A/N: God this chapter. This freaking chapter. I swear I had it done and it was long before editing and only got longer after it. It was tedious but as I got to the end I felt the need to stay up really late so I could upload it for all of you! 12000 words. That's a lot for me guys since I have been doing nothing but 5000 to 8000 worded chapters for the past few.
Okay, because I have a feeling that this specific individual had a toll on my long chapter, I want to thank fictionfairytalesfantasy4921 for your absolutely lovely review. I have thanked you a lot in my replies, but the moment I read your review I felt the need to try and not disappoint you! Especially since you thought my story was good and I think it is rubbish! ^^ Thank you, my dear.
So, long chapter. A lot of errors no doubt. A lot of... other stuff here and there.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Muse Ch. 21
The "practice" didn't stop there as I thought it would. It seemed Sherlock wanted to pursue those "sessions" even further. Each different in action but no less frustrating for myself. He saw it as practicing for the future party. I, however, saw it as a cruel sense of humor that fate had set upon me.
His expression may have portrayed some sort of passionate expression, but I knew it wasn't real. None of it was. The touches or whatever nonsense he decided to deliberately spiel every now and then. Every time, it was no less easy for me. Every time, I wanted to tell him about my possible feelings for him. But I didn't. I never did. I endured it in silence or small amounts of teasing.
Because the second I confessed those thoughts I knew something would change. Perhaps I was being selfish for this but I didn't want some sort of bloody wall separating us simply because of his scientific mind and my "human" one. It was preposterous. So I played along with his little acts. It was easier being completely ignorant to being overly-sensitive.
When he insisted that I hold his hands up to the flat, I did. Without complain. Without cursing. Without staggering glares. No, I let his large hand intertwine with my own and mused over how his hand was like a skeleton. I was not thinking nearly the same notions in my mind. It was elsewhere. I couldn't help the thought that his hands felt nice and secure when they intertwined with my own. An anchor to the dark cloud.
The same one that has been following me for a while now. I was waiting for it to hit me with rain, but every time it rumbled Sherlock would do something that acted as an umbrella to its depressing waves of anxiety and apprehension. It was the bitter sweet feeling of his little "sessions". Again, a cruel sense of humor might I say.
When his fingers lingered lovingly on my forearm as he told me he would place my attire on my bed, I ignored the fact that those warm fingers still left traces when it was gone. It was as if my eyes had little heat sensors that noticed his warm padded finger tips on my arm when they were no longer there. I simply cursed my stupidity and placed it aside.
I had little rest from his pursuits. Wrapping his arm around my waist or kissing my cheek. He had a list of acts and they were front and center when he needed them. I wished desperately to have the sight to peer into his mind so I could have at least prepared myself but I was only human. For once, I actually regretted it. I suppose people weren't necessarily wrong when they said that nothing hurts more than lingering on unreciprocated love.
My shower was the only brief period of relaxation and melancholy for the crushed, unrequited feelings I felt. A place for introspection and placing my priorities in order.
Afterward it resumed with him kissing my forehead as he went to take his shower. I rubbed furiously at the spot afterwards, hoping to get rid of the feeling with it. After a while the feeling hadn't faded and I had a red mark on my forehead full of irritated skin from my actions.
I dressed slowly and was fixing the cuffs when Sherlock came in with only his trousers on. A towel was draped around his neck, catching all drops of water that dripped from his drying locks. He had a purple shirt in his hand regardless of the fact that I said I would choose. I didn't complain and instead rose my brow at him, questioning his judgment. I would never admit that the shirt was one of my favorites.
Peering at the shirt a little longer, I felt a giggle slip through my throat as I noticed a small detail he seemed to have missed.
"You do know that the shirt is inside out, don't you Sherlock?" I snickered slightly and Sherlock furrowed his brow. He didn't look confused. He looked somewhat annoyed actually. For some reason that made it a little funnier than it probably should have been.
"Yes," he replied stiffly.
"And you are fine with that I'm going to assume?"
He grimaced, "For your information, I find the sewn edges and collar rather uncomfortable and irritable. It rubs against my neck awkwardly and feels like sandpaper is scratching against my body with every movement I make. I don't see how you can stand it."
I couldn't help it. I laughed at his discomfort.
"What?" He demanded and his distant gaze turned to a glare.
I shook my head, "Nothing. I'm just finding it really something that of all things to have bothered you, it is the seams of clothing - and shirts at that. For some reason that doesn't seem to fit your character." I giggled a little more and Sherlock sighed. His glare softened and I thought I saw a faint smile. Wait, no. That has to be my imagination.
Well, imagination or not, I needed to go help this incapable detective before he does something even more… interesting.
Walking over to the tall man, I huffed at his height and moved him over to my little desk chair where I forced him to sit. He gave little resistance and sat quietly. Grabbing the shirt, I draped it over the back of the chair and grabbed the towel. I threw it over his head and began to scrub his head of all water. He muttered noises of annoyance but made no move to stop me.
While he tried to brush his hair, I began to turn the shirt right side in, regardless of the complaints next to me. He cursed every time he felt a knot in his locks and I would chuckle as I fumbled with the buttons he somehow managed to loop inside out.
Did he button these things first and then turned them inside out? No, that couldn't be it. He still had to put this shirt on and these shirts fit quite tightly on his form. No way could he have managed that. Then how did he…?
I began to growl angrily as one little button refused to come out. Really. One. The last one. The others were hardly a challenge but this one was clawing at the hole with all its might.
Sherlock peered over the shirt at my twitching fingers, "Problem?"
"No no. Not at all," I sighed with irritation, "I just hate your habits is all." I continued to mutter but it was really only little curses and words that were pointless to understand.
Sherlock was thinking and I found myself meeting his eyes with a raised brow.
"Yes? May I help you?"
Sherlock grinned before leaning in to kiss me softly on the lips, not at all like the heated session in the dressing room. I blinked and was fighting the urge to lean in and deepen it. After a minute of my crumbling resolve and his persistence, he backed away with a confused expression.
"That's odd," he looked up at me in the eye and his expression went blank so I wouldn't see what he was possibly thinking of. I wasn't blind. I could tell he was analyzing what went wrong with his "session".
Might as well humor him.
"Hm? What's odd?" I questioned slowly as I attempted to control my heart rate and potential flushed face. I decided avoiding his stare was best and began working on the button again, pleased when it came out easier. The pleasure faded to a smidgeon of annoyance when I realized it Sherlock's kiss had possibly affected it. I began to question if my stress from earlier was what made it so difficult but Sherlock caught my attention with the one word you don't hear from him often.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" I scoffed. Yeah right. A child with crumbs on his face could lie better. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm not a bloody idiot. I know it's not nothing."
"It's nothing that pertains to you," he grumbled and I rolled my eyes.
"Yes but it pertains to you no doubt and I quite frankly don't trust you with yourself. If it is your problem then it is my problem. That is that." I got a glare but shrugged. His habits made me question leaving him alone even if it was "recreational".
"Later."
When I looked up, he was staring directly at me. I was a little disappointed at the void of emotion that was presented, but I expected it. He would never show his true feelings; especially to a man like me who is probably nothing more than a flat mate to him.
Still, the sincere way he said the word made it seem like it was a promise. Like he vowed to tell me what was on his mind. It was surprising and utterly relieving at the same time.
I felt something warm press itself against my cheek and fought the urge to flinch away. While I was distracted, Sherlock plucked the shirt out of my fingers and slipped it on with ease, only making minor grumbles to the uncomfortable seams it apparently had. He buttoned the little translucent buttons within seconds and had his last piece on within the following seconds. I quickly did the same and we looked ourselves briefly in the reflection of one of the windows.
"So, do we have names?" I questioned casually, avoiding the topic I knew was inevitable.
"Yes. Apparently I am Mr. Sanders and you are Mr. Daniels. Simple enough. We might as well start now so we react to them quickly, specifically you."
I nodded slowly, "Sounds good. What about the murderer? Anything on him you can observe off the top of your brilliant head Sher- er… Mr. Sanders?" I didn't like the way it rolled off my tongue. It was unnatural. Foreign. I'm sure mine was the same.
"Naturally he is craving attention. Not his first murder if he is so confident on this certain scene. Maybe his finale. Perhaps he's actually trying to get caught. That would be spectacular. Alas, the fact he has it planned and hasn't revealed any hints as to who he will conveniently kill, he is not too fond of being found out. He craves attention without people knowing that it is he they are looking for. Amateur."
"So this is all for the kicks and looks?" I asked him and he grimaced a little at my words. I didn't bother correcting myself and tugged on my collar slightly to loosen it instead.
"I was hoping for a better vernacular but yes. He is doing it for the attention and he is going to pull it off fantastically. Especially since nobody will suspect him anyhow." Glancing out the window, he spotted a black cab pulling up and motioned for me to follow him. Questions flew in the air as we descended the stairs.
"You speak like you know who he is or at least who to look for," I hastily mentioned and he smiled.
"You know me all too well Mr. Daniels. Yes, I do have a generalization as to who to look for. A brief, dry generalization that I would rather not make certain at this point. It's like giving an unproved theory if you will but that's beside the point. Now, I have to wait for him to present himself. I'm to going to derail him immediately." Closing the door behind us, I shook my head at his excitement but copied his grin.
"Well, Mr. Sanders, I must say that we will be having quite a night at this party now shall we?" Sherlock glanced at me before chuckling. He seemed to know something I didn't but he wasn't going to tell me. I hated it when he did that. Especially with this kind of case.
But I let him be, for once and only this once. After all, I felt any quarrels would end the fact he was holding my hand at this very moment. My pride was briefly locked behind a shuddering door just to keep this.
God I am becoming a stupid school girl if this pursues any further. Bloody hell.
Nonetheless, I didn't say anything and didn't make any expressions to show I knew we were holding hands. I didn't know when I would have the excuse to do this again after this event.
I sighed sadly and Sherlock squeezed my hand. That only made the sadness worse.
"Yes. Quite."
The party was absolutely stunning in a completely terrifying way.
The second we walked in, all eyes were trained on Sherlock and me in a mixture of curiosity and confusion. It might have been the fact that Sherlock had his arm secured around my waist or the possibility that he was undeniably stunning in his simple, orthodox attire. I've lost count how many females zeroed in on him in lust however it would soon change to disappointment when they saw our "relationship".
Ha, relationship.
It wasn't even fair this relationship. The smiles and other affectionate nonsense was all an act. I don't know where the change of "flatmate" to "futile crush" occurred, but now it was taking its toll. Clearly he wasn't getting any signals of my current situation. Perhaps because I wasn't acting at all different from my usual personality. I have the military profession to thank for that I suppose.
I wasn't jealous of those he shared smiles with, thank god. I'm not the kind of person. I didn't mind people staring at him at all really but that was probably because I knew Sherlock would never get into a relationship at all, broad or male. Nobody would ever suit him.
And that conjecture includes myself.
Nonetheless, I couldn't help but to be angry at my heart for falling for a man who prefers experiments and decomposed body parts to flesh and blood that is still pumping freely.
A squeeze pulsed through my hand and I felt it clench my heart 100 times harder. Damn it. I looked at him, the mixture of paranoia and annoyance falling behind a facade. For some reason I felt too many people knew about us, about the pretense this relationship had. There were too many eyes, and too many curious glances. Thoughts of being found out followed suit.
'A small panic attack,' my mind supplied helpfully but solemnly. 'You need to calm down before you make a scene. Sherlock will know. Would you like him too?'
My breath hitched but it was so faint that nobody would have noticed it. You could compare it to the sound of perhaps the volume of padding silently across the floors. Silent in the sense that it is only heard if you zero in on it. I have done the same to my panic attacks over time. This because I have practiced this. For a while.
'But you still haven't lessened them have you?' No, I suppose not. According to Sarah, they should have lessened to one every few months by this point but it's still the same. She is probably thinking it is Sherlock's fault and that may be true but I am also at fault for I follow him willingly and with adrenaline filled veins.
'Those same veins that are coursing panic and fear?' The very same veins that constrict when I think of Sherlock's expression and reaction to my mild attack.
But I could never fool the otherwise oblivious detective.
When my attack started, I could feel my pulse quickening thickly. Each vibration coursed through me like the sea, wave after wave, each bigger than the last. The steps that were so steady and placid before were now sluggish and a tad off center. A path was created and it was going to result in a falter. I still tried to act normal, but it is hard when your body seems to be so bloody against you tricking others.
"John? What's wrong?" And he thought I was going to be the one to mess up on names? Now we will definitely be found out if we haven't already. Paranoia was slithering like a snake around my lungs and throat and it made it difficult to breathe. Too difficult.
People were murmuring and pointing and every finger felt like it was somehow on me. A misdirected arrow. I felt cornered. The snake licked my cheek to elicit the past into my present. It was a brief moment, but it still created a larger wave to flow through my veins unsteadily. This was like when Moran came up to me. Like the accusatory higher operatives who still generally believe him despite what they expressed.
Sherlock didn't slow down at all from before. He kept a normal speed and ushered me quietly through the crowd. Blurs of artificial beautiful women and fake handsome men passed by in a string of color and black.
"John. Focus." That is what I have been doing. Am I not doing it well enough? Will it be my fault? Again? No, quit those childish thoughts! You're a soldier, no, a captain. You are captain John Hamish Watson and declining down to the status of a humble creature is not who you are. "You're not in danger. You're not around the captains. You are here. With me. At this harmless party with idiotic and boring women and even more tedious men. Here, think of my hand as an anchor." He was actually being considerate. Why now of all times. An act?
Even though my thoughts were tearing his words to shreds and half the meaning they contain, I still hung on every word and listened to him. His voice was soft but stern. So low that only I could hear him. With every pause in his phrases he would squeeze my hand. I never returned the favor, wanting to keep personal and work as far from each other as I could manage.
After a few minutes I relaxed and my vision began to clear up. Paranoia still ate at me but not as much and certainly not as obvious.
'A mild attack' Yes that was a mild attack. A mild attack and yet I have a feeling that to Sherlock that was a serious one since I never let him catch me successfully in the middle of one. Now, I didn't have that shroud. Thank god clarity was beginning to sharpen my mind and lock my fears away temporarily. If I was acting odd before, I must have looked even more suspicious since I was now smiling amiably and nodding my head to those who gave me questionable looks.
That was good because Sherlock was watching me carefully. Like he was the doctor of the pair. Like he knew what he was doing and knew exactly what to say. I didn't like it. This sort of stand was in my expertise and I didn't like to be looked down in that sort of light. I preferred the detective's "look of disdain", not a textual mutual concern.
I was about to tell him I was perfectly and undoubtedly fine, but a familiar face showed up. I fought against my habits of flinching from sudden contact when a finger traced my cheek and jaw line. Not a second later red lips and a pixie cut followed with a beautiful woman in a long red gown made only for the red carpet. Of course, I valued her danger more than beauty so I didn't fall for the leer she offered. Far from it.
"Bonjour Mr. Sanders and Mr. Daniels," the words formed on her lips like she has known us for a long time. They didn't falter or grimace. "Enjoying the service I hope? I personally wished we had better musical entertainment," she looked directly at me, "but I suppose this dainty, unattractive tune will have to work."
Sherlock and I smiled but it was all an act. We have to show we were friends for the sake of this case.
"Miss Dubois," I greeted slowly, performing the customary kiss on the hand for women of her stature. I swear I saw Sherlock grimace but that was probably because he saw no purpose in me performing such actions. Yeah that's it. I still made a smug grin when I peered over and his lips were tightened. In a way, it could have counted as an act since I was his lover at the time.
And lovers tease each other, do they not?
'Stop thinking those sort of thoughts, John. It is completely not what you should be concentrating on. That being looking normal and not like you were a soldier assumed MIA and forgotten'
Right. The case. Acting normal. Taking a deep breath, I sighed and replaced my passive face with a smile.
You have to play this right, Watson.
"Miss Dubois," I rephrased with an amiable tone in my voice, "How have you been?" I attempted for common talk, but it seems Sherlock was on a whole other tangent from what I aimed for. Then again we were never on the same page to begin with.
"Miss Dubois please refrain from making a scene. I would rather get on with the case than try and 'Look the part'. Do you have any suspects for this case? Any of which I should be concerned of and determine?" He didn't say it loudly, but I still scowled at him for practically revealing who he was without outright saying his name. So subtle. Let me tell you this one.
Miss Dubois didn't seem to be bothered by it. In fact, she seemed actually pleased that he wanted to get into this quickly.
"There are too many to decide upon Mr. Sanders."
Sherlock scowled deeply at this, "I don't have all night Miss Dubois. You want me to decide who this supposed mystery murderer is? You will have to present me with a body."
Almost as if on a cue, a scream rang out. None of us hesitated in wondering what it was of because we were gone in an instant, Sherlock leading the way. When all three of us rushed to the location, it was in one of the bedrooms. The class didn't matter nor the decorations in the extremely lavished room. No, everything was on the victim who was currently sprawled on a bed.
It wasn't a gruesome murder. Quite the contrary, it seemed fit for a presentation.
A male, possibly not older than his mid-20s, was lying on his back on the comforter. In his heart was a meat cleaver. No signs of struggle. No other evidence except that this murderer seemed to have tastes for design and presentation as mentioned before. The blood that seeped around the body was previously used with maybe a paint brush to create intricate swirls around the wound and corpse.
That being said, it wasn't the murder that seemed off. It was the people who viewed it. No one shed a single tear for the man or murmured how he was possible great. Nobody looked like they cared. Yes, they were surprised. Yes, they thought it absolutely strange. No, they didn't really care about anyone who wasn't themselves. All I heard was "Will I be next?" or "Will this affect the stature and rate of the party?" It was pitiful and disgusting.
But that was the royalty and those in high places. It makes me increasingly glad that I never became subjected to this sort of emotionless torture.
Sherlock didn't seem to care, as expected, and immediately walked towards the body. Everybody didn't seem to pay attention to him. Most had dwindled out and only the staff remained. One, a stout looking woman, seemed almost as disturbed of the murder and state of the attendants as I was. She was the only one to actually deliver effective orders which were mainly to call the Yard and have them bring a squad. She was about to get Sherlock away from the body, but I stopped her.
"He's a... detective. Trust me. If anybody will find your murderer, it will be him." She eyed me for a moment, looking for something I must have lacked compared to the others – no surprise there – before nodding and walking out the room to meet the eventual Yard officers.
"You forgot something Mr. Daniels."
I met his gaze, surprised, "And what would that be? I didn't even think you would be listening since a body was placed with a ribbon at your doorstep."
He rolled his eyes, "It's nearly impossible when all the idiocy wouldn't shut up for five seconds. Too much stupid in the room makes for an invalidated thesis and pointless clues. Anyhow, you got my title wrong. I'm not a simple detective."
"I know. I know. You are a consulting detective. The only one in the entire world," I spoke exaggeratedly and I saw a small smile quirk at his lips while he inspected the body.
I watched him walk around the bed slowly, looking above and below the furniture as if looking for something. He probably was. I decided to remain where I was. If he needed my input, I will give it but he appeared to have it under wraps.
"What would you make of this, Mr. Daniels?" Sherlock proposed, not moving away from the corpse. Nearing it myself, I began my own prognosis.
"He was killed by the meat clever in his heart. Since his skin is still bodily temperature, I would assume this happened no longer than 10 minutes previous to our arrival. The man seems to have no health ailments or deficiencies to speak of. Lastly, judging by the lack of damage on his hands or other, he didn't put up a fight on the intruder but I would assume he was possibly going to sleep." I peered up to Sherlock and he nodded. His eyes were analyzing everything this body had that I couldn't see. I took this as a cue to back away for the moment until he is ready.
"I suppose speaking to him in this state is pointless?" Turning around, Miss Dubois was leaning elegantly against the entryway, pursing her lips in thought.
"Like speaking to a deaf man," I agreed habitually.
She hummed in response and walked over to the deducing detective. I was about to stop her when she softly spoke, "What do you see Mr. Sanders? Do you see murder or do you see a reliever?"
Remaining silent, I observed silently. I was curious myself and... maybe it will help me get over this stupid crush if I realize he doesn't recognize people as people. On the other hand, it could get worse
"Neither. I don't see murder nor do I see a boredom 'reliever' as you put it. I see a man who has clearly been killed by an individual in the culinary arts. That's neither murder nor relieving." I smiled at his response. Poker face as always but his mouth also twitched upwards when he glanced in my direction.
And my heart stayed where it was. Damn it.
"Ah, good answer Mr. Sanders. Very good," she looked directly at me and I knew she had him answer this for my benefit. I didn't trust her. She certainly didn't care for me, of all people. I didn't see her objective in this. "Now I must return to the party. It seems I have quite a few people who wish to try and woo me as you say. Quite pathetically might I add."
She was about to walk out when she paused and looked at us, "Oh, and please don't let any of the attendees touch the body. To vaguely put it, I don't believe words will keep them out." We didn't have to question what she meant. It was obvious. Painfully clear.
With a little wave of her hand, she was gone in a blink of red.
"Bloody hell," I cursed, sighing. "Why now of all times? Mr. Sanders, you don't have to do it. It's fine. Let's just think of something to tell the staff and -" I stopped mid-sentence when I felt the air leave me, my body backed up against the wall.
"Yes, but I suppose this would be easier," he mused emotionlessly. I said nothing, trying to keep my thoughts off his beating heart against my chest, his warm skin, his blue eyes, and the familiar scent of coffee that never left him. Damn it. Does he know that this isn't fair? Because it isn't. Definitely isn't. He's a bloody detective. He probably knows I feel this way by this point and is teasing me. Damn him. Damn this. Damn Miss Dubois.
But I didn't push him away. I probably should have but I didn't.
"How would it be easier? Just think of something to say. Deduce their life story," I huffed, noticing Sherlock getting closer. I couldn't back away, the wall pressing against my back.
"Ah, but how do they say it? A picture is worth a thousand words?" He smirked and I sighed, defeated.
"Fine. But once they are gone, we stop." I glared at him and his sly grin only seemed to widen as he nodded.
Here we go. More "practice". I can't wait for this case to end.
He lowered his lips and rotated his head, kissing me slowly. Those lips molded against my own, moving against my own. His hands were loosely hanging on my waist. My arms once again adjusted to hang over his shoulders but not quite around his neck. It was sweet and soft this kiss. So unlike the one we shared at the store earlier today. The polar opposite.
I wouldn't have minded it if it stayed at this level but Sherlock had other plans.
"If we want to scare the staff away, we will have to be more active than this, John," he spoke gruffly as he moved away for breath and I tightened my lips before finally nodding.
His lips attacked my own once more except it wasn't the softness I mentioned earlier. It was rough but not sloppy. It was like two tides fighting and right now Sherlock was becoming a victor. Growling into the kiss, I pressed myself against him, tightening my arms around his neck for leverage. Sherlock groaned and I found that to my advantage.
Smiling into the kiss in victory, I moved away from the kiss and pushed down the collar of Sherlock's shirt, exposing his pale, unblemished skin underneath. My lips attached to one area along his neck and I felt Sherlock's attitude change. Nipping the skin and suckling in harshly, I could hear both of our hearts.
"You are doing a fantastic job at this, Mr. Daniels," Sherlock remarked breathlessly as I continued to bruise his skin.
I didn't even hear the door open.
"Oh my!" I smiled against his skin as I heard the gasp. I didn't have to open my eyes to know that the little woman from earlier was standing there, conflicted on whether to retrieve the body or to leave us be. For effect, I pressed myself against Sherlock's body, eliciting a groan from the older man as he continued to let his fingers roam.
That seemed to do the trick.
"I- I will-" she hesitated for a moment before I heard the door close. I was expecting the kiss to end whenever she did so, but it didn't.
Coaxing my face back up to his, he continued to kiss me. Part of me was very aware that we didn't need to do this anymore and the other was conflicted over whether it really mattered.
Sherlock's tongue explored my mouth, pulling my jacket off of me and feeling around the shirt he got for me earlier. He looked like he wanted to remove that too, but that's when rationality and fear gripped me. The scars. Those ugly worded scars. I can't let him see those. Not now.
Breaking the kiss, I observed his flushed face with a smirk, amused. He was a good kisser and an even more impressive actor if that was all an act.
"Door. Woman. Gone." My words came in breaths and I knew my face was as red as his if not more. That didn't bother me though. All I cared was that he stopped this so he wouldn't go any further.
But he hesitated.
It was brief. Very brief. But it was there. A second, like he was actually thinking of continuing, before nodding.
"Yes. Perhaps we should get Miss Dubois. I would assume we have bought ourselves half an hour at most with our act. That should be more than enough for whatever she has planned."
Sherlock backed away from me, fixing his shirt and adjusting a few rogue strands of hair. I slipped my jacket back on and did the same, taking deep breaths to hopefully relieve my face of its red tint.
A knock was heard and not a second later Miss Dubois walked in. She was smirking at us.
"I heard that two young men were supposedly performing a very lewd act in front of a supposed dead man. I wanted to make sure you still had your clothes on." Any redness that left my face immediately came back in a thick wave of embarrassment.
"Yes, well-" Miss Dubois tsked at me, those lips never altering.
"Don't try to think of an excuse Mr. Daniels. It would be pointless." Again with the look. Instead of looking away, I glared back at her. Sherlock looked between us before he sighed in annoyance.
"Please, can you both wait until after the case before you go off on some unnecessary tangent?" He glared pointedly at Miss Dubois and I wanted to snicker but felt it was too childish right now.
"Ah... fine. If you will Mr. Sanders. I assume that you have a lead then? There would be no other reason that you would be so anxious to leave is there?" She grinned and Sherlock stiffened. "Oh, but if you must leave, so be it. Be on your merry way then. I will remain here with the body."
Sherlock and I glanced wearily from the body to Miss Dubois and she sighed dramatically.
"Really. What do you expect me to do to this cold, very much dead young gentleman? I'm not that desperate I hope you boys know." She grinned snidely at our embarrassed faces and we left without another word or thought.
Right in time to hear yet another scream.
"Are they going to scream every time there is a bloody murder?" I grumbled, annoyed. It wasn't even a normal scream. It was that movie screen scream. The one that you know is fake. Just like everything else here.
"They are ordinary, bland people Mr. Daniels," Sherlock mused aloud though his features were also in distaste to the awful scream, "Just ignore them. That's what I do. Give them more attention than they deserve and they will leech off of you."
Just like you to me I added silently.
When we arrived to the door, it was in the ballroom. Well... one of them. It was supposedly the one for the grand finale so-to-speak.
Now, I'm sure they will have to change it.
Once again people were murmuring and once again it was about none other than themselves. They bickered and prodded and asked impossible questions. Sherlock and I ignored them as we squeezed in to see the murder first hand.
"It appears our murderer really insists on presentation, doesn't he Mr. Daniels?"
Indeed he did. The ballroom, decorated in the palest of tones as well as white washed furniture and curtains appeared to be the backdrop to this sickening scene. If this were an art piece, the young woman hanging from the chandelier would definitely be the emphasis.
Before us hung one of the largest chandeliers I have ever seen. It was glistening in silver and the shining jewels draping from the sides were like diamonds. It was truly spectacular compared to the person underneath.
Around the victims throat was a chain. It was a little tarnished but in otherwise perfect condition. The hook at the bottom of the chain, however, was attached to another chain wrapped securely around the young woman's throat. She must have been in her late teens by the looks of it. Her neck was clearly snapped and her face and body was beginning to enter cyanosis from lack of oxygen. White roses spattered with a few red drops from the hook digging too deep were meticulously decorated around her face and body. One of her shoes had fallen off and shattered. A glass slipper.
Who ever thought that Cinderella would have a twisted side I thought aimlessly before clearing my thoughts from the random tangent. I couldn't see much from how high she was, but clearly the stunning blonde hanging limply from the ceiling had died exactly like it looked. By hanging.
And again, I would guess no longer than 10 to 20 minutes ago.
Sherlock seemed to come to the same conclusion and after a second more nodded before grabbing my hand and dragging me through the crowd of onlookers and to a quieter area. Entering a hallway, he led the way to one of the many unlocked doors in this place. Another bedroom. He shut the door and locked it.
"Mr. Sanders?" I questioned. I attempted to figure out why he took us here and came to a conclusion when Sherlock responded.
"It's nothing, John. I just needed somewhere to think without all those buzzing and cries echoing in my head. It's nearly impossible trying to do so in their presence."
"Then why do you need me?" I relaxed on the bed behind me, fatigue already settling in even though it has only been two hours.
"For moral support."
I rose my brow at him and he rolled his eyes.
"And maybe for some input if needed." I nodded, liking that answer more than the previous.
"So, who is our murderer, Mr. Sanders?" I asked, not expecting an answer.
"How about you tell me?" I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard him respond. It was closer than before. Much closer. How the hell did he get beside the bed that quietly? Cursing my beating heart, I sighed angrily and glared at him. He looked back innocently. Yeah right.
"Well, it seems the murderer likes to make his victims into pieces of art. Maybe he's an artist but I haven't seen any here so maybe not. Perhaps one of the staff? He's only going after young victims so far, but I suppose that doesn't point to anything. He is craving attention like you said earlier but as for who he is and what he does, I am probably wrong."
Sherlock leaned his chin against the comforter on the bed, closing his eyes in thought. I fought the urge to run my hands through his hair and decided to just watch him, those dark locks mocking me.
"You are, as always, getting better but not nearly as well as I. Yes, this man cares for presentation, but it is not one of an artist. There is a distinct difference in how he presents them. It's like they are a meal on a platter. He wants them to be viewed upon to satiate the boredom of the crowed and in turn, fulfill his own desires. He's one of the staff, but I would imagine he works in the kitchens. The hooks hanging the woman earlier, for example. They are used to hang meat in a locker to keep cool. The knife that stabbed the young man? A cleaver for the same thing. Meat. Therefore, he is a chef that specializes in the presentation of all meals concerning meat as the main course."
When his eyes opened, I saw them light up before returning to normal.
"Extraordinary."
"As you like to point out constantly," he added but it wasn't in distaste. He sounded pleased actually.
After laying on the bed for a few minutes, I looked over at Sherlock. His eyes were already trained on me.
"So what now? Do we go look for the man?"
Sherlock sighed, "Oh no. Not yet. We haven't found anything to completely distinguish himself from the other chefs in the area. If I am correct, there are 13 chefs pertaining to meat. We can't go to every single one therefore waiting is the only option."
"Another person is going to die for us to narrow it down," I deadpanned.
He didn't reply. I took it as a yes.
"Is there... was there any way you could have deduced what he looked like? Anything?"
He tilted his head to the side a little, "There were black hairs at the crime scene of the first murder and a few prints in the fake snow dotting the floor for the second indicating a man of five feet at least judging from his steps and stride. This still does not point to the murderer though. There are exactly 8 people of the 13 who fit this description and I will not perform a guessing game." He grimaced and I frowned.
"Guessing is better than letting another person die," I muttered.
Silence followed and I assumed Sherlock was in his mind palace, thinking over the cases.
A hand traced my palms and up my arm to my cheek, cupping it. When it forced my face away from the ceiling, I was met with the striking blue eyes of the detective. He looked conflicted and I didn't know why. Perhaps he was in a state of confusion over a piece of evidence he acquired.
That still didn't explain why he was acting this way.
"Just practice," he murmured before kissing my on the lips again. It was the same as last time except it stayed that way. It was slow and passionate. The earlier coffee taste had already worn off but I didn't mind. Rising from the bed and resting on my weight on my elbow, I tilted my face up, deepening the kiss. Internally, I was cursing my body to hell for acting this way but knew I couldn't change it.
My heart was racing like all the other "practice" sessions we had. My head was growing lighter from the lack of breathing. My fingers and toes tingled and my hunger grew. I wanted to go further but I knew my limits. Just barely.
I let my tongue run along his bottom lip, savoring its taste. Gently nipping the tender flesh, I was felt something fuel me when he gasped. Growling, he leaned against me, pushing the kiss further. Once again our fight for dominance was on and once again it was a close call. Our tongues meshed together with frustration and want, never faltering. Breaths became heated and quick and I felt heat hit me like a wave.
That's when things took a quick turn.
It was so quick that I had no time to prepare for it. With a push, Sherlock pushed me down, crawling onto the bed and straddling me between his legs. He didn't give me a moment to reply before leaning in once more, stealing my breath away. His lips were like poison, his tongue the dart. I felt intoxicated though that could have been oxygen. Either way, my will was dissolving.
Breaking the kiss, he began to mark my neck, nipping the flesh before licking it gingerly. It was always finished off with a kiss, like an unsaid apology. It was cruel and unfair to my body. Short gasps responded to his motions and I felt like I was heating up. Did the air conditioner fail? Or was it us?
He proceeded to unbutton my shirt, exposing my chest. I briefly remembered my scars and attempted to hide them with my arms but Sherlock shook his head.
"They don't mean anything." The words might have seem cold and distant, but they made me feel better for the moment. I knew it would disappear later, but I treasured it, moving my hands to grab his face, pulling it back to my own. He obliged, letting me take the lead in exploring his mouth. I felt special since I know not many people get to do this to Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. I felt like his kryptonite.
God that was such a cliché school girl way of thinking this.
He let go of my lips, nipping the bottom lip harder than I had earlier. I gasped and he smirked as he lowered to run his tongue over my skin. I shivered, desire coursing through my veins. It was amazing although the back of my mind was trying to figure out what reason there was to this. He did say practice.
Then a knock was at the door and everything ended. Growling at the interrupter, Sherlock got off me quickly, fixing himself up once more before stalking to the door. I took this as a chance to fix my own attire. By the time Miss Dubois walked in, we were both normal although my trousers felt tighter than they should be and my face was probably the color of a tomato.
"Bonjour boys," I didn't have to translate her look to know she knew exactly what she interrupted and enjoyed the fact that she did so. I was a little disappointed that when I looked at Sherlock he didn't seem nearly as annoyed as I was.
Stupid head. Practice. It was all practice. Of course he wouldn't care.
"I assume you both were too into yourselves to know that another murder was just performed?" Sherlock's eyes immediately became more alert and before he could utter the words, she moved from the doorway with a, "Next hallway over, third door on the right. Oh, and please keep your hands off one another, hm?" She snickered as Sherlock once again grabbed my hand and we practically ran down the hallway. I didn't mention the fact that he hadn't let go of my hand.
When we arrived at the scene, I could see Sherlock's brows twitch in annoyance. I could see why. The way this victim was killed is not one of his favorite methods due to lack of evidence and, well, everything.
The man, or that is what I depicted from the incredibly charred face shape and bone structure of the body, was incinerated to put it lightly. It was like someone doused him in alcohol and then threw a match to watch it burn. Once again, he was decorated with what appeared to be red roses this time. The murderer didn't seem as into it, but what do I know? I'm a simple detective's blogger.
"Mr. Sanders?" I spared a glance in his direction and saw him scowling at the murder. He looked heavily unsatisfied. Not even lasting longer than a minute more, he motioned for me to follow him out of the room.
I prepared myself for a rant and that is surely what I received.
"People can be so dull and unimaginative, Mr. Daniels! While the stab and hanging was interesting and unique, killing someone with some sort of combustion represents laziness and a meek mindset. I had so much hope for this criminal, Mr. Daniels, and it appears he is no different than the others. I'm heavily disappointed. Do all of these criminals come from the same apple tree? If so, I must say they fell far away from it to not gain a smidgeon of knowledge on the common crime." While he walked and talked, I merely nodded and agreed every so often. I didn't bother telling him he was acting like a child and was attracting the wrong sort of attention because of his acceptance of murderers and crimes. I didn't mind if the high-status individuals completely ignored us after hearing him and hoped for it.
After a minute the loud exclamations were reduced to ashes and grumbles from the detective. I knew one word would spike his motivation and vigor once more so I decided to avoid it.
"How about we go back to the entrance hall? I suppose we should begin talking to people who might have been witnesses." That was all he needed to get back into the murder.
"Ah, yes, you're right Mr. Daniels. Thank you."
Wait. Did he say that I was right? He's up to something. Last time he said something ridiculously nice to me, it ended up being part of some experiment he wanted me to be the subject of.
I stared at him, trying to figure out what he wanted to know now of all times, but it was like reading the cover of a book and it only being white and blank, the pages glued together to prohibit anything being seen. This couldn't be good but I knew better than to pry. He would only dig further into himself to hide it. I might as well wait it out. Again.
Our conversation halted as we opened the large doors leading to the entrance hall. It seemed that every attendee to this party had thought the same as us. All I could see were meters of heads and ridiculous looking hats. One look at Sherlock and I knew that he didn't want to even chance this but would for the sake of the murder. I, however, was not so sure. I didn't want to risk getting split up from Sherlock in here. Knowing his luck, the murderer would find him and I would have to somehow save him. Again.
"Mr. Sanders-" I started but was jerked by my hand when Sherlock took off into the crowd. I let him guide us. He found something worth going through this for so I should just let him do his thing for now. Maybe it will be useful.
As we neared the tables on the opposite side of the hall, I heard what Sherlock must have figured out.
"Oh! I swear I saw him. I would know a young man when I see one!" A shrill voice rang out over the murmurings and gazes of curiosity.
"But I didn't get caught, oh no. I was perfectly safe. If anything, I was raised right and my feet are as light as a feather I should know! Not sure about half the young ladies here these days," she scoffed and I was tempted to stay behind. I didn't think I would like this woman very much.
And I was right.
The woman was of stocky build, definitely living a nice, luxurious lifestyle. Her hair was white and wrinkles crowned her face, although none of them seemed to be from smiling or laughter. They were frowning lines like that of a disagreeable woman. She wore a dress that seemed a little too low cut but nobody mentioned this. Probably in fear of the elderly woman scolding them for their own tastes.
She didn't seem interested in speaking with anyone but when her eyes landed on Sherlock I noticed that familiar twinkle I saw at the beginning of the party. A playful and miserable attempt at an attractive smile stretched unnaturally around her face and I resisted the urge to shiver and look away. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked at her in the disdain she presented earlier and indifference. When she looked down, she noticed Sherlock's fingers intertwined with my own and glared at me like it was my fault that she can't have this man. If she only knew...
She didn't seem to falter at that obvious notion at all. In fact, she looked more determined. It was almost scary.
"I have not seen you attend any of the many lavished parties here," she spoke choppily, glancing in my direction every so often like she wished I would just disappear.
"No, I don't normally mingle with these type of people," Sherlock replied smoothly. I expected the woman to perhaps turn her molten gaze onto him but she surprised me. She grinned another artificial grin and chuckled. She actually laughed! And by Sherlock at that!
"Ah, yes. These people indeed. They have gotten further and further from proper traditions it seems. So many of these young women," she sniffed, sticking her nose in the air, "I would never mingle with them. They are absolutely rambunctious and not elegant in the slightest of manners."
"I agree," he answered coolly but he was clearly bored. I didn't envy him to have to talk to this woman. Not at all. Although I didn't like just standing here "looking pretty" as the saying goes. I was a man of action not passivity.
"I'm happy to see some men have retained their stronger roots," she attempted to charm but it washed off of him like it was rain on a windshield. "May I ask what your name is, dear? And I suppose your companion." She sneered the last part as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.
"I am Mr. Sanders. My partner for tonight's events is Mr. Daniels. Since I have given my name so readily, I expect you to do the same?" He said it like a question but it was clear to anyone with hearing that it was a statement.
"Very well. My name is Grace Du Maurier. Remember the name dear. I don't give it out as readily as I exempted to yourself."
He gave a small smile, "Very well, miss Du Maurier." I could almost hear him say "Not that I personally care for your name nor any other."
Miss Du Maurier looked at Sherlock with interest and then at me with the opposite expression. I met her gaze evenly and that seemed to please her for the moment before she met the eyes of the detective next to me.
"You have a strong man it seems, Mr. Sanders. I have never wavered towards marriage myself since all the suitors my father presented would always be absolute monarchs," she sniffed before adding. "Pardon me saying so, but this young man doesn't seem to meet the standards I would imagine a dashing man as yourself would have." Sherlock's hand tightened and I glanced at him questioningly. His smile was tense and forced.
"Ah, but my mate is one of the strongest men I have come to know, Miss Du Maurier. He was a captain and a well-renowned doctor in the military career. I'm sure you must admit that I couldn't have chosen a better man to suit my stature."
She looked intrigued, "Is this true?"
I nodded, offering a smile, "Yes madam. I suppose you could say I have grown used to bullets whizzing past my head and shouts ringing in my ears."
The way she looked at me was not like she viewed Sherlock, but it was almost like she saw me in a new light. I was suddenly bearable for her.
"If you don't mind me asking Miss Du Maurier, what were you saying earlier?" Sherlock spoke lowly. Like a switch, light filled her eyes and a smile to match. It still looked like it didn't want to be there.
"Oh you young ones. Curiosity is a fault you know. Nevertheless, I will indulge you. Come near, dears." We got a little closer to her as she murmured lowly.
"I saw the man. The one who killed the second murder! Well, not the face but I did see the body and what he was wearing," she took a break to drink her wine and take a small bite out of a biscuit. "He was very stylish might I say. Hair very fair and black. Pale. I think he was wearing glasses as well. But that's beside the point! There was one thing about the man that stuck with me because I haven't seen it too much."
"And that is?" Sherlock prompted. He inched his way closer to her as she spoke and I found myself rolling my eyes. I need to teach him personal space. Again. Not like this woman cared anyhow.
"He had this-" she rose her hand and squeezed her index finger and thumb to make a small motion but it stopped. All of a sudden, everything stopped for her. Her hands paused their movements and her eyes widened. Raising my hand to her mouth, I felt no air leaving her lungs. For a second I considered cardiac arrest but then she fell to the floor and began to go into a fit of spasms.
I crouched down next to her in an instant, ordering someone to tilt her head up and for someone else to call the local emergency response area. It came as an automatic response.
When I glanced back at Miss Du Maurier, I resisted the urge to flinch with the steeled muscles of a soldier. Just barely. Her gaze seemed like it could cut titanium if given the chance.
She was looking at me as if accusing me for the fact that I wasn't helping her. When I peered at Sherlock, he seemed at a state of shock and I realized I was the only one to attempt in helping her. I didn't know what she was suffering from but her pulse was practically nonexistent and no air was leaving her lungs. It was like she was gasping. It was all the scenario pin points I was to look for during CPR though I didn't know if it would even help.
It wouldn't hurt and it might even save her. I have no time to hesitate.
Thankful for the low cut dress, I placed my hands on her breastbone and began performing CPR. I was only at 15 compressions when I realized she was gone. I looked at her for a moment longer before releasing a heavy sigh.
I checked for the complimentary pulse and breaths but they were both void. She was dead. Another victim.
Sherlock met my eyes evenly and with no emotion. I probably should have been the same, but I suppose that was one of the many differences between us.
Standing, I looked at her and for once my heart didn't betray me by showing guilt and anger.
Sherlock's hand found mine and squeezed it. I returned it but it was weak.
"Rat poison," he murmured. "It was speckled on her biscuit. The white powder. She might have thought it to be powder sugar but it doesn't have the same consistency." I nodded silently as stared at where her body was while the people around us murmured and mumbled about the ungrateful woman.
All around her I heard a long list of dismays and negative comments. Even in death it seemed discrimination was inevitable.
"We should leave, Mr. Daniels," Sherlock murmured into my ear.
Nodding in jerked movements, I let him guide me away from the scene. The further we got, the easier it was for me to breathe and accept that she was as good as gone the second the poison was administered to her and that the only way I could avenge her was to find her murderer.
However, the further we got from the scene I noticed how annoyed Sherlock was. He was tense and his lips stretched into a thin line. He didn't like this trend and I didn't blame him. The second we got to the far corner of the hall, the farthest from the body, he let go of my hand and ran it through his hair. He kept looking around like he was looking for someone but he couldn't see anyone.
His eyes searched among the crowd but I couldn't decipher where they were looking. It annoyed me that he wouldn't speak at all, but I suppose it was best. If people heard our conversations rumors would spread like a wild fire and that was the last thing we needed.
At last, he appeared to come to a conclusion.
"Mr. Daniels, I need you to stay here."
"Wait, what?!" I exclaimed, anger and a smidgeon of hurt filling me. Stay here? I don't trust Sherlock to be on his own. At all. Danger was like his best friend and splitting them apart was practically impossible. "Not going to happen."
"Mr. Daniels," he whined, staring at me like he thought it would change my mind, "Please. Just five minutes. Nothing more."
"No. Absolutely not," I responded firmly, glowering him down.
We had a staring match for what felt like hours but what was really a single minute. His was pleading and annoyance. Mine was anger and disbelief.
"Fine. Do you want to know what I am going to be researching? Will that change your mind?" He finally conceded exasperatedly.
I mulled it over, "Maybe."
Rolling his eyes, he bent his head and muttered quickly, "I suspect we have enough time in this party to have one more murder. Knowing this killer, he probably has an entire finale set up. The fifth murder, following the trend I have seen, will occur in roughly half an hour. I have an idea on who the killer is, but I need you to stay here and keep this crowd occupied so I don't have disturbances in my search. Better?"
"Much," I agreed. "If you needed me to be a distraction, you could have just said so."
The look Sherlock gave me was one of disbelief, "Really?"
"Yes, really. When you're being all mysterious with your antics and unsaid words I can't understand a bloody thing. I can't read your mind, you know. I'm definitely for helping you catch this guy. I don't know why you assume otherwise," I met his eyes and he averted his.
He took a deep breath, "Will you perform a distraction then?"
"Of course, but no longer than five minutes as you stated. What do you need me to do?" I asked simply.
Getting on his toes, he scanned the area until he found something. His face lit up and a smile crossed his features.
"There!"
I tried to see what he was pointing at but I was too short. "What?"
"There! The stage for the orchestra. It seems they have a regular acoustic guitar. You can play."
"I don't think they will let me on the stage to sing, Mr. Sanders," I sighed. Sherlock shook his head, a smile gracing his features.
"No, clearly. But! You can however go up and say you want to sing a song to the one you love or something of the sort. Go grand. Say you are thinking of proposing to my persona for instance." I felt my face redden but I nodded.
"Could work," I reasoned, "But what do you expect me to sing?"
"Oh I don't care about that!" he dismissed, waving his hand aimlessly, "Just keep them busy for at least five minutes. That will be perfect."
I looked uneasily at the stage and then the crowd before looking back at Sherlock like "Do you see this? How would anything I sing appease these people?" I was surprised when he actually caught the look.
"Please, Mr. Daniels. It's simple. Just imagine they are not there. In fact, think of them as the passerbys on the street. Those who completely ignore you." I could tell he was trying to get me up there as quickly as possible, but he was still trying to make it comfortable.
"Why five minutes?" I asked, diverting the attention for the moment.
Sherlock gave me a look and I knew he caught my procrastination, "Because that will be enough for someone as myself to categorize every single person who works in the kitchen. Now stop avoiding the topic John and wasting the time I need to get this done." With a push, he knocked my forward. When I turned around he was gone.
Sighing, I wove my way through the sea of popularity. It was a trek full of pardons and dismayed glares. At last, the stage finally was in front of me. The orchestra must have been taking a break at the time because nobody was roaming the stage. I did, however, see a guard watching the stairs leading to the stage. He looked bored so maybe I can get on.
The man looked down at me with a raised brow when I appeared. I adjusted my posture to the recognizable military stance and steadied my voice. He was taller than me but by no means intimidating. On the outside I was calm, composed, and fearless. On the inside, however, I was the complete opposite. I was trying to figure out how to get by this man.
"Excuse me," I began, "Would it be allowed for me to play a song?"
The man looked me up and down before saying monotonously, "I'm sorry, sir. This stage is reserved for the orchestra playing tonight. If you want to play a song, you will have to reserve a time at the front podium." As expected.
I gave a sigh and looked around, trying to appear a little embarrassed, "Look here. I don't like to go against regulations, but I have a companion that I must confess to. It's really important and I think this will be my only chance. Will you please let me in? It won't take any longer than five minutes I assure you." I tried to sound desperate and attempted to place as much pleading as I could into my eyes. I didn't know if it was going to work but I'll be damned if I didn't at least try.
The guard seemed to be at a crossroads. I took this chance of hesitance in my advantage.
"Five minutes is all I am asking. I'm going overseas after this event and I want to tell her before I go." A lie. A full lie but it seemed to do the trick. Nodding to me, he moved aside and I hopped up the steps and scooped the guitar. I immediately disliked this guitar. It was mistreated and because of that, the strings were off and the tune was atrocious. But I only had five minutes so I quickly adjusted it, pulling a random song from a band I know. I suppose in this time frame a cover will have to do.
Ugh. Absolutely no originality. That's what he would say.
Walking over to the microphone, I adjusted the guitar. The people talked amongst themselves until I tapped it for their attention. Immediately all of their curious glances turned to look at me at once. Outside, I was smiling sheepishly but inside I was panicking and nervous. I didn't like all this attention. I wasn't used to it.
Think of them as the passerbys on the street. The ones that completely ignore you.
Gradually, the scene changed and I was on the sidewalks. My suit changed to rags and my guitar wasn't mine but the one I got before I met Sherlock. I felt like Cinderella being reverted back to who she was before the spell. The rich and famous were mere businessmen and woman passing me by phoning their companies and family. The teenagers changed to college students. It converted and I was at the center, sitting on the bench in the freezing winter of London.
"I'm sorry to disturb you as I am sure you all have better things to hear than a man like myself sing, but I'm afraid that I will have to call for a bit of your time. You see, I have this companion of mine. She is beautiful and intelligent as can be. I'm horrible at telling her how I feel, but who isn't?" A few chuckles. Good. "So, instead I'm going to sing a song. My voice may be rubbish, but it's the thought that counts."
A few murmurs went through the crowd, but then it gradually fell to silence when I began to thrum my fingers against the strings, tapping my foot in a beat.
"Just give me a second darling
To clear my head
Just put down those scissors baby, on this single bed
The sand in the hourglass is running low
I came through thunder, the cold wind
The rain and the snow
To find you awake by your windowsill
A sight for sore eyes and a view to kill
I broke down in horror at you standing there
The glow from the moon
Shone through cracks in your hair.
I shouted with passion,
"I love you so much"
But feeling my skin, it was cold to the touch.
You whispered "where are you?"
I questioned your doubt
But soon realised, you were talking to God now
You've got blood on your hands
And I know it's mine
I just need more time
So get off your low and let's dance like we used to
But there's a light in the distance
Waiting for me, I will wait for you
So get off your low and let's kiss like we used to
I looked in the mirror
But something was wrong.
I saw you behind but my reflection was gone.
There was smoke in the fireplace
As white as the snow.
A voice beckoned gently
'Now it's time to go'
A requiem played as you begged for forgiveness
"Don't touch me!" I screamed
"I've got unfinished business"
You've got blood on your hands
And I know it's mine
I just need more time
So get off your low and let's dance like we used to
But there's a light in the distance
Waiting for me, I will wait for you
So get off your low, and let's kiss like we used to"
I hated doing covers but I was only given a minutes notice. I hoped this worked for Sherlock. It wasn't exactly five minutes, but it was in that range. Besides, if he was so smart he should be able to do it in three. Yeah, right. Now I am being childish.
Silence reigned the crowd in like sheep. I didn't know if it was good or bad but I realized I didn't really care. I didn't seem to notice the mirage fading back to the artificial party but now it didn't bother me. I helped Sherlock. I might have helped him catch a murderer in fact. These people will not see me as an aid in catching a murderer, but a lovesick fool.
Then the silence changed. Applause and a few cheers from here and there were heard and then more followed. I felt a small grin appear on my face. A few of the females at front were asking for another song but I shook my head. I was amazed. Incredibly so. I expected them to go back to their dainty biscuits and wine. Not actually break tradition and applaud for a minority such as myself.
Nearing the microphone, I could feel my grin widening, "Thank you for listening to my humble plea." Backing away, I place the guitar back on the stand and walked off the steps. The guard was grinning and nodded at me.
"You have talent, sir. That was some singing. If you can't get the girl from that voice, I don't think she is worth your time. Anyhow, if you want to sing again, you are welcome on this stage anytime." I thanked him modestly and was about to head for the exit when a man intercepted me.
"Sir! Mr. Daniels I believe?" The man looked familiar. Eerily familiar. After a second of this, I scolded myself. I have only met this man and I am being suspicious? I'm turning into that prattish detective!
"Yes?" I reply, hiding the annoyance I felt at myself.
"I have a wife and she is very sick. I hear you are a doctor so can you come see her?" I heard a slight Scottish accent but nothing too potent. His head stayed low, looking more so at the floor than at me. Maybe it was respect? I highly doubt it.
"Yes. Definitely. Lead the way." Without hesitation, he ran ahead. I was on his heels. We went up the first floor to the second and to the furthest room in the building. I thought it odd but didn't want to appear rude. Maybe they didn't like the social life. I couldn't blame them.
When we stopped at the door, I looked at the man. He was shaking.
"Sir? Are you okay? I'm sure I can-"
"Are you that much of an idiot?" It was only then I realized he was chuckling. Turning to face me, I finally caught every feature of his face. Using his sleeve, he wiped away all the make up on him from the over-exaggerated eyebrows to the mustache under his nose. After every inch was gone, he grinned at me and my skin paled.
No.
"Moriarty? How-" I didn't get the chance to finish my sentence because with explosion of pain in the back of my skull, everything went black.
The song is Unfinished Business by White Lies but I love the Mumford and Sons cover. Absolutely adore it. I had another song in mind before it but I decided to use it later.
So. How about all that kissing and all? I swear I never intended that much but then I got carried away. Trust me, Sherlock may be an absolute prick right now with taking advantage of John's feelings but next chapter you WILL see what he is thinking. He is about as confused as John.
Speaking of John, his relapse is coming up. It's coming up soon and it's going to be awful.
Also, for those of you who do not trust Miss Dubois, you deserve a reward because you get to see the reason why you should never trust her soon enough. Next chapter as well. There's a lot for the next chapter. A lot of things are going to happen. Sorry for any teasing here. I'm half asleep and its three and I really have no idea what I am thinking really.
Ah, yes, sorry for the long wait for this chapter. School is becoming tedious but not at all bad like last year. Chapter 22 is in the making! Working on it right now actually.
... I think that is it for now. Sorry for all the kissing if that is not your thing. Not sorry about bring Moriarty back. God I love him so much. Too much.
Well, read/follow/fav/review! Enjoy the story and thanks for following so far since I absolutely do not deserve it. At all.
Ciao~