This has been a comparatively long gap, so apologies.
Warnings for drug references & one use of strong language. I totally lied about the rating. It might go up at some point, but I shall stop trying to guess when, because I fail at it. Enjoy (:
Also, I love reviews. Just saying :P
Sherlock Holmes is agitated. He's sitting at the kitchen table of 221B, hair sticking up in all directions: a mass of jet, ruffled from prolonged abuse by the man's frustrated fingers, combed through it viciously as he contemplates the table in front of him.
The table itself is unrecognisable. Microscope, bottles, petri dishes, jar of hair samples, and the margarine tub – every single article has been stacked haphazardly on the counter to make room for the swathes of photographs the detective has sprawled across the wood. There's not a spare square inch on any kitchen surface, but immersed in his work, Sherlock has not spared a thought for the difficulty that might emerge as soon as anyone wants to use the kitchen for its intended purpose. His mind is fixed solely on his task.
His hands twitch as his eyes bore into the photo directly in front of him, threatening to return to his hair. He's spent hours – days – at the morgue, hours enduring snivelling parents, hours listening to Lestrade recount tales of those he's arrested: and still nothing. It's beginning to frighten him. He's Sherlock Holmes. He was the man whose mind worked incessantly, picked up on every detail and drew conclusions easily with the smallest amount of data. He can squeeze that data from the most hopeless of circumstances; he's used to having all the answers.
Yet all he's got is a few suspects caught by Lestrade that they both know full well have little, if anything, to do with the murders. The lack of decent evidence is terrifying.
John's voice, as it has become accustomed to doing, resonates throughout his mind.
Who else would do this?
Who else indeed? Sherlock frowns. He turns his attention to the picture in his hand again. He has to observe; really observe. There was no such thing as nothing to go on, it was impossible. This murderer had got close, definitely, but he couldn't erase his presence completely.
Something clicks, and Sherlock scrambles frantically through his mind to identify it.
He. He!
Oh. Of course.
The art of disguise was knowing how to hide in plain sight.
Sherlock slams both hands down on the table, and for the first time in days allows himself a triumphant grin. The picture he's holding is a grainy CCTV still of Laura Mitchell's last recorded moments. She's on one of the streets on the outskirts of the park, and next to her – next to her – is a woman.
He'd never noticed her before. She's standing close to Laura: close enough to indicate that they were together. When you looked at the photo, the brain immediately assumed her to be an older relative or carer: a mother, perhaps an aunt or a godparent. The scenario was so commonplace that the brain assumed her to be unimportant, thus disregarding her unconsciously, but she wasn't.
In that moment of realisation, Sherlock is hit once again by the sheer perfection of this whole operation. Had Laura and the woman been holding hands he would have noticed; it was a sign of protection, of care – and had that been present the mistake would have been obvious – because Laura went alone. Her parents were the only people who knew where she went. So a woman acting like close family would have stuck out. But she wasn't. She was just walking beside her. Beautiful.
His hands scrabble frantically for the rest of the stills. Like Laura, each child is accompanied by a woman. Two women, one or other of them in every single angle of the footage with the children. That was clever. That was gorgeous.
No one ever looked at the women. Not with child murders.
Sherlock rings Lestrade immediately, rushing downstairs and flinging himself into a cab as he clutches the ringing phone to his ear with his shoulder. In his hands reside a handful of CCTV photos, the ones with the women in them.
"Scotland Yard please," he tells the cabbie, turning his attention to his phone as the Detective Inspector picks up. He stacks the photos on the seat beside him momentarily so he can hold his mobile in his hand. "Lestrade. I think I've found our murderer."
The voice that answers him is not as jubilant as he might have hoped.
"Great." There's a pause. "Sherlock, can you get to the surgery?"
Sherlock feels his heart-rate increase dramatically, and it's with dread rather than anticipation.
"John's surgery?" he asks urgently, knowing without confirmation simply from Lestrade's tone. "Why?"
He can hear his voice rising, and tries to contain it. The panic setting in is irrational and alien.
"Tell me why," he persists. "Is he…?"
"Yeah, John's fine," the other man reassures him, but his tone stays grim nonetheless. "There's been another murder. Will you come?"
Sherlock agrees, stuffing the photos into an inside pocket and letting out a long slow breath of relief. He redirects the cabbie to the surgery, his mind working furiously. This was different. The location in itself suggested a pivotal change in what they were dealing with. Several ideas emerge immediately, ricocheting around the detective's mind, each with pros and cons, and differing probabilities of being correct.
Not only that, but as he watches sleepy commuters rushing past the window of his cab, Sherlock begins to agree with John. This was getting far too personal to be a coincidence.
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When he bursts into the waiting room, the thing that strikes him first is his flatmate. John is sitting in one of the plastic chairs there, his hands curled together on his lap so tightly that Sherlock can see white blossoming on his knuckles. The colour matches his face: pale and sick-looking. His teeth are clenched; although when he spots Sherlock he does get up and attempt a smile. Sherlock judges the situation regarding the murder immediately from the man's face, but decides that at that moment, John is the priority. An extra minute wouldn't change anything.
"Are you alright?" he asks, making his way over, and looking down at the doctor, concerned.
"Yeah, fine," comes the expected answer. John licks his lips nervously, looks up, and manages another watery smile. "Just…its worse when you're not expecting it."
"I can imagine."
They stand and look at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, real smiles emerging on both faces. Sherlock notices that his flatmate is regaining his colour, and his hand is also reassuringly still. A little unsure of how to react, the detective tries a comforting hand on John's shoulder; but is saved moments later by Lestrade.
"Sherlock?" The DI's voice is a little more gentle than usual as he comes up behind the two men. He looks at John. "How're you doing, John?"
"Yeah, good."
Sherlock nods and moves away from his flatmate to survey Lestrade. He looks sombre; but not as shaken as John.
"I assume the latest victim was left here," Sherlock asks; more as a statement than a question. Lestrade nods, and digs his hands into his coat pockets. They glance at each other. Sherlock sighs. "This is getting personal."
He hears a slight hitch in John's breathing at his words, and his lips curve upwards in amusement. He's well aware of what the doctor wants to say, but he'll get to that later.
"It's also getting worse," Lestrade tells him, frowning. "This kid's from another school."
Sherlock closes his eyes.
"No." He says. "This is my fault."
John laughs drily behind him.
"Not the time to reassess your philosophies."
Sherlock scoffs, and spins to face him again.
"Don't you see?" he asks desperately, staring around at all the blank faces. "The branching out to other schools - you, John – this is too personal. The dealers have recognised me! And now he knows."
"He?"
John's voice is weary. It sounds resigned, and Sherlock resents that fact. He clears his throat, and fixes the doctor with a defiant stare.
"Yes. Moriarty."
"What?" The doctor's face switches instantly from tired to incredulous. "You actually think I was right?"
"Mmm."
"So he's the murderer?" Lestrade interjects, looking at Sherlock. His face is more positive than anyone's seen it looking for weeks. "Great."
"No."
"What?" the DI asks, his intrigue turning to irritation. "Who then? Can you stop playing games with me, and just say, Sherlock."
There's a moment of silence. John and Lestrade both watch Sherlock intently. John's face is interested, Lestrade's more annoyed: arms folded across his chest as he watches the detective. The only noise present is the other policemen moving around the clinic. There's several florescent jacket-adorned men carrying rolls of the blue and white police tape, whilst a couple of the forensics team – thankfully sans Anderson – file through the waiting room to the whereabouts of the body. Sherlock watches them, eyes narrowed.
Eyes still fixed on the offending members of the police force; Sherlock draws the CCTV stills from his pocket. He hands them absentmindedly to Lestrade, who bends over them. John mirrors the action. With the two apparently engrossed, Sherlock makes to the follow the forensics team, but is stopped by a strong hand on his forearm.
"We've looked at these hundreds of times," Lestrade tells him, pulling Sherlock back to where he and John stood.
"Look at the women with the children," Sherlock instructs, pointing. "The same two: one or other always with the victims. Our killers."
John shakes his head and grimaces.
"Well that just gives us one more thing to find," he states, his eyes meeting Sherlock's. "And if they have recognised you, I'll bet these murders get worse."
"Correct," Sherlock informs him cheerfully, darting away before Lestrade could prevent him again.
As he had deduced (so therefore had not needed directing), the victim lay on the floor of John's office. The boy was only a few feet inside the door: placed so that the body would be undisturbed by the opening of it, but only just. Sherlock skirts around the edge of the body – and really, the use of that term was a stretch with these victims – and crouches beside it; ignoring the sighs of Lestrade's team, who had been skulking in the corner, apparently 'about' to do something.
There's one positive aspect Sherlock can see, observing the abandoned child on the floor of the room. The killer was getting cruder, more clumsy. He had noticed on his way in that the CCTV around the surgery had been taken out: the omnipresent eyes of the cameras smashed; glass littering the pavement. It wasn't much, but the prospect of mistakes was getting increasingly likely, if the murders continued in this volume.
Sherlock's just unfolding to his full height when Lestrade and John appear in the doorway. He nods to them, and turns away, contemplating the rest of the room.
The majority of the room is painfully neat: a mixture of John's military precision, and the need for order in a doctor's surgery. Sherlock makes his way to the window. It's easily big enough to admit a relatively small man…or a more average sized woman, and judging by the small indent on the desk, Sherlock's inclined to believe the latter. Too bad for the murderer that John's desk was made of wood. Heel marks.
Sherlock darts around the desk, squinting at the window frame for fingerprints. He can't see any, but waves Lestrade over anyway.
"I'd check the window for fingerprints," he tells the DI, pointing. "There's a strong possibility she wore gloves, but it wouldn't hurt to check. As yet, this is the only occasion a body's been left inside, which leaves us with more hope of an error."
"Right," he agrees, nodding. "She? Though this looks the same as the rest, I'll give you."
Sherlock points to the dent in the desk.
"Okay."Lestrade nods again, his eyes drawn inexplicably to the little boy on the floor. Sherlock follows his gaze, and sighs."I suppose if we do get fingerprints, we've actually got one of the killers. That'd be a start."
Sherlock doesn't reply. He watches numbly as the men adorned in those ridiculous blue suits bend over the victim. He's inclined to believe they're wasting their time, but for once holds his tongue. He turns his attention instead to John; whose eyes are fixed on the little body by his doorway; where he stands still.
Sherlock doesn't detect particularly high levels of anguish, and turns away again, his eyes roving once again around the room.
Almost randomly, he opens the desk draw closest to him.
"Holy shit," Lestrade breathes beside him. Sherlock stares.
In the draw, perfectly removed from its owner, is a heart. There's silence for a moment, as the two men take it in.
It's perfect: it looks precisely like a lab specimen, a donor. It's human, Sherlock notes instantly, though he's inclined to believe its origins to be more sinister than just a theft from a laboratory. It wouldn't take long to test for DNA…to prove the owner was the boy on the floor.
Sherlock looks away long enough to turn to John again, and motion for him to come over. He too peers into the draw, before looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes and grimace.
"How long, would you say?"
John examines it more closely.
"A few hours. No more than six. Probably."
"Do you see what this means?" Sherlock asks quietly.
"This is about the 'I will burn the heart out of you', isn't it?"
"Yes," Sherlock acknowledges, his brows furrowing. "What else? How?"
"I don't know," John tells him, his voice hushed to mirror Sherlock's. Lestrade would have trouble making out what they were saying anyway; but Sherlock's still glad he's pretending to examine the heel mark more closely, having taken the hint of the lowered voices.
"You."
John blinks.
"What?"
"Use your imagination, John." Sherlock clears his throat uncomfortably. "Moriarty's used you against me in the past."
The intensity of the subsequent eye contact is a bit much for both of them. Sherlock turns away rather hastily and joins Lestrade at the dent in the desk, leaving John to rub the back of his neck, and attempt to keep the smile from creeping onto his face.
As he gets to work explaining to Lestrade the approximate weight and foot size of the woman that had climbed through the window, Sherlock feels a corner of his own mouth twitch upwards too.
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It's beginning to get dark, the orange of the street-lights outside the kitchen window of 221B draining the colour from the room. The detective is settled in his seat at the kitchen table as usual, poring over the evidence, his mind working furiously.
Well, trying.
Since the latest murder, at the surgery, his mind has been distinctly unfocussed: wandering down dangerous paths that Sherlock would rather avoid. He takes great effort in hoisting it back every time, but it strays away again every time his concentration slips, even for a second.
It's not helping, he reflects, rather resigned to the fact of said wandering, that John isn't here. Ever since that morning, his mind keeps presenting him with images of John in those children's places – John lying on the floor of the flat, far too still. The fact that he's not there puts Sherlock on edge; because he can't be sure that he's alright.
His own distraction over John confirms to Sherlock more than ever the futile nature of 'caring'. What was the point of being so concerned about a person that you prevented yourself from helping them? Why on earth had humanity evolved like that? It was ridiculous.
Evolution, as he understood it, was meant to make a species function more effectively. This development did nothing of the sort.
Sherlock slams his palms onto the table in frustration, causing several sheets of paper to jump from its surface and litter the floor. His head aches, he can't concentrate, and he's got nothing. At least, not until he can really, really just think. He needs to relax, revert back to the sensible analytical machine that his mind used to be. His hands move to his head and grip his own hair so hard it hurts.
Not for the first time; Sherlock's mind drifts away from the wooden seat beneath him, and the laptop and photos in front of him…wandering instead to the counter. It wanders to the crumbs left by John this morning as he made toast, then slightly to the left. It wanders to the margarine tub, stacked beneath the jar with the hair samples.
It wanders to the little packets within, and the feel of the powder, jostling in the palm of his hand.
Sherlock presses his lips together and frowns. Whatever he might tell Mycroft, or Lestrade, or even John…the draw of heroin has been ever present since he got clean. On the odd occasions that the subject has come up between him and his flatmate, he's made his habits sound like ancient history. Lestrade and Mycroft are a little wiser regarding the matter, but he suspects it's only his brother that even has an idea about the pull that he has to reject every day. It's been persistent, but not overpowering, more a background hum than a powerful urge, but it's there. Always. And now things have fallen silent, Sherlock can't push the hum away: the harder he tries to ignore it, the louder it seems. Even when he tries to drown it with noisy thoughts about the case, he can still detect it. It's still there. When his mind lingers on the dead children, or worse, his imaginings about John, the hum intensifies, becomes more painful.
He needs to just think. He needs to clear his head.
It was essential.
Once couldn't hurt.