A/N: I know I'm incredibly late with this update T.T I'm sorry! I've been… um… lazy. And somewhat busy. And now obsessed with a hard rock band from Japan -.- and another show that I'm totally not blaming anyone for for the obsession *cough* DEA *cough cough* Death Note *cough* Anyways. Here's the end of Silence in Death! And yes, read correctly, two "for"s belong there.
Silence in Death: Part 2
Previously…
When we returned to the flat, I opened the door to a gunshot. John and I ran upstairs without thinking.
"Sherlock!" John yelled, rushing up the steps. I followed him rather quickly.
"What?" an irritated Sherlock yelled back. We ran into the flat to see him sitting on the couch with a gun in his hand.
"What was that gunshot?" I asked.
"Bored," he replied simply, shooting at a smiley face in the wall.
"You scared us half to death," John accused. I nodded in agreement.
"We found another dead," I pointed out. "Same deal. Except the paint was yellow with silver nitrate instead of blue with sulfuric acid."
"And the fingers?" Sherlock inquired.
"Gun too," I replied with a nod. "My theory is that the killer broke the fingers, forcing the victims to drop their guns, then picked up the gun and shot them."
"The paint?" John asked.
"To surprise the victims," Sherlock said. "The surprise that came with it caused a loosened grip on the gun, allowing fingers to be broken and guns to be stolen."
"And they left us a clue with the string and the chemicals?" I said. "Who does that?"
"Motiarty."
"He doesn't get his hands dirty," I countered.
"He has other people do his dirty work," Sherlock explained. "But he's the mastermind. I can feel it. Only he would leave clues like that, things only we could pick up on."
"How do we stop it then?" John asked.
"I made the formula," Sherlock said. "Now we just wait."
One question. Of all times, why did he wait until the middle of the night to come? One in the morning, and there was a murderer in the kitchen. Bloody marvelous.
So, I grabbed Sherlock's gun and slowly walked into the kitchen. The tall figure was rummaging through Sherlock's chemicals. Smoker; I could smell it all over.
I fired a warning shot at the guy's head, waking up John and Sherlock in the process. I dove away from the doorframe as a splash of purple paint flew into the room. I could smell it already.
"Alkylated triazole!" I called out to alert them what was in the paint. Nasty stuff. Can't even stand near it without needing treatment for inhaling it. I think the distance is 25 meters away to be relatively safe. And here it is inches away from my face. I leaned into the doorframe and shot two more shots, but whoever it was was out of sight. Carefully, with the gun ready, I stepped into the room, looking around.
"What is all this racket so early?" I heard Mrs. Hudson ask.
"Stay out of the flat!" Sherlock yelled at her as he ran into the main room.
In a bedsheet. With a gun.
John followed close behind in his bathrobe; also with a gun.
I motioned for them to come in but to be quiet. They actually listened to me and came quietly, avoiding the purple alkylated triazole paint. I saw a movement on the other side of the kitchen and shot at it. I missed. But I hit the heart in the fridge.
Oops.
This time John fired a shot, also missing. Sherlock's shot missed as well. Was this guy a ninja or something? I could understand not hitting him myself, but Sherlock and John had experience with this!
I flattened against the wall to avoid another splatter of acid paint. Not fast enough, though. I cried out as it came into contact with my hand that was holding the gun, which I dropped instantly. I kicked the gun out of the room so the Killer-In-The-Kitchen couldn't pick it up and use it.
"Police and military with government ties," Sherlock said, using his and John's backgrounds to an advantage, as well as their connections with Mycroft.
"And an anti-social teenager," I mumbled. "Thanks for remembering me."
"I did remember you," he replied, switching on the lights. Instantly, all guns were trained on the man by the fridge. "You're our government tie."
"You know Mycroft better than I do," I said with a slight laugh, bordering on hysteria from the pain in my arm. I turned to the table full of Sherlock's chemicals. "Which one's hydraulic acid?"
"Green bottle, red stripe," he said, almost instinctively. I snatched the bottle and threw it at the man. It hit him square in the chest and shattered, the corrosive liquid soaking through his shirt and onto his skin immediately. He fell back with a cry, releasing the papers that he had in his hand.
Sherlock rushed over and grabbed the papers, keeping his gun trained on the intruder.
"John, call Lestrade," he ordered. "Treat Sierra's arm and get paramedics and the alkylated triazole out carefully and quickly." John nodded and motioned for me to follow him out of the kitchen. I complied and sat on the couch. I dumped bottle after bottle of warm water onto my arm then into a bucket. Army doctor's orders; for at least twenty minutes or until the paramedics arrived.
A few minutes later, Lestrade burst in with a group of paramedics.
"Don't touch the purple paint," I warned. "Alkylated triazole. Highly toxic, contact or ingestion. We'll all need treatment just for standing near it."
"Dangerous stuff," Lestrade said as he carefully walked into the kitchen to help Sherlock. The paramedics rushed me downstairs and into an ambulance. Wow, they had a lot of flashing lights. Did they think I had been shot in the heart or something? Well, I had actually shot a heart, but…
"Are you in pain?" one of them asked me.
"What do you think?" I snapped, irritated. I got all irritated by everything around me, distracting me from everything else around me. Why didn't I have my music with me?!
They sent me straight to the hospital and got me de-alkylated-triazole-ized. Then they left me in one of those rooms with the chest sticker wires and an IV. I didn't need all this. I wasn't dying! But the doctors were running to and fro, clipboards exchanged and information received. It was way more complicated than it needed to be.
And we were at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, so Molly was there pegging me with questions about Sherlock.
Speaking of, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade came in for checkups on inhalation of the chemical. They tested safe; surprising considering how close we were to it.
Of course, one of them had to blab to Mycroft about what happened. Five minutes later he was sitting in one of the extra chairs.
"How bad is it?" he asked, motioning to my arm. My whole right hand and most of my forearm was covered in bandages; thin but strong. I could move my fingers and wrist completely, and my arm didn't look fat from the bandages, but my skin was still completely covered.
"It's nothing," I whined. "I just want to get out of here. They're all overreacting. Plus; I hate needles." I was referring to the IV. The doctor finally came back in with my release order and a prescription for pain medications.
I left the hospital quickly. And I ignored Mycroft's offer to drive me home, catching a cab instead. Back to Baker Street it is.
I got back to the flat to see that the alkylated triazole all over the place had been dealt with. That was good. I saw my mp3 player near John's laptop. I happily snatched it and plugged myself in.
"Let me see it," John said sternly from behind me. He was sitting on the couch while Sherlock was messing around in the kitchen.
"See what?" I asked.
"The burn," he replied.
"I'm not supposed to take off the bandages," I pointed out.
"I'm a doctor," he reminded me. "I get privileges." I hesitantly unwrapped my arm, allowing him to see the chemical burn.
"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson said. I didn't notice her come in. "That looks terrible." John stood up and walked over, examining the arm.
"What pain medication do they have you on?" he asked.
"I'm not taking it," I replied. "Drugs screw with my mind."
"They mess with everyone's mind," he said. "You'll need it."
"No, I won't," I insisted, carefully re-wrapping my arm. I was glad then that the killer came in the night. If he had come in the day, my new jacket would've been ruined.