Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, Lestrade, Dimmick
Summary: There's a new case, and the Tube causes Sherlock to remember things he thought long deleted. That's the trouble with computers. You can't permanently delete anything.
Author's Note: I'll make the necessary changes throughout the rest of the fic if there are any that need to be made. Henry is Sherlock's sister, a year older. There will be more about her later.
Anything you recognize I likely don't own it.
He pressed ice to the rapidly swelling bruise. Stared at his face in the mirror.
His nose was too long, he likely was related to elephants.
"Oh. Zeph." It was his sister, Henrietta - but he called her Henri. Just like she had another nickname for him, a derivative of his middle name. She tugged on his shirtsleeve.
"Let me see."
"It's nasty, the skin's broken. I'll likely have a black eye."
"Dagrun's gang again?"
He shrugged, stuffing the cotton balls in his nose.
"Sherlock, you know they're jealous of you, right?"
"Jealous?"
She sat against the tub, confident in her theory. She was closer in age to Sherlock than Mycroft, and the two had been quite inseparable - that one in the family accused them of being twins.
This year was awkward for them, they were in separate classes, even though the boarding school was co-ed.
Of course, strings had to be pulled for them to see each other, but as long as they did, that's what was important.
"Yes. You're far more intellegent than them - you don't obsess over rubbish telly, in fact I don't recall you ever -"
"Only Saturday nights. Only thing worth watching. Most of the time."
She laughed a little - trying to make him forget about his mangled features that - if they hurt now, they would likely hurt more tomorrow.
"Let me see, Sherlock." She turned him up to the light - there was a rather nasty gash on his forehead. "I think you're going to need stitches."
"Aw, no - not again... hey, couldn't you do it?"
"Watching a video and reading and actually doing it are completely different."
"But you know how to right?"
"Well, yes, you'll have to rub iodine on it first and then I'm going to have to get my sewing kit."
"I can be your experiment." He seemed excited about this proposition.
She turned at the doorway, rolling her eyes. "I doubt that, Sherlock Holmes."
She fetched the sewing kit and had to use the needle under the flame of her lighter - yes Henry was clever that way. "It disinfects it - don't want that getting infected." She nodded to the gash, liberally rubbed with iodine, but Sherlock was wincing.
"Alright, we don't have any anesthetic, so -"
"What about the brandy that I've got..."
"Sherlock! If you get caught -"
But he was already gone. "How much?"
"Less than a quarter cup. Now, this is still going to sting." She sat on the loo while Sherlock sat, facing her.
"Why don't you tell me about it?"
"About what?"
"The names they came up with, Sherlock. Sometimes it helps to talk instead of just bottling it up in your system, and no - don't tell me you just 'delete' it because I'm not fooled by it."
"They said I was an elephant."
"Excellent, you have a fantastic memory, and a rather beautiful nose."
That made him grin.
"What about them calling me Brainy and those other things."
"It's jealousy, but also - they want a rise out of you - clearly you're the superior one, because you think about want your reaction to feel like they're the one in control."
"You should be a psychiatrist."
"You know I want to be a doctor. Psychiatry just medicates, doesn't really treat the problem."
"See that's why you should though."
"All finished now, don't touch it, don't try and tear them open again. I think you should speak to Headmaster about this."
"He won't do anything - they'll all have a story about how I punched back."
"In self-defense obviously."
"Dagrun's just a bully, Sherlock. He's a scrawny little bully that doesn't like getting his hands dirty."
"Sherlock?" Lestrade was looking at him oddly.
"Oh yes, she was on her way to work - likely a pharmacy tech job, paperwork has combination name and corresponding number, and she keeps her fingernails short - signs of latex but no scrubs. Not from St. Bart's or the A & E then.
Also the lab coat in her purse, likely one of those big black ones with the straps for carrying the paper and whatever she reads on the Tube." He peers around the corridor - it's been reconstructed since ... 2007. Almost like new if he didn't know better.
"Sherlock." It's Dimmick this time, bloody Dimmick. Peering at him a little strangely, with alot more respect, Sherlock can't help thinking he should jump off buildings more often..
"What, Dimmick?" he snaps, annoyed.
"There was no purse."
"No purse, just like the case without the suitcase. Killer must have taken it or it's where she was killed in the first place."
"The body's been moved then?" Lestrade. He can be so dense sometimes.
"Little blood, not enough for the trauma she's taken to her head." A pitied look briefly crosses his face as he glances down the rest of the body. "He's clearly a sadist, probably tortured her till she couldn't scream anymore then bashed her head in. Dumped her on the tracks to be rid of the evidence." The words are said scientifically. "Your looking for a tall man, heavy set, likely security for the Tube, he would have known when the next train was coming through. Now, Lestrade. Are you going to give me something that's not a waste of my time?"
"Tha's it, you're not going to help us find him - use the Network, see if they saw anything, maybe find where she was killed originally."
He had thought of that, but he didn't want to use them.
"This doesn't particurlarly interest me," he stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode off, leaving the rest of the team quite bewildered.
Dimmick and Lestrade shrugged at each other. They would never understand why Sherlock could be so bloody temperamental.