So, today is the one-year anniversary of Sang. I can't believe it's been a year since this series started! Thank you for sticking around despite my horrible updating patterns and idiotic writing. You're the best, and I appreciate it very much :)
Speaking of idiocy, I accidently gave one of the suicides two names. Clark Holders and Travis Lee were the same person, but I chose his name to officially be Travis Lee. I apologize for any confusion that may have caused.
John was slightly irritated by the woman, her invasive entrance trampling his frayed nerves.
He didn't need any more frustration; he just wanted it to stop. He wanted to stop the hostility between himself and his partner; he wanted to stop the tense silences and awkward conversations and just breathe.
Why couldn't he breathe anymore?
The woman panted and prattled about her grave misfortunes and followed John into the house, where he'd moved to retrieve Mrs. Hudson. Surely she could deal with the hysteria better than he.
Much to John's annoyance, the woman clung to him unabashedly, begging for Sherlock.
"Wait here," he'd said as he ascended the stairs. "Sherlock," he called as he entered their flat, "we've got a client."
Sherlock's apathetic mask betrayed only the slightest hint of shock and curiosity, and, had John been less familiar with the detective, he would've interpreted the scant emotion as annoyance, a mask within a mask. It was a source of great pride within the doctor, to possess the ability to read him so well.
Lestrade, however, was another story. Agitation marred his aging features, twisting them into an unpleasant grimace. He reeked of sorrow, a far cry from the professional detective inspector John had seen not five minutes prior.
What had he missed?
John was about to voice his curiosity when a shrill, trembling voice interrupted him.
"Please Mr. Holmes, you must help my husband; he's being targeted, and I don't know why," the woman rambled. "All I know is that everyone I know is killing themselves, and they're all wearing rings nearly identical to my husband's."
The doctor's irritation was smothered by grudging interest. He hadn't wanted her to be interesting (watching Sherlock kick her out would've greatly pleased him, no matter how wrong it was), but her claim seemed vital to the intriguing case. John was obligated to humor her, for Sherlock's sake.
Lestrade blinked, and his gaze flickered between the woman and the door, clearly torn between fleeing and staying. The doctor got the distinct feeling he'd missed something important, and he waited for one of them to explain.
"Go on, Lestrade," Sherlock ordered. "We'll fill you in later."
Lestrade nodded and rushed down the stairs, his pounding footsteps complimenting the tense silence. Sherlock's cold, calculating gaze swept up and down her quivering figure, though she stood resolute; she did not further wilt under his attention.
After a beat of compete silence, the detective flippantly motioned to the chair commonly associated with the clients, and John moved it out for the woman. Sherlock plopped inelegantly into his leather seat and meditatively pressed his hands together under his chin.
"So, Mrs..."
"Oliver."
"Mrs. Oliver," Sherlock continued as John sat beside him. "Why do you think your husband is being targeted? How are you related to all of the suicides?"
"Well... I myself am not related directly to all of the deceased... But I know a few of them!" She exclaimed, holding up her hands as she saw Sherlock deflate. "And I swear, the rings are copies of my husband's! My husband wears a golden ring with the Roman Numeral I."
"Rings?" Sherlock asked. "What rings?"
"Don't play dumb with me," Mrs. Oliver snapped. "Each body has worn a ring, counting down from seven."
"What makes you think that, Mrs. Oliver?" John asked. How do you know? The police withheld details of rings...
Sherlock and John exchanged a glance, the doctor's confusion mirrored under a carefully-masked expression.
Mrs. Oliver retrieved her phone from her massive purse, hands shaking. "They've been texting me pictures," she explained as she pulled them up and handed her phone to Sherlock, who held it out for John to see. There were five photos, sent from a blocked number, and all showed the golden rings on limp, wet hands. "And, after they send me a picture, they send a name."
Matthew Williams
Laura Jones
Travis Lee
Ida Michaelson
Tom Feral
"A fifth name?" John asked. "There's been another?"
"They texted me that one fifteen minutes ago. I anonymously tipped the police as soon as I got it."
Realization dawned. "That's why Lestrade left just now?"
The detective's phone chimed, and he deftly opened the message. "John," Sherlock said as his eyes flickered from the screen to the doctor. He handed John his phone, eyes ablaze with interest.
Their hands brushed as the phone was exchanged, and the doctor fought for composure. Relief and joy buzzed comfortably through his veins; however, John's happiness was short lived. Sherlock's voice faded away as the doctor stared at the screen in disbelief.
Crime scene bad- Tom stabbed his family and drowned himself for no apparent reason. -G.L.
"-and, my partner and I will investigate this," Sherlock continued. "But you need to get us your husband's ring."
"I don't think I can do that," Mrs. Oliver admitted. "He's always wearing it; I haven't seen him take it off since he got it years ago."
"Try to do it, if you can," Sherlock compromised. "It would be significantly more difficult for me to retrieve it, but I need his ring for examinations."
"I understand," Mrs. Oliver answered as she stood from her chair. "Thank you for accepting my case."
"Have you shown anyone the photos?" Sherlock asked. John rose from his seat to lead the woman out of their flat.
"No, Mr. Holmes. I've kept the information private until now, and it nearly drove me mad." The woman followed John down the stairs, focusing her attention on the doctor. "Of course, I won't tell anyone about them, but it was wonderful to get that off of my chest."
"You didn't even tell your husband?"
"Heavens, no! He wouldn't believe me if I told him that people were out to get him. Besides, my husband is a very busy man; why should I bother him with something he wouldn't believe?" Mrs. Oliver smiled, thanked John for his time, and exited the flat.
John watched her leave for a moment before he returned upstairs.
"Tomorrow we're going to visit Mrs. Oliver's home," Sherlock said as John sat across from him.
"Alright. Does Lestrade need us at the crime scene?"
"No, but I thought we should grab a bite to eat. We haven't done that in a while, don't you think?"
"We should do that," John agreed, pleasantly surprised. "Angelo's?"
Sherlock smirked. "Where else?"
They spent an hour examining the information pinned to the wall before they left for dinner, fingers entwined and peaceful silence enveloping their leisurely stroll to the restaurant. Conversation mixed pleasantly with their dining, trivial topics with little relation to the suicide case at hand. The detective ate sparsely, picking off of John's plate more than his own.
It was as if their previous altercation hadn't occurred. Though there was, in his mind, cause for concern regarding that specific argument, John ignored it for the night, unwilling to taint their date.
And, when he pulled Sherlock close in the privacy of their flat, kisses and caresses communicating what words could not, their problems escaped his mind completely.