[Title: Save Me From Myself

[Pairing: JohnLock

[Other notes: AU; Please read and review ^_^

[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.

Chapter Two: Insurgence

Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.

Both figures walked out the cab, it was again—night. Sherlock's coat matching the darkness as they passed, "Did I get anything wrong?"

The blond took in a breath before speaking, "Harry and me don't get on, never have." His began, half remembering what Sherlock had said earlier, "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then." The younger said mostly to himself, "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

John nodded, "And Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock brought himself to a complete stop realizing his mistake, in annoyance he huffed as John continued walking, "Harry's your sister."

John asked something that Sherlock ignored yet again, "Sister!"he hissed through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John groaned out.

The younger remained ignorant to John's query, "There's always something." He spoke as he reached the police tape facing a female; she held quite a slender figure for a police.

"Hello, freak." She said, her accent dripping in every word.

John raised an eyebrow at the nickname, that wasn't nice now was it. He looked at Sherlock's reaction seeing as if the man was already used to it made him a bit sympathetic.

Sherlock shrugged it off, "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade—" He stopped abruptly, eyes shifting immediately between glasz to crimson in a split second then back again—too fast for an average human to catch, the scent of blood was heavy in the air… There were two—two creatures fought here. The whiff of human blood thicker than the other… it smelt faintly of vampire blood. It was too faint to get a front on—too weak to distinguish…

She scowled at the 6 foot male, "Why?" her voice brought Sherlock back to reality.

He eyed her for a while clearing his head, he then spoke calmly knowing it would unnerve her, "I was invited."

"Why?" She asked again.

"Typical Donovan," Sherlock thought in annoyance. With evident sarcasm he spoke, "I think he wants me to take a look."

She smirked, "Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," he retorted perfectly as he ducked under the police tape, "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

Her face became bitter, "I don't—" She turned to the other figure, "Er—who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor John Watson." He replies and turns to John in a beat, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." His voice dropped into dark irony yet again, "Old friend."

Sally crosses her arms, and knits her eyebrows, "Colleague? How do you get a colleague?" without waiting for an answer, her focus shifts to John, "What, did he follow you home?"

Clearing his throat, John replied, "Would it be better if I waited and…"

"No." Sherlock states with his back on John, he raised up the police tape for John to enter. Seeing that John didn't have much of a choice, he walks in and Donovan inhales sharply as she lifts the radio to her mouth.

"Freaks here," she said as the two ignored her, "bringing him in."

She leads the boys towards the house and right then and there, Sherlock begins to deduce the area. His eyes travelling over the area as they approached reaching the pavement before the house, he got a few ideas here and there.

A man clothe in coverall comes out of the building, his face scrunched up in evident displeasure.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock spoke breathily, "here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," the stone-faced man replied as if he was speaking to a child, "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

The detective inhaled through his nose—the air was thick with life fluid, but there was a tinge of a dull scent, "Quite clear," he spat, "And is your wife away for long?"

Anderson groaned, "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." His denial was clear and useless on Sherlock. It was utterly annoying.

"You're deodorant told me that." Sherlock deadpanned.

The latter looks taken aback, "My deodorant?"

John couldn't help but stare along with the other bystanders, it was somehow amusing and bothersome to watch. Both parties were evenly matched on their immaturity—

Sherlock smirks, "It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men!" Anderson defended in confusion, "I'm wearing it!"

The consultant wanted to go against his obvious denial but decided on his first idea, "So's Sergeant Donovan." He pointed out tilting his head towards the said person.

John's eyes widened a fraction as Anderson looks around in shock at the female Sergeant, Sherlock sniffed the air meaningfully only to increase the infuriation of the opposite party, "Oh, I think it just vaporized." He smirked, "May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply—"

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock mutters as he passes them with a doctor silently trailing from behind, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He looks back, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

With that, he walks inside the house with a smug smile playing over his lips leaving Anderson and Donovan staring at him in absolute repulsion. John passes Donovan and sneaks a glance over her knees and follows Sherlock immediately after. The army doctor was lead into a room in the ground floor where he finds a familiar face putting on coverall, Sherlock tells him to wear them.

"Who's this?" The Detective Inspector asks his eyes on the new face. He remembers seeing the same man in Sherlock's flat…

The said interrogate took off his gloves as he replied, "He's with me."

Lestrade looks at him, "He's with me."

Sherlock speaks sharply, "I said he's with me."

John, unaware of the whole conversation, took his jacket off and picked one of the coverall… He stares at Sherlock who was simply putting on a latex gloves, "Aren't you gonna put one on?"

Sherlock looks at him sternly giving no proper reply. John shakes his head, why does he even bother. And then Sherlock spoke to Lestrade, "So, where are we?"

"Upstairs."

They were led up the staircase, "I can give you two minutes." The detective inspector said.

Inspecting the location, Sherlock spoke, "May need longer."

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards." Lestrade began to explain, "We're running them now for contact—"

All of a sudden, an earsplitting cry shot across the building shattering the silence. Sherlock winced at the deafening pitch, his hearing was excessively susceptible—a scream was, by no means, desired. Then he felt a heavy feeling of another vampire, another presence that vanished just after. Still, the trio ran up towards the scream… As soon as the door opened, the consulting detective felt as if he was struck solidly in the face by his long inherited instinct. He could hear Lestrade's voice calling out to the medics—

Blood was splattered everywhere. Like a canvas that was painted by the demon himself... and amid the confines of the room was a girl, flat on her back. It was a miracle how she was able to survive with her front recently slashed deeply; she was looking frantically at Sherlock as blood persistent to choke her as it escaped from her mouth dripping along the sides. John was by her side, tilting her face ever so slightly.

Out of instinct, Sherlock's fangs elongated. The pointed edge piercing his tongue ever so slightly until he could taste the bitterness of his own blood, despite that, his mind began processing every bit of evidence that he could see… everything else that was left untainted.

'Mo… Moriarty…' she mouthed and instantly went limp after. Sherlock froze.

"What was that?" Lestrade whispered, his eyes trailing to the corpse. He called around yelling at the police, "Find out who broke in—immediately!"

"What's wrong?" John questioned.

Lestrade looked down at the body, "She wasn't like this five minutes ago—She was lying on her front. Dead. Same as the others, she didn't have this… wound…"

John let the female go carefully, his coverall stained with blood along with his gloves… Sherlock cleared his mind as he saw the blond's neck stained with blood, his silent urge pinning him with obscene need. He cleared his throat and removed his coat and scarf handing it to the DI who was about to retort but Sherlock already walked over to the female, his shoes' sole walking over the blood that puddle round her.

"Shut up." Sherlock voiced out as the medics started entering, but no one was actually speaking.

"We weren't saying anything—" The detective inspector said, still stone shock. His voice quivered a bit along that line, but no one dared to comment on it.

"You were thinking." He noted back, "It's annoying."

Everyone else exchanged surprised looks while the eccentric male reaches the unwounded side of the corpse, then his attention drawn to the scratch marks right beside the corpse's palm—Rache—already concluding the vast meanings in his head. He reached out to one of the corpse's hands taking note that the index finger layed along the 'E' obviously still trying to write something—left handed. He pulls out his handkerchief from his coat pocket; he wipes the nails in one stroke. Glasz eyes flicker next to the index and middle nails for those are the only ones with broken and ragged along the ends, the nail polish chipped, and an absolute contrast to her seemingly well kept nails.

He then stares at the word pushing out his earlier thought of revenge, and gets out the world Rachel instead seeing the numerous possibilities in the correct form.

It was impossible to simply know what happened considering she was soaked in blood, then Sherlock noticed something off… her hair. He passed his hand over an unbloodied side and noticed it was wet, then he tried it along the inner side of her sleeve—wet.

He reaches into her pocket and finds a folding umbrella, it's lower end stained with blood but the rest was, he wipes his fingers over his handkerchief's unstained side, and over the umbrella—dry.

Returning the umbrella, he takes out his small magnifier, avoiding the glass part as he delicately inspects the thin cold jewelry around the victim's left wrist, it was clean seeing how the blood easily got over the bracelet, more or less—clean.

Then the gold earing—clean.

Chain around her neck—cannot decipher. Hypothesis: Clean.

And returns back to the rings over her left finger, a wedding and engagement ring. He inspects it more, scratches and marks covered around it, he folds the handkerchief with one hand and uses a clean side to brush over the jewelry, it was indeed—dirty.

A wave of conclusion rushes within him in swift sequence: Married. Unhappily Married. Unhappily Married 10+ Years.

Then he removed the ring, leaving a thin circle of blood in its wake. He noted that the outside was—dirty. And oppositely on the inside... thus—Regularly removed.

He places the ring back and makes his final deduction: Serial adulterer.

Sadly, she was human—but he needed an answer for her last body impulses were… he raised tells John to move as he looks around the neck. He smirks and moves away.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks finally after what seemed like a matter of seconds.

"Not much," came a nonchalant reply, he removes his gloves and hands it to one of the medics as he fishes out his mobile and begins typing over it.

Anderson was about to speak but Sherlock cut him off, "She's not German and it's not Rache. Shut up." Anderson glared at him full force but Sherlock continued to fiddle with his phone.

"So… she's not German then?" Lestrade voiced out.

Sherlock spoke, "Of course she's not. She's not from town, though…" he trailed off for a moment, "Intended to stay in London for one night… before returning home to Cardiff." He smirks after finding the info he needed, "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry—" John articulated gaining all the attention, "Obvious?"

"What about the message?" Lestrade asked right after.

The Consulting Detective ignores Lestrade and looks at John, "Dr. Watson," he began shifting towards the body, "what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body," Sherlock pointed out dully, "You're a medical man."

Lestrade said gesturing the other two members standing right outside the door, "Wait, no. We have people here—"

"They won't work with me." He merely replied.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here—"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered smugly, "because you need me."

Lestrade gives up, "Yes, I do." He lowers his eyes and hands the other his scarf and coat, "God, help me."

"Doctor Watson?"

"Hm?"

"Oh, do as he says," The DI said in defeat, "Help yourself." He then walks out along with Anderson, bringing the medics away with a short apology.

John knelt down the second time, his limp becoming quite an obstacle in doing so.

"Well?" Sherlock voiced out.

"What am I doing here?" John whispered as he began checking over the girls wounds.

Sherlock smiled inwardly, "Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent." He replies as he leans over the females mouth, looking over it.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." Sherlock's eyes glowed bright red remembering the name—Moriarty.

John looks at him and color gone, "Fun?" he spat, "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock muttered as he pulled on his coat, "but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

Lestrade comes into the room and John sighs heavily, "Asphyxiation—from earlier. Passed out while choking on her own blood… and these wounds are fatal, so… blood loss. But… you said she was already dead…" John stared blankly, "I've got nothing—except something you can't believe."

"You know what it was, you already told me earlier." Sherlock noted a grin behind his façade.

"Vampires." John noted a bit embarrassed.

Lestrade groaned, "Sherlock, two minutes I said—tell me if you've got something believable. I need anything you've got."

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase." He stopped as the DI alleged something.

"Suitcase?"

John looks around trying to spot a suitcase—none.

"Suitcase, yes." Sherlock stated in a matter-of-factly, "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…" Lestrade taunted.

"Her wedding ring." Sherlock noticed pointing at the ring, "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant." John said admiringly, obviously unaware that he said it out loud. Only when Sherlock looked at him did he catch up, "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked next.

Sherlock groaned, "It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me…" John muttered silently.

Pausing, the consulting detective looks at the two in lassitude, "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He groaned, "Her sleeve: it's slightly damp—no, not the one tainted with blood, the other side. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Her hair, wet even though she's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind—too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?"

"That's fantastic," John spoke out of turn.

Sherlock eyed him, "D'you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry." He apologized, "I'll shut up."

"No…" The Consulting Detective said with a hidden smile, "It's fine."

Lestrade grumbled, "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?"

"Yes, where is it?" He turns 360 degrees, "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?"

Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, "No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" he said, voice dipped in sarcasm, "Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

"Side of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left—the blood ruled most of it out but you can see the tiny darker patches. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase beside her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He said gesturing over the parts he mentioned, he straightened himself, "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case—" The Inspector replied crossed as Sherlock asked him to repeat it, "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock rushes out, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?" he called out loudly as the two followed him out, "Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there was no case!" The Inspector yelled yet again as Sherlock dashed down the staircase. The same question on his lips.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." Sherlock said, a grin playing wildly over his lips as he raised both his hands in realization.

"Yeah, right… thanks," He called out again, "and?!"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how," Sherlock muttered out loud though he remembers the vampire—but he knew it was unrelated to the main killer, Moriarty wouldn't kill with his own hands, "but they're not suicides, they're killings—serial killings." A smile finally broke out his face, "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?"

He spoke to himself more than the others, "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case." He began gesturing on his words, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John supplied.

Sherlock looked up, "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." he stopped in enlightenment, "Oh! Oh!" He clasps his hands in delight.

"Sherlock?" John called, a bit worried for his peculiar flatmate.

Lestrade continued, "What is it, what?"

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock proved, and Lestrade retorted and the detective merely replied, "Oh, we're done waiting— Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He dashed down the staircase reaching the bottom in record time already leaving from the view.

"Of course, yeah—but what mistake?!"

"PINK!" Sherlock yells as he returns and he dashes out again.

the-science-of-evidence,

over & out