The Consequences of Sacrifice-Crime Scene at Baker Street (Part Two)
Recap: John returns early from a medical conference to discover that Sherlock and his young daughter Sheridan are missing from 221 B, and that the flat has evidence of foul play.
Will Sherlock And Sheridan be found in time? And who took them in the first place?
Author's note: To those who have never read "The Meaning of Sacrifice," Clarky is an original character and Molly's love interest (sorry, Sherlolly fans). To sum up Clarky in as few words as possible, he is an American from Knoxville Tennessee, has a hidden gun arsenal that even Mycroft has trouble keeping up with, is one of the few people who actually thinks it is ok to have body parts in the fridge (He worked at the Body Farm as a forensic pathologist), has a tendency to call people nicknames, and actually likes working with Sherlock.
In other words, Clarky is one cerifiable nutter!
And a huge thank-you to Scottish Bluebell for the reviews! I hope you like this chapter!
"Oh bloody hell!" Anderson whispered as he looked around at the horrific scene about two hours later.
This was supposed to be Anderson's day off. He shouldn't be here.
And yet here he was, visiting the Freak's house to investigate his probable murder.
Not only his murder, but also that of little Freak Spawn (a.k.a. Sheridan), whom Anderson actually liked, despite her father being an absolute prat!
Not a very good day at all, actually.
Oh, it started off ok. He was relaxing at home, watching a rerun of "Doctor Who," when his mobile had suddenly rang.
It was Sally, and she was hysterical.
It took a while to get the full story from her, but apparently John Watson had returned home to find Holmes and his daughter missing, the flat in disarray, and evidence of foul play involved.
For once, Anderson didn't grumble or complain about being called in on his day off. He came right away, prepped to gather evidence and to (hopefully) find out what happened.
He had expected signs of a struggle, of course. Overturned furniture, broken fixtures, maybe even some blood here or there.
But this went way beyond the usual crime scene!
Everything was covered, quite literally, with blood. Specks of it stained the curtains, the rug, the two chairs, and the couch. The walls were splattered with bright red droplets, as was the mantel piece and even those stupid skulls!
On the coffee table was what looked to be a board game of some kind. Very likely the Freak and his daughter were probably playing when they were surprised by the assailants. They fought back (hence the blood), and then they were taken away somewhere.
The amount of blood suggested that neither of them were in good shape when they left.
That is, if they were even alive at all.
No wonder Sally was so upset on the phone earlier!
Adding to the gruesome scene were various objects, which were strategically placed all over the room. Someone had already numbered the items by placing various tags on them, and Constable Fredricks was busy taking pictures of the scene.
A knife, a gun, a rope…
Beside him, Clarky shuddered, his green eyes wide in alarm. "Oh, damn!" He swore, his gaze finally coming to rest on the nearest significant blood stain on the floor. "What kind of psychotic bastard could have done this!?"
"That's what we are here to find out." Anderson muttered, taking a moment to put on a pair of gloves so he would not disturb the crime scene evidence. He and Clarky were already dressed in their white scrubs, ready to process the scene.
"My God!" Inspector Hopkins croaked from behind them. "And no one has heard from Holmes?"
"His mobile is over there. Smashed, according to Donovan." Anderson whispered as he glanced around again until he saw the remnants of Sherlock's phone near the coffee table.
"Where is Sally, anyway?" Clarky asked.
"Downstairs. She had to get out of here, because she became too emotional." Anderson said quietly while giving Clarky a significant look. "She was fond of Freak Spawn, after all."
"Anderson!" Hopkins groaned.
"What?! Sheridan already told everyone that she doesn't mind when I call her that!" Anderson protested.
"So what do you think happened here?" Clarky asked as he glanced around.
"They were probably sitting down, playing with that board game over there." Anderson reasoned as he pointed to the coffee table. "They were surprised and attacked. The persons responsible then removed the bod…well, they took the Freak and Sheri with them when they left."
"But how did they leave without a trace?!" Hopkins asked. "There is literally no blood on the stairs! And there is no trace on any of the windows outside!"
"Maybe they cleaned up?" Clarky asked weakly.
"And didn't clean up here?!" Hopkins persisted, gesturing toward the room around him.
Constable Fredrick, who had finished taking his pictures, looked at the trio. "Something else, too. Although that chair over there is overturned, and everything is covered in blood, nothing else seems to be disturbed. I mean, where is the property damage?"
Hopkins nodded approvingly.
Anderson groaned. "Fine! So, what is your theory?"
Hopkins sighed as he stepped aside to allow Fredrick to exit the room and head downstairs. "I wish I knew! But a lot of this doesn't add up!"
Clarky nodded. "But something happened here! I mean, last time I checked, Lucky didn't have another super-evil mastermind after him!"
Anderson nodded. "And somehow I doubt the Freak would try to fake his death again! He may be an arse and a psychopath…"
"High functioning sociopath." Clarky corrected his colleague automatically.
"Whatever! But he wouldn't do this to Greg again! Not after last time!" Anderson insisted.
"Is Greg still waiting with John?" Hopkins asked wearily as he glanced around the room.
"Yeah. They are waiting for Lucky's creepy government brother to get here." Clarky explained as he stooped down to glance at the pistol that lay unobtusely near the couch. "Whose gun is this, anyway?"
Hopkins sighed. "Greg bought it for Sherlock as a gag gift for Sherlock for his first Christmas back. It only shoots blanks. Greg thought it would be funny when Sherlock got bored and tried to shoot the walls up again only to find that no bullets would come out. John actually put the tape up on his blog last week."
"Too bad no one thought of getting Lucky a real gun for protection." Clarky said sadly.
"Says the man who owns at least twenty-something guns." Hopkins muttered sarcastically. "You know, you give your country-men a bad name, Clarky!"
"Enough jokes about me being American, Stanley." Clarky retorted half-hearted.
Anderson sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something about all of this that didn't add up.
On one hand, there was blood all over the place and no sign of Holmes or his little girl. On the other hand, despite the chaos of the room, none of the furniture had been violently overturned or damaged, and it bothered him that someone would take the time to spirit two people out of the flat without leaving a trace on the stairs leading out of the flat or out of the windows.
Nor did it make sense for someone to leave an assortment of weapons lying around on the floor!
But as Clarky correctly pointed out, Sherlock had no reason to fake his death again. And he would never intentionally do this, even as an elaborate prank, to Greg or the doctor.
And somehow, Anderson doubted that Freak Spawn would willingly try to trick anyone in such a heartless manner, either.
So the only answer was that Sherlock and Sheridan were taken away by force.
But who was behind it? And why would they do such a thing?
What the bloody hell was going on here!?
Suddenly Clarky stood up, a perplexed expression on his face. He sniffed loudly. And then twice more.
Anderson sighed. Of all the Yarders, with the exception of Lestrade, Clarky was the closest to Sherlock. It was only natural that the American would be affected by the fact that the consulting detective may have actually died (for real) this time.
"Clarky, if you are upset, you can go downstairs. No one will think ill of you…"
"I'm not upset, Anderson!" Clarky interrupted irritably. "I'm…thinking!"
"Well, don't hurt yourself!" Hopkins snarled, impatient with Clarky's outburst. "No need to get impatient with us, you know!"
Clarky ignored Hopkins as though he had said nothing whatsoever. He walked over to the nearest wall and leaned forward. He sniffed the air again.
"What's wrong, Clarky?" Hopkins asked, walking over, his earlier irritation melted away out of concern for his colleague. "Did you find something?"
"I'm not sure…" Clarky said, his voice trailing off as he furrowed his forehead in concentration. He glanced back at Anderson. "Sil, how much blood is in here, do you think?"
"Uh…"Anderson paled, then looked around at the various crimson stains everywhere. "Quite a bit, I would say. I don't watch American horror movies, because they make me sick…"
"There is too much blood in here!" Clarky muttered resolutely. "Way too much! When you calculate the amount of blood that someone of Lucky's height and weight would have, coupled with Sheri's height and weight…"
"So you are saying they are dead?" Hopkins whispered, his brown eyes sorrowful.
Bugger! How was poor Greg going to be able to handle this?
"I'm saying there is too much blood in here!" Clarky growled irritably. "Even if you drained Lucky and Sheri of all the blood in their bodies, you still wouldn't have this much!"
"Is this what you learned at the Body Farm, Clarky?" Hopkins asked, eying Clarky critically. "Or did you learn it from watching 'Halloween II'?"
"You watch horror movies?" Anderson asked Hopkins, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
Hopkins shrugged. "They give me ideas on how the criminal mind works!"
Anderson scowled. "So…what does that mean? Are you saying someone else was killed here?"
Clarky didn't answer right away, apparently lost in thought. He sniffed the air again, and then closed his eyes.
"Clarky?" Anderson prompted.
"What do you guys smell?" Clarky asked suddenly, opening his eyes and glancing back at his colleagues.
"Uh…" Hopkins stammered.
"SMELL THE AIR, STANLEY!" Clarky shouted. "Tell me what you smell!"
Hopkins paled, then tentatively raised his nose up in the air and took a sniff. "Well…" Hopkins mumbled, looking fearfully over at Clarky, as though he expected the American to snap at any moment. "I don't smell anything out of the ordinary."
"Exactly!" Clarky said triumphantly. "Now, five hundred points to the one who gets this right! What do you expect a room full of blood to smell like?"
"Blood?" Anderson ventured hesitantly, as though Clarky had lost his mind.
"Correct!" Clarky said, looking over at Anderson as though he was a prized pupil who had just solved a complex math equation while using difficult equations. "Now, I have been to many a crime scene, including some that looked like this!"
"So you are suggesting the killer is American?" Anderson ventured, with some sarcasm.
"It makes sense." Hopkins contemplated. "I mean, most Americans like to overdo it…"
"Oh shut it, Stanley!" Clarky sighed. "That's not what I meant! What I am trying to say is why are we surrounded in a room covered in blood, but we don't smell it!?"
The silence in the room was so palatable that it could have been cut with a knife.
"He's right!" Hopkins gasped as the realization dawned on him. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled. "Blood is supposed to smell like, metallic, or something!"
"Like a handful of coins." Clarky affirmed, taking another step towards the black and beige patterned wallpaper. "At most crime scenes that have a significant amount of blood spilled, you would expect to be able to smell it. But I don't! And neither do you!"
"And what exactly does that mean?" Anderson inquired.
Clarky didn't answer. Instead, he leaned even closer to the wall, until his nose was almost touching it. Cautiously, he inhaled the air again.
And then he licked one of the red stains.
"What the hell, Clarky!? Have you gone completely mental!?" Hopkins shrieked.
Clarky backed away from the wall, a slow smile coming across his features. A manic light illuminated his emerald eyes, and he began laughing.
"Oh my God! Clarky has gone completely around the bend!" Anderson squeaked as he raced towards the door, presumably to go get help.
Hopkins tried to follow him, but was quickly pounced on by Clarky, who grabbed Hopkins and pinned his arms to his sides.
Before Hopkins could summon the strength to fight back, he found himself shoved against the wall, his face pressed against the wallpaper and blood splatter.
Oh bloody hell! Clarky's lost it, and I am touching Sherlock's blood!
But nothing was more frightening than what Clarky said next.
"Stanley, lick the wall!"
Hopkins felt the fish and chips he had eaten earlier for lunch that day do cartwheels in his stomach, and he resisted the urge to be sick.
I always knew Clarky was crazy!
But this…
Hopkins managed to turn his horrified face sideways so he could examine Clarky. "Are you insane, Clarky!? Just because you have latent vampiric tendencies is no reason for you to try to force your habit on me! I mean, what the…"
"Stanley!" Clarky interrupted. "Listen to me! This is not real blood!"
Hopkins' eyes widened in surprise. "What!?"
"It's fake!" Clarky exclaimed. "It's a mixture of corn syrup, starch, and red food coloring! Smell it, or taste it if you don't believe me!"
Hopkins stopped struggling. "What…"
"I recognize it because I was in drama classes all the way through college!" Clarky said triumphantly. He awarded the Detective Inspector with a bemused grin. "We made fake blood all the time! This is not real! Lucky and Sheri may not be dead after all!"
With this pronouncement, Clarky released Hopkins and did what could only be described as a quirky and mercifully short victory dance before he pressed himself to the wall again and proceeded to attack another (blood?) stain with his tongue.
He leaned back and smirked at Hopkins knowingly. "Looks like someone ran out of corn syrup, and decided to make do with some alcohol! I wonder if I'll get drunk if I consume all of this…" Clarky pondered.
Hopkins frowned as he watched his overenthusiastic forensics expert continue to lick the ugly wallpaper with relish, his mind alternating between disgust and hope.
Was Clarky right?
Was all of this blood splatter really fake? Were Sherlock and his daughter still alive?
Or had the former Body Farm forensic expert finally lose his grip on reality?
There was only one way to find out.
Cautiously, Hopkins inched his face to the wall again. He grimaced, then steeled himself and sniffed the stain closest to him.
It smelled faintly sweet. And it did lack the metallic coppery smell one would normally associate with blood.
Hopkins frowned and glanced over back at Clarky, who apparently was so relieved that the carnage they had walked upon was staged that he was thoughtlessly pressing his mouth on various places on the wall. It looked as though he was trying to make out with the hideous wallpaper pattern.
Hopkins scrunched up his face in disgust.
Either Clarky had lost his mental facilities, or he was correct…
There was only one way to know for certain.
Hopkins tentatively stuck out his tongue and briefly pressed it to the wall, then drew back sharply.
He had cut his finger before as a child, and had put his finger in his mouth to suck on the wound, so he knew what blood tasted like. Gross, he would be the first to admit, but…
Hold it! Clarky is right!
Quickly, Hopkins turned to the wall again and tasted the stain again, and then a third time to be sure.
There could be no doubt about it.
The blood was fake!
Hopkins started laughing as his relief washed over him like the cold spring rain shower outside. Beside him, Clarky joined in, and together the two men laughed in tandem as the tension they were under before melted away like snowflakes on a sunny day.
If the blood was fake, then there was a great chance that Sherlock and Sheri were still alive somewhere!
Which meant that Hopkins would not have to see Lestrade age ten years overnight once they uncovered Sherlock's and Sheri's remains, or watch Sally cry, or John waste away as he had done before…
"What the bloody hell are you two doing!?"
Lestrade didn't think he could get any more stressed if he had made it his main purpose in life.
But apparently the Higher Powers That Be thought it necessary to test exactly how much he could take before he mentally cracked under the strain.
And his underlings were certainly not helping matters any!
John had no sooner greeted a worried Mycroft, who had arrived with the ever-present Not-Anthea typing away on her Blackberry and doing God-knows-what before Anderson came stumbling down the flat stairs in a panic, yelling for Lestrade to come quickly, because Clarky went completely balmy and was drinking blood off the walls!
After several minutes of making Anderson repeat his story over and over and at a loss as to explain it, the Detective Inspector raced up the stairs with Anderson, Donovan, Mycroft, Not-Anthea, and John at his heels.
The sight meeting them was disturbing, to say the least!
Hopkins and Clarky were pressed up to the blood-splattered wallpaper, giggling like a couple of teenage school girls (although they both vehemently denied this later). Clarky still had his tongue pressed to the wall when the group barged in.
"You see!" Anderson screamed before anyone could move. "Clarky thinks he is a bloody vampire! And now he has Stanley thinking he's one too!"
It certainly didn't help matters when Clarky and Hopkins, instead of trying to reason away their bizarre behavior, chose instead to slide down on the floor, laughing hysterically.
Lestrade felt bile rise in the back of his throat.
Clarky and Hopkins were literally licking up blood?
Blood that belonged to one lanky consulting detective and his precocious eight-year old daughter?
What was going on? Was there a gas or chemical in the room that was making Clarky and Hopkins certifiably insane!?
Did they kill Sherlock and Sheridan!?
Mycroft, for his part, promptly ignored the certifiable maniacs, as did his private assistant, who was busy typing away on her BlackBerry (probably making arrangements to get fitted strait jackets for his two co-workers).
Taking only a moment to glance at the rolling madmen on the floor, Mycroft paused in front of a particularly large blood splatter. He leaned forward and then settled back, apparently making one of his infamous deductions.
"It appears my brother has been rather busy as of late." Mycroft mused to himself.
"Busy doing what!?" Donovan demanded.
Before anyone could answer her, a familiar baritone voice sounded from the entry way.
"What is going on here!?"
Lestrade spun around to see a familiar figure standing in the doorway, his blue-grey eyes first taking in the Yarders' presence, then settling on Mycroft with a questioningly look on his face. A few steps behind him, holding a small plastic bag with both hands, a smaller figure peered behind her father with a look of unsuppressed curiosity.
"Uncle John? You aren't supposed to be home yet!" Sheridan's blue-grey eyes lit up with undisguised delight.
Lestrade had only seconds to process the presence of the previously-believed dead consulting detective and his young daughter, apparently alive and appearing relatively unscathed before black and white dots began to encroach upon his vision, and then the room went dark as the air suddenly disappeared.
Author's note:
Ok?
What just happened!?
Well, let's start with the good news first!
Sherlock and Sheridan are alive!
What, did anyone think I would actually kill them or make Sherlock watch Sheridan be tortured or vice versa? Surely not!
At least, not yet! ;)
For some reason I can't bring myself to do that to Sheridan. At least, not while she is so young. I may consider doing it later though, for those who are into that sort of thing.
But many questions remain. Why is the flat covered with fake blood in the first place? Is it an experiment gone wrong? Sherlock's furtive attempts at baking? A reenactment of a crime scene?Some sort of sick joke?
I already know the answer, but I am interested in your theories! So please review and guess exactly what happened. Because the explanation is coming up in the next chapter!
And just to remind everyone, I don't own "Sherlock" or any other literary or fictional character that may make an appearance!
Now, please excuse me. I am having to deal with Clarky and Hopkins...
Peaceful Defender (talking to O.C. Clarky and Stanley Hopkins)-"Seriously, you two! Are you vampires, or what!?"
Stanley Hopkins-"In case it has escaped your attention, Peaceful Defender, vampires are cool! Think about it! You got shows like 'The Vampire Diaries' and 'Being Human.' And the movies! You have 'Dracula,' 'Underworld,' and 'Twilight.'"
O.C. Clarky-"Oh, yeah! That's the one where the vampires, like, glow in the dark or something, right?"
Edward Cullen (walking in and taking his shirt off)-"Actually, we sparkle like diamonds. See!"
Peaceful Defender (shading her eyes)-"And it is official! Ladies and gentlemen, we now have a cross-over! Thank you for setting Clarky straight, Edward. But this is not a cross-over! You can go now!"
Edward Cullen (smirking)-"Why?"
Stanley Hopkins (suddenly points off screen and yells to the top of his lungs) "Look! Some supernatural being is with Bella!"
Edward Cullen (Looks around wildly) "Where!? Hang on, Bella! I'm coming, my love!" (disappears off screen).
O.C. Clarky-"Uh, who was that?"
Stanley Hopkins-"You are worse than Sherlock! At least he knows who the Cullens are!"
Peaceful Defender-"Only because it was important in a case."
O.C. Clarky (straining to see something in the distance)-"Huh? It looks like that sparkling kid is fighting with an overgrown dog of some kind. Oh, and I see a whole bunch of girls out there! I think some of them are rooting for the dog. Well, that can't be right! The dog might have rabies or something! Should I get my gun or something to help the sparkling kid out?"
Stanley Hopkins-"Not unless you are on Team Edward!"
O.C. Clarky-"Uh...okay?"
Peaceful Defender-"Hey! I am not done with you two! Explain to me why you were licking blood stains off the wall paper!"
Stanley Hopkins-"It wasn't real blood! It was corn syrup! With red food coloring!"
O.C. Clarky (grinning evilly)-"And alcohol!"
Peaceful Defender-"Well, thanks to you two, any possibility of me being considered sane is officially gone now!"
O.C. Clarky-"You mean there was still doubt about whether or not you are insane?"
Peaceful Defender (growling)-"I'll get back at you two! Hopefully, this chapter won't scare everyone from FanFiction off! Who knows, I might get one review praising me for creativity, at least."