Sherlock's POV! Thank you so much for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy this chapter :)
Sherlock stared thoughtfully at the bland tan ceiling looming above him, his right arm wrapped around the sleeping doctor. The detective had made a habit of going to bed at least once a week, whether he slept or not, just to rest and be near John.
Sleep tugged seductively at his eyelids, forcing the normally insomniac detective to battle for alertness. Of course, it didn't help that John was curled around him, but the weariness that crept upon Sherlock was worth it. Besides, for the first time in weeks, he had something relatively interesting to consider in terms of casework.
Admittedly, suicides were quite bland to the detective, and out of the numerous Lestrade had drug him into over the years, only two had piqued his interest, one of which being the cabbie that had been John's first case with Sherlock. Though the doctor's perfectly-timed entrance into his life might've given that particular string of suicides more allure, they had been relatively interesting before the fourth victim. The first three deaths were tragic, he supposed, but there wasn't anything exciting about the deaths themselves; rather, it had been the circumstances of said deaths.
He didn't see why this case would be any more interesting than the cabbie had been. Sure the doctor was by his side, but that didn't make cases exponentially more exciting if there hadn't been anything unique or clever about them already. Yes, Sherlock understood that killing oneself was viewed by society as tragic, and yes there were two such deaths in two consecutive days, but that didn't make them exciting. Jumping off of bridges wasn't even an original way of killing oneself. Granted, the pills weren't either, but the locations of the corpses were. Why would people go out of their way to kill themselves at places that were irrelevant to their lives if they weren't going to use the environment in their death?
Sherlock stifled a sigh; he hated suicide cases. Emotional involvement was harder to dodge, and he would have to waste more time and energy cloaking his empathy. Listening to the deceased's friends and family blather about not being able to anticipate their untimely passing, with the occasional guilty person who had seen the signs and hadn't handled them in the way they wished they had, didn't faze him. It was practically the same as listening to a murdered person's loved ones, except for a majority of their hurt and confusion was focused on the one burdened with the role of being both the perpetrator and the victim. Of course, suicides were as unique as the people performing them, but such was the general air of that sort of death.
He knew all about suicide. The thought of it wasn't foreign to the detective in the slightest.
The temptation of death, the allure of escaping a world that ridiculed his differences, had been a constant companion throughout a majority of Sherlock's life. Death seemed to always be a part of his world, even from an early age he had been investigating murders, and to say that he hadn't possessed a morbid curiosity towards it would be entirely false. This unorthodox fascination coupled with constant berating, from peers, family, and himself, and the raging hormones which accompanied the teenage years had intimately acquainted Sherlock with suicide. It didn't involve thoughts of being a waste of space (such was a mere fact, but his corpse would prove to be more disadvantageous), or any such lark. A mere glance at a kitchen knife brought to mind numerous ways in which he could fatally wound himself, slowly or quickly; painfully or painlessly. It was the same with guns, ropes, rooftops and bridges, drugs, roads, etc.
Humans were fragile creatures, and death was a lurking presence few ever truly acquaint themselves with. Perhaps it was because of this that he began to partake in drugs; maybe Sherlock wanted to see how close he could get to death without truly dying. Perhaps it was because the voices in his head, constantly whispering information of those around him gathered through simple deduction, were finally silenced as the needle pierced his paper-thin skin and its contents injected into his bloodstream, rushing through his veins and arteries in mere seconds.
It was a weakness that Sherlock hated to possess. It was cliché, he thought, to have considered such things, even if he believed himself to have done so with more depth than others. It was a weakness that he knew John had struggled with just as intimately as Sherlock had, one that had dominated their thoughts, though both would never admit it, and one that had been banished by each other's presence. John had done so much for Sherlock, saving the detective fervently, and vice versa, each in their own way. John made Sherlock eat and sleep; Sherlock drug John on his cases.
The detective stared at the doctor's body wrapped around his lightly. A smile ghosted over Sherlock's lips, and he pulled his love closer.
Suicides were horrible and grim, but they did need something to keep them occupied, and this was the best case they had seen in weeks. If it satisfied John to investigate the deaths, then investigate they would.
Reaching for his phone with one arm, the other still securely clasping John, Sherlock squinted into the dimmed screen. Ignoring the inappropriateness of texting Lestrade in three in the morning, the detective sent a quick message to the D.I.
If another suicide occurs, text me immediately -SH
Pressing SEND, Sherlock gently placed his phone back on the nightstand and repositioned himself around the doctor.
He didn't see why he needed to eat; Sherlock had informed John that there was a corpse to investigate, but the doctor hindered the detective's swift exit with the familiar command. It wasn't necessary. John knew it would slow him down. To appease the doctor, Sherlock quickly grabbed a roll, shoved it petulantly into his mouth, and then hastily departed from the flat.
John didn't ask where they were going, but Sherlock felt his burning curiosity. This time, however, he chose to ignore it, opting for silence. Declaring that they were going to examine the bodies of the suicides felt almost like defeat. Besides, it was casual investigation merely to occupy their time. Nothing more.
They entered Bart's minutes after they left the flat, yet John's demeanor was entirely different. His hands were still, his gait confident and tall, despite his physical stature, and Sherlock bit back a smirk.
Molly moved beside them, rambling excitedly about being pleased to see them there. A question had been asked, the lilting in her voice the only indication as the words hadn't registered. Something seemed different about her. The detective stopped in front of the door to her workspace and stared at her.
(no usual signs of being flustered, nicer clothes under lab coat than normal, new shoes, different necklace around her neck- boyfriend?)
Flirting wouldn't work on her anymore, Sherlock supposed; she was clearly smitten. "Could you pull out the bodies of the two suicides, a Laura Jones and Matthew Williams?"
"Sure, they were on my list, I believe," Molly replied, moving past the men into the room. Politeness would still do the trick.
Molly deftly moved the two corpses onto tables for Sherlock to examine and unzipped their body bags.
First examining the woman, Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly. "Laura Jones. She was well-off, though that appeared to originate from a marriage rather than family inheritance or serious effort on her part, going by the calluses on her hands. Worked hard jobs when she was younger, something she wouldn't have had to do if she was previously wealthy. Overweight slightly, the only toning she possessed was the sort one would get working out at a gym every once in a while. Scratches on her legs indicated that she owned two cats. Wedding ring signs on her left ring finger, pale strip of skin where the jewelry would've rested. A perfectly ordinary woman," Sherlock muttered, only uttering the last sentence loud enough for Molly to hear.
"Brilliant," John murmured, his eyes shining as he glanced at the woman's corpse before returning his gaze to the detective. Pride swelled within Sherlock and, as his back was turned away from Molly, allowed a smile to tug his lips up.
The detective moved next to the male corpse. "Matthew Williams. Middle-class income; journalist going by the calloused middle fingers. Alcoholic and smoker, though that was obvious to you already," Sherlock looked up at John, who nodded slightly. "Single..." The detective paused, an indention on the man's left middle finger. He leaned down to look closer at the mark, then peered up at the doctor. "You saw him yesterday, do you remember if he was wearing anything here?"
John leaned forward, his eyes staring at the indention and widening slightly. "He was wearing a gold ring with the Roman numeral for six."
Gold ring... Matthew didn't look like he could afford a golden ring, so someone must've put it on him. It would've been after he died, because it could've come off during the man's time in the water, and it looked like the only purpose of the ring was to send a message.
Sherlock stood straight with forced calmness. It had appeared that there was something relatively interesting afoot.
"Come along John," The detective said, tossing his command over his shoulder as he strode out of the morgue. He needed to inspect the ring.