Sherlock awoke hours later, sprawled out over the cold tiles of his kitchen floor, a ringing in his ears and a pounding in his head. The room spun around him as his eyes struggled to focus and his arms stretched out above him, searching for a handhold to help pull him to his feet. His fingers curled around the seat of a dining chair, and he shakily hoisted himself onto his knees, blinking away the last traces of sleep from his eyes. He swallowed dryly, his stomach turning uncomfortably at the bad taste left in his mouth from the night before, and slowly stood up, his whole body shaking at the effort. He arched his back and rubbed his hands down his spine, a twinge of pain running through the muscle from laying on the hard floor for so long. That had certainly not been what he was expecting, that was for sure.

A ring from the lounge room blasted shrill and piercing through the air, causing the ache in his head to spike and his eyes to snap shut against the unexpected pain. Groaning, he shuffled out to the lounge room, stopping in his tracks when he opened his eyes again and registered the state of the place. Papers littered the floor, the arm chair was upturned and the cushions had been strewn around seemingly at random. His now silent phone lay abandoned on the floor against the far wall.

His brow knitted together as he tried to recall what had happened, but all he could remember was the feeling. The extreme rush of clarity that came over him, and the energy that surged through his body as his senses fine-tuned themselves to the point where he could hear the rush of blood through his veins, and feel the slightest twitch of the air in his fingertips. He held himself perfectly still, concentrating, trying to bring back that sensation, to pin point details that would otherwise go undetected around him.

So high was his focus, that his body gave an involuntary jolt as his phones ringtone once again rang out from across the room. With a sigh, he sauntered over to it, stooping low to swipe it off the floor. He answered without bothering to check the caller ID.

"Holmes." His baritone voice sounded raspy, even to him. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard who answered him.

"You alright Sherlock? You're sounding a bit funny."

Sherlock cleared his throat, sitting himself down on the couch. "I'm fine, whats happened?" He heard Lestrade sigh on the other end of the line.

"Murder, a pretty gruesome one." Sherlocks interest was immediately piqued. "Lots of blood around, but not much else. No sign of a weapon, or a forced entry… in fact there's no real sign that anyone else was actually here at all, which is why I'm calling. Reckon you could come down, take a look?"

Sherlock had already made up his mind that he would definitely take the case, but he always got some satisfaction in stringing Lestrade along for a moment, so he pretended to mull it over.

"I guess I don't have anything going on this afternoon."

Lestrade scoffed. "Ah, don't be like that, we all know you enjoy this stuff. Just get here as soon as you can."

Sherlock took note of the address and hung up, taking a moment to stare idly at his phone. It must have been the after effect of the drug, because he just didn't feel the usual rush of excitement that always followed the news of a murder case. He shook his head with a sigh and rose to his feet. Maybe a shower would fix it.

Or another dose…

The thought took him off guard and his eyes whipped around to the little glass bottle, sitting where he had left it the night before on the coffee table. The feeling of power he had felt came roaring back from his memory and he found himself drawn to it. The heavy seconds ticked on as he stood transfixed by the tantalising elixir, torn between the desire for that ultimate sense of supremacy, and the strict professionalism that he had grown to be his shield in life. In the end, it was the thought of ending up passing out on the floor of the crime scene that tore his eyes away from the drug, and moved his feet down the hallway to the bathroom.

Two hours later, all traces of the comedown were erased from Sherlocks mind as he stepped under the caution tape strung up across the doorway of 34 Beaconsfeild Drive. The whole property was riddled with officers and forensic investigators, combing the house for any hint of what had taken place there the night before. Sherlock gazed around, his expression blank as he took in every detail around him, from the marks on the walls to distance between the doorways. A tiny thought at the back of his mind reminded him that his senses weren't as acute as they could have been, and he gave his head a curt shake to dislodge it.

Sherlock reached the doorway to the bedroom, the scene of the murder, at the same time as Lestrade stepped out of it, a grim expression on his features, which only hardened when his eyes came to rest on the detective. He crossed his arms over his chest and squared his shoulders minutely before addressing Sherlock.

"Good of you to come down mate, we're not getting anything useful."

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. "Who's on forensics?" He didn't actually care so much as he was just humouring the DI. Sherlock worked alone, and everyone knew it. Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock groaned internally.

"Anderson. Now don't give me that look." Sherlock had made his distaste clear in his expression, and Lestrades arms fell to his sides in exasperation. "You know Andersons the best we've got on our team, just cut him some slack okay?"

Sherlock stepped pointedly around Lestrade and made for the doorway, speaking back over his shoulder. "He was the best you had, inspector, but I'm here now, so you can tell your team to pack up and stay out of my way."

If Lestrade had responded, it had fallen of deaf ears, for Sherlock was through the door and gazing at the bloody mess in front of him. The inspector had said it was a gruesome scene on the phone, and he was not exaggerating. The body of what was once apparently a young woman lay twisted and mangled on the floor by the bed, split almost the full way through the torso, and horrendously splayed out, the mangled organs on full display. Blood had been sprayed and smeared over the entire room, the dried substance cracked and peeling away from the furniture. Sherlock remained unmoving and undisturbed as his keen eyes darted this way and that, scoping out clues, signs and implications of whatever horrors had caused the scene in front of him.

Stepping forward, he drew a set of latex gloves from his coat pocket, snapping them over his slender hands. "When was she found?"

"This morning, about eight O'clock." Lestrade had re-entered the room, and was standing just inside the doorway, watching Sherlock work with slightly narrowed eyes. "Forensics say it must have happened earlier this morning, around two actually. No one in the neighbourhood reported seeing or hearing anything."

Sherlock was combing the room, inspecting everything from the dresser table, to the peeling wallpaper. "You mean Anderson said that, so of course he's wrong."

"Oh great, the consulting freak is here." An unpleasantly nasally voice joined the conversation with a sneer. Sherlock didn't even bother to look up from the windowsill he was inspecting.

"Anderson, always a pleasure."

"I can't possibly be wrong Holmes, the blood speaks for itself."

"Ah, there is where you are right, the blood does speak for itself." He finished his investigation of the window, and spun around to examine the floor boards between the bed and the door, still not looking up to meet the newcomers accusing glare. "I suspect none of the labs have come back, considering you obviously haven't picked it up yet."

Anderson scoffed, and stepped backwards out of the way as Sherlock crawled his way across the floor, eyes trained on the wood beneath him. "Picked what up yet?"

Satisfied, the detective sprung to his feet, twirling around to face the two other men. "On the fact that his is not her blood." He suppressed a satisfied smile at the shock on both men's faces. "It's pigs blood, the pigment is much too dark to be a young woman's, and the way it is drying tells you everything you need to know, not to mention the clearly deliberate way its been splashed around, but then I guess you can be excused since your brain is quite obviously as underdeveloped as your sense of reasoning, and without your team of scientific robots to analyse everything for you, you're pretty much as useless as… "

"Sherlock, what do you mean its pigs blood?" Lestrade cut off the detectives rant before Anderson blew a vein in his forehead. "How can that be possible? I mean, if this is pigs blood, where is her blood?" He indicated to the body across the room.

Sherlock flashed a small grin, the excitement of the chase starting to creep its way into his body.

"Haven't the faintest."

He strode away from them and out the door back into the hallway, his eyes trained on the floor in front of him. The body hadn't been dragged, that was for sure, so how had the murder gotten it in here? And from where…

"Sherlock, hold up a minute!" Sherlock rolled his eyes as Lestrade came striding after him. "Are you saying someone just strolled in here in the middle of the night, carrying a hacked up carcass over their shoulder or something?"

"Something like that yes. Look," He turned to face the perplexed inspector, determined to convince him to just trust his word and let him get on with his investigation. "what I'm saying is, this is a really interesting case, because whoever did this planned it out precisely, and went to a lot of frankly unnecessary effort to make it look like she was murdered in her own home, and since your team is completely inadequate I would very much appreciate it if you worked with me and at least tried to make it easier by just telling me what I want to know and staying out of my way, understand?"

Before the stunned Lestrade could answer, Sherlock was out the front door and away down the street. This case was going to be a tricky one, and he needed to get back to his apartment and lay down everything he had gathered that afternoon to try and figure out where to go next.