Sorry it took so long guys, junior year is kicking my ass. I thought I would've had more free time to write or I wouldn't have posted the first chapter. But I've managed to pull a second one together, I hope you enjoy! It's a very short one but it's full of juice and the beginning of the story.
On the way back to the crime scene John learned that Fallon was a thirty-two year old professor of Cohesive English, Classic Philosophy, and Creative Writing & Literature at the University and on her way to becoming a well known scholar. She lived alone in her home, formally her late grandfather's, aside from the few house-keep that inhabited various rooms around the house. Sherlock and Fallon had met artlessly at the university, shared a coed dorm together when John didn't quite think they allowed coed dorms or so they had made it coed either way. The suspicion that Sherlock and Fallon had left out a piece of their past was still very apparent but before John had the time to ask they had arrived back at the warehouse.
He followed behind the two into the warehouse slowly. And he noticed, as they both walked, that they seemed to either drift closer to each other or drift two arm lengths away from each other, how...odd.
"She can't bring that in here." Anderson spoke to Sherlock as Fallon gallantly walked past him through the door way of the warehouse which lay home to the dead body to Rebecca Windstead.
"Hey who's this?" Lestrade gestured towards the blond woman who began to examine and observe the body whilst munching on her cheap Chinese.
"A friend." Sherlock said walking over to her as Lestrade rolled his tired eyes, his career as Detective Inspector flashing before them.
"Can I talk to you for a quick second, Sherlock? Over there?" Fallon jabs her thumb to an area deserted by the on-going investigation. Sherlock's face offers a questioning but complying countenance at he follows her. And John could not help but be curious.
"What is it?"
"Why did you bring me here? This is just a silly little crime scene, granted an extremely intriguing one but I don't think you brought me here for my interest." Fallon inputs and glances around with little enthusiasm.
"Didn't you continue your Latin studies in Grad School?" Sherlock's eyes stayed on hers as she narrows them.
"Yes, for about a year. Why?"
There was a sudden manic and arousing fumbling of voices and footsteps of Lestrade who rushed toward the secretive two, a small smile lay on his face.
"We found the note."
Sherlock smiles, looking down at Fallon who equally looks up at him with an unreadable expression, even to him.
"Let me see it." Fallon lifts her hand to Lestrade, and the note is placed in her hand. As Fallon grips the note disclosed in plastic wrapping her eye catches Lestrade's and she smiles a sly smile. "Thank you." Her smile shifts to a smirk as he nods. Sherlock rolls his eyes and brings the note into Fallon's like of vision, irritably. She laughs and takes a lazy look at it. Taking a closer look, she shoves the box of Chinese into Lestrade's hands and looks closer. And then she looks back at the victim sprawled out on the concrete.
"This is one of my students. Or, was. I recognize her writing and use of cohesive devices, or lack there of." Upon the ripping of the bag open, John winces, she is contaminating evidence with her greasy fingers, and she looks closely as if she's forgotten her glasses, "Well, this wasn't written by her." She tosses the paper on the tabletop next to her.
"I thought you just said it was?" Lestrade sets her food on the observation table and steps forward.
"Indirectly. She wrote, but someone else was telling her to write it—" but with sudden haste; "how did you know it would be in Latin, Sherlock?"
"Imprint on her hand," he points, they all looked aside from Fallon, "backwards reads, 'alui' form of the word 'cherish'."
And yes, if looked upon closely John could see an imprint of that word very clearly.
"You can read Latin just fine Sherlock." Fallon persists.
Sherlock cocks his head, eyes filled to the rim with sarcasm, "Yes but you're the expert Fallon."
Lestrade clear his throat, "Sherlock, I'm going to need everything you have."
Ripping his eyes from the persistent being he begins, "Rebecca Winstead, graduate student on her third year at the university. Committed a murder three months prior to this week, abducted in the early morning going by her clothing and lack of footwear, brought straight here and kept for no more that three days where she was given a series snake venom poisons. Most likely a black mamba that killed her given her awkward and stringent position more than likely caused by a sudden paralysis, of course other venoms were tested, needle punctures, old and new on each arm."
"But how do you know it's snake venom and not just some drug?" Lestrade questions and Sherlock seems to hold back the urge to roll his eyes, and most likely biting back an obnoxious comment. Fallon laughs slightly and picks at her food, now almost completely emptied into her stomach.
"There are various cups all around this place with latex gloves spread over the top, please tell me you made the connections." Fallon says as she lifts the note again and reads through it, silently.
"We know why, so all that's left is to find out who did this." Lestrade nods and Sherlock adjusts his scarf. "Fallon, what do you say we take this evening to figure this cryptic mishap out?" She nods and Sherlock waits for Fallon to walk up to his side and they both exit, with the ever silent John in tow.
December 20, 1998
London, England
After she had settled into his dorm room, Sherlock was able to observe Fallon at a much closer level than he would have particularly liked to but he didn't complain, she was interesting. Yet he was still slightly apprehensive about sharing a flat with a woman he couldn't figure out in the few weeks he'd known of her. She was complex, but not so outrageously complex that it took several weeks of analyzing to understand her quirks and simple character details. Like for example; what she was majoring in, what state she'd come from, or why exactly she took so many pills. And the answers were simple to deduce; Fallon majored in Literature and Creative Writing, she was originally from Ohio but moved to live with her father in New York given her accent and her fondness and natural trust in men, and one of the most interesting things Sherlock found about Fallon was why she took so many little gray and white pills. It'd taken him a few days but he'd finally broken down her schizophrenic true self.
Sherlock had skipped class one day and retreated back to his room while Fallon had gone off to her Literature Lesson. He quickly pulled the nightstand drawer open and checked each label and the connections were made in his head almost immediately.
"Chlorpromazine." Anti-psychotic.
"Parnate...tranylcyromine." Anti-depressant.
"Xanax." Anti-anxiety.
Conclusion: heavily medicated schizophrenic.
And he sat on her bed, looking at the three little bottle that sat upon Fallon's nightstand for the next hour until she had walked through the door, rushing like her usual self to start reading on her new assignment. She didn't seem to care much less notice that Sherlock was sitting on her bed with her secret right in front of his eyes and this irked him to no end.
"You've been on these for over two years," he states, trying to get a rise out of her. "It is interesting,I never would have pegged you for the deranged schizophrenic type."
Without a glance up from her notebook, Fallon retorts back, "At least I medicate myself," indicating that she had deduced on her own of Sherlock's undiagnosed sociopath disorder.
He smiles with a slight sneer at the back of her head, and began on his own homework. Quite possibly, this wasn't a bad decision after all.