goes on?" Sherlock nodded. John had a point. This one was proving difficult, and Sherlock wouldn't want the distraction of sleep as he got further embroiled in the case. After Telling Lestrade what they'd discovered and leaving instructions that the body was to go to St. Bart's for Molly to look after, they hailed a cab and headed home.
John rubbed his eyes, yawning. The alarm said it was nearly six thirty; they'd gotten home around two that afternoon - four and a half straight hours of sleep during a case? This had to be a new record. Yawning again, John slid out of bed to see if Sherlock was awake yet. Amazingly enough, the detective was still dead to the world when John peeked into his room. Shaking his head in bemusement, John went into the kitchen and started some tea as quietly as he could.
Fifteen minutes later a very bedraggled and half-asleep Sherlock stumbled his way into the kitchen, rubbing his face. "Two sugars, please, John." John stared at him for a moment, a strange sensation running through him at the sight of his flatmate's state- hair more mussed than usual, lines on his face from the creases on his pillow and sheets, eyes half lidded and still blurry from sleep. And he'd said please. That was rare too. John placed Sherlock's cup and saucer in front of the sleepy man and reached out to feel Sherlock's forehead with his wrist.
Sherlock jumped but didn't shove John's arm away. "What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock was perplexed. John had never done this before, but the blonde's 'I'm a doctor and you'll do as I say' face was firmly in place. It was dangerous to ignore that face. Normally it meant hot tea and toast practically being shoved down his throat.
"You seem less… Sherlocky than normal this evening. I was just making sure that you aren't ill."
Sherlock fought the smile that was threatening to spread across his face. "And your diagnosis, my good Doctor?"
John didn't even try to hide the smile that resulted from the easy banter he'd missed in the past months. "You're just your normal sociopathic self, my dear Mr. Holmes."
Grinning, the two went about their supper, with Sherlock actually eating the toast John put in front of him.
As soon as Supper was over, Sherlock's brain kicked in. He strode to the window, his back to the rest of the flat, and begin to play his violin.
The song started out slowly, very gradually growing faster. John could have sworn it went from sounding sad and defeated to happy and triumphant. He stopped picking up the table and listened. He loved it when Sherlock played songs like this. They were fantastic, full of the emotions Sherlock continuously tried to hide. Listening to Sherlock play was one of the best ways for John to get inside his friend's head. When the music stopped, John walked quietly into the room. "That was beautiful, Sherlock. I don't remember ever having heard that one before."
"You haven't. I wrote it after my fall. It wasn't even complete, until just now." Sherlock looked haunted for a moment, as if he were reliving the months of his death, so John asked the obvious to distract him.
"Why wasn't it finished, Sherlock?" John looked at his friend.
"Nothing seemed right; I tried numerous ways to end it- it was a long, boring six months. I had a lot of time on my hands. But no matter what I tried, it simply sounded wrong. When I was playing just now, it was like a block was removed that I hadn't even known was there." Sherlock mentally slapped himself. He didn't get melancholic. That was emotion, it was sentiment, it was weakness. Sherlock didn't do weak. Besides. He had a case! He hadn't had a case in far too long. He forced his brain to focus on that, rather than his… feelings, which he stored away in a dark cupboard in his Mind Palace so he could analyze them when this bit of The Work was done. With their storage, his brain ramped up to warp speed.
John saw the exact moment when Sherlock shut himself off from his feelings and began on the case. Because contrary to popular belief, Sherlock had feelings, and John knew when they were raging inside of his flatmate. John knew that Sherlock only constructed the wall between himself, his emotions and the rest of the world so he wouldn't get hurt. Because Sherlock still believed he had to go it on his own, without anybody to lean on for help. John sighed, wishing Sherlock would let him in. He went to the kitchen and finished picking up the table to the sounds of a very rushed rendition of Motzart's Violin Concerto Number Three in G major.
Just as Sherlock was starting in on some other piece of music he'd memorized, John's phone buzzed.
"Bit popular now, aren't we John?" Sherlock was amused with the turn of events. Usually it was his phone going off, not the ex-soldier's. Granted, most if the world did still think he was dead…
"It's Molly. She's done the autopsy on our vic; she's running a DNA test too, to see if she can help identify her. Mostly it's what we already know- 16, drowned, swimmer. She say's she'll text me if she finds out more. Says I can come in any time tonight if I want another look at the body. She must not know you're back; she didn't mention you." Sherlock made a small noise of agreement. He'd have to text Molly; he couldn't let John know that Molly had helped him in his death-defying stunt. John would never trust him again. Not that Sherlock cared.
"Do you have a shift at the surgery tomorrow, John? We should go look at the body. I'm thinking, and I'd rather not interrupt the process, but if you do, we'll go now. I want your opinion."
"You're in luck. I have tomorrow off." John was glad Sherlock had invited him along- the cases just hadn't been the same without the consulting detective beside him. The doctor began to yawn; apparently his body had to acclimate to less sleep again. John had spoiled himself while Sherlock was away. He checked his watch; it was nearly ten already. "I'm off to bed Sherlock. I'll be up around seven, if you want to get to Bart's early."
Sherlock gave John a look that said 'again?' and 'dull!' when John made the comment about sleep, but turned thoughtful at the rest of what his friend said. "That should be fine, John. I do have a feeling that it' s going to be a long day tomorrow." As John headed off to his room, Sherlock quietly began a rendition of the Prelude to the opera 'Carmen'.