The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
I only entertain this idea.
Looking for constructive reviews, please.
WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence, mild/harsh language, I am a cruel woman.
Author's Note: Ouch. This is one of those filler chapters that got away from me...again. Dear Lord, do I fuckin' hate Donovan. I did research on the next couple chapters, I dislike looking like an idiot about these kinds of things.
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Sherlock's attention on the animalistic serial killer had been waning greatly over the past several days as a new body hadn't turned up in well over a week. Without new evidence he couldn't make any headway. He'd picked up three small cases in the meantime, though unable to completely shake the serial killings from his mind. He paced about two two one b, occasionally thumbing the strings of his violin to help clear his mind. Suddenly he became aware of a gentle sound coming from his breast pocket and pulled out his mobile.

"Lestrade. Have something interesting for me?"

"I'd say so, we have another one, will you come?"

"Text me the address and I'll be there shortly." Sherlock hung up without waiting for a response, placing his violin in his chair. He pulled his coat from its hook and quickly made his way downstairs when Lestrade's text reached him. Notting Hill, fantastic.

The cab ride was thankfully quiet and a little longer than expected given the time of evening. The flat he arrived at was crowded with police officers, most looking sullen and conversing with each other. Sherlock paid the cabbie before making his way toward the flat.

"What are you doing here, freak?"

"Is that any way to greet an old friend, Sally?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I was asked."

"Why?"

"To help you solve your case."

"Why?"

"Because you need me." Sherlock's matter-of-fact voice turned Donovan's face ugly for a moment.

"Sending the freak in," she said into her walkie-talkie. Sherlock crossed under the blue and white police tape when Sally's voice sounded from behind him.

"How many more bodies have to be mutilated before you figure this out?" Sherlock smirked and continued into the flat. "I'm talkin' to you, freak!" she said a little louder, gripping Sherlock by the coat and wheeling him around to face her. The action made several officers around them turn, wondering about the commotion. "How many more?" she asked again, each word punctuated with anger.

"Does it help that we're more or less at the end on this escapade?" Sherlock questioned nonchalantly.

"No. It should have been over when that fuckin' note was left for you." Her voice quivered as she jabbed a strong finger into his shoulder.

Sherlock sighed, "You're welcome to look over the evidence any time and tell me your brilliant theories on the serial killer. Oh that's right, you have looked over everything and have nothing better to offer. So why don't you just let me get back to my work?" He didn't fail to notice that Sally had clenched her fist while he berated her, so when it came flying at him, Sherlock managed to block it, though he failed to avoid the heel of her opposite hand as it collided with his nose.

Sherlock stumbled backward, clutching his almost broken and bleeding nose. Sally reeled her arm back once more but stuttered to a halt when Lestrade stood between them.

"What the hell are you doing, Donovan!" Officers and civilians were craning their necks to see the commotion.

"I was making a point."

"That's it. You're off duty. Cassidy, please relieve Sergeant Donovan. Go home, Sally." Lestrade pointed a threatening finger at her, which she gaped at.

"You always take his side. Does it ever occur to you that he may be wrong?"

"On a rare occasion, yes, but he manages to get it right in the end, now get the fuck out of here." Lestrade pushed directly into Sally's face, fighting to keep his voice low and level.

"But, Sir," she tried saying but the inspector shook his head violently.

"No, Donovan, I don't care. You are dismissed. Get out." Lestrade leaned in to the sergeant; trying to overbear her in her heels, his light brown eyes fixed on her almost black orbs. Her lip quivered as her jaw tightened.

"Yes, Sir." Sally cast her threatening eyes to Sherlock as she turned to leave. Cassidy took his place where she had been, averting his gaze from the inspector; who was glaring at Donovan as she drove away.

"Show's over, everybody back to work," Lestrade ordered, turning to the bloody face of Sherlock Holmes. "She break it?"

"No, came close though." He pulled his hand away to see how much blood coated it, enough. He could feel more blood slip from his nose as Lestrade ushered him into the forensic tent. Sherlock grabbed several paper towels and pressed them to his nose while pinching his bridge in an attempt to steam the flow, the pain slowly numbing away to nothing.

"Finally got you, did she?" Anderson seethed from Sherlock's left. Lestrade eyed the tech warily, afraid more fists were about to be thrown.

"Chin up, Anderson, at least she'll assuredly have the rest of the week off while your wife is away," Sherlock jabbed, tossing the soaked towels in the biohazard bin. Anderson looked questioningly to the inspector.

Lestrade hung his head before speaking. "I've sent Donovan home."

"For hitting him!" The inflection on him wasn't lost on anyone in the tent. They all looked on as Anderson raised his voice, though Sherlock ignored him as he continued to clean his face up.

"I don't want to dismiss you as well, so keep you opinions to yourself until you're off duty. Understand?" Sherlock grinned at the force in the inspector's tone, chancing a glance at Anderson; who was fuming. He turned from the tent, snagging a fresh pair of latex gloves so forcefully the box spilled to the floor.

"Do I make myself clear, Anderson!" Lestrade half-shouted making the latter turn.

"Crystal, Sir." His voice was forcibly level and his jaw was tightly clenched.

Sherlock turned back to the inspector, an eyebrow cocked. "Oh this is going to be a fun evening isn't it?" Lestrade allowed himself a single giggle, not missing the sarcasm.

"Just what I need on this sort of high profile case." He kicked the latex gloves under the table while pulling out a fresh box. "Try not to get under his skin too much, please?" Something sarcastic almost escaped Sherlock's mouth, but he thought better of it.

"I'll try, but I can't say the same for Anderson." Satisfied with how clean his face was, Sherlock slipped a pair of gloves on and followed the inspector into the flat. It was a complete mess. Papers were tossed, chairs knocked over, and the kitchen table was sitting askew. Shards of broken glass lay strewn on the floor, occasionally crunching under a misplaced foot. As they walked further into the flat, less of the environment was disturbed until they reached the bedroom.

"My, my," Sherlock commented from the doorway. "Angry wasn't he?" The body was lying on the bed, the head barely hanging on to the rest of the body. He grinned at the corpse, already seeing things the detectives around him had failed to notice.

"Justin Miller, thirty-seven, single. Neighbors said he was a friendly man, sociable and always chatting people up. Worked at a bar in Leicester Square during the week and had a stall up in the Portobello Road Market most weekends. Neighbors said they didn't hear anything last night though." Lestrade knelt beside the bed. "Think it's our man?"

"I think it's meant to look like our man," Sherlock said with a half-smile tugging at his lips.

"What do you mean? It's the same kind of crime," Anderson offered heatedly.

"Similar, not the same. For one, the hole in the chest is far too small for our man and look, the ribs are heavily splintered. Whatever broke them took more than one hit to do it. And the y incision is too precise. Too pristine, certainly made with a knife of some sort, you'll probably find the weapon in the kitchen somewhere. Same knife caused all these defensive wounds. Now the neck." Sherlock squatted over the blood pool; his coat skirting near its edge, to hold the dead man's head in his large hands. "The wound itself is messy, meant to hide the initial cause of death. See here?" He ran his pinky along an almost invisible cut hidden in the massacre of the man's throat.

"Bloody hell. The man bled to death first and the scene was made to look like the serial killer?" Lestrade mused.

"Just so." Sherlock stood and felt his fingers beneath the man's ribs, eliciting the odd gasp from those around him. "Certainly not our man, the heart's still here. So the mystery is, why was this man killed?" He stood; pulling the bloodied latex from his hands, to look over the whole room. An awkward silence stretched long in the room as officers kept their theories to themselves.

Sherlock's brow furrowed at a distant sound. The hustle and bustle in the bedroom made hearing other things quite hard, so he walked slowly to the doorway, his head cocked to one side.

"Sherlock?" The curiosity in Lestrade's voice made him pause and cast a faraway glance in his general direction. The quiet, almost unnoticeable sound made Sherlock turn full to the hallway, listening intently for it again.

"Shut up! Everybody shut up, stop moving," he commanded. The force of his tone shocked everyone into stillness.

"What are you listening for?" Anderson droned. A quick hush was the only response he got. Somewhere in the depth of the flat a soft thump met their ears. Sherlock raised a finger at the noise and bobbed it as it sounded twice more in slow succession, then in three more quick bumps.

"It's an S.O.S. from the second floor I think." He ran off, Lestrade and two other officers on his heels. He stopped on the top landing and just listened.

"Where is it?"

"It's stopped, I can't tell. Check every room quietly." Sherlock streaked right while Lestrade instructed the officers. He walked slowly into the little spare bedroom, closing the door behind him. The state of the room itself seemed straightforward, but the few peculiarities about it caught his attention.

"Black out shades," Sherlock murmured, trying to pull them open. He looked down to the resistance in wonder. "That are bolted to the floor. Interesting." The night stand and bed were also bolted to the floor. He knelt to the floor and was suddenly wishing he hadn't peeked under the bed. An array on bondage gear had been tightly Tetrised beneath it.

"Well now, that certainly would be an interesting reason to kill him." Sherlock stood, trying both drawers on the night table, only one of them opened and; as far as he could see, there was nothing inside. He turned to the closet with a start when someone from beyond the wood whimpered. He walked briskly to the door and tried forcing them open, but they were remarkably strong and refused to yield. Sherlock pressed an ear to the wood to find, not only that is wasn't wood but that there was in fact someone on the other side.

He looked frantically around the door frame for some switch or button to open the closet, when a sudden thought snapped his head to the night table. He reached his hand into the open top drawer and felt the protruding button. Locks sprang open as he pressed it. The closet door dramatically revealed the tethered girl inside.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled. He ran to the girl, she couldn't be older than seventeen. He pulled the gasmask from her head gently and instantly recognized her as the Brooklyn debutant who had gone missing a week ago.

"My God," Lestrade whispered when he finally burst through the door.

"Get an ambulance!"