Chapter 1 - Bored
"I'm bored, John. So. Bored. I didn't even know you could be so bored without dying."
John sighed. It was the longuest phrase Sherlock had said in about four hours. The ex-soldier had busied himself with reading the papers, watching crap telly then writing a new entry on his blog (which he didn't post), but Sherlock had just been complaing on the couch all day long. John closed his laptop and went to the door to take his jumper. He put it on, then walked towards the exit.
"Where are you going ?" asked Sherlock. "No, wait. You didn't shave so it isn't, uh... what was her name again ? Jenny. So it isn't Jenny. Lestrade hasn't lately shown his incompetence, so it can't be a case. The wi-fi is has been cut down for two weeks and you didn't receive any phone calls, so you can't be meeting Mike or Molly or any friends you have... Why do you want to leave ?" Now he seemd genuinely interested. Maybe even perplex.
John couldn't even believe he had to explain this to Sherlock.
"Because I am bored of you, Sherlock !" he exploded. "You're complaining since about a week now, that you're bored, that you need a case, and I can't bother to support you anymore ! So yes, I'm going out to have a bit o fresh air !"
He went out and slammed the door.
John couldn't stop walking. He had reached the park a few minutes ago, and after trying to sit on a bench, he had just given up. Now he was boiling with anger. He was normally the cool guy, the one who doesn't get worked up easily. But this days, Sherlock was so annoying... Had he been a fervent christian, he would have rayed every night to get a case.
That was the problem. There had been a few murders, but none of interest. When he had pushed Sherlock to go out to investigate on the death of a old woman, the detective had solved it in a few minutes, before coming back home, even more annoying, if that was possible.
He was there in his reflexions when suddenly, an horrible screaming pierced his ears. Searching for his gun, he remembered it was still in the flat, under his pillow. He swore and ran in the direction of the scream anyway.
Sherlock sighed. He didn't quite understant why John was so angry after him. Maybe because of his last experiment... Maybe the cow blood in the bottle of strawberry juice wasn't a good idea, after all.
He sighed again. What did normal, ordinary people do when they were bored ? Another sigh. No idea. Surely just boring stuff.
Sherlock got up and took his violin. The silence was intolerable. He began to play, and immediately felt better. Beautiful music had the gift to apease him.
John didn't know what to do. Someone was hurt, but with all the people around the accident area, he couldn't approach.
"I'm a doctor !" he said, finally losing his patience.
Immediately, a corridor opened for him in the crowd. He advanced to the hurt man. He was half lying, half sitting against a tree, his bloody hand pressed on his neck. the ex-soldier hurried to him.
"What happened ?" he asked, while trying to see the injury.
The man tried to speak, but only bubbles of blood came to his lips.
"It's okay, don't speak if you can't." John turned to the other people. "Someone call an ambulance !" he shouted.
But it was already to late. In a last attempt to speak, the man said hree unintelligible words. He breathed another two times, then went limp in John's arms.
There were screams, and a lot of people ran. Some started crying.
John frowned. He had seen people die in Afghanistan, he wasn't going to throw up, or whatever. But something disturbed him. He withdrew the hand he had pressed on the neck of the now dead man. His hair were in the way, so he pushed them further, and he saw it. A bite mark. From human teeth.
Sherlock was very happy. If this adjective could apply to him, of course, which wasn't so sure. But seeing how he litterally danced through the flat, John couldn't think of a better word to describe his current mood.
The army doctor had called Lestrade, who had arrived about twenty minutes later. He had then insisted on fetching Sherlock, because something as weird.
And John now understood why. From the confuse explanation he had gotten from the detectives, three people had been murdered the same way in the same time. Two men and two women ; three middle-aged and a teenager. So there wasn't any schema, for now, except the bite marks of course ; and it probably was an organized band.
the lab wouldn't find any match for the teeth. Molly had just called them to go to the morgue, and that was the reson why John had to watch Sherlock express his happiness.
"We should go", he finally said. "Molly will want to go back home, and it's nearly five a.m."
"Off we go then", said Sherlock, putting on his black trench coat.
The descended the stairs, Sherlock called a cab and they arrived at St Bart's morgue a few minutes later. Molly was waiting for them, the four corpses on four tables, the lower half dissimulated under white sheet.
"Hi Sherlock, John", she said, blushing a little when saying the detective's name. Which didn't notice anything and nearly ran to the first table.
John exchanged a meaningful look with the young woman.
"So this is our first victim, the one that John found", she said, suddenly more self-confident.
"Well, found... He literally died on me."
"Whatever. So, it looks like human teeth", she explained, while showing the bite mark, "but it isn't. Well, not exactly."
"What do you mean, not exactly ?" asked John.
"It's evident." Sherlock gave him the bitch face you're-drooling-over-yourself category. "Look, marks from the front teeth are a lot too deep. It means the front teeth were a lot too... long, to be human."
"But that's the weirdest part", said Molly. "You're right, Sherlock, the front teeth aren't human. But there are also marks from the molars, and these are definitely human."
"So what ?" John asked. "A freak is biting people to death ? With a vampire set of false teeth ?"
"No, it's impossible. The bite marks are a lot too violent to be due to false teeth. And look. There are other marks. Hand marks, on the arms hand the chest."
The hand marks were violet, which wasn't a good sign. Whoever, or whatever had done this must be of a terrible force.
"So the..." John began, but the ringing of Sherlock's phone interrupted him.
"Lestrade. ... Yes. Yes, we're at the morgue, but I can... Okay. We're coming."
He put it back into his pocket, and turned to John.
"We have to go. They found other bodies.
"Same guy ?"
"Yes. No. Maybe. Their hearts were torn out of their chests."