|FastForward|16012011|Play|
"There's been another one," Lestrade says just over a week later. He sounds perfectly calm, if a little tired, but Sherlock can see straight through him.
"And you think it's linked?" he asks, as Lestrade pushes the door to his office closed with the ball of his foot before moving to take his seat behind his desk, facing Sherlock with a dramatic sigh.
"Definitely looks that way. Ian Finn. Friend of the Deighton's- in fact I believe that he was the god father of the daughter, who we still haven't found by the way- have you heard anything?"
"Finn... The conductor?" Sherlock presses, cocking his head slightly to peer at the man sitting opposite him.
"Yes," Lestrade answers, forgetting the second part of his question, "Wrote a few pieces with Deighton I think. We just need to find out what this family have done to piss off whoever is killing them all."
Sherlock leans back in his chair, crosses one long leg over the other. "Can I see?" he asks, not looking straight at the Detective Inspector, but rather at the corner of his desk, "The crime scene. Can I see it?"
Lestrade nods, runs a hand through his hair.
"I'm going back up there this afternoon," he says, his tone indicating that he would really rather not, "but I'm warning you- it's fairly gruesome." He pulls out an A4 envelope and opens up the top, withdrawing several photographs from within. He hands them to Sherlock with a grim expression, leaning back to take a sip of his coffee as the other man takes it upon himself to flick through the images.
Blood stains the carpets, splatters the walls, drips in scarlet rivulets from the desk. The place has been ransacked, destroyed; lights have shattered, various documents litter the floor and the piano- the piano has been butchered. Keys have been hurled across the room, the wooden frame has been splintered, destroyed. Strings and hammers erupt from the broken frame, spewing the contents onto the floor. Sherlock flicks to the next one, not a single hint of how he might be feeling upon his face.
"Hm," Lestrade says, his tone sounding slightly guarded, "the grand piano. That's where he was found, the poor bugger."
Sherlock squints and brings the photograph closer to his face, trying to take in as much detail as he can. It looks like something out of a poorly fashioned horror film; one that spends the entirety of its' budget on special effects that have no other purpose but to aid the visual impact of the murders, often taking the blood and gore too far and adding a vaguely humorous effect to the scene. But there is nothing humorous about this particular photograph. The lid of the spectacular piano is open, and inside- inside, is a body: Ian Finn. His head is tipped back in an unnatural and grotesque way, blood trickles from the corner of his mouth; broken neck, Sherlock concludes with a glance.
"Probably choked on his own blood," he murmurs, running a finger over the image, "repulsive. But also... Interesting."
"Interesting?" Lestrade exclaims, looking vaguely sick.
"Hm..." Sherlock replies, tossing the photographs back onto the desk, not bothering to look at the others, "look at how much effort has gone into that, Lestrade. They didn't just kill him and leave, like they did to the others. It's like art." His eyes flicker back to the photographs momentarily, before darting back to the Detective Inspector. "That is, of course assuming we are dealing with the same people." He stands abruptly, the backs of his knees sending his chair back on its hind legs. "Forensics will tell us that."
"Art." Lesteade mutters, "art... Bloody... You're bloody insane, you know that?"
Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow, bringing his fingertips to his upper lip in thought. "I need to see the crime scene. The blood that's on the keys-" here, he points back to the second photograph, "is it his? Who put it there? The killers? Or was our victim here playing a last concerto, a last farewell to his work and his life." He narrows his eyes in concentration before continuing, "well… I guess in many ways, his work was his life… look at this piano, Lestrade. Look at it."
He snatches up the items, turns the photograph, holds it gently in his fingertips as he shows it to the other man:
"What about it?" Lestrade asks dully, staring at the image, still looking completely horrified, "it's a piano. With… a dead man inside it. Jesus, Sherlock, put it down."
Sherlock doesn't quite place it down on the desk, but he turns it back around, bringing it close to his face. "Old…" he murmurs, almost to himself, "very, incredibly old. He was one of the best in his field, he wouldn't just settle for something… ordinary. This piano has seen years beyond our imagination, Lestrade. Ancient, antique… probably worth hundreds and hundreds of thousands of pounds. Yet it remains… almost untouched."
Lestrade snorts; "there's a bloody great body sticking out of it, Sherlock!" he exclaims, "I wouldn't quite call that untouched…"
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"But look at it!" he says, voice rising with frustration, "Look at it! The frame hasn't been touched, there isn't a scratch on the wood-" Here, he pulls out the previous picture, flings them both onto the desk before them, "look. Look at the difference between the two. One piano- completely smashed to pieces, and the other… not."
He watches as Lestrade frowns- "what do you think it means then?" he asks, looking away from the images to stare at Sherlock, eyebrows raised and questioning.
"Absolutely no idea."
Lestrade glares at him for a moment, before gathering up the images and shoving them back into the envelope, away and out of sight.
"You're bloody creepy," he mutters, "you know that?"
"I like to call it 'thinking outside the box,'" Sherlock responds, "or being mildly intelligent. Good day, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Text me the details of the crime scene- location, time and all that."
He snaps into action, turning on his heel and striding to the door.
"What?" Lestrade asks in complete disbelief, "you're just going to leave? Just like that?"
Sherlock pauses, hand on the door handle.
"Yes." he responds simply, "I have no doubt you shall text me if you need anything."
-x-
John has always considered himself… at least 80% successful with the ladies. He likes to think himself as slightly witty, if not a 'bit less than extremely' witty and is never short of a story to tell. What with fighting in the army and living with Sherlock Holmes for God knows how long- (a lie, of course. He knows exactly when he moved in with the other man, even if he denies it until his dying day-) has been of at least some use.
But talking to Evie… it is like talking to a bloody brick wall. He has exhausted every single socially acceptable conversation starter- and some that aren't so acceptable- and has even cracked out the old, 'dreary weather, isn't it?'
Nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing. All he gets in return for his valiant attempts at civilized conversation is a slight nod, or, if he's really lucky, a 'hm.' He is this close to pulling out the 'I saved you from a God damn mob!' when Sherlock comes barging through the door.
He ignores Evie completely, or at least doesn't acknowledge her, and turns to John. "Another one," he says, "there's been another one."