The jarring flash of blue and red police lights tripped and stuttered across the wet concrete, reflecting off puddles of murky water and casting the entire street in a pulsing, sickening glow.
Though the call to 999 was anonymous, the Met responded with satisfying quickness, something that both relieved and emotionally bolstered the grieving squatters of the bungalow. As the investigators began to swarm the scene, blue and white tape was strewn across the lane, blocking any and all pedestrians and motor vehicles from stopping to gawk and possibly catch a morbid glimpse of something altogether more gruesome.
Julia and Brandy sat on the front step of their questionable residence, each covered in an eye shockingly bright orange blanket. Julia's face was a mask of non-emotion, one arm wrapped around her girlfriend protectively; while Brandy shivered and sobbed into the scratchy coverlet, clutching at it tightly with one hand whilst the other quivered over her protuberant belly. They had already been questioned by the police, to little avail, and were now awaiting transportation to whatever shelter the police deemed suitable for the two women. They were lucky, actually, as no charges were brought upon the two for squatting. Together, they huddled for extra warmth at the steps, both noticeably not looking at the body lying only a scant distance away.
The street was buzzing with activity, each protocol and policy in full swing as the professionals bagged, tagged, and photographed every bit of evidence they could find. The body was unmoved, soaked and strangely deflated appearing as it rested with unearthly stillness against the pavements.
And so the scene was set, each macabre player perfectly positioned, appearing sallow and tired under the intensely glaring lights.
LINE BREAK
All things considered, it had been a remarkably good day.
He didn't think John would mind if he was a little bit late (would John mind?), considering he had stopped by his favourite Indian establishment to pick up a bit of takeout before heading to the bungalow. He had deduced the Omega's preferred dish upon meeting him only a few short weeks ago (curry stains on the edge of one frayed cuff, as well as the scent of a few unmistakable spices on his breath), and he only hoped it would be to his liking.
He studiously ignored a sudden influx of adrenaline upon his arrival to the shabby street corner that marked the entrance to the equally shabby street housing John's little domicile. He reminded himself once more that he really needed to work on getting John to agree to live with him. It was best for both of them, after all, if John was going to be his. If he agreed, that is - if he actually wanted to be with Sherlock.
Another unwelcome rush of nerves accompanied that last thought. Would John really prefer to remain homeless rather than live with him? Would Sherlock let him? As much as he wanted to respect the man's wishes, he really couldn't stomach the thought of allowing him to remain a drifter, wasting away with the ruffians underneath that horrid, crumbling bridge.
Oh, who the hell was he kidding anyway? John did what John wanted to do, Sherlock had learned early on, and there was little anyone could do to convince him otherwise. He had suffered too many years living on his own, painfully eking out his own way in an unforgiving world, guilty of only being born with one tiny, faulty gland.
He threw a few crumpled notes to the cabbie and let himself out into the damp night, avoiding the ruts and puddles forming tiny topographical formations down the lane. It wasn't long before several sudden flashes of light echoed off the low-placed plashets, instantly grabbing his attention.
He frowned immediately, peering down the lane through the mist and clinging wetness of the post-storm atmosphere. Just around the corner, the fierce glow of police lights blinked on and off against the brick houses, a familiar strobe-like tattoo he had long become comfortable with. He gripped the thin paper bag, hands clenching as a moment of raw panic tensed the muscles and wrinkled the sticky white paper.
As he moved faster down the street; his stomach, which only moments ago bubbled with nervous energy, now clenched in a tight ball of dread. He didn't know what he would find when he turned the corner, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be good.
Indeed, the display spread out before him was no different from nearly any other crime scene he had viewed in the many years he'd been consulting with the Met. The important difference (the most harrowing and gut-wrenching difference) was that this…this was someplace he knew intimately. These were people that he knew. He stifled that thought the moment it floated to the surface, now was not the time for distraction, now was not the time for sentiment.
He couldn't see past the panda cars at first, but once he did, his vision narrowed and all outside stimulus was abandoned for only the most important, most critical information his Alpha senses could gather.
Each data set presented itself in complete and savage clarity - Brandy and Julia, sombre and despondent, clutching each other with wan faces - Detective Lestrade, tired and overworked, as only a Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police force could – Sally Donovan and her erstwhile lover, the weaselly Anderson, spoke lowly while she desperately tried to wrangle the gathering crowds and onlookers.
Then he saw the body.
Marcus was laid out for him in eye-searing detail: the turn of his head, his shaggy hair drifting lazily in a shallow puddle, the angle of the bullet holes, and how his left hand stretched out away from his body, as if grasping (reaching) for something far, far away.
There was more, there was so much more, all of the information rushing and crashing and beating against his senses. Deductions and conclusions zipped through his mind at dizzying speeds, monopolizing his concentration and keeping him blissfully unaware of Detective Lestrade trying desperately to get his attention –
-bag on the ground, in the water (brown, paper, small, soaked) filled with white cartons of leaking Chinese and Lion bars spread across the pavements, dropped – no – thrown down (the distance to which one Lion bar landed away from the bag indicates a fair amount of force in which it was shoved away from his person), contents tumbled to the side, he was surprised or afraid, but the bag is a full 6 metres away from where he went down, then the shooting happened, and it happened quickly, he must have lunged, ran towards his attackers who had upset him, but why had they upset him? – four bullet holes, 9mm by approximation (two most common being Sig P226, or Glock 17, most likely military), statistically more likely to be black market, tampered with, difficult to get a hold of with today's dealers but easier than some might think, his knees, both knees have dark splotches of dirt embedded in the front of his jeans, dirt from an impact on the road, he must have fallen to his knees after he was shot but before he went down completely –
Sherlock moved towards the body, deathly silent, each step placed with singular intent. Marcus, half-supine on the cement, the lower portion of his body twisted to the left, knees slightly bent, beckoned him forward with morbid allure. The Alpha was cautious not to touch the body in any way, but he kneeled and leant as close as he could, eyeing the bullet wounds as if analysing a particularly puzzling specimen under a microscope. It was only a moment's fumbling to pull out his small magnifying glass (which he had on hand at all times) and inspect the wounds more closely –
-close range, impact probably no further than 10 or so metres (the angle appears to be consistent), which means assailant was about 180 to 190 centimetres (give or take, more approximate estimation after in-depth scrutiny during post-mortem) –
He then rose and stepped away, blissfully unaware of the cacophony of sound around him, the discordant symphony of a crime scene (flash bulbs, radios, errant sirens, raised voices, crying). He eyes followed the trail of dirty water and blood as it flowed lazily down into an adjacent storm sewer, moving even still, though the rain had ceased to fall at least 20 minutes ago.
He remained silent as he moved further down the lane, ignoring a determined Lestrade who was still trying to speak to the consulting detective –
-here, the shooter was most likely standing here, unable to truly tell if it was only one or more than one (more data needed), further study of the bullet casings would confirm if the bullets were all from the same gun, but why shoot Marcus? – Marcus who was normally confused, most oftentimes comically slow and gentle, only protective and frenzied when threated or when –
His breath hitched, pausing in its exhalation to stick painfully in the brunet's throat.
"John?" Sherlock stopped, turning around so suddenly it was all he could do not to spin face first into one very irritated and impatient Detective Inspector, "where's John?"
"Jesus bloody Christ Sherlock?!" Lestrade's gruff voice perfectly illustrated how not tolerant he was feeling at the moment, "only I've been trying to get your attention the entire time you've been here."
"Where is John?" Sherlock put careful emphasis on each syllable, hoping that maybe with his superb diction the question would somehow get through the man's thick skull.
"Look mate," the silvery haired Beta gripped a radio in one hand, waving it in an arc to get Sherlock's full attention, "this is not the best place for you to be right now. We've got this in hand Sherlock, but I'm afraid that I have to ask you to leave."
"You've got this in hand?" Sherlock parroted with venom, unamused, the tone of his voice bordering on outright contempt. He makes one complete circle of the body, stepping backwards all the while, arms splayed out at his sides. "By in hand, do you mean making a mockery of modern investigation, or were you and your team just being blissfully witless, as per usual?"
Lestrade clamped his mouth shut, brows dangerously tense above tired eyes. It was glaringly obvious this was not the first time Sherlock had spoken to him thusly, and a tight smile accompanied a long-suffering breath that did little to loosen the expression on his weathered face.
"I didn't phone you this time Sherlock, and I can't have you here knowing what I know. It's being handled." While Lestrade had been on the outskirts of the investigation so far, he was never more than a phone call away.
The Alpha's eyes narrowed at that last word, wondering at the unusual inflection placed upon its two syllables. Handled? What did he mean, handled?
A look of dawning comprehension clicked onto the apex Alpha's handsome brow. Oh of course, handled.
With a sigh borne of complete and utter disgust, he rounded once again on the Detective, face cool and grim.
"Tell me Lestrade, do you do everything my brother tells you? Or do you only get in my way when it proves especially bothersome?"
"Alright, now –"
"You know it doesn't really come as a surprise that my portly sibling's got you in his pocket. I expect it's rather crowded in there, what with the pastries and chocolates he's so especially fond of."
"Sherlock," it was a warning, short, but a warning nonetheless. Lestrade levelled a glare at him that would have cowed a lesser man…but Sherlock Holmes was no lesser man.
"Oi, freak, what are you doing here? You heard Greg, run along." Sally Donovan moved across the asphalt, inserting herself into their little row with arms crossed angrily over her chest. Her ferrety lover, Anderson, hovered behind her in his forensics onesie, oozing scorn and self-importance.
Sherlock ignored Sally, sending a veritable tidal wave of frosty aloofness in her direction. He had never got on with the more junior officer, and he certainly wasn't going to start now. A puff of irritated hormones floated from the Alpha woman's general direction and Sherlock studiously ignored this as well.
"You already know how much I hate to repeat myself, but since you're being insufferably dim-witted this evening, I suppose I can deign to say it once more," the brunet took small, even steps towards the DI, keeping an intense amount of eye contact the entire time, "where – is – John?"
Lestrade took a long moment to consider his answer, then, he finally exhaled and let his hands rest limply at his side. All the bravado seemed to leech out of him at once.
"Truth is…we don't know where he is Sherlock. He wasn't here when we arrived. The girls…" he motioned to the sniffling young women at the steps of the bungalow, "…haven't seen him, and well – he's not going to tell us much." His exhausted brown eyes moved from the women to the unmoving tableau of Marcus' corpse.
"Oh, I rather disagree."
"Right, is this where you're going to do your little trick then?" Anderson's snide, nasally voice floated over the from behind Sally, vibrating in noisome little waves in the pit of Sherlock's stomach.
"It's not a trick, which you'd realize if you'd for once open your eyes and observe the world around you. Look," Sherlock ran his gaze back over the body, stepping towards the lifeless man, "look at how he fell, legs twisted and arm out to the side. That alone should give you a clue as to how he died. Look at the bag and how it fell. What does that tell you? Judging by the angle of the gunshots I can most accurately estimate the height and distance of the shooter, and I can also tell you what he was doing when he was killed."
"Come on, that's nonsense, you're just making things up now!" Anderson's eyebrows slid upward on his sallow face, giving the impression of a very surprised and very hawkish river rat. Donovan snickered behind her radio while Lestrade shrugged and stuffed one hand in his soggy trench coat.
"Well, he wouldn't have to make things up at all would he, if he was actually here when it happened." Sally chimed in, letting the implication of that statement sit and simmer for a moment. It wasn't the first time she'd accused Sherlock of being the number one suspect of a murder case, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The apex Alpha had often wondered if he'd somehow wronged her in the past, or if she just had a naturally untrusting nature and could find no one more convenient to take it out on than Sherlock himself.
It didn't bother him in the least, of course. If he really was the murderer, the police wouldn't even be here questioning his motives. They'd be in their little Yard, at their silly little desks with their disgusting office coffee, blithely ignorant and forever remaining that way. He certainly wouldn't be idiotic enough to leave something as condemning as an actual body at the scene of the crime.
Sherlock whipped his head around, his coat and long legs turning just as quickly afterwards. If his calculations were correct (and they almost always were), the shooter would've had to have been standing right…here.
He paused, inspecting the wet and shining cement for any clue, any indication of who had been there, and why they would shoot a homeless man with the mentality of a 6yr old. Of course, it was entirely possible that it had been an accident, or that they had not known who he was (Sherlock was quite willing to entertain any possibility of the circumstances).
Lestrade and the others fell into hushed whispers and short, angry looks rife with impatience and disbelief. It seemed Donovan and Anderson were arguing a point with their DI, and losing.
He dismissed their hissing whispers for now, focusing on every reflection of the puddles and every twist and crack of the pavement surface, knowing each clue would take him closer to figuring out what the hell had happened here.
And then he saw it - he saw it bobbing gently, looking so nondescript and innocuous that he was certain it was far from being so.
One lone cigarette butt, isolated in a small but deep puddle just to the left of the middle of the street, floated on still water.
If it had been any butt, well any other cigarette butt, it would have joined its comrades at the edge of the street, caught in the current of the water and bullied along by other detritus (plastic bags, twigs, leaves, dirt, and the like). No, this one was all by itself, and glaringly white, clean.
"Anderson! Bring me an evidence bag!" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, reopening his magnifying glass once more, while also unveiling a small pair of delicate tweezers.
Anderson shot a sharp, questioning glance to Lestrade, who answered with one of his own.
"Oh come on man! I'm obviously not asking for my health!" The Alpha snapped, gripping the extinguished fag with the tweezers, careful not to squeeze too hard. With his magnifier in his other hand, he inspected the end of the filter, noting the yellowish stains (low tar), and a strange waxy substance clinging to the sides of the while filter paper, making the water bead and slide along the cylindrical sides. He leant his head forward a bit and sniffed the tiny bit of evidence, a hypothesis forming in his quick mind.
It was a longshot, but if he could just get a little bit more light, he moved gracefully under one of the closest streetlamps, face ethereal and serene its concentration, and then…ah…eureka!
He twirled in triumph, dropping the butt gingerly into the clear bag grudgingly provided by an unhappy looking Anderson.
"And what is this? A cigarette? How could this possibly be related to the murder?" Donovan peered at the bag with obvious scepticism, locking eyes with each man in turn, except Sherlock. "It could be from anyone, and anywhere, what with the rain. This is a waste of time, boss, he's obviously having a laugh!"
"That could be true Sally, as you say, but considering this puddle is especially deep and seems to have formed its own independent collection of water, it's more probable that the butt was placed, or rather, flicked, and landed there. Judging also by its clean base and lack of accumulated dirt and soil, I would say it's rather recent. All of that aside, I think the most convincing evidence is what you will find ringed around the edges of the paper, none other than lip balm – Lypsyl Honeyberry, to be exact. Its scent is rather distinctive."
"What the hell does lip balm have to do with any of this?" Lestrade queried, moving closer to the baggie to get his own look up close.
Anderson held it aloft, a flush creeping up his narrow face, he sighed rather loudly before speaking. "DNA evidence. It could be from our killer."
Sherlock gasped melodramatically, putting away his glass and tweezers. "Jolly good, Anderson! Didn't see you there before, have you been here the entire time?"
"Alright, alright, enough with it," Lestrade waved his hands, ushering Sherlock over and away from the other two, "it might be from our killer, but is also might not be. What exactly are trying to say here?"
The taller man's gaze fell, face going serious and utterly grave.
"I think John has been abducted."
Sherlock knew the outside world was still moving around him, still taking pictures, still making phone calls, still weeping and grieving for a friend, but there was something in voicing his suspicion that made it all stop. It made it all very quiet, all at once. He felt his heart squeeze and lurch inside his chest (it did so have a habit of making itself known at the most inopportune times).
It was easy to pretend this was business as usual; easy to pretend that this was simply another crime scene, but the truth of the matter was…this was John.
He should have seen this coming. He really should have. He should never have let him go to that blasted study alone, just like he should have never, ever asked him for his help in the first place.
The only thing he could do now, the only thing that could really help his Omega (his?), was the cool deductive reasoning he had become to rely on so thoroughly throughout his lifetime. He owed him that, at least, and if he was found alive (when he was found alive), he would owe him so much more.
Lestrade nodded, his expression closed off now, and as equally severe. The older Detective moved away then, barking orders at his team to finish up and get moving - play time was over. Sally and Donovan stood at a distance, flinging surreptitious glances at the apex Alpha, but remaining silent.
They moved on, doing their duty as it were, while Sherlock was stood there, staring, and thinking.
"It's you, you're him, right? I have something for you." A small, and very pregnant ginger woman hovered at his side, nervous, she seemed vaguely familiar. He hadn't noticed her so close before, and the scent of Omega filled his nostrils, pervasive and maddening, made even more so by the pregnancy.
"I found it inside…th-the alarm was going off, making a right racket. I didn't want the police to have it. I know you gave it to him. I helped him with it you know, at the beginning."
She clutched John's mobile in her hand, glancing around as if making some kind of sordid dealing, and being entirely too obvious about it.
Sherlock took the mobile with a quick swipe of his hand, making sure no one saw the small electronic device make its way into his Belstaff.
"Thank you," was all he could manage. He wished he could say more, but it was heartfelt, regardless.
She only smiled sadly, a small and fragile thing as she made her way back to the steps of the bungalow and into the warm arms of her beloved.
Striding forward with renewed purpose, Sherlock quickly made his way out of the alley and onto the adjoining street. He'd have to walk a few more blocks before he'd find a street crowded and reputable enough to flag down a cab, but that was just fine with him. He had things to do, people to call, and someone to save.
LINE BREAK
Molly finally pulled away from her desk, stretching long and cat-like against the back of her chair. She yawned, wide and loud, blinking blearily before reaching over her desk and turning out her small but somehow horrifically bright desk lamp.
It had been a long day, relatively quiet, but full nonetheless. Mrs. Thatcher's corpse had been especially ridiculous; honestly Molly'd never seen anyone manage to die from angering a milking cow, but, she supposed stranger things had happened.
It was just as she was about to completely lock up for the evening, just as she was heading through the wooden double doors out of her lab, that her mobile rang.
A name flashed upon the screen, one she wasn't entirely expecting, but one she knew she could never ignore.
"Sherlock?" She answered, cupping her mobile closely while pulling at her handbag.
"Molly," his melodic voice sounded strained and forced through the line, "I need your help."