(A/N: The game is on.)
It was on the first floor, a small group of students were already gathered in the middle of the corridor. A girl John vaguely recognized stumbled out of her room, blood staining her pajamas. She was in his biology class, John realized, the pretty brunette who had talked with him. He hadn't caught her name.
"What happened?" someone was asking her. She was trembling. John knew shock when he saw it. He tried to make the crowd back away from her, pushing people back and ordering them to make room.
"I don't-" she stopped. Her words were slightly slurred and her eyes were a bit out of focus. "I-"
"She's been drugged," Sherlock declared. He stepped forward, looking for the entire world like he was in charge of the situation. He was the only one not in pajamas, and his uniform didn't have a single crease; it was completely pristine. Among the sleep rumbled students he exuded an authority that resulted in complete deference from his classmates.
Sherlock pulled out a small flashlight from his pocket. "You," he said, nodding to a random student. "Please get the head prefect, Gregory Lestrade. I'd rather speak to him before security got involved. He's in Dorm Hall A."
The student ran off. John recognized him as Ian from their biology class. The thought was fleeting, unimportant in comparison to the bleeding woman in front of him. Instinct took over as John broke from the crowd to stand next to Sherlock, taking the girl's pulse. It was slow. "Someone get me a blanket," he ordered over his shoulder. Her fingers were ice and small tremors ran up and down her body.
Sherlock shined the light in her eyes then opened her mouth and shined it down her throat.
"Where is this blood coming from?" John wondered out loud, trying to find a wound and failing.
"I have a theory," Sherlock said, his voice distant. "But I need to be sure. What is your name?" he asked the girl. She thought hard for a second.
Through trembling lips he muttered "Jenny. Jenny Tanner. What's happening?"
"Why did you scream, Jenny?" Sherlock asked.
She focused, still trying to remember as someone handed John the blanket. He put wrapped it around her. She snuggled into it gratefully.
"It hurts," she finally whimpered. "So much blood. It hurts and it's wrong."
"What hurts?" John asked, but Sherlock cleared his throat, a satisfied smile spreading over his face.
"I would imagine quite a bit of her hurts. If you would only look for a second you would notice that most of the blood has soaked into her pajama trousers. Likely there are bruises on her thighs and on the inner walls of her-"
"Sherlock!" John cut him off quickly, realizing with a dawning sense of horror where this was going.
"She's been violently raped," Sherlock finally said. "Obvious. I'm amazed she's standing, she must be in absolute agony. The pain has likely been dulled by the GHB in her system."
There was a rush of movement as the crowd parted and Greg arrived with a mousy boy with brown hair and an unpleasant presence. John instantly disliked him. Sherlock scowled at the boy. The boy scowled back.
"Anderson," Sherlock finally muttered in greeting. He turned to Greg. "Get this girl to the infirmary quickly. She'll likely have to be carried. The more the drug wears off, the more pain she will be in. Once she's taken care of, get security. Not before, not after, do you understand?"
"You aren't in charge, Sherlock," Greg muttered, but he was nodding and doing what Sherlock ordered anyway. "Anderson, start asking questions. The more we can give security, the better."
With a surprising show of strength, Greg scooped Jenny up princess style and began carrying her towards the infirmary. Ian from Biology accompanied them, appearing once again out of nowhere. Something about that wasn't sitting right with John, but he couldn't place his finger on it.
"And what were you doing, Freak?" Anderson immediately rounded on Sherlock, standing on his tip toes to get in his face. Sherlock stared him down without changing his expression before giving a tragic sigh.
"Oh, Anderson," Sherlock implored, "Please stop speaking. You're desecrating the sanctity of a learning environment with your infectious stupidity."
Sherlock turned away and walked into Jenny's now empty room.
"Hey! Don't go in there," Anderson tried to follow him, but John caught the sleeve of his sleep shirt before he consciously registered his intention of performing the action.
"Hi, don't I need to give an alibi or something?" John stalled, knowing that there was likely a good reason that Sherlock needed to looking around the room.
"Can't you wait?" Anderson spit. John scowled.
"I thought you might want to know," John said, trying to come up with a lie quickly, "that I saw someone run out of the hallway just before everyone got here. Yeah, I was already out of my room because I had to…use the loo…so I heard the scream first. Someone else was here. He went that way." John pointed down the hall.
"Why didn't you say something?!" Anderson took off running in the direction John had indicated. John exhaled slowly, wondering belatedly if there would be consequences to what he just did.
He entered the room hesitantly, standing aside as Sherlock flitted from place to place, looking at everything with a small pocket magnifying glass.
"You got rid of Anderson," Sherlock commented. "Thank you. And it will keep the idiot brigade occupied with a false suspect for a while. I might even be able to set them on the proper path before they realize they're chasing shadows." Sherlock looked up and gave a brief smile. "If they realized you lied, you do know that you'll immediately become the suspect, correct?"
John felt like he swallowed a cannon ball. "Yeah, that seems about right," he muttered. "So what are you looking for?"
"Anything that doesn't belong," Sherlock muttered. "Jenny doesn't have a roommate, as you can see," John looked, noticing the bed bare of sheets and pillows for the first time. "So the rapist would have been able to break in and commit the crime without witness or interruption." Here Sherlock gestured to Jenny's bed, and John felt faintly sick. There was a pool of blood on the sheets. He noticed a few drops on the floor from when Jenny stumbled out of the room. "There is damage on the lock as well that indicates an amateur picked it."
"Jesus Christ," John muttered, biting back nausea. "Would she really have bled so much from, um…"
"Not from her hymen tearing, if that's what you're referring to," Sherlock muttered in his cold, detached voice. "This was likely a result of the force, and possible penetration from a foreign object. Some rapists prefer to-"
"I get it!" John interrupted. In all honesty, he was more disturbed by Sherlock's attitude than what Sherlock was saying. He seemed…excited. Thrilled. Giddy, even. "Just…jeez, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked profoundly irritated. "I don't subscribe to the belief that acknowledgement of some sort of sympathy for the victim is necessary, John. It keeps me from missing details. If it bothers you, feel free to get out."
It was a pointed dismissal, but John stood where he was stubbornly. Sherlock sighed and continued inspecting.
"Small scuff mark on the ground," he said, kneeling on the floor. Sherlock touched his fingers to it and sniffed. "From a shoe, not furniture. Leather, obviously. Good quality, most likely expensive shoes."
"So…from a businessman?" John suggested idiotically, trying to think of who wore expensive leather shoes.
Sherlock gave him a 'you really shouldn't try to think' look before dusting his hands off.
"Not necessarily. The shoes required for the school uniform are expensive. It could have been any student wearing the standard shoes," Sherlock held up his own foot as exhibit A. "Or anyone else with a pair of nice dress shoes. Doesn't narrow it down much." Sherlock took one last look around the room, frowning. "Nothing. Nothing I can use. Nothing about the rapist, at least, I've got plenty about the victim. Now, the rapist cleaned up after himself. He was meticulous. Assuming it was a man."
"Who else…" John started before he realized he probably didn't want to know the answer.
"A foreign object was used, John. Judging from the amount of blood it had a sharp corner or edge. Anyone could have done that to a person. We won't know until doctors examine her if she had been raped in the traditional way as well."
John shuddered, trying not to think about it. "Come on," he finally said. "I don't think that we want to get caught in here. Not after I sent that prick Anderson sprinting down the hallway."
Sherlock grinned, following John out of the room. "He looked ridiculous when he ran, didn't he?"
"Like a chicken with its head cut off," John agreed, giggling. Sherlock hesitated before joining.
"We shouldn't giggle at a crime scene," Sherlock finally pointed out. John laughed harder for a second before the full weight of the situation sobered him.
"God, her life is ruined, isn't it?" John commented, following Sherlock back up to their room. "I mean, I can't think of anything more horrible…"
"She could have been killed," Sherlock pointed out. "At least her life will continue. At she likely won't remember any of this when she wakes up in the morning."
"I don't think that makes it better."
"Perhaps not," Sherlock conceded. "But it's better than the alternative. The rapist drugged her because he had no intention to kill her. If he kept her conscious, he would have to kill her to ensure that he wouldn't get caught. It's strange, but he was merciful, in a way."
John didn't know what was worse: Sherlock's dark logic or the fact that John understood it.
"What are you going to do?" John asked as they entered their room. "I mean, the police will get involved and it isn't as though they will let you help."
Sherlock sighed. "I'm limited by my age," he admitted. "I'm not eighteen until January, and even then I will have a problem getting anyone to listen." Sherlock began pacing as John collapsed onto his bed. "If only I had access to more equipment! I could have run analysis on the scuff mark! Do you have any idea what I can learn from a scuff mark? The exact material of the shoe and everywhere the owner had been in at least the last twenty four hours! All I have are chemicals and a microscope. It's not enough."
Sherlock sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands. "I'll do what I can," he finally muttered, "to solve this case. And I will solve it."
"Alright, alright," John said. "I'll help where I can, but please don't do anything drastic by yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't go," John struggled for an example, "chasing after the rapist by yourself. He's obviously dangerous. At least make sure I'm with you, if you refuse to involve security. Why did you make Lestrade wait, by the way?"
Sherlock snorted. "Really, John? I'm amazed you didn't figure it out. I just wanted to delay those idiots before they ruined all the evidence. A crime scene that's been even slightly manipulated is completely useless."
"I see."
"At the moment there are too many suspects," Sherlock muttered. His eyes were closed but John could see rapid movement under the lids. "There's little I can do to narrow it down. If the girl had died I would have been able to examine a corpse. As it is, I sincerely doubt she would allow me to give her a full examination. Hm."
Sherlock was silent for a minute. John watched warily, half expecting him to jump up and start running around the campus.
"Go to sleep," Sherlock finally ordered, glancing at John briefly. "There's a great deal of thinking to do before I can act. And you'll need to wake up in an hour or two anyway."
"Why?" John asked, glancing at the clock. It would be quite some time before school started.
"If you insist on coming with me," Sherlock snapped, "then you will have to do it on my own terms. We need to break into the infirmary and glance at the preliminary records of the victim's examination. Of course they wouldn't have done anything extensive, just enough to make some notes for the paramedics. The victim would have been taken to the hospital by now, most likely, so any other information will be out of our hands."
"And how do you intend on breaking into the infirmary?" John asked, half incredulous that it wasn't the idea itself that he was questioning, but exactly how they were going to do it.
"Molly Hooper," Sherlock said shortly. "She's the nurse's aide. I pinched a set of keys from her room this morning."
"Won't she notice?"
"Definitely," Sherlock said, waving the concern away. "But there's no chance that she'll tell."
John silently agreed that was probably true.
"You seem…happy," John pointed out, putting his finger on the subtle change in Sherlock's demeanor.
Sherlock smiled. "I am, in a way. The game, John," he said, with something close to lust in his voice. "The game is afoot. I've been waiting for this." A look akin to insanity danced in Sherlock's silver eyes. "Sleep for now, John. I want you observant in the morning."
John obeyed, climbing back under his sheets and shutting his eyes, trying to forget the image of blood splattered sheets as he breathed deeply.
No matter how much he didn't want to admit it to himself, he was perversely excited by everything that had happened.
He was shocked by how well he slept.
...
"This is absolutely insane," John muttered, fidgeting as Sherlock unlocked the door. It was six o'clock in the morning, the nurse wouldn't be in for another hour, and John was beginning to question whether or not the decisions he had made in the last two days were rational.
"Stop worrying," Sherlock reprimanded, opening the door. "It's making your thinking louder than usual. I find it exceedingly annoying."
John gave up and followed Sherlock inside.
The nurse's office was blindingly white. White walls, white floors, white counters, white cot in the corner. Sherlock immediately headed for a filing cabinet, jimmied it open, and searched for the necessary file.
John examined the medicine cabinet curiously. He was interested in medicine and mentally catalogued any drugs he recognized. There was a label on the shelf for each bottle, which ruined some of the fun, but there didn't seem to be anything he could do to help, so he continued to quiz himself on each drug's usage.
"Sherlock," John said suddenly, earning a grunt of irritation. "Xyrem is missing."
Sherlock froze with the file in his hand. "What makes you say that?" he asked, rushing over to where John stood.
"The shelf is labeled where the bottles should be," John explained. "But Xyrem is missing. You know the drug-"
"With the same chemical compounds as Gamma- Hydroxybutyric acid. Used for treating narcolepsy. There is one narcoleptic student at this school, a second year who would have given the office some medication. Brilliant, John." Sherlock's mind seemed to be racing faster than the speed of sound. He tucked the file under his arm, shut the filing cabinet and gestured for John to follow him out of the office.
"You want to be a doctor," Sherlock stated suddenly.
"Yes," John answered, startled at the sudden direction of Sherlock's thoughts.
"That's how you knew about the drug. You want to be a doctor. John Watson, you may be more useful than I thought."
"Thank you…?"
"The boy's name is Anthony Blithe. He's too young to be in any of our classes, but I'll be able to look him up easily enough. We will be able to determine if he had anything to do with the murders. He would have a ready supply of Xyrem on hand, after all. Granted it isn't nearly as potent as concentrated GHB, but perhaps if he mixed it with alcohol…but when? When did the rape occur? Even concentrated GHB takes some time to kick in. We need to talk to the victim, find out what she remembers from the day before."
"Could someone else have stolen the medication?" John asked, trying to keep up with Sherlock physically and mentally.
"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding bored at the idea, although he did pull out his phone and tapped a few quick things in. "I thought so. Anyone who Googles the drug can easily see that sodium oxybate, or Xyrem, is a form of GHB. The internet has made crime so delightfully easy. Instructions for theft, rape, and murder, right there at your fingertips."
"So a trip to the nurse's office and they pinch the drug they need? That's it?" John was horrified with how easy the preparation for the crime had been.
"Perhaps," Sherlock said, pocketing his phone. "Although most schools wouldn't have any sort of drug for narcoleptics in their medicine cabinet. Thus, Anthony Blithe. I can't think of anyone besides him, Molly, and the nurse herself that would even know that the drug was there."
"Except you," John said thoughtlessly, unaware until he had already uttered it that it sounded like an accusation.
"Oh, don't get fussy, John," Sherlock said, his voice heavy with scorn. "I've read the medical files of every student in this school. I have it all up here." He tapped his head with an index finger. "This sort of information is invaluable. You can see why, after all of this. I like to keep an index of potential suspects on hand at all times. While the student body is large, it is limited. This school is, essentially, a locked room. Locked room mysteries are my favorite. Everyone has something to hide."
"So you think it was a student, then?" John asked. "Not a faculty member, not some creep who broke into the school?"
"Possible, but unlikely. There are no new teachers this year, so why now? Why would a teacher who has been here for years suddenly decide to attack a student? As far as a prowler goes, the victim was one of the few students in this school without a roommate. A random 'creep,' as you so eloquently put it, would not have known that about the victim, and yet she was attacked in her room. This had to be someone who knew her, who knew that they wouldn't get caught if they assaulted her in her dorm. The rapist could have looked up the victim's room assignment in the front office, but that suggests a level of premeditation. If the crime was so premeditated, why steal the Xyrem? Why not buy GHB off the street? No, this was likely a crime of passion, of sorts. Perhaps an unstable student who was jilted by the victim and exacted revenge, of sorts."
"Jenny!" John finally interrupted, unable to contain his irritation anymore.
"Pardon?"
"Jenny, her name is Jenny. She isn't a faceless victim Sherlock, she's our classmate. She's in our biology class, for Christ's sake."
Sherlock was silent for a second. "You care," he finally said, as though the notion surprised and confused him. "You care about the victim—about Jenny."
"I do!" John exclaimed. "It's called sympathy, Sherlock. You could try it sometime."
"Tedious," Sherlock muttered, flipping open the file still in his hands. "And I believe we have discussed this already. Hm. It seems that there was bruising on her shoulders, hips, thighs…small lacerations on the insides of her thighs, but, as I anticipated, most of the blood came from a wound inside. The nurse didn't examine her thoroughly. Apparently the victim—argh, Jenny—started to become progressively more coherent and reacted violently when a proper examination was attempted. The ambulance arrived quickly. The nurse only had enough time to determine that there wasn't much she could do." Sherlock snapped the folder shut. "Well, that only confirms what I suspected, nothing new."
"A waste of time then?" John sighed.
"Not at all," Sherlock said with a small grin. "The bruising on her shoulders, hips, and thighs suggests that she was gripped tightly by both hands with the rape occurred, not something that could be managed with a foreign object in hand. Likely the rape occurred first, and then she was cut with the sharp object. It eliminates the potential that a female could have done this. While the possibility was statistically small, it existed. Now it no longer does, and the suspect pool has been cut in half. It certainly narrows things down a bit. Besides, you found the Xyrem, or, rather, the lack of it. That information alone could be invaluable. And it gives us a good place to start."
Sherlock looked over at John with a gleam of something wicked and wild in his eyes. "What do you say to having a nice chat with Anthony Blithe?"