It's been awhile. Apologises! Both Rayne and I have been swamped with coursework and examinations are coming up. Luckily it is the holidays.
Also we are pleased to announce we have just hit the 200 subscribers mark! Hello to all you new people and hello to our old. Thank you all so much. Motivation for this probably wouldn't be possible without.
We hope you enjoy the upcoming chapter and we hope we'll be able to provide you with the dreaded 23 later (I only say dreaded because of the 23 curse. ;D). So yeah, sit back and read. We hope you enjoy (on another note - I REALLY like writing sadistic poems now).
Sherlock was the first to open his eyes. John noticed as he heard the detective run forward and yell at him to ring Lestrade. As John pried his eyes open he saw the resemblance of a man, barely supporting himself up, taped up with duct tape. He was roughly six foot five with, by the looks of it, sixteen stone behind him. He was obviously the older man Sherlock had spoken about. His skin was bruised and bleeding.
His medical mind kicked in and he rushed over to the man. Who still seemed to be humming an eerie nursery rhyme. It was like he didn't have a choice. Carefully John removed the tape from the man's mouth whilst Sherlock scanned the area looking for signs of anything. Something out of place which he could put together. There was nothing. It just looks too perfect. The tape didn't come off easy and John was trying to reassure the man. Despite the agony portrayed in his eyes. By the time the tape was off there was a loud gasp for air and some constant rambling. Sherlock stopped surveying the area and encountered the man. "Explain!"
"She-"
"No, John. Explain. Now!" His voice seemed anxious.
"Boss. Angry. Didn't like our little slip up. Coming for us. All of us." The voice was harsh and weak. Like it was slowly fading.
"Who do you work for?" The man's head dropped, like he was beginning to pass out. "Who do you work for?"
Sherlock's voice was louder the second time and John didn't want to argue with him. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't listen and from his spot he could try and analyse the medical situation. So far it didn't look positive. The area around the eyes and mouth indicated a slow form of poisoning taking place. Backed up by the yellowing of the skin. With no access to an antidote or to even the actual poison the man was, in all sense, doomed. "Note," the man spluttered. "He left a not-"
He voice faded and he went limp in John's arms. As he was slowly lowered to the floor John tried to find a pulse.
It was too late.
"John," Sherlock snapped, "He's gone. Give up."
John, still on his knees, looked up at Sherlock. Agony and rage filled his eyes. Suddenly, Sherlock noticed, John looked like an old man. Something had changed.
"I know, Sherlock." John sighed. "I just hoped there was something I could do."
"What did he say? Something about..."
"The note?"
"The note... Where was it?"
"He pointed that way," John gestured. Sherlock slunk off to find the note, leaving John with the dead man's body. John ran his fingers over the man's eyebrows. Gently, John shut the dead man's eyes. His hands took in the man's face. A sudden sadness over took John. Death wasn't nice, it wasn't friendly, and it wasn't kind. Death tore people apart, it was harsh and nasty. Death made John sick.
"John?" Sherlock called from the other corner of the room, "I've found something."
"Oh?" John mumbled back, laying the man down on the cold floor once more. "What is it?"
"It's plain white paper, common, black ink from a biro, page is covered with a nice script, it's cursive; clean, all of it." Sherlock mumbled. "I can't trace any of it."
"Just read it," John muttered, "Tell me what this mad man wants."
"Uh, I think you should read it. I'm not very good with poetry."
"It's a poem? God's sake, Sherlock, give it here."
Sherlock handed the paper to John who read the poem;
Round and round the garden,
Can you hear the countdown?
It's ticking away,
Till the end of the day,
Till I've killed all my men.
Sherlock, Sherlock, you cannot run,
I'm just starting my bit of fun,
Months will pass but soon you'll see,
You and John cannot escape me.
"What the fuck does that mean?" John shouted, "We can't escape him? We don't bloody have to! We'll beat him!" John's voice echoed in the room. His rage ended and he collapsed against the wall, limp and almost lifeless. "We'll beat him Sherlock."
"I know we will, John. Until then, it's just a fun game to play."
"You're almost as bad as this nutter." John laughed weakly.
Sherlock frowned at John before he took out his phone and dialled in a number. From where John stood he could hear the disapproving moan of Lestrade. This would probably cause him a great deal of paper work. Especially with the two gang members missing.
When Sherlock hung up he turned around and began to inspect the body. The clothing was searched and the tape examined. "Definitely our eldest man. He's six foot five and a half. Only a half. Always something. Clothing suggests body weight of sixteen stone. The wrists have two different types of blood stain. One is slightly browning. Old. The other is new. That's more than likely his own by the marks upon his wrist. The old has to be testing but I can bet you it is Penber's or maybe even Jo's." Sherlock leaped over the body and started to investigate the left hand. "The man from earlier was five foot seven. Our younger man. Late twenties, earl thirties. That's too gone. He's collected some skin under his fingernails. Unlikely but it might help." Standing up he rushed back over towards the light switch and pulled out his magnifying glass. "Smudge on the light switch. Finger print. Remember to get Lestrade on it."
John nodded, in taking all the information. A soft chuckle escaped his lips before he even had time to stop it. Sherlock had spun round and was shooting him a questioning look. "Fantastic?" John choked down his laughter remembering the situation. "Just, it's just like the old days. I shouldn't really laugh."
"You shouldn't," Sherlock nodded, "But you're only human."
"Oi!" John gasped, "you're human too."
"I know, John." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "It's not like I'd forget."
"You wanted to forget some other important stuff."
"Like what?"
"The Earth goes around the Sun..."
"But that's not important!"
"I beg to differ." John smiled smugly. His eyes shone as Sherlock glowered at him.
"Where the hell are you?" A voice echoed through the doorway.
"Greg?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock nodded in reply.
"Here." John called out. "You'll find us."
Greg peered around the door; he looked at Sherlock and John questioning them without a word. John and Sherlock stood next to each other, there was something behind them.
"Body?"
"Dead man. Poisoned. Gang member. Eldest." John said sharply, Lestrade nodded. "Two sets of blood stains. We'll need to have a look at 'um."
"We?"
"He." John said, nodding at Sherlock.
"Well, I'd expect that." Greg said grimly.
"Guess I'm just use to referring to us as one." John sighed a while later after Sherlock had disappeared to a corner of the room.
"John, be careful." Greg replied disappointingly.
"Well with this new killer I guess I sort of have to be." John smiled. "Send the stuff over to Molly, yeah?"
"You know that's not what I meant."
"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled from nearer the door.
"I have to go," John pointed towards the door, breaking the seemingly awkward conversation. "I'll see you, Greg. We should get a pint soon."
"Yeah, see you soon, John." Lestrade watched as the duo walked away before retrieving his mobile out and quickly sending a brief text.
Doesn't look good. On both cases. - GL
"So where are we going exactly now?" John enquired as Sherlock walked at his usual rushed pace.
"Home. Nothing more we can do tonight. I need to analyse this note." Sherlock waved the white paper in his hand around. Just enough so it could catch John's eye before he pocketed it again.
"Does Greg know you have that?"
"What G- Lestrade doesn't know is probably for the best." John rolled his eyes. There was no reasoning with the man.
Sherlock sat in silence in the back of the taxi that John had found himself being bundled into. Sherlock was thinking, so John knew he should be quiet. He watched the people around them, outside the taxi, go about their daily lives. The taxi stopped at a red light and John found himself looking at a little blonde boy, about 5 or 6, who was holding a red balloon. He was the picture of innocence; one hand grasped tightly in his mother's hand and the other keeping his red balloon by his side. The boy's eyes locked on to John's gaze, he looked questioningly at the man in the taxi before grinning. John smiled back at the little boy. Sometimes there were things to smile about, even in the middle of a murder case.
"John."
"Yes?"
"Call Molly. We need her."
"What for?"
"Body. Her. Me. You. Examine." Sherlock waved the words away and rested his chin on his pointed fingers again. John pulled out his phone and called Molly, this was going to be another awkward encounter. He hadn't forgiven her for not telling him about Sherlock yet, and she hadn't forgiven herself, so her usual panicked self had become almost a complete mess.
The phone rang a few times because John finally heard the usual sound of Molly's voice. "Hello?"
"Erm, hi, Molly, it's John."
There was a slight pause. "Oh hi, John. You just caught me; I was just about to leave for the night."
Her voice seemed higher than usual. Almost panicky. "Ah well Sherlock wants to know if he can come examine the body that Greg will be bringing you later."
"Oh erm," it sounded like she had crashed into something. "You'll have to come tomorrow morning then."
"Alright, we'll see you then I guess."
"Yeah, bye, John."
"Bye, Molly." The phone clicked and John sighed in relief. Not overly bad. He supposed. "Tomorrow morning."
"Hmmm?"
"To examine the body. Tomorrow morning." John rolled his eyes. The man never did bloody listen.
"Oh right."
"What are we eating tonight?" He didn't feel like sitting awkwardly in a silent taxi for once. Conversation was needed.
"We?" Sherlock replied tentatively.
"Yes, we. You're eating today. Case or no case. From my point of watch it's been nearly four days and then probably some." John said firmly. There was no way Sherlock was going to win this one. The man needed to eat if he wanted the energy to continue with his case. "You need energy for Christ's sake."
He heard Sherlock moan from where he was sitting. It hadn't been the first time he had heard this speech and it wouldn't be the last.
Sherlock bounced up the stairs; the thrill of a new case energised him and he found himself thinking rather a lot more than he should about the "madman", as John had called his latest "fan", and what their eventual meeting would be like. John, on the other hand, trailed up the stairs. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to eat and relax, preferably without Sherlock displaying his musical talent.
"I'll make dinner today, shall I?" John sighed, shutting the front door behind him. "And, Sherlock, you're going to eat like a normal person. Just for one night."
There was no response to John, not even the usual sigh. John walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Milk, orange juice, marmalade, jam, beef, pork chops, tomatoes, mushrooms, celery, lettuce... Pork chops it was. He pulled the chops out of the fridge. He was honestly surprised that Sherlock hadn't put any of his experiments in the fridge yet, there were no eyes or fingers in the fridge and surely that wouldn't last long.
Sherlock began playing his violin. A fast jig of some sort danced into the kitchen, John smiled as he listened. This was a happy Sherlock. It seemed that despite the threat of food the man was in a good mood, which put John in a good mood too.