The blood soaked room spun around Sherlock as he stood with wide eyes in the centre. His pulse raced in his ears as every minute detail of what had taken place merely a day before screamed at him from every corner. The body had been removed that afternoon, but he didn't need it there; his photographic memory was more than enough to satisfy him.
The killer had wheeled the remains into the house stuffed inside a suitcase, the almost inconspicuous indents in the welcome mat from the wheels, and the slightly out of place hallway rug had told him that as soon as he swung open the front door. In his other hand, his left hand to be precise, he had carried a smaller carry-on sized bag containing the pig's blood, and possibly the organs as well. He had then entered the room and set both parcels down in the space in which Sherlock now stood, and had spent a considerable amount of time carefully arranging the corpse so that all of its internal organs were on vivid display, a deliberate act of exposure performed in malice for ironic purposes. Lestrade had called him earlier to tell him the connection between the two victims was their professions; they were both therapists. As he stood there thinking that over, Sherlock, with the enhanced power of deduction granted to him by the cocaine, felt ever so stupid for not picking the twisted irony immediately upon learning that fact. Obviously the killer suffered extreme mental illness, harboured resentment towards his personal therapist, and was mutilating other women in the same line of work in place of her to satisfy his deranged fantasies. All of this Sherlock muttered aloud to himself in broken, stuttering phrases as his mouth struggled to keep up with his thoughts.
Sherlock turned on his heel and hurried out of the house, making his way to the main road to flag down a taxi, the brisk night air biting harshly at his over sensitive skin. His eyes darted around him, unfocused yet acutely attuned to every detail of his surroundings, causing his head to swim with sensations he could not put accurate words to. The only coherent thought he was able to grasp was to take the opportunity to examine the bodies with his super human abilities while he had them, confident that an abundance of fresh evidence would reveal itself to him.
When he was seated in the back of a cab and speeding towards Bartholomew's Hospital, he whipped his phone out of his pocket and punched in the speed dial for Lestrade's mobile. The Detective Inspectors phone seemed to ring for an eternity, and Sherlock could not stop his feet tapping on the floor, or his idle fingers from drumming a pattern into his knee.
"Jesus Sherlock," Lestrade's groggy voice finally answered. "Don't you ever sleep?"
Sherlock hardly heard the question.
"Oh, is it late, I didn't notice, listen," he sat forward, free hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. "Did the lab report come back for that blood sample Anderson took this afternoon?"
"Oh God Sherlock, I don't know. Its three AM, can't it wait?"
Sherlock's nostrils flared angrily.
"Oh, so sorry for disturbing your rest Detective Inspector, I'll just tell the next girl we find hacked to pieces that Scotland Yard needed its beauty sleep shall I, I'm sure she'd understand."
He heard Lestrade draw in a long breath before huffing it out in defeat.
"Point taken. Hang on a tic, I'll call the lab and get back to you okay? Just sit tight."
Sherlock snapped his phone shut and threw himself roughly back against the seat cushion.
The minutes dragged by as the taxi seemed to all but crawl along the empty streets towards the morgue. Sherlock could not keep still in the darkness of the cab, and his eyes darted back and forth between the interior of the car and the lights flashing by them outside. He felt like time had screeched to an infuriatingly slow snail's pace just to taunt him, and his scowl grew deeper and deeper with every beat of his racing heart, his blood rushing thick and fast through his ears and washing over his overflowing mind. Connections in the evidence were linking themselves faster than he could comprehend as he combed over and over the crime scenes in his head, committing every single detail to memory, and how he came to notice them in the first place.
Lestrade had still not called back by the time Sherlock found himself striding through the doors of the morgue, and his patience was wearing thin. Had he still been in the cab, he would have called back and cussed him out for taking so long, but instead he was fast approaching the autopsy room where he would find whoever was on duty that night. He silently prayed it was 'Old Man' Henry whom he valued for his no-nonsense attitude and unprying principles. He was shocked, however, to burst through the white washed doors and crash right into a young red headed girl he had never seen before, who promptly dropped the files she was carrying all over the ground in front of them.
"Oh! Sorry! So sorry, I'm so sorry!" he voice was high and nervous as she dropped to her knees and clumsily bustled the papers into her arms again. Sherlock stood over her and watched with knitted brow, irritated in the delay. When she finally collected the last scrap and stumbled to her feet, his gaze was met with wide and timid brown eyes set over flushed round cheeks. Had she not been so obviously flustered, and he so urgently distracted, Sherlock Holmes would have found her beautiful.
"Oh, um… Sorry, um..." She started to stammer an apology, but Sherlock cut her off.
"And who are you? Where is Henry?"
The girl shuffled her feet.
"Um, my name is Molly. Molly Hooper." She dropped her gaze as she talked, clearly intimidated by Sherlock's ice cool assertiveness, which only irritated him further. "I'm um, new here, just started actually and…"
Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath before cutting her off again.
"Where is Henry? I have business I need to discuss with him."
The girl flicked her eyes back to him, a flash of defiance shining from them. "He's not in tonight. I'm in… in charge."
Sherlock stared openly, clearly doubting her words. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he spoke again, the urgency of his mission creeping back into his blood stream and over powering the mild disruption.
"Yes, fine, okay you'll have to do." Stepping around her, he strode off towards the storage room, leaving Molly to stumble after him in his wake. "I need to see the bodies of the two female murder victims, and their report files. Now."
He heard her struggle to keep a hold of the errant papers in her arms as she followed. "But, they're already signed off, their papers have even gone through already I cant just…"
"Yes, you can. And you will." Sherlock turned swiftly to face her, catching the surprised girl by the upper arms and holding her still, leaning in so their faces were level. He could see sheer terror reflected back at him in her eyes, and knew that intimidation and fear was the way to get her to do what he wanted. "Look, the only way I can be sure to catch the person who killed them is to examine their bodies right now. If I don't, and the killer walks free for another day then that's another victim on your autopsy table is that what you want? To piece another innocent woman back together while her family grieve? Because if it is just tell me right now and I'll turn around and walk out of here, but just know if that's the case then it is you who will have to answer to Lestrade, do you understand?"
Molly nodded meekly, absolutely petrified, and Sherlock let her go. Straightening up he flashed her an arrogant grin. Without a word she shuffled through to the storage room and opened first one, and then another body compartment. Pulling out the gurneys and unzipping the bags, she left Sherlock to his work and retreated to the office to pull up their files. Sherlock watched her go and noted that despite her meek appearance and delicate air, she had a level of professionalism and brisk efficiency that he found himself admiring. Shaking that thought from his mind, he turned his attention back to the reason he had made this trip.
After a moment, Molly handed him the report papers and retreated, leaving him alone to read over them, taking mental notes of what foreign materials were found on each victim. His mind was flying, and if his deductions were correct, which he had very little doubt they were, then there was only one more piece of data he needed to crack this case. As if on cue, his phone rang in his pocket, and before it had finished its second chime, Sherlock had snapped it to his ear.
"Lestrade, talk to me."
"Seriously Sherlock, get some sleep every couple of days at least, you're very on edge."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth.
"Lestrade, the blood. How old was it?" he started to pace, impatience mingling with excitement and adrenaline in his blood.
"Alright, keep your head on, Jesus. The labs showed that the blood from the second crime scene cant have been unrefrigerated at least for more than three hours, happy?"
Sherlock didn't even bother to respond before hanging up and all but running from the autopsy room, leaving both bodies and their files lying out and exposed. He was already crunching the numbers in his head and making even more connections as his fingers flew across his phones touch screen, calculating distances and times. When he was sure beyond a doubt that he had the answer to the murder cases, he text Lestrade and hailed himself a cab, shouting to the driver and mentally celebrating what he was sure to be a dramatic victory.
He made it to Scotland Yard at the same time as an obviously disgruntled Lestrade, and they two men rode the elevator together up to the Detective Inspectors office. The moment the door closed behind them Sherlock exploded with the information that had been piling up in his over stimulated mind, eager to bring the case to a climactic finale.
Sherlocks hands came slamming down on the Detective Inspectors desk, making Lestrade, who was sitting behind it, jump.
"It's the Old Saw Mill in South Croydon, that's where he's killing them."
Lestrade just blinked slowly as he absorbed the information as Sherlock gushed on.
"We need to go there, now, its where he's taking these women and murdering them. He then stuffs them in a suitcase, drives them to his hobby farm on the outskirts of the town to pick up the pigs blood and then takes them home to set up the scene. I know it's the Old Mill because of the way the women are murdered. You said it was with something akin to a power saw, remember? A large one. Well, a timber mill saw would be large enough, don't you agree? 'But how do you know its in South Croydon?' you may ask, well you answered that not an hour ago. The blood Lestrade, the blood! Less than three hours old, and it cant have been on the wall more than two hours, so that means the mill and the farm had to be less than an hour away, so where could that be? Croydon, Lestrade, South Corydon!"
Sherlock took a deep breath and turned to the Detective Inspector, waiting for a response from him. Lestrade's jaw was hanging slack as he watched his colleague in confusion. It was clear that he hadn't followed a word of Sherlock's speech as he shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. Sherlock's excitement hesitated at Lestrade's blank expression.
"Okay, just… calm down, and start again. South Croydon?"
Sherlock took a deep, exasperated breath, his blood pounding in his ears as he struggled to curb the fresh rush of adrenaline. His hands balled into fists as he fought to remain calm.
"Yes, Lestrade, South Croydon. There is an old timber mill there that's been shut down for years now. They tried turning it into a museum, but everyone knew that was pointless from the get go, so its just been abandoned."
"And that's where he is?"
"Yes, it must be, it's the only location that fits the evidence. The autopsy report says both victims had a fine coating of rust flakes in the wounds, which can only come from the old rusted timber blades, which fits the criteria for the murder weapon. And Croydon is the right distance away from the victims houses according to the blood found on the walls. Honestly Lestrade, this is just becoming more and more obvious each time I say it! Now we have to move."
Lestrade shook his head slowly and stood up from where he was seated behind his desk. It was clear to Sherlock that he was having doubts, and the consulting detective gritted his teeth against his irritation. Once again, the clock seemed to have slowed to a snail's pace, and Sherlock could feel the stress building up beneath his skin as Lestrade made the call to gather the team and make preparations to investigate the abandoned mill. Every tick of the clock rang clear in Sherlock's ear, taunting him as he paced the length of the office back and forth until Lestrade called out that it was time to go.
The car ride was long, and hellishly slow for Sherlock. He was seated across from Lestrade, who's brow was knitted in curiosity as Sherlock's knee bounced feverishly with impatience. To the officer, it was almost concerning how frantic his friend seemed to be, with his eyes darting all over the place under firmly scowling eyebrows. After sitting in silence for quite a while as the van wound its way away from the city, Lestrade could hold his tongue no more.
"Sherlock, are you feeling okay? I've never seen you this wired over a case before."
Sherlocks eyes snapped around at an alarming speed. Narrowed in the dimly lit cab, they shone bright with a cocaine fever.
"I'm fine." He returned to gazing out of the window, making a mental note to keep himself under a tighter check while high in the presence of others. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade still staring at him, clearly concerned.
"You seem a bit… worked up is all."
The conversation died and the men were left to wait out the remainder of the trip in a somewhat uncomfortable silence. Sherlock could feel the effects of the cocaine starting to wear off, and his stomach turned. A headache was setting in, and he hoped they would be able to wrap up their outing before the comedown really set in.
Within the hour the convoy of vans had pulled up outside the old timber mill Sherlock had stated just as the sun was starting to rise. All heads turned towards the large tin sheds as the quiet briefing from Lestrade to the force team was cut off by the unmistakable whirring of a timber saw, and Sherlock could not help but feel a pang of satisfaction as the last shred of doubt was erased from his mind. Ignoring Lestrade completely, he withdrew his hand gun from inside his coat and ran towards the sound, the rest of the team following in quick pursuit.
It wasn't the first time he had run full pelt into a potentially life threatening situation, but this time was different for him. His senses seemed to be on fire as the remains of the drug in his system mingled with the adrenaline in his veins. The shouts of his comrades mixed with the harsh pining of the saw echoed around his head and he found himself feeling more alive than he ever had before.
He mounted the rusted staircase, taking three steps at a time, and came face to face with the middle aged man who could only be the killer. The man took a step back away from Sherlock, who had the barrel of his gun trained squarely on his head. Below the two of them, some members of the team had cut the power to the massive timber saw and were attending to who was lined up to be the killers third victim. Lestrade had followed Sherlock up the stairs and was standing poised with his own unholstered weapon, making the best of the narrow walkway.
Sherlock took a step forward, then another one as the man tried desperately to find an escape, without success. He was backed up against the railing at the end of the platform, looking down to the solid concrete ten feet below. Sherlock called out to him, triumphant and cocky.
"Even if you jump, theres a whole force team down there waiting. Just put your hands above your head and turn around slowly."
The man scowled at the detective, his lip curled menacingly over his teeth. From the distance Sherlock was, he could see the mattered hair, and the scabs covering his neck and hands. Clearly this man was deranged. He took another step backwards, one of his feet coming to rest on the bottom rung of the railing. Sherlocks heart skipped a beat at the idea that he may actually make a jump for it.
"Come on now, don't do that." He's voice was sneering as he realised that a small part of him wanted to see the man fall. "At worst you'll break a few bones. It's over, just give in."
Without a word, the man spun on his heel, gripped the railing and flung himself head first over the side, a deafening crunch echoing throughout the massive tin room as he hit the concrete head first.