Do be warned: This chapter contains some scenes that may be disturbing. Please proceed with caution.

Origins

Chapter Four

"Ruth, you in?" A voice called as the screen door squeaked open the next morning.

"In the kitchen, Walter." Ruth was by the sink, cleaning the dishes from breakfast. Sherlock's head jerked up mid-droop down to his chest. Even though it was only a little past six in the morning, he had technically been up all night; by the time he had been ready to go to sleep, it was almost five, and Ruth had barged into his room about thirty minutes later to rouse him up for breakfast. The conclusion was loud and clear: her cruelty knew no bounds.

He distantly noted that Walter's footsteps sounded rather urgent and shook his head to clear his somewhat fuzzy mind. But as he fought to wrangle his senses, a shatter of glass rang out in the small kitchen. He looked up to see Ruth's face draining of its normal ruddy color and he followed her gaze to the man that was standing at the kitchen doorway. It took a lot of effort on his part, but he managed to hide his temporary shock.

Walter was a typical farmer for those parts- tall in stature, with large hands and feet and hair with specks of grey and white scattered about. But his normality was being overpowered by the sight of his shirt, arms and hands that were completely covered in blood –rather fresh blood, Sherlock thought as the heavy smell of metal hit his nose.

"Oh, good gracious, Walter, what happened?" Ruth asked, slowly covering her nose and mouth with her soapy gloved hand.

"Two of my prize cows dead, Ruth," Walter said shakily, taking a deep breath. "I found 'em this mornin' by the fence as I was goin' to milk 'em. Slashed right across the stomach, they was. Right straight across." A very pregnant pause passed in which Sherlock's eyes scanned the farmer's countenance, observations hitting him faster than he could catalogue then.

Diabetic, history of anxiety and depression on mother's –no- father's side, third generation farmer-

"Sherlock." Ruth swallowed and took off her gloves. "Come and make a cuppa for Walter, won't you love?"

With a silent nod, he got to his feet and made his way to the stove to put the kettle to boil, the soft sounds of Ruth gently ushering Walter to an empty chair peppering the air. He moved around slowly, occasionally making noises and clatters to give off an air of concentration on his given task.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Ruth." Walter's voice cracked. "They were two of me best cows. I got the most money for their milk and now-" He made a noise of distress and Ruth shushed him. Sherlock brought the cup of tea to the table and held it out to Walter, who almost dropped the cup from the strength of his trembling.

"They're getting worse," Walter whispered as he took a sip of the tea. Sherlock looked to Ruth to gauge her reaction; she pursed her lips so tight that they were slowly turning white against her face.

"No, don't say that, dear-"

"Did you hear about the Grearson's pony? Killed in the exact same way not even a few days ago! And the O'Flanell's pigs; all eight of 'em slashed! This mad man is running around killing all of the livestock. Killing our very living, Ruth! He's been doing it and no one's doing a thing about it! Not a bloody thing!

Sherlock reached out and took the teacup from Walter's hand before it feel to the floor in a shatter. If he didn't know any better, he could've sworn that Ruth was an inch away from fainting at the old farmer's hysterical rants.

"Walter," Ruth said levelly. "I'm sure that the police are looking into this-" she frowned at Walter's bark of a laugh. "You have to remember, they're in charge of two towns-"

"This has been happening for months, and they have yet to get off their arses and do anything! What is it going to take to make them realize how serious this is?!"

Though Sherlock knew that Walter had a valid argument, he obviously didn't understand the crime map of the area (no one ever thinks of that, Sherlock thought to himself with a tired sigh). Theft was probably the worse crime that the small town police force had dealt with. He highly doubted that they knew exactly how to handle someone that was going around and killing animals.

Walter sighed and looked down to himself. "I better get back and get cleaned up before the missus sees me. And I'm going to make a call to the station. Maybe this will finally get them to move." Walter stood to his feet. "Thanks for the cuppa, Ruth. Oi, lock your doors from now on, eh?" With a nod to Sherlock, he left the kitchen and the screen door opened and shut with his departure.

The silence after he left was deafening. Ruth sighed and looked down to her lap.

"You know, in all of the years that I've lived in this house, I've never once had to think about locking the front door." She stood to her feet. "But this isn't the same Flitwick that I once knew…not at all." She looked to the blood that Walter had left behind on the seat, floor and edge of the table. "I better clean this up…go on and get dressed in the meantime; I need to go into town."

Sherlock turned around to walk back to his bedroom, but he didn't miss the sign of the cross that Ruth made, her soft prayer evaporating into the silence as quickly as she uttered it.

The small town of Flitwick was bustling with activity by the time Ruth and Sherlock arrived later that morning. Despite the slightly overcast skies, people seemed to be just as chipper as if it had been sunny. As they walked past houses to go to different shops, Ruth was constantly stopping to talk to someone, the bark of her hyena-like laugh ringing through the air every couple of minutes. Sherlock slowly moved himself away from her; maybe if he put enough distance between them, people wouldn't think-

"Oi, Vern, you 'ear about Walter's cows?"

Sherlock straightened up, his ears immediately honing in on the conversation of the two elderly men standing by a lamppost. Though cars passed by and sometimes drowned out what they were saying, he managed to get the gist of their conversation.

"You think the police are actually going to come down and have a look at things?" The one with a blue jumper and a grey flat cap asked.

Vern, a bald old man scoffed, a drop of spit flying through the air from his droopy lips. "They're useless, those coppers." He waved his hand. "They're nothing but a bunch of horses'-"

A car drove by and honked, but Sherlock figured that he could fill in the blank of what the old man was saying and slunk back to Ruth's side as she walked away from another neighbor that she had stopped to talk to. He followed her down the pavement, making sure to keep his gaze straight ahead as people walked by and greeted them. He was so caught up in trying to ignore everyone that he made a noise of protest when Ruth tugged on his shirtsleeve to pull him into a small shop. The bell rang as they opened the door. A middle aged man stood behind the small counter and looked up from where he was measuring a piece of fabric.

"Ruth," he said happily as he set down his scissors. "I was wondering about you the other day." His eyes fell to Sherlock and they lit up. "Well, now, I see that you've been playing host to one of your grandchildren."

"This is Sherlock, Chris's youngest son."

"Oh, yes, I can see the resemblance," the man said with a nod and smile. "Name's Anthony, it's good to meet you. I'm glad that you came in today." His gaze moved to Ruth. "I have a new pattern that I think you would really like-"

Sherlock made himself tune out their chatter and laid his chin on the countertop. A part of him grimly hoped that those scissors in Anthony's hand would just magically slip out from his grasp and stab him through the eye. But what if Ruth still made him bake with some sort of pirate eyepatch on his wound? Useless. Maybe if it hit a jugular-

"There you are, Ruth." Anthony handed her the bag. "Come back soon, now."

"Of course I will. Come, Sherly."

Sherlock held back a groan at the nickname being used in front of a stranger and followed Ruth outside again. They stopped along the different shops – the chemist, the bakery, the post office- and finally got to the grocer's. Taking the opportunity for some freedom, Sherlock took a stroll around. Deductions for different patrons hit him from all different directions: having an affair, he noted of a woman looking at potatoes. Recently diagnosed with high blood pressure came from the portly man by the bananas. Pregnant with twins – no, triplets-

Something collided with his back and he spun around, the insult that he was prepared to throw dying in his throat as his eyes fell to the man that stood before him. He was tall and thin, with curly dark hair and tanned skin that highlighted the deep brown of his tired eyes. He donned a worn brown sweater with oversized black slacks and shoes that were obviously well worn, but taken care of as much as shoes could be.

"My apologies," the man said, his voice soft and gentle amidst the chatter of the shop.

"It's okay." Sherlock stepped out of the way and watched as the man walked past him and outside.

"All done." Ruth came to his side. "I'm sure you're hungry after this busy day we've had."

"Yeah, yeah, so hungry," Sherlock said distractedly as he followed her outside. The man had stopped to speak to a shop owner, people around them shooting looks that the man was obviously trying his best to ignore.

"Nana, who's that?" Sherlock asked with a point. Ruth slapped his finger down with a scowl.

"Pointing's rude." She followed his gaze. "Oh, that's Safi Mahmood," she said as they walked toward the car. "He's a nice young man; very professional, but he's rather withdraw and quiet. I don't think he's well-thought of."

"Most solicitors aren't."

"How did you know- oh, never mind, you notice everything." Ruth waved her hand "But it's not just that." It never is, Sherlock thought to himself, already knowing where Ruth's thoughts were going. "The Mahmoods are very nice people, I'm sure, but they mostly keep to themselves, especially after the letters." The engine started.

"Letters?"

"Horrid things, they were. They accused the family of all sorts of terrible crimes. The most disturbing part about it is that no one knows who sent them; they stopped after awhile, but I daresay the damage had already been done by the time they did." She sighed. "As much as I love this town and the people, they can be so close-minded with people that look different from them. I hope that'll all change one day."

Sherlock looked out the window as they drove down Greenfield Road back toward the outskirts of town. The Mahmoods, he was sorry to say, could've been the nicest family to grace the whole of England, but that didn't change the fact that they stuck out like a group of sore thumbs and he was sure that no matter what they did, they would never be truly accepted among the people of Flitwick.

The person was young, probably between the ages of twenty and thirty. Male, not someone of any kind of royalty. Possible trauma to the parietal, but multiple injuries to the ramus of the mandible-

"Oh, sweet mother of God!"

Sherlock almost dropped the human skull that he had found in the corner of his bedroom at Ruth's shout. Setting it down on the bed, he walked down the hall and into the kitchen to see his grandmother covering her face with her dirt-covered hands, the back screen door swinging shut from her sudden dash inside.

"I can't…why would…who…" She sat down at the table and sighed deeply, mumbling something lowly under her breath. Though her complete statement was a mystery, one word in it made Sherlock's ear perk up: police. "Don't go out there," she ordered him with a point as she got up from her seat and walked down the hall and into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Don't go out there, she says, he thought to himself with a chuckle as he walked outside, the gentle summer breeze blowing some of his dark curls around on his head. The gardening supplies were spread all around the front of the bed of flowers, a large hole gracing a spot right between two sets of bright yellow tulips.

But that wasn't what caught Sherlock's eye and complete attention.

Nailed to an old fence post by its ears was the bloody corpse of an adult rabbit. Sherlock felt the corner of his lip twitch. A quiet little farming town was experiencing what seemed like a madman running around and killing their livestock and even random animals. It seemed that no one, not even the police, could pin down who or what was causing it and why.

Maybe this little trip to Nana's isn't going to be so boring after all, Sherlock thought to himself as he turned around to walk inside.