Finally, a case! And an interesting one at that. It had been nearly a month since the last good serial killer, and here was one that was figuratively making his tail wag.
Lestrade had phoned him with the news, saying there were three female bodies found in a park, dressed all in white, all seemingly poisoned. It looked like a ritual, except there was no evidence of religious markings anywhere.
Oh, he couldn't wait to share this with John, but the man had defied all odds and managed to stay the night at his girlfriend's house. Margaret or something? And worse on top of that, the doctor was taking ages to answer his mobile. It had nearly gone to voicemail by the time Sherlock heard a voice on the other end.
"Sherlock," Oh, the doctor had been woken by the sound of the phone. "What do you want?"
"Have you just woken up? Sleeping is so dull! Hurry and rush back to the flat, Lestrade says there a case that Anderson can't sort out. It'll be a pleasure showing him how utterly useless he is." Humming with his frustration, the detective picked up his violin and began to sort out the ending to a new piece he had been working on.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, what hour is it? Can't this wait for a few?" John was grumbling about. Must have been up late 'romping' or whatever he called it.
"John! I need my doctor!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and carefully set down his violin. "You are my doctor, are you not?"
"A doctor, yes. Your doctor, no. Your flatmate who needs to sleep like a normal human, absolutely. Bugger off. God forbid I have a normal life," It sounded like he was talking to himself at this point, but Sherlock couldn't be sure. His flatmate could be quite strange at times. "Fine, Sherlock, fine."
There was the man he knew! One mention of danger or violence and the man came running.
"Hold on a mo' Sherlock."
Something was wrong. The silence. The all too-quite silence turned into an ear-piercing scream. Definitely something wrong, but the man wasn't hearing him. He had said his name at least five times before there was a reaction. To say Sherlock was worried was an understatement. His friend never acted like this, and it was troubling. Questioning the man was almost useless, he couldn't understand a word that was being said, and knowing his doctor, the man was simply pointing at the thing Sherlock obviously couldn't see.
Then he heard it.
"Sherlock, she's dead! Sarah's dead!"
Well, fuck. That wasn't quite what he was expecting.
Since the army doctor was gone and the horrified boyfriend was in his place, Sherlock took control and flew down the stairs, pulling on his coat and scarf while barking orders over the phone.
"Stay where you are, John. Do not move to put on your trousers, do not move to open the door, do nothing. Do you understand me?"
The 'yes' reply was so quiet that even Sherlock nearly missed it.
"Stay on the line and tell me everything you see, every little detail. Mrs. Hudson! Call up the Yard and tell them Lestrade needs to follow my orders, immediately!" He was banging on his landlady's door, his uncomfortable feelings over the situation sneaking through into his voice.
A million different situations flickered through his mind, everything from John having a flashback to Afghanistan to the doctor himself being the murder. No, that was wrong. He would never murder someone he cared about like that. It wasn't a war enemy and it wasn't a threat to a friend's life.
Racing away from Baker Street, Sherlock didn't bother to catch a cab. He knew the streets well enough to know that morning traffic would slow him down much more than could be allowed, and Sarah only lived a fifteen-minute run away.
(He would never forget her name again, not after hearing his only friend screaming it).
Apparently Mrs. Hudson listened to him and phoned the Yard with all of the information Sherlock had given her, because when he arrived at the young woman's apartment, Lestrade was seconds behind with his buffoons in tow.
The head buffoon realised it was the wrong time for proper greetings and said his hello's by busting in the front door of apartment 3C.
The smell was obviously blood, and lots of it. All contained to the bedroom, through, interesting. He barely took in all the deductions he needed to, instead rushing to help his friend in need. The man was curled up so small, sobbing and staring at the bloody mess that had been left in the bed above him.
"Sherlock, don't touch him." God damn, Anderson had followed him.
"Bloody hell, Anderson! Just check the God forsaken body and leave me be!" Sherlock was worried enough without that daft fool interfering. He was a bit too busy trying to make sure his friend wasn't injured. And wasn't a murderer.
"Lestrade, get that damned shock blanket of yours and bring it here." The one time he needed it, and the man didn't have it at the ready. What good were these damned detectives? They weren't doing a single useful thing.
"Sherlock, she's dead. My Sarah." The horrors in those eyes were as clear as day, and as frightening as could be. Sherlock had never seen John like this, so afraid and in pain. Well, except that one time when a criminal slashed him with a butcher knife. And that time a criminal ran over his foot with a car. But those were different. That was just physical pain. This pain, this was heart-wrenching, gut-clenching pain and it hurt to look at. Even for Sherlock, master of unfeeling.
"I always through the freak was going to kill someone, but I guess it rubbed off, didn't it?"
"Can it, Donovan!" He almost wanted to thank Lestrade, but his time was better spent tending to the still alive victim than to a man he hardly cared about.
"John. Listen to me. Recount every moment you spent with Sarah yesterday, from the moment you walked over the threshold to when we got here." John was barely listening, but he was evidently feeling better now that he was surrounded by living people that were there to help him out.
Listening intently to every word and sound he made, Sherlock transitioned from helping a friend to detective mode, spying out each individual thing in the rooms. Surely he would be used to help solve the case even if he was close to the living victim. Otherwise Lestrade would never figure out who had really murdered the girl that Anderson was tending to in the other room.
"Sherlock? What do you have?"
"Mug on the table, lipstick on a single spot on the rim. A matching mug thrown in the sink, cracked down one side from being tossed in frustration or anger. Two wine glasses with red wine-" He leaned in for a quick sniff of the glasses. Ah, a wonderful wine, one he had on many occasions at Mother's. "Full-bodied, Bordeaux, Cabernet Sauvignon. Imported from across the pond, at least seven years old. A selection that Mr. Watson doesn't drink without a paired lamb dish, of which there is obviously none." Clearly these people didn't know John at all, if they thought he would have a red wine without a meal. There had been another man there, which set off John and the two got into a 'domestic' (as Mrs. Hudson would call it).
He paced, eyes flickering from one thing to the next, taking in every minute detail that normal idiots wouldn't see even with proper direction.
"Shoes by the door and jacket on the arm of the sofa show he's been here multiple times and knows how the flat owner likes things. Table chairs facing each other comfortably, possibly friends, more likely to be family or lovers. The patio door is unlocked- they felt safe being five floors up, even though there is access to a fire escape. Clothes strewn across the floor, here and there," Sherlock said, pointing at the clothes scattered about. "Dropped in the heat of passion but not in the throws of a fiery lust. An exam of the young woman and you will discover that the intercourse was consensual."
Before he knew it, John was being ushered out of the apartment and being taken to the Yard. He was going to be charged with murder even though it was blatantly evident that he did no such thing.
Now was Sherlock's chance to do his work. Without John or Lestrade to bother him (though Donovan and Anderson were both there still), he could finally get to inspect the remnants of the crime scene.
He had to prove his friend's innocence.
A/N - This one's a bit short and didn't include everything I wanted it to, but it's one am and I've got to wake up at five am so this is all you get for now. The next chapter might not be up for another week or so, sorry!
Please review/favorite/etc. I'll love you if you do! (No, really, I'm serious!)
