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.. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..
Disclaimer: I only own Mel
WARNING: THIS CASE IS GOING TO BE DARK. M FOR GRAPHIC SUBJECT MATTER.
Mel's heart was beating wildly against her ribcage, causing a dull ache to pain her chest. Pushing her muscles farther than ever before, the woman pumped her arms and legs as she bolted down the dimly lit alleyway. The dank scent of molding scraps of food from the dumpster she passed filled her nostrils. Scarlet tendrils of hair fell from the tight bun at the crown of her head and whipped all about her wind-battered face. Her rain-slicked flesh smarted at the inevitable irritating flogging of the strands. The steady down-pour of battering drops from the midnight sky worsened as the woman broke free of the alley, leaving the scent of garbage and rot behind her.
As she reached the main road, the dancer's watery emerald eyes scanned the naive faces of the crowd passing by. Pushing aside the anxiety that seized her heart in its icy fist, Mel ran faster than she had before.
Oh, god... Please let him live. Please...
It wasn't long before she stumbled on the wet pavement, gasping for air. She glanced down at her phone, willing her breath to come back.
12:01 AM
All of the remaining oxygen in the woman's body fled from her lungs.
"No," she breathed to herself in terror. Tears filled her eyes. "No..."
Shoving her mobile back into her pocket, the redhead heaved her way through a pack of rowdy teenagers. They cried out raucously at the sudden, violent assault. Not bothering to throw any sort of retort to the colorful curses over her shoulder, Mel turned the final corner.
Her hand flew to her mouth. It did little to help capture the scream that wickedly ripped from her raw throat.
"John," she gasped disbelievingly. "John!" The woman staggered towards that body laying motionless on the damp cobblestone street.
Sherlock was already there, pacing feverishly. His long fingers were tangled in his wet curls. His face; it was nothing short of grief-stricken. As the redhead approached, she took in his state. The consulting detective's trousers were soaked at the knees and covered in a rough gravel. From what she could see, his fingers were coated in a thick, tacky red. His handsome wool coat was balled up and on the ground; placed under the head of the still army doctor.
The man peered up at her through his thick, wet lashes. His breath visibly shuddered through his frame. Slowly, the woman watched as he shook his head from side to side.
Unable to meet his tormented gaze any longer, she looked down at the street under her boots. Disturbing, swirling red patterns slipped through the cracks in the rocks- aided by the pouring rain. Mel's stomach lurched at the sight of John. His coat had been unbuttoned- most likely by Sherlock; revealing the pretty powder-blue of his favorite knitted jumper.
The very same jumper that was now stained with blood.
10:01 AM - 15 HOURS EARLIER
Mel hummed quietly to herself in the taxi as it made its way to the crime scene. She smiled distractedly as she went through all of the missed messages on her cell phone. It was virtually impossible to sift through them all. There were two hundred and fifty-one missed texts and ninety-seven unanswered calls. The woman shook her head and chuckled as she read the multiple angry threats from Anna. The majority were from the short blonde, Rex, Leo, and her other friends from the Royal Ballet. One was from the director himself.
...
JANUARY 17TH - 8:50 PM
There will always be a place for you here at the Ballet, Melina, no matter the state of your ankle.
If need be, I can hire you on as an instructor.
Please let me know of your plans for the future.
-Kevin O'Hare
...
That was over two months prior to her return. Mel swallowed and rubbed her brow tiredly. Taking a steadying breath, the redhead set to work answering most of the texts. Multiple were sent to pacify her Anna and the others. Lastly, she typed out an eloquent response to the Director, claiming that she did indeed want her position back with the company. By the time she finished, her fingers were cramping.
Sherlock- who had been consumed in his Mind Palace- turned slowly to fix his pale gaze on her. "Finished?" He drawled, arching a brow. His fingers, which had been plastered under the consulting detective's pale chin, slowly lowered into his lap.
Nodding, the woman slipped her phone back into the pocket of her black jeans. She glanced up at the feeling of Sherlock's gloved fingers take hers. She watched with slight surprise as the man lifted her sore hand to his lips. Placing a swift- yet tender- kiss to the back of her hand. The pit in her belly fluttered instantaneously at his touch. His warm lips curled up at the corners, forming a knowing smirk.
John, who was seated just across from the couple, was watching Sherlock with mild fascination.
The raven-haired man lowered her hand from his mouth and rolled his silver eyes skyward. "Do try to close your mouth, John."
The older man snapped his jaw shut with an audible pop. "Uh, sorry. Just seeing you... You know...," he trailed off, waving his hands in front of him.
"Oh, please. Enlighten us," Sherlock muttered drily.
"You know..."
"I assure you, I do not."
Mel giggled behind her hand as she watched the army doctor flush pink.
"You're all... I don't know-"
The consulting detective interrupted his friend instantly. "If you yourself are not entirely sure, then could you not bore us with your prattling nonsense?"
The woman slapped his arm without missing a beat. "Sherlock!"
He had the decency to flinch. "What? It's true," he mumbled huffily.
John just shook his head and laughed easily. "It's a miracle you have friends, Sherlock."
"I don't have-"
"Oh, shut it," John chuckled, adjusting the collar of his blue sweater.
11: 24 AM
Mel slipped out of the taxi as it finally pulled up to the address Lestrade had given them. Her brow creased. It was a church. A fairly modern one, at that; with clean lines and sweeping architecture. It was made of unblemished white soapstone and marble with deep charcoal bricks to accent the spotless windows. The sight itself was an oddity to behold. The only reason the dancer deduced the building was a place of worship was because of the towering, solitary cross embedded in the front lawn. The only color against the dreary image presented was the obnoxious hue of the police tape lining the perimeter of the grass. Police cruisers, fire trucks, and ambulances littered the once-flawless lawn.
"A church?" John pondered as he walked up beside the redhead.
"Your brilliance never seems to astound me, John," Sherlock sniped as he brushed past them. His gloved hand took hold of Mel's wrist and tugged her behind him as he proceeded to approach the building, moving to duck under the police tape.
Before they could take another step, Sergeant Sally Donovan sped forward from her post nearby.
"Freak! Back from your little vacation, are you?" She snapped. Her beady black eyes focused on Mel. "And you brought back your little girlfriend, did ya? Well! Don't you look cozy." She sneered nastily at the two of them, taking in his fingers, which were still wrapped around her wrist.
"Is Anderson working the case?" Sherlock demanded coldly, bypassing the petty attempts to anger him.
Sally paused for a moment, as if shocked that he wasn't going to fight back. "Uh, no. No he's not. We have a trainee from the States."
The consulting detective rolled his eyes. "Brilliant. The one thing I hate more than Anderson. Trainees-"
His words were cut short by a sudden, deafening bang, cracking through the air. Mel watched as a man in his mid twenties exploded from the church, barging through the monstrously large doors. He ran full-tilt across the stone pathway. Suddenly, the man hunched over and violently vomited into a large garden of planted roses. The woman cringed as he heaved over and over, emptying the contents of his stomach all over the flowers.
Donovan snorted and crossed her arms across her chest. "And that'd be him."
"Christ," John cursed as the forensics intern wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.
"I don't blame him," Sally confided. "I'm surprised he lasted that long, actually."
"Why?" Sherlock snapped. His brows drew together with a mixture of confusion and disgust.
She shrugged. "Every person on the team has thrown up. It's..." She paused and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "It's sick in there. The worst I've ever seen. Plain sick."
Mel swallowed the uneasy feeling that overcame her belly. She watched silently as the young man who'd just vomited was passed a bottle of water by the paramedics.
"You sure you want to see?" Donovan asked skeptically as she slowly raised the police tape.
Sherlock grinned widely. "I most certainly do. Especially now."
"Freak," Sally sputtered. She looked as though she might throw up again.
The three of them quickly rushed away, taking care to avoid the obvious buckets of vomit sporadically placed across the front lawn. Sherlock was the first to reach the church's front doors, and he was obviously excited. It was the sort of look a little boy got when he received a toy car on Christmas morning. John was quick to follow, wondering what in God's name could've had all of these hardened professionals spewing their breakfast everywhere.
Mel was certainly not as eager as the two others and took her time to walk up the stone pathway. The men were already inside the church by the time she even reached the doors. The soft soles of her boots thudded lightly on the stone path. Just as she was about to enter the building, the woman glanced over. Pacing nearby was the young forensics investigator from Scotland Yard.
He was certainly an attractive man, in his own way. His hair was ordinary and brown. The short length was styled messily and spiked, as if he'd just woken up a moment ago, but in the way that could've been considered trendy. His eyes were a deep, swirling hazel. His face was angular and thin, not unlike the rest of his body. He was tall, taller than her by at least a foot. He was dressed oddly for a forensics investigator. In a pair of denim jeans, a button-down and vest combo, and a pair of worn out black high-tops. Long, slender fingers came up to run through his hair stiffly as he blow out a tremendously loud, heavy breath. He adjusted the thick-framed glasses that were perched on his nose.
"I'm sorry," Mel said as she reached forward to brush her fingers over the man's arm. His eyes shot up to hers, locking their gazes together. She swallowed. "I was just wondering if you're alright?"
The man bobbed his head and coughed into his fist. "Fine. I'm fine..." His words trailed off as he reached hastily into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a packet of spearmint gum. Mel immediately picked up his American accent. "Want one?" He asked, motioning to the pack. She shook her head and smiled kindly. The young man shrugged and popped out four white rectangles of chewing gum before tossing the lot into his mouth. Sliding the pack back into his pocket, he quickly took out what seemed to be a miniature hand sanitizer and squirted the gel all over his shaking hands. The scent of harsh antiseptic burned her nostrils. Her stomach pitched.
"My name's Melina McAllister," she stated, smiling softly.
He smiled crookedly. "Henry. Henry Ames." He reached out a newly-cleaned hand and they shook, sharing a quiet laugh. "Wait, are you with Sherlock Holmes?"
Mel nodded. "How did you-"
"I've seen you in the newspaper and on the internet. The press is saying you're the girlfriend." He smirked. "And Holmes and Dr. Watson just went inside."
"I suppose I am. His girlfriend, I mean."
"That's amazing," Henry breathed, grinning widely. "He's one of the reasons I got into criminal forensics back in college."
"Sorry, but how old are you?"
The man laughed easily and flashed her a crooked grin. "It's fine, everyone's been asking. I'm twenty-five. You?"
"Haven't you heard it's rude to ask a woman her age?" The redhead retorted, the words coming out with little heat.
Henry rolled his eyes good-naturedly, sensing that she was teasing him. "Humor me."
"Twenty-three."
He raised a brow and grinned, revealing a set of perfectly straight and white teeth. "-Finally found someone here that's younger than me. Took your sweet time getting here, McAllister."
She laughed. His bright personality was infectious. "Call me Mel."
"Sounds good, Mel." They shared another smile. "Now, was there something I could do for you?"
The woman sighed. "Could you show me the crime scene and explained what evidence you collected?"
Henry's grin fell automatically from his lips. "Uh, sure. Follow me." He took a step towards the front doors and paused. "I- um, okay. Just make sure to breathe through your mouth, okay? It's not exactly a patch of roses in there-"
"No, you vomited all over those a couple minutes ago," Mel hummed, not missing a beat.
The man let out a bark of laughter and shook his head as he reached forward to open the door for her. "I think I'm going to like you, Red."
"Same here."
The dancer brushed her shoulder against the man's arm as they walked into the church together. The interior of the building was lit by large portable lights from the Yard. The contemporary glass chandelier that was once the main source of light for the large room had crashed onto the ground below. Shards of glass and metal chain links cluttered the floor.
Mel felt the young forensics investigator gently wrap an arm round her waist to steer her away from the debris.
And that's when it hit her.
The rank, overwhelming scent of burning flesh.
The woman swerved in Henry's grasp and hid her face in her hand. Her palm did little to ward off the gruesome stench.
The man next to her sighed. "The smell is the easiest part. Honestly, just breathe through your mouth." Without another word, Henry took out his pack of gum once more and slipped a piece into her free hand.
Mel definitely understood why the young man had consumed so many pieces outside of the church. Her eyes watered at the overbearing barrage on her senses.
"Come on," Henry murmured, extracting his arm from around her waist so he could wave her along. She nodded and hesitantly followed.
The long, wooden pews had been pushed to the front of the large room and were gathered and stacked into a large pyre. They had obviously been burned, by their blackened state and the wicked scorch marks over the ceiling and marble tiles. Mel gagged as she looked up.
High above were three charred corpses. Even badly burned from the scorching flames, it was obvious that the three victims had been decapitated. Sturdy metal poles had been drilled through them, from their necks, through to their tailbones. The poles had then been hammered through the marble alter at the front of the room.
"My God...," Mel gasped, eyes still watering from the smell. The sight burned itself into the back of her mind.
"-The fire was barely put out in time," Henry explained as he walked in front of her. "If the whole place wasn't built in marble and stone, it would've gone up."
Sherlock- who was standing to the left of the pyre, speaking with a queasy-looking Lestrade- suddenly turned to meet her gaze. "We have a trans-continental ritualistic serial murderer, Melina! I mean, just look at this!" He cried out excitedly. His pale mouth stretched into a beaming smile. "It's gorgeous!"
John snorted loudly from where he was helping numerous officers lower the bodies from the alter.
Once Mel managed to reach the front of the church, she sighed. "It sure is... something...," she finally settled, smiling shakily up at the consulting detective. His grin fell a fraction at the look of disgust on the redhead's face. Then he glanced up at the young American man and frowned.
"You're the man from the D.C. field office that Lestrade was telling me about? The investigator from the F.B.I.?"
Mel gazed back at Henry with measured shock.
The young man rifled a hand through his messy hair. "Yes, sir, the bureau sent me."
"There have been two other occurrences, identical to this?"
"Yes, sir," Henry gulped.
"Then please tell me," Sherlock implored, "How you managed to obtain the skill of precognition?"
"I-I'm sorry?"
The consulting detective stalked forward, sleek phone in hand. "Your flight, even if it was non-stop, would've taken at the very least seven hours and fifty-three minutes, not including baggage claim, security checkpoints, and the seventy-eight minutes it would've taken to get here by taxi. So please, educate us, how a man of an intelligence twenty points less than my own, could arrive in a country before this murder even took place."
Mel's brow creased. "...Henry?"
The young investigator went a vivid shade of red. "Oh God, okay- this, no... really not what you're insinuating here-"
Sherlock's brow arched primly. "I haven't insinuated anything about you. That was a statement of facts about distance."
"I didn't kill any of these people."
"As you heard, I listed off nothing of the sort," the consulting detective stated.
"I-I... Okay." Henry fisted his hair in frustration, leaving even more spikes than before. "The director sent me to London after analysing the message the killer left at both of the other crime scenes."
Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a hard glance.
"What message?" The detective inspector asked woozily, obviously still impacted by the scene.
The young man frowned. "You haven't found it yet?" He sounded reasonably surprised; as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Apparently not," Sherlock spat through gritted teeth.
John spared them all a cautious glace; as if he was afraid that his friend would explode.
Henry whistled under his breath. "Right. So, if it's like the other two...," he hummed as he leaped over a burnt bench to reach the back of the alter. Slipping on a pair of plastic gloves from his back pocket, the man knelt down.
Mel and Sherlock shared an equally skeptical look.
There was a dull thunk.
"Cool. Right where the others were. See?"
Mel heard Sherlock growl lowly as he rushed over behind the alter as well. She saw a brief passage written on a piece of old parchment.
And he made his son pass through the fire, and observed times, and used enchantments, and dealt with familiar spirits and wizards: he wrought much wickedness in the sight of the LORD, to provoke him to anger.
"2 Kings 21:6," John muttered gravely, breaking the vast silence.
The consulting detective huffed with annoyance. "How did you know that?"
The army doctor shrugged. "I knew a soldier in Afghanistan. Jed. He... would read bible verses at night."
"And you remembered?"
John raised a single shoulder. "When there isn't much, Sherlock, you learn to hold onto the bit of hope that you can."
The woman's heart ached at his solemn words.
"Wait," Henry cut in, looking up at the blond man. His hazel eyes widened. "Jed? As in Jed Wilcox?"
John sighed and shook his head. "I can't remember. I'm sorry. He was a Private, under my command. He was shot by a member of the Taliban and was discharged from the military not long after-"
"That's him! The Director sent me here to speak with him about the murders-"
"What?!" John shouted, eyes flashing.
"H-He's been institutionalized for five years, Dr. Watson. I'm sorry."
Lestrade bristled. "How do you know his name?"
Henry flushed. "I- uh- I read his blog. Most of the Bureau does as well..."
Mel couldn't help the slight smile that threatened to stretch across her lips.
"Perfect," Sherlock spat angrily, glaring at his flatmate.
John just shrugged once more, but didn't say anything in response.
The young forensics expert scratched his jaw. "Um, I was actually just about to visit Mr. Wilcox. Y-You can come with me, if you want."
Sherlock and John shared a long, silent conversation. It took several minutes and many glares, but the consulting detective finally groaned and rolled his eyes.
"I suppose. I don't believe that I will be able to discern any more from the bodies, as they are still suspended above us."
"It took us three days to get the vics in Detroit down," Henry supplied, laughing breathily. It was obvious the man laughed whenever he was tense or feeling anxious.
Sherlock gave the younger man a long, speculative examination with his observant gaze. "Shall we, Mr. Ames?"
Mel thought the man in Converse was going to swoon.
"I... uh, yep. Let's head out."
2:15 PM
The Tenningville Institution for the Clinically Insane was a very old and shady building. As they walked through the main entrance, Mel felt a cool chill glide its slippery fingers down the length of her spine. Sensing her unease, Sherlock took her hand in his and interlaced their fingers. The effect of his touch was instantaneous. His warmth banished the icy sensations away, leaving only the shivering unease in her mind. The woman took in the peeling paint on the walls as they approached the front reception desk. The building smelled of dirt and tangy iron. Like blood and decay.
The woman at reception had to have been in her mid to late seventies. She glared up at the four new arrivals over her horn-rimmed frames.
"What do you want?"
Mel was taken aback by the hostility in her tone.
Henry shuffled. "We're here to see Jed Wilcox."
The woman sat up a little straighter in her chair. "The fool?"
The young man's brows drew together. "I'm sorry?"
"That man 'asn't made a lick of sense since he arrived," she drawled. "He scares the nurses with 'is gibberish. Don't you listen to a thing he says, you hear?"
The four of them shared a long, hard look.
"Uh... sure... Where can we find him?" Henry asked, running a hand through his hair. He let out a tense chuckle.
"Room 717," she stated, passing them an old, rusted key from behind the desk. "Protocol says I need to take you there myself and oversee the meetin'... But I honestly don't give two flying fucks about that creepy bastard."
John's expression hardened at the old woman's words. With that, Sherlock was off down the hall, pulling Mel along behind him. John and Henry had to jog to catch up.
It took only a couple of minutes for them to locate the room. The door was heavy and metal, with only a solitary, sliding window to place plates of food inside. It was an eerie sensation to the redhead, knowing that there was a man who was clinically insane just on the other side of the door. Henry stepped forward, key in hand. His fingers trembled minutely as he placed it in the weathered lock. The door opened with a wheezing pop.
A musky gust of wind smelling of urine and excrement billowed from the small cell.
Gazing at one another, the four of them entered the room and closed the door behind them. The room was lit only by a single bulb, which hung high above on the ceiling. The once-white wallpaper was peeling from the walls in long curls. What looked like the scratch marks from clawed hands ran over every visible surface. What wasn't clawed and bitten was covered in bright colors of wax crayons. Bible passages and disturbing images were sketched everywhere. The bed. The soiled sheets. The desk, which was bolted to the floor.
Curled up in the furthest corner of the room was a man in his mid forties. His hair was long and matted down his back, as if it hadn't been washed since he arrived at the asylum. Most of his face was shrouded in a long, coarse beard. Clothed in only a pair of white boxers, Mel could see the sores he'd scratched all over his torso. The man, Jed Wilcox, peered up at them sinisterly, head tilted to the side at an odd angle. Suddenly, Jed stood with frightening speed. His head twitched as he took them in. Then he grinned, showing off decaying, yellowed teeth.
"Three blind mice scurried under the writing desk,
Never knowing when an attack would come next,
All the King's horses
And all the King's men,
Wouldn't be able to stitch the cleverest mouse together again." The short, swift chatter was punctuated by a long peal of hysterical laughter.
Henry shifted uncomfortably. "Mr. Wilcox, we're here to speak with you about the murders-"
Jed's laughter cut off in an instant.
"Three monsters of men,
Three bears in a bed,
Chop, chop, he'll chop off your head.
Chop, chop, chop, chop-!"
John stepped forward. "Private Wilcox, it's Capitan Watson. Do you remember me?"
The man's cloudy gaze sharpened instantly. His focus shot to John, who's jaw snapped shut at the sudden attention.
"Here comes the King with his sword made of gold,
Here he comes walking, down the old cobble road.
He'll draw his sword for you, for he has no soul,
You'll know who he is; your blood will run cold.
Oh, poor John Watson, he did say you were getting old." Jed snickered. Then he paused; taking a long, pronounced breath. The noticeable twitch of his head started again.
Sherlock, who had been quietly observing the man, finally spoke. "How do we find him? The King?"
Mel frowned. Just as she was about to speak, Jed's rough voice started again.
"The King does not wait for the three little mice,
he's already hunting you, so I'll be concise.
You've been naughty in his eyes, so this is the price;
You'll walk through HIS fire, the fire and ice.
For he is the Lord. The Lord Jesus Christ."
There was more unsettling laughter.
"Run little mice, run away,
for he will kill the Captain before light fades this day.
He'll come precisely at midnight; do not be afraid,
For your salvation in coming, a gift that cannot be repaid."
"Who is the King? Have you met him before?" Mel questioned, biting her bottom lip.
Jed laughed wildly, throwing his head back. He moved back into his corner, retreating into the small ball they'd first seen him in. "Then the fire of the LORD fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust, and licked up the water that was in the trench."
Sherlock let out a frustrated breath. "We should leave."
Henry bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Yep. I agree. Let's go. Maybe get some ice cream. Or donuts. I like donuts. I have ridiculously low blood sugar, so that'd be nice-"
As they left the room, Jed screamed shrilly at the top of his lungs. "THE KING CAN SMELL YOU! HE'S HUNTING YOU-!"
John slammed the door shut once they were safely out in the hall and took the key from Henry, hastily locking the door.
"Jesus," Mel breathed, running a hand down her face.
Sherlock smirked. "John?"
"Hmmm?"
"Maybe you should've cut out the cologne and aftershave from your routine this morning. It would've made us harder to find."
The doctor sent him a dry glare.
The silence between the four individuals was finally broken by Henry's tense, anxious chuckles. He flushed as they turned to face him. "I... I thought that was funny... Sorry. I'll shut up now."
Mel couldn't help but grin at the young man's antics as they departed from the terrifying asylum. When she gazed up at Sherlock, she could've sworn she saw his lips curl up into a smile as well.
I do hope that you all had a lovely Christmas and New Years, if you celebrate them. If not, have a wonderful winter season :) If you're sad and cold where you are, don't feel too down. It's gonna be -50 degrees Celsius tonight, and we're expecting half a foot of snow. So... be thankful you don't live in Canada. lol
Thanks to everyone who's fav/follow/review/reading.
Come join the party! We have balloons and cookies! I don't bite! Promise... ;)
Thanks again for reading! I hope you guys have a great week!