(A/N: Such a great response. I love all of you who followed and favorited and reviewed and the whole shebang. Here's the next chapter with Sherlock, as promised. Hopefully it'll explain a bit more of this world. :3)
Sherlock shifted in his seat, pulling himself deeper into the plush furniture. Mycroft sat across from him, lips pursed and contempt oh-so evident in his eyes and the way he tried to smirk when Sherlock's eyes narrowed. It was a common practice to wait to see who was willing to break the silence first. If Sherlock did, then he has no solid clue as to what Mycroft wants and is marginally interested. If Mycroft spoke first, then that means Sherlock had made up his mind and Mycroft would get nowhere in the conversation.
With a light flick of his wrist, and without taking his eyes off his younger brother, Mycroft summoned the tea to the small table between them. Sherlock scowled; Mycroft sneered. It was another habit for Mycroft to flaunt his natural abilities and cause Sherlock discomfort. Sherlock would retaliate by trying to out-deduce his brother as soon as the opportunity arose. Their childish feuds had not disappeared, but became more elaborate over time.
The silence dragged on, only broken by Mycroft's soft sipping, until Sherlock huffed in irritation and lurched to his feet.
"If you have nothing for me, brother," Sherlock always managed to make the word sound like an incurable disease, which it probably was in his eyes, "then I shall take my leave." Sherlock gave a small nod, buttoning his suit jacket before turning towards the door, and Mycroft smiled. He's definitely curious, he thought, hiding his smirk by sipping tea.
"Oh no, Sherlock. I do have a case for you," Mycroft spoke up just as Sherlock was about to open the door. The man paused, turning his head slightly. "One I'm sure you will enjoy." Now Sherlock was turned fully, his right foot still pointed towards the door as if proving he could still leave. Mycroft smirked again. As if he could.
"A case?" Sherlock took the bait. "Is it much like the last one with its politicians and scandal and lying wife who was cheating with their housemaid? Dull."
Mycroft smiled again, slowly standing and hooking his umbrella on his left arm. "Not quite," he murmured taking a step forward. "There is a corpse of a federal agent who was known for his energy manipulation as to aid weapons." Sherlock's eyebrows raised. Energy manipulation was difficult enough on inanimate objects, much less specializing in enhancement of them. "In any case, he was killed by, for all intents and purposes, his own weapon. Ballistic reports show the bullet is from his gun and it was the only bullet used in the clip."
Sherlock had fully turned and slowly made his way back to in front of his brother. "Suicide, plain and simple. I don't see why you would need me," he snapped. "Good day, brother," Sherlock said, nodding.
"One would assume so, if it weren't for the fact the gun was found halfway across the room," Mycroft called out. Sherlock paused. "Unfortunately that is all I am able to disclose, as it is a very sensitive matter." Mycroft smiled to his shoes. What was the common phrase? He silently mused. Ah, yes. 'Hook, line, and sinker.'
Sherlock eagerly took the case.
A man ran out to the empty street, cursing under his breath. He turned and lifted an angry finger to the building he'd just vacated. "YOU ARE THE LARGEST ARSEHOLE IN THE HISTORY OF LONDON!" he shouted, spittle flying. "PAY THE BLOODY RENT BY YOURSELF!" With that a window on the second floor screeched open and a head covered in dark curls popped out.
"Is it the papers on the wall?" the man asked, pale eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I did tell you that it was necessary for a case I am-"
"NO IT ISN'T ABOUT THE PAPERS!" the man on the street raged, throwing his hands in the air. "IT'S ABOUT THE BLEEDING MESS IN THE KITCHEN," ("Experiments," the other corrected.) "THE TOTAL LACK OF PRIVACY," ("It's hardly my fault you didn't clear your browsing history.") "YOU TORTURING THAT DAMNED INSTRUMENT AT ALL HOURS," ("It helps me process information quicker.") "AND THE FACT YOU USE THE FOOD AND TOILETRIES AND DON'T EVER FUCKING REPLACE ANY OF IT!" The man finished, heaving and glaring up at the man in the window.
The man simply rolled his pale eyes and sighed. "Honestly, Jerry. We can work through this. I'll start buying those items, although I rarely do eat, and you can try to be more understanding of my idiosyncrasies." The man clapped his hands together and gave a blank smile. On the street "Jerry" froze and exhaled sharply.
"No, Sherlock. No," the man said, gritting his teeth. "Not this time. I'm done." He lifted his hand and waved before turning away only to pause a few paces later. "And it's JEFF!" Jeff added before walking to the main road to hail a taxi.
Sherlock pulled his head back in, ruffling his curls back into perfect disarray and straightening his suit. Surveying the room around him, Sherlock frowned. He had just gotten everything where he wanted it, where he could find it, and now he'd have to move all over again. This one lasted almost a week, quite an accomplishments in Sherlock's books. Hopefully the next flat would have a larger living space and a better location. I shouldn't have to walk two streets over to be able to hail a taxi, Sherlock thought frowning.
Tilting his head just so, Sherlock took a few steps towards the far wall covered in papers and a map of London. On one side of the map was a web of photographs, some of a very bloody crime scene and others of multiple people, while on the other there were pages of data and observations, some typed and most handwritten on scraps of paper, connected to different points on the map with colorful pieces of yarn.
Mycroft had only spoke of one of the starting murders in the ever growing case; the file Sherlock had been given was a good few centimeters thick. Keith Finnegan, the federal agent that Mycroft had mentioned, was not only an extremely talented energy manipulator, but also very high up in the hierarchy and therefore privy to very sensitive information. Looking at the crime scene, there was no sign of forced entry, physically or otherwise, and Finnegan had been found in comfortable sleepwear, so the murder was not only a colleague but a well-known one as Finnegan had not felt the urge to change before letting them into the flat.
Sherlock took a step back to survey the entirety of the information, taking note of locations and the victims. Of the eight people two were field agents, five worked in an office, and one had no obvious connection as she was a barista at a coffee shop a block away from the agency's main office. Of the eight five were female and three were male, Finnegan being the only field agent, which hints at the possibility that the murderer is male, but not confident enough in his fighting abilities to believe he can overcome well trained combatants. Finnegan was obviously an exception because not only was he caught unaware early in the morning, but also word of the murders didn't have time to spread so he had no reason to be on guard.
But those were only simple observations. The big clue was the fact that of all the victims, not one of them was benign. Four were energy manipulators, three were naturally magical, and only one was extraordinarily gifted. Ironically enough it was the simple barista that had the most power. The order of the murders, in reference to ability, went manipulator, manipulator, sorcerer, manipulator, witch, sorceress, and finally manipulator.
Now usually one could determine the ability and strength of a corpse by the residual energy that remained at least twenty-four hours after death, even more so if the person is exceptionally powerful. However, for some reason, none of the bodies had that aura of power although they were all found within five hours. That was what made the case so baffling. What could possibly cause the magic to dissipate so quickly?
Sherlock had spent a good portion of his early years in the school library, the public library, and his family library, which wasn't as large as most would expect, researching and learning all he could about the natural abilities that so many people are graced with and what could possibly cause someone not to have any. It was a bit of an obsession with him which is understandable. His entire family, for as far back as the Holmes can trace their lineage, has had at least basic energy manipulation. Until Sherlock.
For the first time in many generations, a benign was born into the Holmes family. When none of the machines had found any trace of abilities, the doctors had insisted that the machines can malfunction. When Sherlock had reached age three and still shown no sign of any sort of gift, the doctors had reminded his parents that there are always late bloomers. When Sherlock turned six, all hope was lost and, likewise, Sherlock lost his parents.
They did not die, not in the literal sense, and they still clothed and fed him, but they were never present for any of Sherlock's school gatherings or plays or any of Sherlock's personal achievements. All of their time was focused on profit and Mycroft, pampering the pompous arse until he had grown the large head he still wears to this day.
The young Sherlock couldn't understand why so suddenly he became invisible to his parents when they had shown such interest before. At first he rushed to learn all he could, just in case there was some way he could impress them or somehow learn energy manipulation. However, the more he knew, the more Sherlock understood that that wish never could be.
Magic was not the same as energy manipulation. Magic was a physical energy that flowed through ones veins alongside their blood. It was something that could be dispelled through small acts of telekinesis or larger acts of explosions or, rarely, transmutation. It was something that had to be released time and time again otherwise the bearer would grow restless, anxious, and irritable and eventually snap from the pressure. Magic manifested in the early years, sometime between the ages of six and eighteen months, and usually did so with a surge of emotion; which was, more often than not, anger. As always, there is a variance in power, but only significant strength would be enough to be elevated from the usual label of sorcerer or sorceress to the esteemed warlock or witch.
Energy manipulation, on the other hand, was the latent ability to take the energy of matter around and shape it. The weakest manipulator could, at the very least, move one object at a time by influencing the air around to push said object. Some are able to make the objects themselves move, but it took power and concentration. Very few could manipulate more than one object at a time. Even fewer could alter the makeup of an inanimate object like Finnegan could.
As far as science could tell, magic and energy manipulation were genetic and either a person has it or they don't. There was no way to gain the ability. In his studies, Sherlock had come across mentions of a prophecy, the last words of the great warlock Emrys, which foretold of a warlock with immense strength and unnatural abilities. There were a few books that had snippets of Emrys's final words, but none that Sherlock found had the entire prophecy. It didn't really matter anymore for Sherlock had deleted any trace of the fairytale long ago.
Shaking his head, Sherlock focused back on the victims. There had to be a pattern. There had to. Sherlock slowly stepped back till his legs hit his favorite leather armchair. He lowered himself, drawing up his hands to rest, steepled, beneath his chin as he stared at the map before him. Exhaling slowly, Sherlock slipped into his mind palace.
(A/N: That only covers the basics and there will be more clarification of the three types as I make it up... er... as I write more, I mean. . Anyways, if you have any questions, feel free to PM me to ask or just review. If you don't have questions, review anyways. :D)