Let me start by saying, WOW! WOW, WOW, WOW! Words cannot express my gratitude at the support this story has been receiving. Really, you are too too kind.
Congratulations to Amanda Do'Urden for being the first person to review this piece. For that, she receives a lovely smile from Sherlock - you know the smile I am talking about, the one where his eyes simply sparkle and the skin around his eyes wrinkles with pure joy. Yes, he gives her one of those smiles. :)
Also, many many hugs and thank you's to the amazing tosinadekunle, Teshka, Sue, EJ 12212012, Snow White, and GBfan 29. Your reviews seriously warmed my heart and made me blush. Your kind words mean so much to me.
Now onto Chapter 3.
It had taken Sherlock Holmes exactly 5.3 seconds to recover from his position of agonized horror (one which involved wobbly legs, leaden feet, blazing blue eyes, puckered lips, skin as pale as snow, and the tearing of curly brown hair to the point that it looked like it had been through a windstorm) at the sight of the victim.
Greg Lestrade, however, took a much longer time to recover. When the D.I. witnessed the victim's face, his body went absolutely rigid and his mouth fell open in a perfect O. Sally Donovan did not fare much better - she looked about ready to faint and quickly excused herself, rushing out of the room without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
"Holy shit…I mean…holy shit…I knew there were similarities…you know… the coat…the hair…the height…the weight…but holy shit…you're…you look...you look basically identical…" Lestrade kept whispering under his breath, eyes darting between the body and the consulting detective.
A clearly agitated Sherlock leant over the fridge once again, this time examining the front of the corpse. The consulting detective's eyebrows were turned downward in such a fury that a sharp line had formed at his temple, and he kept biting his lower lip.
"Are you okay, Sherlock? You've been acting pretty shaken up ever since you flipped the body over," Lestrade dared to say after a long stretch of time had passed in silence. The D.I. himself was more than a little spooked by the stark resemblance between the two figures in front of him, and he could understand if the consulting detective was feeling uncomfortable about the whole situation. "We can take a break you know."
Sherlock gave Lestrade a vehement glare and practically spat, "I DON'T NEED A BREAK! I AM FINE!" He took a shuddering breath before continuing in a low growl, "Don't try to deduce me. It will only serve to make you look more idiotic than you already do. Now either leave the room or stop thinking - your thoughts are infuriating!" And with that, the consulting detective slammed his hands down gruffly on both sides of the freezer and groaned dramatically.
Truthfully, Sherlock was absolutely alarmed by the fact that the victim looked so much like him. And naturally, he was also utterly, incredibly, achingly annoyed at his current state of distress. He closed his eyes, feeling an overwhelming wave of vertigo. His mind was racing at the speed of light and, though he tried desperately to focus on the case, he found himself drawn back to one thought. A thought that he could not begin to understand. A thought he did not want to begin to understand. A thought that sent a variety of uncomfortable, aggravating, disgusting emotions coursing through his slender body. A horrid thought that he longed so badly to delete because it was completely irrelevant to the work at hand. And yet he couldn't erase it. It ricocheted through his mind palace viciously and circuitously. What if it was my body lying there instead of his? What if it were me instead of him? What if it were me instead of him?
"SHUT UP!" the consulting detective moaned in agony, his fingers pulling fiercely and furiously at his hair.
Lestrade jumped. "Oh, come on! Surely I wasn't thinking anything infuriating that time."
The curly-haired man gritted his teeth, and spun on his heels to turn blazing eyes on the poor D.I. "I wasn't talking to you!"
Lestrade raised his eyebrows in consternation. "Who were you talking to then?"
Sherlock pursed his lips. "Myself."
After taking another shaky breath, he resumed his examination of the body, his fingers delicately massaging around the victim's mouth, his sea blue eyes glassy and distant. But as his fingers began to massage the victim's jaw, his face transformed. There was a glint of excitement that lit his eyes, and a flicker of a smile graced his lips. "Fascinating," he said under his breath.
A few more moments passed and then the consulting detective looked at Lestrade with an expression befitting a birthday party rather than a crime scene. "The bullet to the neck was the cause of death, but it's likely the victim would have died soon regardless. Judging by the state of his decaying teeth, his damaged gums, his swelling jaw, and the honeycombed condition of his jawbone, he was suffering from the beginning stages of radiation poisoning. His symptoms are similar to the initial symptoms suffered by the Radium Girls. Female factory workers during the earlier half of the 1900s. They painted radium powder onto items such as watch dials to make them glow in the dark. The women were told the radium powder was harmless and, so, would lick the tips of their paintbrushes to create ideal points with which to paint. Some of the workers were so attracted to the glow in the dark effects of the radium that they even painted their teeth and their nails with the substance. Many of these women suffered horrible, often fatal, maladies as a result, though these maladies were not immediately apparent."
Lestrade watched the consulting detective with a mixture of concern and veneration.
"I will have to conduct some experiments to confirm. And judging by the bullet wound, the bullet is still embedded in the body. Utterly dull but I will have to examine it, of course. Have the body sent to St. Bart's. Tell Molly to text me when it arrives," and with those words, the curly-haired man turned, pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket, and began to take large strides towards the door.
"Where are you going?" the D.I. called after the quickly-retreating form.
Sherlock did not even pause as he replied, "King's College."
His fingers hit the buttons of his phone excitedly, the distress that he had felt only minutes before now replaced with a delightful rush of adrenaline. A bullet wound alone was not overly exciting, but the addition of potential radiation poisoning was quite delicious. It was just the kind of twist that John would roll his eyes at but would secretly appreciate, the sort of finding that would send John into gushes of "Brilliant, Sherlock, you are fantastic." Sherlock adored receiving John's praises. And besides, John had been with Mary since morning - surely the former army doctor would be itching for some excitement and good old-fashioned danger by now.
King's College in 20 minutes. Need my blogger. SH
A faint smile spread across the consulting detective's lips as he sent the text to John, and he found himself whispering under his breath, "The game is on."
Then he waved his hand with gusto towards a passing cab and was sliding into the backseat before the cab had made a complete stop. "King's College," he said in a hurried tone.
He was feeling better now - much, much better. Giddy with adrenaline that coursed through his veins at energizing speed. He placed his fingers under his chin and licked his lips at the anticipation of the game. The puzzle. The dark, winding, comfortable tunnel of mystery that he was embarking on. It was absolutely exhilarating. Oh, how he was going to enjoy winning this game. Putting the puzzle pieces together. Finding the light at the end of the tunnel. Revealing the order out of seeming chaos.
His phone buzzed and his smile grew as he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve it. But once he read the message on the screen, his smile faded and his skin blanched. In fact, he felt like perhaps he would never smile again. No longer was the dark, winding tunnel comfortable and welcoming - now it was filled with impenetrable dankness, cold and suffocating and hopelessly chaotic. The message that John had just sent blazed brightly and mockingly across Sherlock's phone.
Will have to pass this time. Spending the day with Mary. Don't forget to eat and don't do anything stupid.
It couldn't be true...it just couldn't be true...John had never passed up on an opportunity like this...never...until now. Before he could suppress the overpowering emotions that were pooling in his chest, Sherlock's phone had tumbled from his hands. He stared at it dejectedly, too numb to find the strength or the desire to pick it up. His breathing was coming to him in short, sharp puffs as Sally's words echoed painfully through his mind. You are a solitary man with no friends or loved ones…I don't see John. Where is he then?
Freak.
Freak.
Freak.
Sherlock's voice sounded pitiful and pleading as he told the cab driver, "Take me to 221B Baker Street instead. Please."
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not want to play the game. For the first time in his life, this felt like a game that the world's only consulting detective simply could not win.
