"Sherlock, wait—" John had switched off the stove and grabbed his coat as fast as he could, and hurried after the detective.
It was too early in the morning for this…
Down at the curb he just barely caught the cab Sherlock had hailed before it pulled away. He let his head flop back onto the seat and tried to catch his breath. "What is this all about, then?"
Sherlock didn't look up from his mobile. "A corpse was found in an abandoned flat near Saint Bart's hospital. Apparent suicide, but there's one problem."
"Which is?"
"There's no blood."
As soon as the cab pulled up at the crime scene Sherlock was up and out the door, with John still trying to keep up.
John heard Anderson's voice before he saw him, blocking their way with an arm outstretched.
"What are you doing here?" Anderson scowled at the both of them, clearly none too pleased to be out working so early either.
"I received a call, from DI Lestrade." Sherlock's expression remained impassive. "Something about 'please help us, we're out of our depth. Again.'"
Anderson rolled his eyes. "Yeah right. Lestrade's busy this morning, and he couldn't be out here. So I'm warning you, just do your job, or I'll—"
"Yes, thank you, moving on…" Sherlock pushed past him and headed up the stairs to the empty flat.
John cast one last look at Anderson and shrugged before following him upstairs.
The room was bare, with patchy wallpaper and an old carpet dusted with grime. In the centre of the room lay the body, face up and very obviously dead, judging by the gray pallor of her skin and the countless slices along her arms and legs.
But it was true: there was no blood.
No blood at all.
John just stood there for several minutes, glancing over at Sherlock, who seemed to have taken pause at the sight of the wounds.
"Are you okay?" John whispered, so none of the forensics team could hear him.
"Yes, of course I'm okay."
"We don't have to take this one, if you don't want to."
"I said I'm fine." Sherlock cleared his throat and knelt beside the corpse to examine it closer.
A case was a case, apparently.
...
He just stood there, staring down at the mess without expression.
It spread slowly, a little puddle of tannin and milk and teacup slivers.
Very sharp slivers.
Sherlock took a deep breath and leaned back against the counter, glaring up at the ceiling.
Not fair…
Not fair…
Too easy…
But…
He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to make the itching need go away.
John would be upset.
He'd tell him not to do this.
He'd be angry.
He wouldn't understand.
Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again the room felt darker.
All his fault...
...
"Sherlock?" John had knelt on the other side of the corpse, slipping on latex gloves so he could help with the inspection.
"Hmm?"
"If this is murder, then… why go to all the trouble of… well, cutting her up like that? This is way more than it should take to kill someone."
"Don't you think I know that?" Sherlock glanced up at him with an intense look, and John lowered his eyes. "He clearly wanted to send a message. She was dead before he made the first slice."
"That's what I thought, but… He?"
"Oh, don't make me explain this! For god's sake—"
"Sherlock. We're not all geniuses here. Stop bloody showing off and tell me."
"There's no blood here, meaning she was killed elsewhere, somehow drained of her blood, sliced up, and then transported here to be displayed on the floor. You'll notice that there are no less than fifteen steps up to this room, and there is not even a hair on the steps. That means he didn't drag her up here, he carried her. And in order to do that, he would have to be strong. So, by balance of probability, the killer is most likely a man."
"Some women are pretty strong. You could be wrong there."
"Oh, I don't think so."
...
Sherlock knelt by the shattered teacup, taking deep breaths. He looked down at his hands, which were shaking slightly.
That must be because he hadn't eaten today.
It had to be…
The spilled tea had run into the little grooves along the linoleum floor, and was still spreading, slower and slower.
Time, too, seemed to have slowed to a snail's pace; it felt as if the minute hand on the kitchen clock only moved every fifteen minutes, and when it did it was extraordinarily loud.
12:01 AM.
Tick.
12:02 AM.
He took another deep breath and reached down to pick a shard of teacup from the mess. It was still dripping, and he shook it off and held it tightly.
It felt thin and razor-edged.
A little jagged, too.
He'd missed the feel of something so sharp in his hand, something so… solid and reassuring.
Something he hated so much, but couldn't imagine not having… Something he couldn't live without.
Tick.
...
"So he's trying to send a message. What is it he's saying?" John straightened up and pulled off his gloves.
Sherlock paused, lips parted slightly, obviously thinking hard, and then looked up at him. "Me."
"What?"
"It's for me. He knows."
"Wait a minute. Sherlock, hold up. What are you talking about?"
"It's him."
John stared at him for several moments before he turned away and paced a few steps, giving the baseboard a sharp kick. "SHIT! Dammit! How does he know?! And how do you know it's him?! Are you sure?"
"Look at it. It's exactly like…" He glanced down at his arms, and quickly looked away again. "And besides, she's wearing a men's suit jacket. A very specific brand. Westwood. It's obviously a setup—he knew I'd notice that."
"Is that—?"
"Yes. Moriarty wears Westwood."
...
Why were his sleeves so damn hard to unbutton?
His stupid fingers wouldn't stop shaking enough to get the cuff unbuttoned so he could roll it up.
They just wouldn't.
Deep breath…
There. He'd got the first one.
Then the second…
Finally.
He stared down at his exposed arm, so pale in the fluorescent lighting. Sherlock clenched his teeth, hard, and tried not to let John into his head right now.
That just made him feel guiltier.
But why should he feel guilty in the first place…? He deserved this…
He did…
And he needed it, badly…
...
"Well why isn't there any blood? How did he even do that?" John crossed his arms and looked down at the body.
"You're a doctor. You figure it out."
"Er… I would say he just drained the blood, but…"
"It's too clean."
"Yeah. That. You have a theory, though, don't you?"
Sherlock nodded. "Look at the gray colour of her skin. It looks almost… defrosted."
John had a sudden flashback to the fingers on the kitchen table back at the flat, which were exactly the same colour.
Of course.
"So he just tossed her in a deep freeze for a couple of hours?"
"Of course not, that would take too long. A liquid nitrogen bath is more likely."
...
The first blood always sent a shiver down his spine.
The first, quick slice of the blade across his skin was always the most satisfying.
The slight tingle as the blood welled up in little droplets, and then the pain.
It stung this time, more than a real blade ever had.
And his shaking hand did nothing to make the cuts cleaner.
First of all he just needed to break the skin.
Careless, parallel lines in deep scarlet.
Just to make the need go away.
To make the thoughts stop.
To calm his heart.
The blood ran down his arm and dripped from his fingertips into the auburn pool on the floor, staining it in vivid red swirls.
He'd have to clean it up later, when he could think straight.
He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, hissing as the shard went particularly deep.
There…
That was helping…
Sherlock stopped and looked down at what he'd done. There was still a space near his upper arm…
An idea was slowly forming itself in his mind, something to fill that space, something that would be just perfect…
He set the edge of the shard against it and pressed, dragging it down, letting the blood spill, then turning it and repeating the step two more times.
One letter down.
Four more to carve.
...
"So Moriarty's threatening you? Or at least letting you know that he knows about… that. What do we tell Lestrade?"
"We tell him the facts." Sherlock straightened up, taking off his own gloves and heading downstairs.
John hurried after him, determined not to be left behind again.
The entire drive to the station was a bit awkward, as John felt he should say something about the body and the message Moriarty had left him, but he wasn't sure exactly what.
Sherlock ignored him for the most part anyway, apparently lost in thought.
As they went inside and approached Lestrade's office they ran into Sally Donovan, who, it seemed, had been waiting for their report.
She looked at Sherlock and hurried over as fast as her heels would let her.
"Finally! So what's the word, Freak?"
...
Freak.
...
It happened before John could stop himself.
Before he could think he'd reared back—and then his fist connected with Donovan's face.