Warning: Once again, this chapter depicts the aftermath of a violent murder. Please keep yourself safe if this could be triggering for you.
Many thanks go to my Beta, Helena Chauby for her help with editing. I would also like to thank Lady of Clunn for her work BritPicking this story.
I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to reflectiveless, Lady Prussia of Awesomeness, snapletonius, JGHB, xXxBookNerdxXx, SeverusDmitri18, zoe the god, Anake14, Flavy, HilsonAddict, Guest, and oatniel for your motivating and thoughtful reviews. I would also like to thank all those who favorited and followed this story. I am touched by and very thankful for the support this story has received.
I would also like to thank my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff for his continued assistance with plot development. Not every flatmate will let you knock them up at 3am to discuss the finer points of foreshadowing. ^_^
Chapter 6: Of Kings and Men
"What the hell do you think you two are doing?!"
John cringed; Lestrade was not happy.
Sherlock and John came to a stop at the bottom of the front steps. This latest house, this latest crime scene, was the largest home they had been to thus far. Lestrade had called them, just after breakfast, to report a third couple had been discovered.
Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and raised a cocky eyebrow.
Lestrade's glare narrowed as he brandished the front page of the Rainbow Times. Right there, on the cover, were Sherlock and John, in a full kiss.
John gasped when he saw it, his breath suddenly coming faster. They looked every bit the couple that they were pretending to be. John's eyes traced the picture, taking in the way he was leaning into Sherlock, and the way Sherlock was leaning into him; just like they'd been drawn together. John felt Sherlock slip an arm around his shoulders and pull him close.
"I know this isn't how you wanted the Yard to find out," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over John's ear and neck, "I'm sorry."
John glanced up at Sherlock, confused for a moment, until he saw the pleading look in Sherlock's eyes. Right, if he denied this picture here, now, it could hurt this 'ruse' they'd been going with. That was why Sherlock stayed as close to the truth as he could with all his disguises, less chance of someone contradicting him. John swallowed and looked down. He'd known the picture would be in a paper, but he never suspected the front page!
Still, it wasn't so much Sherlock and him being thought of as a couple that bothered him, it was that the public took such an interest in a private matter... It was bad enough that the Sun had published several pictures of his quasi-kiss with Sherlock when he'd taken a bite of that sausage... John fought against a blush at the memory of the pictures, and the headlines.
"John?" Sherlock murmured and the ex-army doctor looked up again, meeting Sherlock's still pleading eyes. "Are you okay?"
John took a breath and nodded. He trusted Sherlock, and if he said this couple ruse was important, then John would run with it. "I'm fine," John replied firmly, "I just wasn't expecting this to be on the front page Sherlock." John looked up at Sherlock through his lashes and tried to sound like he was lecturing Sherlock, as he'd done for so many out of control experiments in the past.
That, apparently, had been a good tactic, because Sherlock smiled at him, and leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead.
Sherlock turned then, his arm still around John, and faced a less intimidating and more confused-looking Lestrade. "My apologies, Lestrade, I really did not think an afternoon out with John would upset you so much."
Lestrade looked between Sherlock and John a few times, the anger fading from his face. "Are you trying to tell me this picture wasn't staged?" he asked,
Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow. "What do you think?" he snapped.
Lestrade looked a bit flummoxed and then glared again. "And this had nothing to do with the case?" Lestrade asked, brandishing the paper once more.
Sherlock let a smug grin spread over his lips and gave John another squeeze. "I didn't say that. It may prove helpful."
Lestrade ran a hand down his face a groaned. After a moment, peeking out between his fingers, Lestrade smiled. "While I'm not happy about the media circus you're stirring up, I am happy for the both of you. It's about time. Congratulations."
"Thank you," Sherlock and John murmured together, glanced at each other, and chuckled.
"We actually had a betting pool going about when you would finally get together," Anderson muttered with a sour face. "I lost."
John sighed and leaned his head against Sherlock's for a moment, surrendering to the inevitable. "A betting pool," he murmured, "Of course you did."
"Don't forget to pay up Anderson," Sherlock smirked at him as John and he were finally allowed up the steps.
"You're not even part of the pool!" Anderson shot after him. Sherlock just chuckled.
Once they were properly inside the house, Sherlock gave John one last squeeze before extracting himself. They passed through an elegant foyer and into a great room. A staircase on their right swept grandly up to the second floor. The ceiling was pitched two stories high so that the steps ended in a balcony/walkway one could easily see from the ground floor. If a dinner party were held here that balcony/staircase set up would make for quite a grand entrance.
Slightly behind them and to the left was a huge set of bay windows with a cushioned bench built into the wall. Expensive looking, multi coloured tile swept across the floor. There were several richly upholstered couches, chairs, divans etc. positioned around the room with thick oriental carpets underneath. Towards the far end of the room was a grand fireplace, bracketed by two heavy wooden doors.
John sucked in a small breath as he noticed the corpse. It was kneeling by the fire place with its arms stretched taught above the head, hands crossed. As they approached the dead man John noticed a nail stuck through his overlapping hands, fixing them to the fireplace mantle. His head hung limp in death and his hair, which John imagined looked quite dignified when swept back, was dirty blond, speckled with gray. Like all the others before him, this man was naked. His feet mirrored his hands, laying one atop the other with a nail driven through the middle to hold them there.
"His name is Nathan," Lestrade began, keeping back a bit to let John and Sherlock explore. "His partner is Evan."
John glanced around the great room, suddenly confused. "Where is Evan? Did he survive?"
Lestrade shook his head, sadly.
"He's here John," Sherlock murmured, tugging John to crouch down on one side of the body and peer into the fireplace. John understood immediately. The fireplace was a double fireplace, continuing on the other side of the wall, allowing one to see right through to the other room if you peered through the center, where the fire would be. John noticed the charred remains of a rainbow flag in the ashes and shook his head.
John imagined there was another mantle on the other side of the wall. Through the opening, and past the fire guards John could make out another body on the floor. John winced in sympathy for the victims. "They probably were able to see each other through the fire..." John moved towards one of the doors to the side of the great room fireplace when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm. John looked at Sherlock, confused.
"One thing at a time," Sherlock insisted, "Examine this body first. If you go back and forth between them, you'll only get confused."
John huffed in annoyance and pulled his arm away. "Fine." John pulled himself to his feet, grumbling, careful to avoid the body.
Sherlock also stood, looking around the room with a sour expression. "Nathan and Evan were big political players and GLBT rights activists."
"He's right," Lestrade confirmed, gesturing to the framed news articles and rally photos that decorated the walls alongside other, more personal, pictures of the couple. "How did you-"
"Mycroft keeps tabs on me, I keep tabs on him and the people he works with," Sherlock said dismissively. "I told you he would go for high profile targets; I did a little digging on potential targets."
Lestrade blustered a bit at this. "And you never bothered to tell me that? I could have given them a protective detail!"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he approached Lestrade. "And would you have given a protective detail to the forty other couples I thought our killer may be interested in? Are you going to patrol every gay couple in England, because that, ultimately, is who he is after." Sherlock loomed slightly over Lestrade now. "It could never be organised enough to keep everyone safe. Someone would mess up somewhere, and there would be even more dead. We need the killer, not to go down false or useless trails."
Lestrade's mouth was set in a thin, unhappy line, but he nodded. Sherlock gave the barest of nods in return before turning his attention back to Nathan. He stared at the body for a long moment before gesturing to John. "What do you think?"
John looked a bit flustered. This made six deaths, and the pressure of the case was weighing on him. "Really, Sherlock, does it matter? You could out-deduce anyone."
"This helps me, John," Sherlock insisted, "It really does."
John looked dubiously at Sherlock. The consulting detective had said this before, but John couldn't see how. Still, Sherlock was looking at him, eager and open, and John couldn't deny him anything.
John shook his head before turning to examine the body. It was tortured, whipped, beaten, strangled. "He was tortured, not as long or as sloppily as Marcus and Bryan. This was more methodical and," John sucked in a long breath, "likely more painful. He used a whip or a flogger again, and a very sharp knife. I'd say Nathan was tortured for at least a day."
"Two days," Sherlock corrected.
John glared at Sherlock before continuing. "Some of these wounds are more healed than the other victims, and some aren't; some of these wounds had time to heal..." John scanned the body thoughtfully for a moment before pressing on, "I'm guessing the killer tortured one partner at a time, so that all the other man could do was listen to his husband's screams."
Sherlock nodded, "Yes, most likely. He is becoming more methodical when he tortures his victims, but he is still using whips and knives as his primary weapons."
"Let us see if we can find cause of death, shall we," John asked as he accepted the thin blue gloves Donovan was waving at him, and put them on. His hands hovered lightly over Nathan's back, searching. "Aha!" He cried, pressing his fingers gently to the puncture wound on the left side of Nathan's back. "Puncture wound, probably drove straight through his back to his heart."
John's fingers circled the wound a moment, curious, before comprehension dawned on his face. "This wound is cauterised!" John's head shot down to the flagstones of the fireplace and saw a straight poker flung there, slightly bloodied. His head jerked then to the fireplace noting the ashes of a somewhat recent fire. "Oh, god," he breathed, "the killer heated that poker in the fireplace before using it on Nathan!"
"Brilliant, John!" Sherlock cried, causing John to flush at the rare compliment. "Now if you can tell me why, I'll really be impressed."
John huffed a breath, feeling a bit pressured. He knew he could never compare with Sherlock. Still, no harm in trying. Sherlock would put to rights anything he missed. Taking a step back, John swept his gaze over the body, starting with the hands.
"He was bound, like the others," John began, pointing to the bruising around Nathan's wrists. John cast his eyes about the room, looking mostly at the ceiling. "I'm not sure where though."
"Above the window so that he would be suspended in the middle of it," Sherlock explained.
John squinted and saw bits of rope and a hook shoved into the crown moulding above the window.
"Right, the window," John said, dragging his gaze back to the body. "Our killer has a flare for the dramatic. He probably felt like he was putting Nathan on display, as an example to the world."
"Wouldn't he be worried about people seeing Nathan and interrupting his work?" Anderson asked, trying to break into the conversation.
"Not with the trees in the front garden," Sherlock drawled impatiently.
John nodded. "They would block people's view so that Nathan would be 'on display', without risk of the killer getting caught. The killer could have his little drama, while also removing the chance of being discovered. This way he can continue to up the ante with every couple he kills."
"Exactly," Sherlock nodded encouragingly.
John flushed a bit before looking back to the body. Evan was alive when he'd been nailed to the fireplace, John was pretty sure. He'd been trapped, only able to look at his lover through flames. "Our killer is getting more careful," John concluded, "He hung Nathan first to torture him, then nailed him in place so that there could be no touching last chance gesture. They would have only been able to see each other through the flames of the fireplace. That combined with all the religious quotes and imagery that have surrounded these killings... He's focusing on his 'statement' more... using imagery that implies a purifying fire, or the fact that he thinks these men would burn for their 'sins.'"
"What else John?" Sherlock prompted. John scanned the body once more. He couldn't see any bible quote taped to the flagstones by the fireplace. Perhaps on the other side?
John scanned the nail holding Nathan's hands in place. The mantle piece was sturdy oak, so it easily supported his weight. His eyes trailed to the nail in Nathan's feet and his eyes narrowed. The tile around them was splintered. No surprise there, but... "How are his feet nailed to the floor? I would expect nails to shatter tile, you can see the cracks here," John gestured with his hand, "How are his feet held here?"
"That is the right question," Sherlock said with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Lestrade," Sherlock began, tugging on some blue exam gloves then holding out his hand expectantly, "Get me some clamps."
Lestrade's face wrinkled in confusion. "Clamps?"
"Yes, clamps, are you hard of hearing?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes and grumbled, but went to fetch the clamps as Sherlock had requested. When he returned, he slapped them into Sherlock's outstretched hand with a meaningful look.
"This had better be good," Lestrade muttered.
Sherlock flashed him a grin before moving to stand over Nathan's feet.
"Sherlock?" John asked, but he received no answer.
Sherlock grasped the nail head firmly with the clamps and began to pull. One inch, two inches, three... John swallowed, feeling unsettled. He was no stranger to dead bodies or gruesome sights, but this was a bit unexpected. Sherlock gave a grunt as the nail finally came free...six inches long.
"Jesus," Lestrade breathed, taking in the length of the metal. Most people in the room jumped when the body slumped to the side, deprived of the support that had been holding it in place. Except for Sherlock and John, who had been expected it, obviously.
"What kind of nails are those?" asked a surprised SOCO.
Sherlock shrugged. "Roofing nails. Can be used for other big jobs as well."
"Here," Lestrade said, holding out an evidence bag, which Sherlock deposited the nail in.
"Mind if I get the other nail?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "As if I could stop you, just don't let the body crash into the floor, it's in rough enough shape as it is."
Sherlock nodded, "I'll put my best man on it. John, support the body."
"Yes Sherlock," John murmured with exasperated affection, holding the body up by grasping it under the arms.
Sherlock braced the dead man's arms with one hand and pulled the spike out with the clamp in his other hand. As the spike came away they heard a small, metallic clanging. Everyone looked down to see a gold band clattering to the floor.
"His wedding ring," Lestrade guessed, kneeling down to pick it up with gloved hands.
Sherlock nodded, "It must have been threaded onto the spike." Sherlock's brow furrowed in thought as he reviewed the different steps of this third double murder. "This was quite a job."
"Sherlock," John called, crouching in front of the body, "Come look at this."
Sherlock returned the clamps to Lestrade before bending down beside John. "That is interesting," he murmured, studying the ring of deep scratches that appeared to encircle Nathans head like a crown.
Sherlock and John looked at each other and, in the same moment breathed, "Crown of thorns."
As one they stood and walked towards the door on the right side of the fireplace.
"By all means, don't stop to explain yourselves," Lestrade muttered, following them.
Donovan and Anderson shared an unsettled look. "Did you see that?" Donovan asked quietly.
Anderson shook himself. "I wasn't kidding when I said we don't need two of them."
"It's like they were feeding off each other or something," Donovan agreed, remembering the energy that seemed to permeate the air between Sherlock and John.
"Anderson, Donovan, move your arses!" Lestrade called from the other room and they jumped to comply.
Sherlock and John were already crouched over either side of Evan when they entered the next room. Evan was laid on the floor, face up. His feet were overlapping, nailed to the floor, Just like Nathan. His arms, however were stretched out taught to either side of him, each one nailed to the floor individually. Evan looked every bit a victim of crucifixion, except on the floor as opposed to mounted on a cross.
Evan was a bit shorter than his husband with more tawny blond hair.
"Similar injuries," Sherlock murmured, eyeing the 'crown of thorns' injury in particular.
John nodded grimly. "There's some partially healed injuries on Evan as well," John swept his hand over Evan's body, gesturing as he went. "Whip marks, knife wounds, and another cauterised wound through the heart," John finished, gesturing to Evan's chest.
Sherlock gestured to Evan's wrists, "He was hung as well, there are some rope burns and bits of hemp stuck in the wounds here."
John looked up, making a slow scan of the ceiling, before turning his gaze to Sherlock, perplexed. "Where?"
Sherlock removed a small torch from his coat, and shown it up above the fireplace where the walls met the ceiling. The light glanced off the shining metal of a recently affixed hook. Like it's counterpart above the window in the next room, it was securely fastened, with bits of hemp still clinging to it.
John slid his gaze down the wall, observing. If Evan were hung from that hook, his torso would press uncomfortable against the mantel and... John scanned the body once more finding characteristic bruises along the ribs, just as he'd expected. The good doctor allowed his gaze to trail further downwards and took in the slight burn marks on Evan's feet. John had suspected, and these marks appeared to confirm, that Evan's feet had dangled uncomfortably close to the fire while he was suspended.
John drew a measured breath and tried hard not to think of how much pain Evan and Nathan must have gone through. He only sort of managed it. They were dealing with a fanatic whose victims were no better to him than carrion. Refocusing, John perused the body and the area around the flagstone. He frowned. "There's no bible quote. Hasn't he always left one in the past?"
"It's here," Sherlock assured him, taking the clamps from Lestrade again. "Hold him down for me? That'll make this a bit quicker."
John nodded and pressed his gloved hands firmly into Evan's feet, then his right hand, then his left. When Evan's left hand came free they found his wedding band.
Sherlock barely glanced at it before declaring, "Happy marriage, obviously."
"Obviously," John mimicked with a grin before handing the ring to Lestrade.
With Evan's limbs free, John and Sherlock were easily able to roll him over, revealing a blood-smeared patch of tape. The edges of the tape were burned where the hot poker had touched as it was pressed through Evan's chest.
Sherlock wiped the blood away with a gloved hand and revealed the words on the paper beneath the tape:
Proverbs 16:12 - [It is] an abomination to kings to commit wickedness: for the throne is established by righteousness.
Sherlock's eyes flicked rapidly across the words, to the fireplace, then to Evan's face. John got a queasy cold feeling in his stomach at the hardened expression that flittered over Sherlock's features. He had figured out something, and it wasn't good.
Sherlock stood abruptly, tearing off his gloves and tossing them out. John followed without question, tossing his gloves as well.
"Sherlock?" he asked, worried. Sherlock didn't often act like this.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade was also calling after the detective, demanding an explanation.
"I'll be in touch, Lestrade!" Sherlock called over his shoulder at the inspector, waving his hand dismissively.
"Sherlock," John panted a bit, catching up to the consulting detective, who was all but running now, "What's wrong? Tell me."
Sherlock paused at the great doors to the house, searching John's face. John saw worry there, and a million thoughts racing behind those flawless eyes. Sherlock lifted a hand and placed it on John's shoulder, squeezing gently. John leaned into the touch, waiting.
Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. "Later," he whispered, and John nodded.
"Okay." John couldn't help but return the small smile on Sherlock's face. He knew what it meant to Sherlock to have someone who trusted him.
Together they moved to the door, never expecting what was on the other side. Cameras flashed like blinding lightning as soon as Sherlock and John stepped over the threshold. The police tape was keeping people back, but barely.
John was completely taken aback and instinctively inched closer to Sherlock. Without thinking about it Sherlock looped an arm around John's waist, pulling him closer. The flashes got much worse after that, and the press started screaming questions.
"Sherlock, do you know who the killer is?!"
"Sherlock, how many bodies is this?!"
"Do you have any promising leads?!"
And, of course, "As a gay couple in the community, how do you feel about this killer's rampage?
Sherlock glared threateningly at the reporters, and started making his way past them with the help of a uniformed officer; he kept John close all the while. As they neared the end of the gauntlet of reporters, an overly enthusiastic female reporter leaned over the police barricade, and threw a desperate question at Sherlock.
"Are you afraid for your lover and yourself?!"
Sherlock had positioned them so that he was on the outside, closer to the reporters, and that John was closer to the house, more sheltered. He paused then and glared at this women for all he was worth. She was, clearly, a seasoned reporter, but even she began to cower as Sherlock loomed over her. "My personal relationship with John Watson is not your, nor anyone else's concern," he hissed, pulling John impossibly closer to his side. "But I can assure you," he drawled menacingly, "I protect what is mine."
John flushed at Sherlock's protective gesture trying, desperately, not to be as thrilled as he was. He didn't want this to escalate into a fight, however, so he looped an arm around Sherlock's waist and gave him an gentle squeeze. This caused Sherlock to turn and look at John, still a bit flushed and obviously concerned.
"I'm okay," John assured, his smile growing as he looked up at Sherlock. It was difficult to tear his gaze away from Sherlock's penetrating stare, but John managed. The ex-army doctor scanned the area around the crowd, wondering how they would ever make it home. "Maybe we should've called a cab before we left," John murmured, trying to lighten the mood.
Sherlock's gaze softened a bit, and he lifted his free hand to caress the side of John's face. John smiled and leaned into the touch. An unexpected warmth seeped into his limbs, and John let his gaze fall away from his might-be-more-than-best-friend.
"No need," Sherlock replied softly, "We already have a ride."
John blinked at him in confusion until he heard the all too familiar, rhythmic tapping of an umbrella on the ground. He made a soured face and muttered, "Mycroft."
Sherlock chuckled and pulled John into a proper hug for a moment. "While it is amusing to see you sharing my unpleasant sentiments towards my older brother, going with him will be the fastest way to get out of this crowd."
John grumbled a bit and closed his eyes. He was enjoying being held by Sherlock too much. Way too much. They were in the middle of a bloody crowd of police and reporters for God's sake! And yet he could not bring himself to pull away. He was well, and truly, fucked.
"Besides," Sherlock's baritone voice breathed in John's ear, growing serious, "I need to talk to him."
John moved his head to look at Sherlock, stunned. He had never, ever heard of Sherlock willingly talking to his brother. John swallowed, searching his long time partner's serious face. This might be more than a bit dangerous.
"Come along you two," Mycroft drawled sardonically as he approached them. "You're making quite a scene."
Sherlock and John pulled apart then, a bit guiltily, and glared at the elder Holmes in unison.
Mycroft was dutifully unimpressed, and turned to seat himself in the waiting black Bentley.
John jumped a bit when he felt a hand encircle his, but relaxed when he realised it was Sherlock's. Sherlock gave him a small, reassuring smile before pulling John into the car with him. John was pressed close into Sherlock's side as the car sped away and, for once, he was beyond caring. Something was brewing here... something big.