Chapter two
A/N: Sorry for the long wait for this chapter :( I hope to get updates going fairly regularly once I catch up with all my other stories!
Once they entered the house, John was surprised to see Lestrade standing just inside the foyer.
The inside of the house was... bleak...at best. White walls without any pictures or personal effects surrounded them. Plush white carpets covered the floors. They looked as though they had recently been hoovered.
From where he stood in the doorway, John had a clear view of a pristine looking living room through the columns of the entryway. Again the room was nearly bare. The only things that gave any sign of life in the house and brought any color at all to the room was a red brick fireplace that smelled recently used and a black arm chair that lay overturned near it. On either side of the fireplace was a window with white shades.
Lestrade caught John's eye and walked over to him. The doctor didn't think he'd ever seen the man look so grim before, and he worked around dead bodies...and Sherlock!
"Morning, Doctor Watson." he greeted when he reached him. John nodded in return.
"Morning, Inspector. Any idea what the devil I'm doing here?" he asked, a sense of unknown dread descending on him. Lestrade sighed heavily.
"I'm not even sure what I'm doing here Dr." he admitted tiredly.
"You are both here as witnesses." came a man's voice from behind.
They both turned to see a middle aged man dressed in dark gray dress slacks and a white button down dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up passed the elbow. He was hefty though most of his bulk seemed to come from muscle. His round boyish face held a grim smile. The look in his dark brown eyes could only be described as pitying.
Lestrade eyed the newcomer with distrust. "Really? And just who are you?" he asked.
The man laughed humorlessly and held our one of his massive hands. "Apologies," he said. "The name's Morrison. Richard Morrison. I'm the coroner for... well that's not important right now is it." Morrison shook both men's hands heartily, and they stood in silence for a few moments.
John was the first to break. "So... um... what are we witnesses for exactly?" he asked.
Morrison turned grim again. "Murder," he said tonelessly. "At least... we hope so..."
Both men stared at him at a loss for words. Finally, John choked out, "I-I'm s-sorry. What?"
"Are you saying you brought us here so we could watch you kill someone?" Lestrade asked incredulously.
Morrison's eyes widened. "Good God no! That would be ghastly! And quite illegal if I'm not mistaken."
John glared at the man. "But you just said-"
"No no! What I meant was that we needed witnesses to affirm that a murder has indeed taken place!" The coroner explained hastily, his hands waving in defense.
Neither man looked very trusting at Morrison. The man sighed. "I understand your hesitance. And I can see that no one has told you anything about the situation." He stated. "But why would they? The higher up you go, the more secretive these people get!"
John was by now, more confused than ever. Who were 'they'? And what exactly did they what him for? He glanced at Lestrade and saw that he too looked confused as hell. 'Well at least I'm not the only one,' he thought. Christ! It was like being with Sherlock!
His thoughts drifted briefly to his flatmate, wondering what he was doing right now before Morrison sighed again. "Why don't I just show you what I'm talking about hm?" he said and beckoned for them to follow him.
John and Lestrade looked at one another and shrugged. What choice did they have?
They followed Morrison out of they foyer and into the living room. There were a few other people in dark suits milling around and whispering to one another. The whispers were quiet and the only other sound was the soft clicking of a camera. The whole atmosphere held a distinct funeral like air.
Morrison led them to a spot near the fireplace where another man was taking pictures.
John and Lestrade stopped dead in their tracks and stared in horror and what lay before them.
And just what was it that caused these two city-hardened men, who'd seen the worst of humanity to stare in shock?
Oh nothing much. Save for the massive blood puddle, a little over a meter in length, seeping into the clean white carpets. The wall just behind it hadn't been spared either. Dying blood droplets dotted it all the way up to the window (which John noticed was locked) where a blood smear marred the sparkling glass.
John cleared his throat. He'd seen a lot of bloodshed in his life. And been to some pretty gruesome crime scenes with Sherlock... but this one felt... different...somehow...
"That's...blood." Lestrade said. Morrison raised an eyebrow at him as if to say "Duh?" Lestrade pursed his lips.
"Well, I mean... it's A LOT of blood." he said. John chimed in before the Detective Inspector- who had gone very pale all of a sudden- could embarrass himself further.
"It's human I take it?" he asked, switching into the 'detective's sidekick' mode. Morrison nodded stiffly. John furrowed his brow and thought while Lestrade stuttered beside him.
"All from one person?" Another nod.
"Does he know that there's been a possible murder in his house? The D.I finally managed to choke out from suddenly dry throat. John gave Lestrade a look. Why was he acting so odd? He was usually a lot more helpful than this...
Morrison gave both men a hard stare. "We assume that he must, Detective Inspector. The blood you see before you, as well as the hand print- yes Dr. Watson that is a print- on the window all come from him."
Lestrade's eyes went wide and if possible, he went whiter than he'd been before. He opened his mouth and closed it several times; several words coming out but none of them enough to form a coherent sentence.
"How... When... Why... What..." finally overcome with emotion, he shut his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to regain control of himself.
John stood there, not understanding what the coroner had just said. "Sorry, but who are we talking about?" he asked, feeling like a complete idiot for having to do so. Though in his opinion, it was an honest question.
A small 'plip' was heard and he looked outside, past the bloody hand print, to see a water drop sliding slowly down the glass. It was soon joined by others. The promised rain had come...
Morrison looked at him again. The pity was back in his eyes. Around them, the sounds of the rain and the continued click of the camera as it captured every possible angle of the scene, combined together, creating a foreboding drone in his ears.
"The blood, Dr. Watson, belongs to the man who owns this house." Morrison said darkly.
Cold dread curled itself in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, the jacket he was wearing didn't seem warm enough...
"And exactly who owns this house, Dr. Morrison?" he asked slowly, almost instantly regretting the question as soon as it was past his lips.
"John." it was Lestrade who answered him this time. John turned to face him, trying not to be distracted by the flashing lights in his peripheral.
Lestrade looked terrible. He seemed to have aged at least a decade in just the past few minutes. He looked haggard and his eyes were tinged pink from having been squeezed together. The last time John had seen the man look this distraught had been at Sherlock's funeral.
"John," Lestrade said quietly. "the house belongs to Mycroft Holmes..."
Chapter two/end.