Author's note: Thank you for listening to my whining about reviews! Can I have some more?
After his talk with John, Greg had paid more attention to Sherlock on crime scenes, but luckily had soon come to the conclusion that his friend's worry was exaggerated. At first, he had believed that sometimes Sherlock reacted a little slower than normally or that there was a strange expression in his eyes, but he hadn't noticed anything abnormal for weeks now. And Sherlock happily bouncing down the stairs to go to a crime scene wasn't any reason for concern. On the contrary. John seemed as happy as he could be as he followed him with a fond smile, and Greg shook his head as he walked down the stairs.
Sherlock waved down a cab and he and John disappeared into it without another word as Greg returned to his car. Sherlock's enthusiasm was infectious; he was looking forward to arriving at the crime scene and immediately told himself to stop smiling. He was after all going to see a corpse, and one – or, to be honest, two – hyperactive detectives were enough. Even if Donovan had tried to be more understanding since Sherlock had come back.
The victim's name was Martin Hunter. He had been found by his housekeeper this morning. To his surprise, it had been Donovan who first suggested they should call Sherlock. He had still been looking for evidence when she had approached him, mainly because Sherlock didn't tolerate being called for easy cases.
The moment she asked, he'd agreed and been on his way. There were no clues whatsoever that pointed to the killer; the house hadn't been broken into and there was no trace of a fight. Martin Hunter had suffered a stab wound in the heart; that was all. He had apparently fallen where he had been struck. According to a first assessment of the pathologist, he had been killed around 4 am; they would have to wait what John and Molly said, since they were the only doctors Sherlock trusted with dead bodies.
The consulting detective strolled into the crime scene as usual, giving Donovan a curt nod. He had never blamed her for Moriarty's plan, as far as Greg knew.
And yet... There was something in his eyes when he looked at the Sergeant, something that looked like a strange triumph. He didn't like it, but it was gone by the time Sherlock kneeled besides the body, so he might have been mistaken.
Sergeant Donovan looked terrified. At least to him; she could hide her feelings well if she chose. When it came to her disdain for Sherlock she had never done so, which was why she was still scared he would blame her for falling for Jim's plans. Of course, Sherlock would never do that. He was too good. But since she had never seen anything human in him...
As he nodded at her, she imperceptibly flinched, and he had to remind himself not to smile. Sherlock, according to his memories, didn't consider Donovan important. Smiling at or talking to her would appear strange. After all, two of the people who knew Sherlock best were in this room, and it was only because Martin Hunter had not had a security system that Big Brother wasn't watching.
He'd recognized him immediately. He'd been part of a small gang operating in the North of town; not exactly smart, but reliable and asking no questions as long as he was paid. He'd been a good contact. Not that he'd known who he was talking to exactly.
He wouldn't have thought that martin was important enough to kill, he pondered as he imitated Sherlock's way of investigating a crime scene. He was actually glad that he was in the mind of the younger Holmes and not the older because Sherlock moved and around crime scenes he was practically energetic. As Mycroft Holmes, he could have done much more, gained much more power; by the Ice Man was too collected and too unmoveable to be great fun, and he deserved to play after he'd managed to break out.
He couldn't really deduce like Sherlock did; he had never had the training Mycroft had given his brother, and even after having seen some of the memories of those times, he still lacked the motivation to learn. What good would it do? He was a creature of chaos, not of order; he found no pleasure in being able to tell people their lives story. He didn't want to know about people's lives, he wanted to make an impact on people's lives. Granted, mostly negative impact, but it still counted.
He didn't have to pretend much, though. He was already certain that no business rival would have killed Martin Hunter; he'd been a good man, but he'd never have been a leader. He would follow whoever was strongest. There was no need to kill him, even in a gang conflict. So the motive had to be private. There were no pictures or other items in the house that indicated a woman was regularly staying or living here, but he had condoms in his bedside drawer and his phone, which had been found on the body, showed that he had been in frequent contact with someone called Linda. It was safe to assume that Linda was a married woman – probably wed to one of his colleagues – and that he had found out. The efficiency at dispatching Hunter assured him that this had been done by a professional. Just not during business hours.
He quickly related his findings, pointing out the man's tattoos as proof that he had been part of organized crime and showing Linda's number, and Lestrade was overjoyed. Once, when he had just begun to plan his exit, he had considered turning him against Sherlock too, assuming that enough evidence would cause him to arrest the consulting detective. He recognized how foolish the thought had been. If there was someone whose loyalty to Sherlock could equal John's, it was Lestrade.
"I'll take care of Linda's husband. Can't be difficult to find" he said, and Jim agreed with him. Hunter's gang hadn't been one of the more clever ones. The culprit would simply have gone back to his life without even telling them that Hunter was dead, so that the gang wouldn't have switched quarters. More likely than not, the murderer would be arrested within the next few hours.
Now came the tricky part – he had to convey that he was frustrated because of the easy case, while at the same time projecting a certain warmth that had entered Sherlock's voice when he was talking to his friends since his return. It was good that he had spent so much time exploring the mind palace instead of plunging right into mind control, because it enabled him to perfectly fake Sherlock's mannerisms. He had watched them often enough, and knew how high to raise his hands, how to emulate his voice, how to insult a technician who had stepped on an almost invisible drop of blood. Lestrade listened to him complacently, and Donovan patiently waited in the background, content to let him have this as long as he didn't bring up the two years he had spent dead.
No, not he – Sherlock. He was really getting into his role. The realization made him smile, perhaps a little too widely, since Donovan took a half-step back and Lestrade frowned. Within one second, however, they were back to normal; he had quickly schooled his features and their reactions had been more or less unconscious, so he wasn't in any trouble.
He and John were sitting in a cab on the way back to Baker Street – he didn't know why, but whenever Sherlock raised his hand, a cab automatically appeared – and the doctor studied his features.
"That was very quick. You sure you're alright?"
He was asking if he was bored, of course. John was still worried about Sherlock's former drug use – as if he had taken anything since he had come back – and he would have found it tedious if he didn't have to act.
"There are a few Bow Street cases that need to be solved" he explained. John shook his head in exasperation.
"They don't sound very urgent".
"All of them are urgent until they are solved".
It was Sherlock's old answer, but it reassured John, who simply nodded and turned to look out of the window.
He did the same as he contemplated his options.
He didn't want to build up his web again. He'd done it once before. It was nothing new. Create new cases, on the other hand – take control and commit murder and then feel Sherlock's despair, especially if he left evidence that incriminated innocents that the consulting detective couldn't disprove...
It sounded wonderful. He would not yet begin; he had to make sure he could maintain control first. He could already feel himself tiring, and it hadn't been an hour yet. Sherlock would wake up soon. But once he could do what he wanted...
It would be him against Sherlock in the real world again. And this time, there was more at stake than Sherlock's life – his very sanity.