This is a long'un. Reviews, as always, very much appreciated.
Warnings: Graphic injury. Also, if anyone ever feels the rating should go up, then let me know. I think it's certainly going to teeter on the edge; if not in this chapter, in later ones.
For now, enjoy (:
Sherlock's phone is buzzing. It continues buzzing, so much so that it shimmies across the table, tracing a circular path over the wood. Its owner is ignoring it. He's lying on the sofa, bare feet crossed, eyes shut. He might have been asleep, except for the set of his lips; twisted into a frown. They contradict the rest of his face, which is as smooth and expressionless as a sheet of glass, but his lips twitch occasionally, the frown rearranging itself to adjust to its owner's level of frustration.
Aforementioned owner of the odd expression and phone ignores the buzzing for a good minute. Asked later, he would claim he was in something akin to a boredom induced coma, but that was not the case – and to be fair, the questioner would accept the answer, knowing it not to be, and indulge in a secret smile.
No, the reason that Sherlock did not leap off the couch in unbridled joy was because he was certain precisely who was calling him, and he was in no mood to listen to obnoxious retellings of election rigging. Or something.
However, the phone keeps buzzing with unwonted persistency, until sheer annoyance at the sound rouses the detective from his stupor, and he sits up with a huff. It must have been a particularly significant ruining of another nation's democracy, for Mycroft to be so bent on getting his attention.
Still, Sherlock takes his time reaching for his phone, languidly stretching his arm towards it, and snatching it up with little enthusiasm. He brings the screen up level with his eyes, and the name that's flashing at him causes his heart to leap in his chest. His boredom turns to intrigue in a second, morphing into excitement in the next.
He doesn't even have time to be irritated that he was wrong.
"Sherlock Holmes?"
He keeps his voice calm and vaguely uninterested as he answers, although he swings his legs off the couch simultaneously, preparing to leave. He'll take anything Lestrade will give him. Anything.
The longer the Detective Inspector speaks, the bigger Sherlock's smile becomes, fledging into a full on grin by the time he hangs up. He fires off a quick text to John, something easier said than done when one is trying to pull socks on in a rather ungainly fashion, informing him of where he'd gone. Then, Sherlock leaves without a backward glance, coat slung over one arm.
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"Right," Lestrade says, leading Sherlock into the morgue and grimacing a little. "This isn't pretty."
Sherlock's eyes dart towards Lestrade's face, intrigued by the tone of voice. The man has a slightly pasty complexion, grimace and balled hands – yet he was an experienced Detective Inspector. The murder must have been particularly gruesome for him to be so affected. Sherlock, of course, will have none of the same reactions, but being forewarned of a particularly messy murder is always good. The last time Lestrade had looked like that, it had involved disembowelment and decapitation. That case had been fascinating. It's too much to hope that this one will be anywhere near the same level, but the initial signs are promising.
He's led across the room, over to one of the usual body bags: black and zipped over the victim so that they are not on display. Judging by the shape visible through the material Sherlock is immediately able to determine that the victim is very young – statistically, it's more likely to be a child than someone who has dwarfism. He doesn't entirely discount the latter at this point as both are possibilities with proportions so hard to judge through the bag. However, he had previously observed that people tended to be more affected by the death of children, so judging by the pallor of the Detective Inspector, Sherlock was inclined to believe the victim was a child.
'Not pretty' – it was that turn of phrase that particularly interested him, especially if this was a child. With child murders, people were generally inclined to use words like 'horrific' 'unthinkable' and 'evil' – and he supposed with good reason. He wasn't a fan of the killing of children. Murders – God, yes – murders of children, he was less comfortable with. Perhaps it was one of the remaining notions society had managed to root in him, but he thought it was more than that. Children, he was of the opinion, were the only people in society that really were of much worth. Unlike adults, they had their own minds, they had the desire to learn, they were inquisitive: in short, they were not bound by society's rules. As they grew, such guidelines became more important, they became the same as everyone else: mindless apes, hiding themselves behind the façade of 'civilisation', too afraid to step outside the stereotypes, or do anything meaningful.
On the plus side, they then became ideal murder victims.
Anyway – 'not pretty' indicated a particularly messy or careless murder, not just one that was horrific in intention.
Sherlock makes his way over to the table and contemplates the bag. He pushes all qualms regarding the death of the young away. This child was already dead; his fretting would not help in the slightest. He feels his carefully constructed walls crush his remaining vestiges of what John might call 'human feeling' into the very back of his mind, and smiles. With the prospect of stretching his brain now untarnished by concern, the only feelings he's left with are anticipation and excitement. Brilliant.
Nonetheless, he makes sure to unzip the bag with a fraction more caution than he might usually employ, especially when he's been deprived of work for so extended a period. Simply a necessary measure to pacify Lestrade's conscience, nothing more.
With the girl exposed, Sherlock deems the DI's analysis of 'not pretty' an understatement. So much so, that the statement verges on the cusp of being a downright lie.
Sherlock Holmes is never affected by a murder, but as the little girl's body is revealed to him, he feels a jolt of revulsion that sends him reeling: his mind unable to comprehend the pure evil that culminated in such a killing. He feels sick, almost, desperately reaching for the barriers in his mind, which this one dead child seemed to have broken through.
He sniffs, swallows, and manages to restore his usual distance in dealing with such situations.
Cool logic back in place; he can remember that it's just a body, and he bends over it eagerly. She's very badly burnt – limbs and organs blurred together on the table in a black mulch – all except for her face, which is left almost intact; the skin only faintly charred around the chin. Miraculously, she seems to have retained most of her hair too: it's almost black, little curly wisps falling into her eyes. The eyes themselves are shut – no doubt done by whoever found her out of respect – but Sherlock peels back one eyelid to take a look (they're incredibly pale grey) before returning them to their original position. His preliminary examination complete, he turns to Lestrade, needing more data before he can draw more concrete conclusions.
"Okay," he says, unable to stop a smile tugging at the corners of his lips at the prospect of some proper thinking at last. He notices the slight look of disgust on Lestrade's face at this enthusiasm, but ignores it. "What do we know? I'd say she was about 9."
"Yeah, she is," Lestrade confirms, nodding. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the use of the present tense, but keeps them otherwise trained on the man in front of him. The inspector seems unable to help himself glancing over at the table and the sight clearly distresses him, because he looks away swiftly and swallows hard. "I don't know if you saw on the news: she's from that school that's having all the trouble with the drugs. Like they need more attention, poor bastards."
Sherlock inwardly curses the murderer, already anticipating the ill-concealed gloating he would have to endure from his flatmate later. He doesn't answer Lestrade, merely cataloguing the information for future reference.
"Only child of parents Pauline and Terry Mitchell – called Laura."
Sherlock nods absently, frowning.
"The odd thing about the whole picture, Sherlock, is that her killer is in jail."
"What?"
"He's in jail. Was convicted eight months ago of multiple murder offences and drug trafficking; been there ever since."
Sherlock's frown deepens; he raises one hand to run through his hair, and looks at Lestrade.
"That's not right."
"It's what all the evidence; all the forensic tests point to." Lestrade clears his throat, and shakes his head in disbelief. "I mean, the team's got a few more tests to run, but they're not going to find anything new."
Sherlock's eyes narrow, surveying the Detective Inspector. While he's often complained loudly about the incompetence of the police force, it seemed unlikely to him that they'd get something so wrong, especially when they had drawn a conclusion that no one would have been looking for. He gives a little tut of irritation: his brain formulating and instantly discarding several ideas. Lestrade looks stumped, and Sherlock understands why he'd been called in. When the police were out of their depth…
"Obviously a set up." Sherlock tells him dismissively, looking down at his gloved hands in disdain, and flicking a speck of dust off one. He had rather hoped that a statement of the obvious out loud would bring a flood of new ideas, but when it doesn't he contents himself with heaving a sigh of despair at these people's observational skills. When he looks up, he notices the other man is wearing an expression of annoyance. Well they had realised. Why not say so initially? Why not just tell him that it had been engineered to look as if Jenkins was the murderer, not pretend they thought it was? He had asked for data.
"Yes, I know that," the DI tells him, heaving a sigh of his own. "But I've got nothing to go on. No CCTV, no forensic evidence – nothing except the fact that Dennis Jenkins has not left his cell for eight months."
"Where did the murder take place?" Sherlock asks, giving the body one last glance, and re-zipping the bag with a flourish. He feels his eagerness bubbling up inside of him, resulting in another smile that flickers across his pale eyes.
"Well, in a park quite near to the school," Lestrade tells him, sending a reproving frown at the smile.
"Show me."
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The park is relatively large: a stretching expanse of green with a small lake towards the edge. It's surrounded by wrought iron railings, and currently swathes of police tape also. There are paths all the way around the edges, so it strikes Sherlock initially as an ill-advised murder spot: surely passers-by could see everything? Also, even from the centre of the park, Sherlock can see at least five CCTV cameras mounted on buildings and pointed at the surrounding streets: he'd be prepared to wager there were more.
However, after the first glance, he notices there are several clumps of trees. There's a particularly large scattering of them bordering the lake. He makes two circuits of the park from the surrounding pavements, and discovers that there is in fact a small section of the wooded area that should be completely invisible to pedestrians. It wouldn't hurt that people never bothered to properly observe their surroundings either.
Lestrade, who had been observing his actions with a slightly wistful smile, confirms that Sherlock's identified area was indeed the spot for the murder, and Sherlock lets a grin spread across his face.
"Good. There's probably a blind spot in the CCTV surveillance here: some corridor where you can cross the street into the park without detection. You need to look for anyone acting suspiciously in the surrounding area that suddenly disappears from the CCTV footage. It'll be time consuming, but I need the suspects narrowed down."
Sherlock spins around, his eyes darting around the park. It occurs to him that blind spots in CCTV coverage was something that Mycroft would probably know, but he is unwilling to endure his brother's gloating for so simple a request, and dismisses the idea of asking him. It's hardly a large area, and it shouldn't be too time consuming to discover the corridor himself. His eyes scan the walls of the surrounding buildings: calculating the range of each camera. They seem to all overlap at present. However, if the killer was willing to wait for them to turn, creating a gap in their coverage…it would be impractical. So, the killer must know when the cameras turned to create blind spots; he must have some source of information.
Sherlock becomes aware that Lestrade is looking at him, and he pauses briefly in his thoughts to explain them to the man.
"The killer is clearly experienced. He has a source of information that tells him when the cameras turn away, creating a corridor with no surveillance. I think the only possible place that could happen is along that street there: only about twenty metres, but it would enable him to get into the park. There's no surveillance on the park itself, it seems too open to merit it, but that's where the planners were wrong, and our killer noticed that. I imagine the killer told Laura to meet him here – it's not unreasonable, for a child to ask their parents if they can go to the park." Sherlock shakes his head, and shares a glance with the DI. "Also, the effort made to plant the false evidence means this person is incredibly dangerous, because they're invisible. This is not a first time murder – see if any of the people you find acting oddly on the footage match previous suspects.."
Lestrade nods numbly. It's unlike him to be quite so submissive, and Sherlock guesses he's just determined to catch this murderer, after such a disturbing killing.
Although the prospect of catching the perpetrator of this crime looked far off at the moment, Sherlock feels positive. He's managed to deduce a reasonable amount of information about the killer. What nags at his mind however, is the meticulously preserved face of the little girl, and the link to the drug-plagued school. They don't quite fit in: if the killer was so determined to erase all evidence of his presence, then why leave his victim recognisable? Why not just burn her beyond recognition, scatter her ashes, and leave the police to list her as another missing person that they never found, another assumed – but impossible to prove – murder? Also, Sherlock was interested to know if that particular girl had been involved in the drugs scandal.
"I want to speak to her parents," Sherlock announces, his eyes not on Lestrade, scanning instead the busy street beyond the grass, even this moment his eyes searching for anyone who looked slightly out of place amongst the shoppers and commuters.
He spots one man almost immediately. He's stopped in the middle of the crowded pavement, and is squinting towards the park. Sherlock's heart pounds in his chest, marvelling at his own luck. The man seems to make a decision and crosses the road, heading towards the grass. Sherlock frowns. That wasn't right. It's only when the man reaches the pavement adjacent with the park, that Sherlock recognises him. Of course. Obvious.
John Watson lets himself into the park; awkwardly clambering under the police tape, and making a beeline for Sherlock and Lestrade. When he arrives, flashing small smiles of greeting at himself and Lestrade, Sherlock doesn't bother asking him how he knew where to find them. Instead, he watches him catch his breath, noticing the familiar smile that doesn't fade as John exhales and looks around.
Clearly, he went to the morgue, and Molly told him. He thought he'd spotted her hovering in the background.
"Good," he says instead, steering John back towards the iron railings entwined with tape. He notices the doctor give a grumble at his actions, but is satisfied that he allows himself to be pushed to the edge of the park. "We've got some questioning to do."
As they reach the railings, it's Lestrade that calls after them, his voice cautionary.
"Remember they've just lost a daughter, Sherlock," he tells him severely, his frown discernable just from the tone of his voice. Sherlock rolls his eyes, following John out of the park.
"I can assure you that my conduct will be appropriate," he tells the Detective Inspector with a wry smile. "Have all the details of this sent to Baker Street," he adds with a wave; before plunging into the crowded London street after John, until Lestrade's indignant protests become inaudible.