A/N: Hello there my lovely people. Thank you all so much for the reviews, they really make my day so thank you all so so much. I keep meaning to thank you individually. Work has been tiring so I'm doing my best to get some writing down.
Many special big thanks to the lovely IO who has proof read my fiction, I will be updating the current chapters very soon. This one has already been proofed for me. I know my grammar isn't fab.
For now. Enjoy. Please review and I'll do my best to update as soon as I can.
WARNING: A bit of a detailed description of a dismembered body in this chapter. Please skip the paragraph if you don't like. This story will probably be put up to a M rating soon as things will start to get a bit dark.
Sherlock Holmes put his head close to that of the body on the underground tracks. Sure enough, the scent of gunpowder hit his olfactory neurones. A suicide on the underground was nothing, in fact it was barely a 3, not worth leaving the house for. But the homeless network were indispensable when it came to up to date information. Two suicides, 20 minutes apart and two stations apart. That was not just chance, balance of probability said it was near impossible and he was right. The first was probably simple chance. The second however, much more interesting and that's where he had headed. John would be furious, but he didn't care. His mind was already doing back flips off the walls.
Dimmock hovered impatiently on the platform above the detective. "Anything?"
Sherlock only mumbled in reply. He thumbed through the corpse's pockets and found a lonely piece of paper. He stashed it into his Belstaff before the inspector had a chance to see it.
"Well?" Inspector Dimmock was getting itchy feet. Crime scene investigators were awaiting his orders, but as usual Sherlock got first helpings with the body.
"Definitely murder," the consultant smiled, "Sneakily done, but not impossible. Shot at close range in the back of the head at a steep angle. The killer had to have been short, approximately 5 foot 4, right handed, small handgun, I'd say with a silencer on, considering the general public are not in a state of panic, then no one saw the gun. Probably didn't hear it over the rumbling of the train coming either. The bullet should be up there." Sherlock pointed upward to the top of the tunnel. "Get your boys to have a look. I'd say a reasonably small calibre, probably a 6 or 7 mil judging by the hole in the back of his skull. Widespread trauma to the occipital lobe and medulla, probably didn't die initially and was pushed or staggered onto the tracks. The train did the rest." The detective looked to the remains of the man, much more gruesome than the Hyde Park Corner victim. The wheels had made contact with the man's torso, ripping flesh open and spilling guts onto the lines below.
"What about him?" Dimmock chose to look away as Sherlock took a closer look at the grisly mess. "Anything about the actual person?"
"Late twenties." The deductions continued at break neck speed. "Happily married, one child. Used to be a banker, now unemployed but coming into the city to meet a friend. Amputee. Shame about the other arm." The consultant pointed to the stump where the remainder of the left arm should be and then to the right where the limb had been traumatically amputated by the train. Something came to Sherlock's memory then, he shook his head to remove the image from his vision. The detective straightened up, the stench of blood starting to get up his nose and swayed violently as a wave of dizziness overcame him.
"You alright?" The inspector looked worried. "Should you even be here? I heard about your little escapade in the river."
"Perfectly fine, thank you." Sherlock accepted the hand from the inspector and climbed up onto the platform, swaying yet again.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Dimmock's concern heightened when he saw the man struggle for a good intake of breath. "You look a bit peaky."
"I said I'm fine," the detective ground out, leaning heavily on the wall for a little support. "Get on with your job and I'll get on with mine."
"Then why him?" Dimmock asked, "Why victimise this man in particular?" The inspector turned his nose up at the bloody scene and beckoned the investigation team to continue on.
"The arm." Sherlock waved over to the scene. "The left arm."
"The missing one?" Dimmock frowned. The detective was looking like he was about to puke his guts up there and then. "I really think I should be calling Doctor Watson. You really don't look well."
"No." The consultant fought the urge to vomit, closing his eyes against the rising bile in his throat.
It was then that Dimmock was handed a radio from one of the underground staff.
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John rang Sherlock straight away. There was no answer, but that was no surprise. Leaving an annoyed message, he then tried Lestrade's mobile. He knew precisely what the detective would be up to, crime solving. His mind was getting bored of sitting around, and he'd almost certainly be going after any interesting case. The phone didn't connect, so John left a babbled message about his flatmate's disappearance and turned the television on for the BBC London news round up at 8.30.
"The Piccadilly Line has been shut down this morning following what seems to be two people going under trains at Hyde Park Corner and Green Park," the presenter said and the screen then showed an animated picture of the underground map, highlighting the affected stations. "The police have yet to give a statement on the matter but it is believed that the two deaths are thought to be suspicious. Police are in contact with families and are likely to give a statement later today. For now the line has been closed in both directions between Hammersmith and Leicester Square, and commuters are urged to find alternate forms of transport."
Bingo, thought John. He knew exactly where that pesky detective was off to. Sherlock couldn't resist a double murder even if he tried. He pulled his own coat off the stand then, leaving it completely bare and collected the antibiotics from the coffee table. Who knew how long they would be out for, but if John had his way the detective would be back in bed within the hour.
He hailed a taxi on Baker Street. The driver seemed in a bit of a hurry, and looked at John suspiciously when he asked to be taken to Hyde Park. As they were rounding onto Park Lane past Marble Arch, John's phone began to ring. He swiped the answer button.
"Lestrade, is Sherlock with you?"
"No." Distant as the voice of the inspector sounded on the end of the line, John could hear the bustle of people in the background. "But I rang Dimmock while I was in the tunnel. He's at the Green Park incident. He said Sherlock turned up there 5 minutes ago, said he wasn't looking too well either."
"That's no surprise." John yelped as the taxi hit a pot hole harder than necessary, jolting his broken leg. The driver looked apologetically in the rear view mirror.
"You alright?" Lestrade asked.
"Yeah, just jogged my leg that's all," John grimaced. "Listen, meet me outside Green Park. Be there in 5..." he looked out the window of the cab at the oncoming traffic jam, "Make that 10 minutes."
The inspector agreed and hung up. He was up near the station entrance, and looking at the insane traffic, decided against taking the car. He did the zip on his coat up to the top against the now steady rain and hurried along with the crowd towards the second tube station. With any luck Sherlock would be too interested in the crime scene to leave too quickly, but he wasn't holding out on it.
It took John nearly 15 minutes to reach his destination. He thanked the driver kindly, giving him a tip for being so patient in the queues. Lestrade met him a few feet from the cab. Breathless and soaking from the relentless rain, his greying hair was a mess.
"Let's go," he said, turning towards the station entrance. Luckily much of the news had spread amongst the travelling public. The crowds were far more manageable, and John seemed to be able to part some of the people with appearance of himself and his crutches. The doctor was extremely thankful that the station was one of many with disabled access, and while Lestrade took the stairs so as not to miss Sherlock, he took the lift down to the platform level, the two meeting back up at the edge of the police tape.
"Where is he?" John asked, as Dimmock moved the tape to let them through.
"He took off," he replied, "You know what he's like." The inspector looked sheepish. The doctor sagged then.
"He'll turn up John, don't worry. He's probably just got a taxi back to Baker Street." Greg squeezed his friend's arm in comfort.
The walkway this time lead practically straight onto the murder scene rather than down the opposite end. The older inspector took two steps forward and had to swallow hard at the messy sight. "Not a pretty one." Lestrade turned away, not wanting to look at the scene anymore.
John stood on the spot behind him, the packet of antibiotics in his hand. "He's not taken a single one." His voice was distant.
"Okay?" Lestrade furrowed his brows. He couldn't see the relevance for a moment.
"I knew something was wrong, but I didn't see it." John's eyes now looked distant.
"What?"
John's eyes fell on the bloody scene before him and suddenly he was there again. His eyes widened and Lestrade saw it coming this time.
"John?" he tried to rouse his friend. The doctor took in an involuntary shaky breath, his body starting to shake again. "No, no. Mate, not this again." Lestrade guided him backward and onto a platform seat. "Just close your eyes and take a deep breath." Greg held his friend by the shoulders, trying to ground him in the present. He should have known better than to bring the poor man to a messy scene like this so soon after the events of Mary.
John closed his eyes but it was worse.
Her pleading eyes met his. Skin stained with endless amounts of blood. "Please don't watch," she cried. Tears welling in her bloodshot eyes. "Please, John."
He could hear the detective's pained cries from beside him, a struggle, gunfire and sounds of metal on metal. The sight of a severed arm and blood. So, so much blood.
"I love you John," she whispered.
"John, look at me!" Lestrade was shouting in his face when John's eyes cracked open. The inspector was bracing himself for another beating but none came. Instead a trickle of silent tears made it's way down the doctor's cheeks. "John, you're here, with me. It's okay."
"She's gone," he said quietly.
"I know," Lestrade said sadly. "I know. I'm sorry."
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Sherlock staggered out of the station and into the pouring November rain. He was going to be sick, and, why was he so damn cold? A gust of wind caused the detective to shiver uncontrollably. He carried on into the park. He needed to find shelter and somewhere to read the letter. Somewhere away from the crowds and the chance of being caught up with by the detective inspector. Lestrade would surely be onto him by now. He'd go home once he'd sorted this, that way John would be less angry.
He managed it into the main park area and onto a bench tucked away, hidden behind a couple of trees. Unfortunately, the lack of leaves gave little protection from the rain. He pulled his collar up against the damp and started to shiver again. Why was he so cold? His coat would keep him warm enough against even the coldest of winters. He grunted in frustration at his useless transport and removed the envelope addressed to him from his coat pocket, shielding it from the weather. He carefully pulled the seal apart and removed the small sheet of paper from within and read it.
You will burn, Sherlock Holmes.
Moran.
Sherlock frowned at words. So Moran was not finished with his revenge just yet. The detective shivered more at the thought of their last meeting. Mary's ending.
The consultant stuffed the paper back inside his jacket angrily, taking a look at his now shuddering hands. His neck was starting to feel hot and moist, but he was still frozen. He growled at both problems like an angry dog and pulled his right hand to make a fist. Bloody transport. He pulled out his phone, tapping a quick message to his flat mate. 'Meet me in Green Park. SH.' His palms were slick with rainwater and sweat, so much so that the phone slipped from his grasp, clattering to the wet, muddy earth below.
"Damn." He bent down to retrieve it and the world tilted sideways. A bit not good then. Spots danced across his blurred vision.
"Bloody transport," he grumbled out loud this time. And the phone slipped again from his clearly weakened grasp. Bending a second time, he didn't make it back up this time. His knees hit the earth below and he swayed again. The detective's vision blurred somewhat more, before finally ceasing all together. He toppled forward, landing face forward in the grass.
