Hi guys, I'm back from my holiday! So sorry to have kept you waiting. I made Rayne wait too. Poor thing.
Sorry I've abused you. Right, two things now.
Number one - I am now stopping doing the italics. I've taken them out of all previous chapters too. I've done this because it has even started to annoy the crap out of me. xD
Number two - This chapter is for two people. One of them is xXxThreePatchProblemxXx because they've been with this from the start and they never ceases to make us smile. The second is to another user called Meredithriddle because one of their reviews literally made me snort. Actually snort. Which caused a very awkward situation in our house.
Anyway, here is your chapter, guys. Sorry it took longer than expected.
The flashing lights and muted sounds of the machines around them were the only signs that Samuel was alive. John sat forwards, his hands clasped together and he head bowed. Sherlock, however, was pacing, talking to himself and to John, who wasn't listening. He spoke to the unconscious Samuel as though he were the skull.
John phased in and out of Sherlock's rambling. All he could think of was what Sherlock had said earlier, that this was Mycroft's fault. While he couldn't deny that Mycroft was a sore loser, he didn't think that the sour faced genius would go this far...
John looked around the room. Samuel's clothes were neatly folded on the chair in the corner, valuables on him on top. Ready to be bagged, John was sure. Something looked odd about the pile. The clothes were the same up class sort he had been wearing earlier that day. The watch was the same too. His phone looked expensive as did the pen and neckerchief he also owned but the piece of paper? It looked out of place. Scruffy and discoloured. Not the sort of thing a man like Samuel Penber would use.
Standing up, John walked over to the pile and picked up the piece of paper. Sherlock hadn't seemed to notice him leaving his chair. The paper was folded in half, a flimsy material that looked more ivory than white. The corner of the paper had a small droplet of blood. "Sherlock!" John called out. "I think you better come and see this."
Sherlock walked over and took the note from John. He sniffed it as he was able to pick up the scent of the person who had last touched it. Like a sniffer dog. He carefully opened the note and read aloud its content:
Ah, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson too,
Your first proper case for the both of you,
I can't let you win, Mr Penber did wrong,
Going to you and singing his song,
It's a pity it is because now Mycroft will know,
But welcome to the start of my little show.
"Not Mycroft then."
"Not Mycroft."
John shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and sighed. His eyes swept over the room, looking at Samuel's bruised face. The sight of the swollen, black and blue bruises on his face made John feel slightly sick. The beaten he must have taken was inhumane.
"Looks like we've got another Moriarty for certain." John mumbled, remembering that Sherlock's analysis had said that there were at least four men that attacked Samuel. Probably hired thugs, by the looks of it.
"Indeed, John... Indeed." Sherlock read the note again before folding it carefully. "I can't be sure that there will be any DNA evidence from this... Challenger. But I can see where it has been recently. I'm going to see Molly."
Samuel's machines beeped again softly, his breathing was speeding up. It was probably a bad dream, or he was going to wake up soon. He was still unconscious, in a - hopefully - temporary coma.
"I- Can I come?" John asked, watching Samuel's machines. "Or should I stay with him?"
"John, come with me. I need someone to keep people out my way."
John nodded and followed Sherlock out of the room. He watched the flow of Sherlock's coat and the way his shoes clicked against the laminated floors. The doors slammed shut behind them.
"Molly!" Sherlock shouted. Her little smile was hidden behind her hair. She blushed and stood up.
"Hello Sherlock, John."
"I need to make use of your lab."
"Oh, alright." She said whilst walking over to the pair. "I suppose the lab is yours. Can I get you both a coffee?"
"You don't ha-"
"She wanted an excuse to go ring her boyfriend. It's okay, John. Sit down." Sherlock turned to Molly and smiled in an almost Hippocratic way. "Black, two sugars."
The door gave a loud crash and Molly hurried out of the room. Her phone out of her pocket before she even left the lab. John smiled. He was glad Molly had somebody at last. She didn't have the best choice in men after all. Two sociopaths and then there was that Jed guy. John had detested him. Good thing he had a cat allergy. Turning around John found Sherlock sitting by the microscope. Eyes glued to the lense. The piece of paper laid underneath. "You think he left some fingerprints then?"
"Only two sets on this, John. Yours and mine." John wondered how Sherlock knew what his fingerprints looked like. Then again it would explain that day he had woken up with ink all over his fingers. "I'll take a sample of the red substance on the letter."
"You don't think it's blood?"
"It appears to be. I'll do a haemoglobin test to be sure. It's an interesting test and I don't care for modern methods." John sat in the corner in silence as he watched Sherlock continue his work. It was interesting how the detective worked his way around the lab, in an almost stylised manner, collecting materials he needed. The smile on his face when a crystal appeared in the water made John's stomach flip slightly. It was clear they had blood.
"Now we know we're dealing with blood." Sherlock muttered. "But whose blood?" John shrugged; it wasn't like he'd know.
Molly clattered back into the room with two coffees in hand. Both in plastic cups with a cardboard holder. She handed one to John and left the other on the desk, away from Sherlock's work but still close enough to grab.
"What's going on?" She asked John while Sherlock danced around the room, his thin figure casting a thinner shadow under the harsh lights.
"Uh, someone got beat up pretty bad. He's upstairs." John looked Molly in the eyes and gave a sad smile. "Unconscious still... And Sherlock's got a stalker fan, like Moriarty but he writes poems, and um... we have three poems and one poem has blood on it. Don't really know what to make of it..."
"And the paper and ink." Sherlock chipped in. "Cheap stuff, not anywhere near good quality. It'd fall apart under detailed examination, so that was probably on purpose." John nodded, watching Sherlock's detailed hand movements that punctuated his sentences. "So, we've got someone who knows us... quite well."
"Your address book has two names. Mine and Mycroft's. We've already ruled out Mycroft and I've been with you since you got back." From the dead, John added mentally.
"Mhmm." Sherlock agreed. "I know."
"So ho-"
"Just because my address book has two names, John, does not mean I don't know people." Sherlock interrupted. "I have many acquaintances. You've met the Baker Street division of course and there are many others who are familiar with me. I had never met Moriarty before he set out to get my attention."
"True enough I suppose."
"I don't know why all these sociopaths seem do have such an interest in me." Sherlock shrugged.
"Sometimes, Sherlock, I can't decide whether you are the smartest dumbass or dumbest smartass that I know."
Sherlock's posture sniffened. "John, if you would take a moment from insulting me and focus on the case."
"Sorry. Got everything you came here for?"
"Yes." Sherlock finished off his coffee before reaching for his coat. "Come along, John. We have to go back to his house. Molly, can you run a DNA test please. Penber is upstairs if you need to cross reference."
With that he thundered out of the door and made his way towards the exit. John thanks Molly and quickly followed suit. As he tried to catch up with Sherlock he heard Lestrade's voice carry down the corridor. It seemed to be coming from a side corridor. Sherlock had disappeared and John knew he would be waiting outside so he slowed his pace a little.
"Tell me you had nothing to do with this." Lestrade paused. No doubt waiting for a reply. "Just tell me. I want to be sure. Yes, I trust you but I just want to be positive." On the phone then, John thought. "Okay, okay. I believe you. I'm sorry. I should know better just you know who it is..." Lestrade's voice trailed off as John moved further out of ear shot. Whatever that was he would try to find out later. Right now he had to find Sherlock.
Where would he be? If he wanted time to think? Where would Sherlock b- The roof. Of course. He would be on the roof so he could look over the place he'd beaten Moriarty, the place he'd jumped from.
John spun on his heel and ran to the stairs; he jumped up the concrete stairs and dashed to the roof. He reached the top and slowed down. He was panting. He slowed his breathing down and opened the door. His heart stopped.
Sherlock was standing on the ledge, over looking the pavement. No one was looking up so he was undisturbed. His coat was limp; there was no wind to whip it around. Sherlock was looking directly down, past his feet, down at the pavement.
"Does it scare you, John?"
John nodded, but realised that Sherlock couldn't see him so he swallowed and cleared his throat. "Get down, Sherlock."
"I suppose I should." Sherlock sighed. He turned around. "I had never been scared before. Not before this... Looking down at it. Even though I knew I had a plan, I was still scared."
"She- Get down." John snapped. "Now. Just get down, Sherlock."
Sherlock stepped forwards, down off of the ledge. He sat down and beckoned John over. John strode forwards with a confidence he didn't feel, he was just glad that Sherlock was still alive. For now.
"Stop overreacting, John."
"Overre- Sherlock! The last time I saw you on this blasted roof you-" The words choked in John's mouth. "What were you doing up there, anyway?"
"Thinking."
"Of course." John groaned. "Always with the thinking." Looking around the roof top, John could see the sun shining down and a cloudless sky. The busy London street wafted into his ears. He wanted to get off that roof. Away from that blasted building. He hated up there. He doubted Sherlock knew that.
"Come along, John. We can go to Penber's now." The pair proceeded downstairs and found themselves inside a taxi going back to the grand white building again. John was glad to find himself moving further and further away from the memories. He had no problem with St Barts himself but the roof was another matter. To see Sherlock standing on that ledge again. Talking about that day.
"What are we going to look for anyway?"
"Anything useful. Probably all gone now that the delightful police department have been able to trample their way through it."
"You know how it is. What was Lestrade doing there anyway? He works homicide. Assaults and stuff isn't his division, surely?"
"I don't know." Sherlock said with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"I'm sorry. Can you just say that again for me so I can make it my ring tone?" John smirked, trying to hide his smile.
"Shut up, John."
The taxi pulled up, the two men jumped out. The first thing John noticed was that Lestrade was standing waiting for them by the front door of the house.
"Greg." John smiled. "Didn't expect you to be here."
"I told them it wasn't our division." Greg sighed, "But come in. The boys haven't moved anything. You can take a look, if you want to."
Greg clapped John on the arm and smiled sympathetically.
"Ah, the delightful Sergeant Donovan... Is Anderson about?" Sherlock said smugly. "No, I doubt he is... I think his wife's back in town, is she not?"
"Shut up, Freak." She sneered at him before turning to Lestrade. "Boss, we're all ready to go, I'll head back to the station if you want."
"Go for it. I'll catch up, gonna make a phone call before heading back."
Sherlock pushed past everyone else and walked into the house, he peered around a few doors before he walked into the room that they'd found the beaten Samuel Penber in.
There was no apparent sign of a struggle but the blood smears shined out at Sherlock. He stared at wonder at the wonderful patterns they made as if he could tell their stories. He liked that about a crime scene. He could follow the bread crumbs to the gingerbread house until he came to the end of their adventure.
These patterns showed the usual tale. A story of punches and weapons repeatedly struck upon the delicate human skin. There had been four men involved in the beating itself but one solitary man stood by and watched for roughly ten minutes. That was clear by the footstep indents on the carpet. Judging by the back door this had been a well organised job with the soul purpose of sending out one thing. A threat.
The memory stick still heavy inside his pocket, he turned about the room as everybody else had disappeared. Everybody except John. Good. There would be a great lack of idiocy in the room. As he squatted down to look at the edge of the wooden coffee table, the distinctive sound of one of Mycroft's car pulling up filled the room.