(A/N: Sorry this is a little late. I've been busy with the holidays. We're getting close to the wrap up, the finish line is almost in view.)
"Sherlock, I have a bad feeling."
"You're going to need to be more specific than that, John. 'Bad' has to be one of the vaguest modifiers in the English language."
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock knew exactly what he meant; he was just being a prick. "Fine. I feel apprehensive and anxious, with a foreboding sense of impending doom." John pulled out his phone to check the time. "The last attack was one week, two hours, and thirty minutes ago. He's broken his pattern."
"Two incidences are not enough to form a pattern, John," Sherlock sighed. "Two is a coincidence, three is a pattern, four is a routine, five is inevitability." He got up to begin pacing. "Or at least, that's how I prefer to view it. Although, nothing is inevitable, not really. It's possible that the attacker chose a new hunting ground. Or that he has more self control than I could have expected."
"I'm just saying," John said patiently, "is that something feels wrong. That's all."
"Instinct is hardly credible source material."
"I don't run on facts," John said, rolling his eyes. "I am a mere mortal, and I have a tendency to listen to my gut feelings. Just to be on the safe side."
"As though you are in any danger," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes right back at John. "You're fine, just go to sleep."
John shook his head. "I can't. And curfew isn't for another half an hour. I'll take a walk, clear my head."
Sherlock made a noise of acknowledgment but went back to his computer. John put on slippers and a sweatshirt, not caring that he would be walking around in plaid pajama pants and a ratty old hoodie that had its fair share of holes.
There were still a few students milling about, most of them coming from the showers and heading back to their rooms, pajama clad and hair damp. Other than those last stragglers, John was alone, and he reveled in the brief solitude. He could pretend, if just for a moment, that he was a normal person having a normal year of school. There was no crime, no misery, no suspicion, no prejudice, and no clinically insane roommates experimenting on dead rats. All was right with the world.
Until heard a voice he had learned to hate.
"I told you these had to be printed on bright paper! We want them to be noticeable, don't we?"
Lily. John immediately backed off and began heading in the direction he had come from. Unfortunately, the approaching footsteps meant that Lily was headed in that same direction. John fought the urge to run away, knowing that would only make the situation worse. A confrontation was likely unavoidable.
"Oy! John Watson!"
John turned around and saw Lily standing belligerently with a stack of white paper, flanked by some of her followers.
"Hello," John said, pleasantly enough. "Could I help you with something?"
"What's the Freak up to?"
"Sherlock is in our room, running some experiments."
"Is it safe to leave him alone?"
John threw his hands up. "Always the possibility he could blow stuff up, but I think that's my biggest concern. I don't understand why you think there could be something more."
"Sherlock Holmes is dangerous," Lily said, rolling her eyes as though it were obvious. "Everyone has been waiting for him to snap."
"Yeah, well, that day may yet come, but it hasn't happened yet. You know how I know that? I was with him during both of the attacks. He couldn't have done it."
Lily hugged the flyers closer to her chest. Her followers were beginning to mutter to each other. John sighed, suddenly more than ready to go to sleep.
"It's just a little weird," Lily said, as John turned away, "that these attacks happen as soon as the Freak gets a new roommate."
"Now what are you implying?" John demanded, falling for the obvious bait.
"That you, John Watson, are not the most reliable source for an alibi. You could have easily had something to do with it."
"I'm going to bed," John said, turning around again. "I've had enough of this crap for the day."
"We're going to catch him soon enough!" Lily called as John turned the corner. He returned to the room with a defeated sigh, sinking down onto his bed and wondering how all of this had happened.
"Have a run in with our classmates?" Sherlock asked, looking up from tuning his violin. John just grunted. Sherlock grinned and picked up his rosin and bow.
"Why are people so stupid?" John finally asked.
Sherlock smiled. "Welcome to my existence."
…
John overslept. Perhaps it wouldn't have looked so bad if he had gotten up on time, but, unfortunately, he had slept in too late.
He had missed the big commotion.
He had been conspicuously absent.
As was Sherlock, who had uncharacteristically fallen asleep at his desk, sheer exhaustion overtaking him after a week with very little sleep.
They were woken only by a pounding at their door. John startled awake first, groggily checking the time, cursing loudly, and getting up to open the door, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Sherlock, meanwhile, was slowly resurfacing into consciousness.
Greg was at the door, looking exhausted and distraught.
"What's wrong?" John slurred, still fuzzy from sleep.
"Christ, are you two just waking up?" Greg demanded, checking the hallway for passerby before shutting himself in the room. Sherlock sat up in his desk, rubbing his neck and looking mortified to be caught doing something as mundane as sleeping.
"Oh, bloody hell," John said, recognizing the familiar distress. "Who? When?"
"Lily Hernandez," Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in several directions. "She was found in the science wing at about two in the morning. Some security guard was doing a patrol when he saw her. She was half dead, nearly bled out, apparently. It took them a while to clean everything up."
"Oh, Christ," John said, sitting back down in his bed. "Oh, Jesus. Is she alright?"
"She's in the hospital, but it's my understanding she got there in time. And not to be insensitive, but that's not exactly the issue." He gave Sherlock and John a hard look. "She was one of the biggest crusaders against you two. And, you were missing all morning. Whether or not you have alibis, the student body has already made up their mind. They want someone to blame and since you two weren't exactly there to defend yourselves…"
"Oh, hell." John moaned. "Oh, to hell in a riverboat, this is bad."
Sherlock stretched, "I don't suppose that taking a sick day is really an option?"
"Not necessary," Greg said. "The school is on lockdown until the police finish things up. No class. But it would do you a world of good to get out there and save face."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's far too late for that, Lestrade," he sighed, and added sarcastically, "world of good it would have done us anyway."
…
"Jeez, if I had thought that it was bad before…" John said, feeling the heat of a hundred glares on his face.
"I'm fairly certain that any and all plans you had for joining the rugby team have been shot to hell," Sherlock grimaced. "Maybe at Uni?"
John snorted. "If I live long enough to get there. They look ready to burn us at the stake."
It was barely a hyperbole. Sherlock and John had agreed after about forty seconds of walking down the hallways that they would be using a buddy system until the atmosphere lightened some, just for the sake of safety.
"Oh, Lord," Sherlock sighed, the second they passed the threshold of the science wing. "If it isn't my three favorite people in the entire world."
Like a trifecta winning the race of malevolence, Inspector Grayson, Anderson, and Donovan were standing together, Anderson and Donovan evidently relaying all they knew about the victim and likely handing over a few theories on the suspect.
"Ugh, a week without Anderson has been too brief," Sherlock sneered. "I wonder what hole he finally decided to crawl out of."
"I'm within earshot, Freak!" Anderson protested.
"Shut up Anderson, you're making the police officers even stupider." Sherlock adjusted the lapels on his blazer and strolled down the corridor as though he belonged there.
"Back off, Holmes," Grayson sighed, sounding more resigned than belligerent for once. "I really don't need you here."
"I'm running my own investigation," Sherlock explained. "I only require a moment to observe the layout of the crime scene."
"No."
"Jenny Tanner has hired me to look into her case," Sherlock lied smoothly. "I am operating on a professional basis."
"No."
"It would take less than a minute."
"No."
"I just want to see the pooling patterns of the blood. Provided you haven't mopped it all up yet."
"No."
Sherlock clenched his jaw. John recognized the sign of lost temper and decided to step in before they got arrested.
"Please, sir," John said, giving his best impression of a kicked puppy. "You can't be ignorant of what the students are saying. We just want to clear our names. We're being harassed and slandered and no one is doing anything to help us. You can escort us if you would like."
Inspector Grayson looked John up and down. "Do I know you? Who are you?"
"John Watson, sir."
"You're friends with Sherlock?"
"Yes sir."
"Sherlock made a friend?"
"Evidently, sir."
"Huh. Miracles do happen." Inspector Grayson picked at his walrus mustache as he thought. "Alright, but only because I know Sherlock couldn't have done this."
"Will all due respect, sir," Anderson interrupted in his stupid whiny voice, "I think that is a bad idea. Sherlock Holmes is a known psychopath."
"He's a sociopath, lad," Grayson corrected him. "I know. I was the one who had him tested. I had him profiled too, just in case. This doesn't match Sherlock. He wouldn't rape, he'd kill. And he would make it confusing and senseless for the sole purpose of ruining my life. Throw in a homicide and some twisted MO's and I'd be suspicious, but this…" he shook his head. "This is your average sicko. Sherlock would be much worse."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Sherlock said drily. "I just want to see the area. And I promise I'll tell you anything that I notice."
Inspector Grayson gestured for Sherlock to follow, and he took them to the end of the science room, near the useless door to the greenhouse and Mr. Henderson's room.
They had already cleaned up the blood (to Sherlock's immense disappointment) but there were outlines placed with tape indicating where everything had been found and where the pooling had stopped. Grayson commented that they had taken pictures, but when offered Sherlock only spared them a cursory glance.
"What was she wearing?" Sherlock asked.
"Her uniform."
"She never went to bed, then," Sherlock said. "If she had been taken from her room, she would have been in her pajamas. If she had been sneaking out, she likely would have dressed casually."
"Confirms what her roommate said," Grayson commented.
"Izzy said she never came back?" John frowned. "Well, I saw her at around eleven forty five, and she was completely coherent. Still had some friends with her. But I guess she couldn't have been drugged much later than then."
"The blood pooled far," Sherlock commented, running his finger over the tape indicating the edge of the puddle. "Did she suffer multiple lacerations?"
"Nasty slashes on her back and her chest. Didn't cut her open, but they'll leave big scars."
"I'd have to examine the cuts to be sure, but I hypothesize she was left her thirty minutes. But more than that," Sherlock said, straightening up and examining the walls, "she was dumped here. She was raped somewhere else."
"What makes you so sure?" Grayson asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.
"Slashes," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "It's obvious. There would be splatter marks around the halls if this is where he cut her up. She was at least brutalized somewhere else, but it doesn't appear that there were any...disruptions to the pooling while she would out here. Meaning, she was left motionless and unconscious. And I don't know if she was dragged here because the attacker could have used a tarp or-" Sherlock's eyes went wide. "The dirt!"
He immediately looked down and cursed. "Let me guess, your team swept up?"
"Yes."
"Idiot. There was a dusting of potting soil here yesterday. There would have been visible drag marks."
Grayson picked at his mustache.
"I suppose I should thank you for the look around," Sherlock sighed, "but honestly this has been useless. It's only confirmed that the attacker is continuing to escalate. And it leaves more questions. I need to run some tests. I'll see you later."
Sherlock left John staring at a very annoyed Detective Inspector.
"Thank you," John said with a smile. "It was...surprising that you let us back here."
"Yeah, well," Grayson said, deflating a bit. "I hate the little prick, but Sherlock's a lot smarter than I am, and unless we find something soon more and more girls are going to get hurt. Just...don't get into any situations that make me look bad, alright?"
"Alright," John promised, and hurried after Sherlock before anyone could try to lynch the man.
…
Something was wrong.
AGAIN.
"What's happening?" John asked Mrs. Hudson, who was standing outside of their dorm room with her head in her hands.
"I really thought we were passed this," was all she said.
John went in to find Professor Garret, Greg, a few security guards, and Sherlock, the latter of whom was yelling at everyone.
"This is ridiculous! I. Am. Clean. How hard is it for you to understand that simple statement?" Sherlock's face was beginning to turn red.
"What's going on?" John asked, moving to Sherlock's side.
"Drug bust," Greg declared cheerily. John looked at the security personnel, who were rifling through everything.
"We're just looking for anything unusual," Professor Garret said in a way that was probably supposed to be calming. "Just trying to put some minds at ease. I'm sure we won't find anything."
"I tipped him off," Greg said with just as much cheer in his voice.
"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demanded.
Greg shrugged. "Because people think that you're a rapist."
"That's not a valid reason!"
"Yes it is," Greg insisted. "If we search your room officially and don't find anything that indicates you're a rapist, we can all go home and tell everyone you're innocent. Also, I'm pissed at you for not answering your phone. I wanted to talk to you about Lily."
"Yes, Lily," Professor Garret sighed. "Apparently one of the last things she remembers is talking to Mr. Watson. This is for his sake as well."
"So you're staging a drug bust to clear us of rape?" John asked, looking for confirmation that he was understanding the ridiculous situation.
"Yes," Greg said. "We need reasonable suspicion to start searching a student's room. And fortunately for us, Sherlock has a record that makes this perfectly ethical. Have you found anything yet?"
"Just some weird chemicals."
"Unless you want to melt your flesh, don't play with any of it," Sherlock added as a guard picked a plastic bottle that John knew contained hydrochloric acid. (He had been given a sort of orientation regarding Sherlock's chemicals in order to ensure he didn't accidentally kill himself.) "Seriously. That's a particularly aggressive dilution. Don't touch."
"Will it really melt me?" the guard asked, examining the bottle.
"Parts of you. It could just give you severe burns, though."
The guard set it down quickly.
"Are these...human eyes?" another asked.
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "They're goat eyes. Notice the distinctive pupil."
"Do we have guidelines regarding having that sort of thing in the room?" Professor Garret asked Greg.
"I don't think that the rules were made with Sherlock in mind," Greg pointed out.
Professor Garret looked three hundred percent done, but didn't say anything else.
"Are you satisfied?" Sherlock finally asked, when the security guards came up with nothing. "Have you proven your point?"
"Well, since neither drugs, related paraphernalia, or anything that relates you to the attacks has been found, I think we can all go home," Greg said, sounding pleased with himself. "Hey, don't look at me like that, Sherlock. This has cleared your name some; it puts in a good word for you, at least."
"If facts were relevant to the idiots in the student body," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "then I wouldn't be accused in the first place. All you've done is waste everyone's time."
"I'll explain it to Mrs. Hudson," Professor Garret said as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. "The poor thing is positively panicked."
After a few awkward farewells, the boys were left alone in their room. John leaned up against the wall, too tired to continue to support himself.
"How many times have they had to do that?" John finally asked, after Sherlock had begun reorganizing his chemistry set. "How many times have they searched this place for heroin?"
Sherlock gave one bark of humorless laughter. "Heroin? Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not an opium addict who hides his drugs in his slipper. It was always cocaine and they never found any. I'm very good at hiding things."
"Do you have any in here?"
"Oh, shut up."
"I mean it, Sherlock," John said, pushing himself off the wall and approaching his roommate. "Is there anything here I need to know about?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not, John. I'm clean. Do I look like someone who would lie to save face?"
John bit his lip and cleared his throat, but didn't say anything.
"Furthermore," Sherlock said, finally turning away from his mess, "I think you would notice if I were displaying signs of either using or withdrawal. You aren't unfamiliar with the symptoms of substance abuse."
"No, I'm not," John snapped. "Which is why this bothers me so much! After everything I've been through, after eighteen years of living with people who were destroying themselves with the chemicals of their choice, why would you think for a second that I would be okay living with another addict?"
Sherlock's expression closed off and he turned away again.
"I'm not going to pretend that I understand everything about you, John," Sherlock finally said, his voice rough. "Even I don't know everything. But I understand that the people in your life have let you down in the past." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I don't intend to do that to you."
John was shocked into silence, wondering if something so compassionate, something so filled with sentiment, of all things, had ever passed Sherlock Holmes' lips before.
"Right," John finally said, trying to speak past the lump in his throat. "Right. Good, that. Thank you."
"You're welcome, John."
…
The attacker was, for the first time in a long while, content. He had admired Lily for quite some time, and it was a pleasure to finally see the girl shut up for a few minutes.
And the best part was, everyone seemed to think that Sherlock Holmes was the one responsible. The little fools. Anyone could tell that Sherlock didn't have what it took. He was one of the good guys. In fact, he was probably one of the best men on campus, yet everyone insisted on seeing him as nothing but a villain.
But the attacker knew. He saw the same purity and innocence in Sherlock as he had seen in his other victims. And Sherlock…
Sherlock really did have the most lovely eyes, didn't he? The ivory skin, the inky black hair, those full lips, and those absolutely ridiculous cheekbones. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock Holmes looked simply delicious.
Just like candy.