Hello, there, again!
Only two reviews for the last chapter but I'm posting anyway...lol
I just want reviews to be divisble by 5 (or more) per chapter basically lol
And again, THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS!
I really do appriciate them, in fact, they are what my life revolves around right now lol.
There was a special exhibition room in the morgue reserved for displaying more than one body at a time on identical long metal tables for comparison purposes.
It was no different than the other sections of the morgue, just bigger.
Mostly, it was used for victims of disasters with multiple casualties and victims of serial murderers.
The latter is what Lestrade suspected he was looking at.
The three corpses, all male, all already autopsied, all killed on the same night (last night) and found within the same area, had much in common.
All three of the men had criminal records, petty crimes like theft and burglary had been unemployed, for long periods of time, and had had their throats slit from behind.
The first two details definitely indicated serial murder.
The fact that the victims were all of similar demographic implied that the killer had a certain 'type' that he was targeting.
And the facts that they had criminal files on public record and were all within the same five mile radius the night they were murdered, gave the killer opportunity to kill them.
What was missing was a motive.
Why had these three street thugs gotten their throats cut?
(Sherlock would know, of course, but Sherlock wasn't here.)
The door opened quietly and Molly practically tip-toed into the room, staring at her clipboard rather than at Lestrade or the three bodies.
Lestrade raised an eyebrow, confused as to why Molly was acting shyer (than usual).
"I was told to come in here…" Molly murmured, still not looking up, "They said someone wanted to discuss my findings for these victims. I didn't expect it to be you. I thought you and your family were going-"
"I got called back." Lestrade declared (which was partially true), then quickly changing the subject, "Did you find anything interesting, anything that could lead to a suspect?"
"…No." Molly shook her head, gulping, "There was…nothing. They were all clean."
"I see." Lestrade replied, "And what about the lacerations?"
He gestured to the red line across the mens' necks.
Molly forced herself to raise her head and glance, before quickly turning back to her clipboard.
"Severed the corroded artery, they bled out in a matter of minutes…" Molly said, wincing like she never usually did when looking at the dead, "…it was…quick."
"Well then the man certainly knew what he was doing." Lestrade commented, "…it all was the same person , you think, killing them? The same knife?"
"Yes." Molly nodded, still no eye-contact, "The same…"
"I don't get it, then…" Lestrade mused, more to himself, examining the bodies closely, "Serial killers kill for pleasure…they enjoy it. They like to see their victims suffer…"
Molly winced.
"…but killing these men so quickly…" Lestrade continued, stroking his brow as he tried to think, "They don't see it coming, they don't beg. They can't shout or cry out in pain… there isn't that much blood…"
Molly clutched her clipboard in both hands, tighter and tighter.
"I just don't get it…" Lestrade repeated, "These kills were efficient. Killer wanted them dead, that's it. He didn't enjoy the kill. So why, why would he even kill at all…?"
(It all confused Lestrade so much. He had always thought of himself as a reasonably intelligent man--until he had met Sherlock Holmes.
And then ever since he felt inadequate not being able to figure out in weeks what Sherlock could in minutes.
These complicated questions, so open-ended-seeming to Lestrade, would probably all have simple, definite answers to Sherlock.
He really needed his help…)
At this moment Molly sucked in an involuntary deep breath.
Lestrade turned to look at her.
"Is everything alright, Molly?" he asked.
"I'm fine." She answered quickly, looking up at him for a second and then looking back down.
It was almost like she was ashamed…
"….you sure?" Lestrade supplemented, cocking his head to one side, trying to catch Molly's eyes.
Molly tensed.
But she looked up and directly at him.
"I'm sure." She declared, with anger that surprised Lestrade.
"Alright, alright!" he exclaimed, hands raised in defense, "I was just asking!"
"I'm sorry!" Molly immediately apologized, and then added, "It's just…these things, they bother me. It bothers me when I can't find any evidence. I don't want the murderer to get away with it. I feel like it's my fault…"
"Don't feel that way, Molly, it's okay." Lestrade consoled, "The only one at fault is the one who killed these poor blokes. Besides, they're just common crooks themselves. No one will miss them, anyway. The Yard'll just file it away as a cold case and we'll move on to the next one."
Molly nodded weakly, as if she wanted to agree with him but couldn't.
"Do you think…" she spoke up, after a few moments, "Do you think that…Sherlock could, um, solve this…?"
She hesitated, as she always did, before saying Sherlock's name.
Lestrade pitied Molly for her crush on the consulting detective who treated her like crap (when he chose not to ignore her).
The poor girl just seemed to have terrible luck with men.
(Hell, her last boyfriend had been Jim Moriarty.)
"…Sherlock he…he hasn't left his flat since…" Lestrade explained, trying to find a way to mention the reason (the woman (whoever the hell she was)) without causing Molly any further woe, "…um, Christmas. And he's not answering his phone. We could really use his help but he's…not feeling well, I suppose…"
"…oh." was Molly's only reply.
Before Lestrade could speak his cellphone began to ring and so he pulled it out of his coat pocket.
It was Sally.
She was telling him about some drug dealer who had just turned himself in at Scotland Yard, demanding police protection and Sherlock Holmes, saying that he had gotten mugged by Moriarty.
Lestrade told Sally he'd be right there and hung up the phone.
He then turned to Molly, who had (thankfully) only heard half of his conversation (and he had been careful not to mention any names as to spare her feelings).
"Sorry," Lestrade said, "But I've gotta go. New case. Thanks for all your help."
He waved slightly and hurried out the door.
Molly said nothing and watched him go.
(She always did have good hearing.)
"Don't come back here. I run a clean club. I don't want any trouble with the law. You wanna sell that stuff, take it to the street." The nightclub manager said.
And so he did.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his vintage style jeans jacket the drug dealer trudged away down the sidewalk.
It was dark and it was cold and most of all it was undignified.
He had been the most popular (and yet still one of the fringe-y rebels) all through primary and secondary school because of his 'career'. Invited to the best parties, friends with everyone…
And now look what he was reduced to.
Pounding the pavement like some street thug.
Some said he would have gotten a real job by now (he was even one of them) but the free-time and freedom were too comfortable to give up and the money was still good and so the drug dealer had started selling out of the various nightclubs in downtown London (upscale ones, only, of course).
But it wasn't like before and the older he got, well, the older dealing got.
This was the last straw. The drug dealer decided. This is the last time and then I'm done. I'll just sell the rest of what I have and then I'll get a real job.
It had been a slow night.
Not many people had been attending the establishments the drug dealer frequented to distribute his product and not many people were on the street.
As he turned the corner, away from all the restaurants, bars and clubs, the drug dealer finally remembered why.
It was Christmas.
He was working on Christmas!
For god's sake, this would be the last time, it really would.
Squinting through the dark, the drug dealer scanned the streets for any sign of a potential customer.
He only had a few ounces left anyway, should be easy enough to sell.
Finally, after blocks of walking and seeing no one, the drug dealer finally set eyes on the figure of a male approaching.
The figure had his hands in his pockets as well and seemed to be in an equally bad mood.
I know just what would cheer him up…the drug dealer thought.
He figured that any man alone early Christmas morning, just before sunrise, would definitely be interested in getting high.
"Hey, man." The drug dealer greeted, once the nearing figure was close enough to hear him.
The man looked up.
And the drug dealer froze.
"What?"
That was Jim Moriarty!
Sherlock Holmes had warned the drug dealer (and everyone else he knew) about this dangerous criminal (via mass text).
"What?" Moriarty repeated, this time much more annoyed than he had already been, seeing that the drug dealer was just standing there gaping at him.
Moriarty really didn't look like much. He looked like he could be any average guy on the street.
It was hard for the drug dealer to believe that he had been behind the deaths of over thirteen people just six months ago and probably countless other murders and crimes after that.
But if Sherlock Holmes said that Moriarty was, Moriarty was.
"Nothing, man…" the drug dealer muttered, trying to play it cool.
He quickly turned around and hurried up the sidewalk the way he had come, his pace increasing with each step until he had broken out into a run.
Reaching into his pockets, past the bag of merchandise, the drug dealer felt for his phone.
He had to tell Sherlock!
But as he began to dial the numbers he heard footsteps other than his own.
The drug dealer looked behind him to see that Moriarty was chasing him down the street!
And he was gaining on him.
"Help!" the drug dealer shouted out.
But no one was around to hear.
The drug dealer felt a hand on his shoulder catch him and spin him around.
"No, don't kill me!" he begged, and then thrust the contents of his pockets towards Moriarty, "Take anything you want! You can have it all! Just don't kill me!"
"You think I'm some kind of petty thief?" Moriarty replied in mock offense, "You know I should really kill you just for that…"
The drug dealer amended his previous assessment of Moriarty.
Moriarty may have looked like any regular bloke but his face, the way he moved it and his voice…
He was unable to describe articulately why but the man just plain creeped him the hell out.
The drug dealer couldn't help but shudder and it wasn't the frigid air.
"No!" the drug dealer cried.
"But I won't." Moriarty stated, sighing, "So I guess it's just your lucky day."
He let go of the drug dealer's shoulders.
"Thank you!" the drug dealer exclaimed, "I promise I won't go to the police or—"
"Oh, I want you to go to the police." Moriarty countered and then grinned, " I want you to go to the police and give them a message from me. Can you do that for me, man?"
The drug dealer nodded.
"Okay. Good. I want you to go to Scotland Yard and ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade….you getting this?"
"Uh-huh." The drug dealer affirmed.
"Ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade and tell him…tell him from me, and I want this word for word, too…"
The drug dealer nodded.
"Tell him from me…" Moriarty paused dramatically, "…merry Christmas…can you remember all that?"
"Yes. I will. I'll tell him." the drug dealer confirmed.
He was very afraid and very confused but he agreed all the same.
He attempted to turn and rush away, but once again, he felt that hand on his shoulder spin him around.
"Oh, and one more thing…" Moriarty added, "…if you screw this up, I will kill you. Got it?"
The drug dealer nodded and Moriarty released him to run away into the early morning towards Scotland Yard.
Outside of the interrogation room, beside the one-way window, stood Donovan and Lestrade, watching the drug dealer sit at the table fidgeting.
"Do you believe him?" Lestrade asked, glancing at the drug dealer skeptically.
"I'm not sure." Donovan admitted, "He says Moriarty just came up to him, beat him up and robbed him…but he has no injuries."
"He's lying about that, then." Lestrade decided.
"Yeah." Donovan agreed, "It could be some kind of trick. You know, to get that freak's attention again…"
"Could be." Lestrade nodded, considering the possibly but then added, "You shouldn't call him that, you know. Sherlock's been a big help 'round here and—"
"I know." Donovan acquiesced, "I know. But what do you think about this dealer?"
"I think even if his story's a lie… he's scared." Lestrade evaluated, looking over to the drug dealer again through the window, "He's not lying about that."
Indeed, the drug dealer was sweating nervously and shaking, even.
"And you tried calling the fre-Sherlock about it?" Donovan checked, correcting her terminology midsentence.
"Yeah." Lestrade answered, "Several times. No answer…"
"And you're not going over there?" Donovan questioned.
"No." Lestrade stated, "What's the point? If Sherlock doesn't want to be bothered, he won't be bothered. Besides, I can't force him to work a case. He's a consultant, not my employee…"
It was a little joke, just to lighten the mood.
Donovan laughed, only a little though and the mood did not lighten.
Lestrade continued.
"And I don't think he's feeling too well either. That may be why he's not answering my calls. I got through to John though. He said Sherlock's not left his room since…"
Lestrade trailed off not wanting to inform Donovan of the reason for Sherlock's depression as it would just add to her gossiping about the consulting detective.
"Since? Since what?"
"Christmas Eve. All the people and the bright lights, put him into one of his moods or something, it did…you know how Sherlock is…"
Donovan nodded and blinked in response.
"So what do we do…?" she began.
"…without him, you mean?" Lestrade finished, interpreting the question she was too embarrassed to asked.
"I dunno…" Donovan shrugged, refusing to take ownership of Lestrade's interpretation.
"Me neither." Lestrade said, "Me neither.."
Jim sat in the luxurious lobby of the expensive London hotel.
Visiting the desert resort in Israel where the pseudonymed ghost of Irene Adler had gone to stay put Jim in the mood for class, rather than the rather pedestrian train station he usually hung out at.
And so now he was lounging on an asymmetrical couch, half an eye on the nearby television, the other 3/4s of his two eyes on the phone.
It was not his phone.
(Much too out-of-date and had way too many useless apps.)
It had been a Christmas gift from the drug dealer he had met on the street earlier that morning (along with a small bag of white powder. The man had been very generous).
Scrolling through the phone, past pages and pages of useless text messages…
-I need 2 get hi. Can u hook me up?
-u gonna b at da place on 4th tonite?
-You have three days two pay me back.
…all incredibly boring (and poorly spelled).
Except for one.
FWD: all contacts.
This is Sherlock Holmes.
This is a warning.
The man responsible for the bombings is named Jim Moriarty.
Jim Moriarty is a 'consulting criminal' who is involved in many of the crimes that take place in the UK and around the world.
I am looking for him.
Attached is a picture message of Jim Moriarty.
If you see him contact me immediately.
Do not interact with him at all under any circumstances.
He is extremely dangerous and will kill you without a second thought if he so feels the urge.
Pass this message on to everyone.
Jim snickered to himself.
So that was why the drug dealer had run scared fromhim on sight.
He moved on to the next message.
It was a blurry but recognizable image of himself that he didn't even know Sherlock had taken.
No.
Sherlock hadn't taken this.
This picture was a downloaded still from security footage.
Where?
It was the hospital.
Jim could tell from what he was wearing, it was back when he had been playing that gay nerdy guy Jim from IT.
Molly's boyfriend.
Molly.
She had been such a help to him yesterday (if she hadn't come in and did the post-mortem exam, finding that the body double had been poisoned, then Sherlock would have identified the body and Jim would have been believing (wrongly) like everyone else that Irene Adler was dead).
And then Jim never would have become reacquainted with Sebastian Moran who apparently now was the right hand man of somebody very important…
Yes, what an interesting eight hours it had been.
But now Jim was bored.
He opened the text messaging application of the drug dealer's cellphone.
(He wondered why a drug dealer even had Sherlock's number…)
Carefully typing a text message, Jim couldn't help but crack up once he had finally hit the send button.
Hey, man.
U said u wanna get high
I got the stuff
When & where do u wanna meet to pick it up?
He had sent the text to Sherlock's number from the drug dealer's phone.
(…now he would find out just why the dealer knew Sherlock.)
But once that was done with and Jim was done laughing, he was bored again.
It was still Christmas and he was determined not to work until after New Years and so now he needed to find something to do…
Sherlock?
No. (Not directly at least. He was forbidden…)
And the text message would hopefully cause some disturbance (or hopefully even a reply)…
No! Not good enough!
Oh, god, why did Sherlock have to be off limits?
Jim's world was so empty without him, so boring, so cold…
Jim Moriarty was a fire.
He constantly needed to be fed.
Logs were alright most of the time but what Jim really needed, what Jim really wanted was gasoline…
Sherlock Holmes was gasoline.
But Sherlock was restricted from him at the moment…
(Jim wouldn't want a bucket of water doused on his fire, now would he? (And it was that bucket of water threatening him to stay away from the gasoline.))
So where was some nice firewood…?
Molly?
She was probably still at work (she wouldn't have bothered to go back home after coming in at twelve that morning) and he had already visited her in the morgue so many times it had now (as of twelve that morning) gotten boring…
Scotland Yard?
Already done.
The drug dealer was delivering the message.
(It was such a tiny little thing, it really meant nothing, but the big deal the Yard would make of it was what was funny about it.)
So what to do, what to do…
Jim's eyes darted to the television screen.
There was some sort of commercial playing about an upcoming post-Christmas sale.
Boring.
Jim turned and stared across the lobby into the next room.
It was a wide, dimly-lit dinning room that was mostly empty due to it being an off hour.
To one side of the rows of elegantly decorated tables was a bar.
No one was there drinking at it and the only ones occupying the area were the black haired bartender in her mid-twenties and the redhead teenaged busboy.
He was speaking to her animatedly, one arm holding a plastic container of plates to be washed, and she was leaning against the wall pretending to pay attention to what he had to say to her, but really listening to the radio that was humming quietly in the background.
Jim could overhear their conversation, well bits of it anyway.
It went something like…
tired of these damn forgeiners. Tourist and they blah blah stuck up when they're rich and blah refugees blah blah welfare
and they're taking all our jobs blah and don't even know English blah blah
yeah and blah blah blah blah those Jamaicans, what's wrong with them and the gypsies
blah blah and those maids from Russia or blah blah, they're all whores
Jim snorted, hearing this.
It was probably all true, what they were saying, albeit exaggerated but for two dropouts…
(Jim could tell from the way they spoke as well as the fact that they had been chosen to work on Christmas and so must have had the worse working conditions that came with a lack of education)
…to be complaining about it instead of doing something about it (and Jim respected everyone's opinions as long as they did something about them. And he was always willing to help) was laughable.
Jim stood up, putting the drug dealer's phone back into his pocket, and sauntered over to the bar.
When he got closer he noticed that the bartender was actually furnishing the busboy with glasses of what didn't smell like water (despite looking a lot like it).
"The boy, he is too young to be drinking, no?" Jim said in his best euro-trash accent.
It was a blend of Eastern European and Mediterranean.
"Do you need any help, sir?" the bartender asked in the most begrudgingly polite accent all her own.
It was perfected over years of work in the customer service industry.
"The boy needs help! He should not to drink!" Jim insisted.
"Fuck off!" the busboy cussed, turning to Jim, "I'm eighteen!"
"You look young—"
"I said, fuck off!"
"Sir, are you even a guest at our hotel?" the bartender cut in, leaning over the bar to position herself between the angry busboy and Jim.
"Ya." Jim nodded.
The bartended smiled widely and falsely.
Jim matched it with his best stupid grin.
The busboy and the bartender exchanged frustrated and disapproving glances quickly and then turned back to their new customer.
"I just try to do the right thing." Jim added.
The bartended grimaced, "I see", she acknowledged and took the busboy's shotglass away, stowing it under the bar, "Sorry for any confusion."
The busboy groaned and rolled his eyes.
Finally he said, "If you're not gonna order nothing, then go mind your own business."
The bartender shot him a warning look, telling him that that is not the way to talk to the customers.
"Would you like to order anything, sir?" she asked Jim.
"Ya, ya." Jim answered, nodding and smiling, "I would like to—I would to order….how is it do you say….?"
The busboy and the bartender glanced at each other again, eyes then staring at the ceiling.
This had to be the stupidest guest they had ever encountered.
"Oh! I know! I would like to order one water!"
The bartender's falsely friendly face finally fell at this, all the way down into a frown.
She shook her head and sighed as Jim sat down at the barstool in front of him.
"Here." The bartender said, sliding a glass of water across the bar to Jim.
"…and the cost?" Jim asked, pretending to go for his wallet.
"It's free, you fucker…" the busboy spat, also shaking his head. He then looked at the bartender, "I'm gonna go take these back." He gestured to the container in his arms.
Jim watched the bartender watch the busboy trot away through the swinging double doors into the kitchen.
Once he was gone, Jim really went to work.
Sure, the bartender was unreceptive and short at first…
…but after Jim had told her his stories of his exciting life as a poor kid fleeing from thugs during the break-up of the Soviet Union who grew up to be a wealthy, international business man…
..she was hooked.
The rags-to-riches bit resonated with her lower-class upbringing and desire to be wealthy.
And when Jim told her that he was very rich, travelled to exotic places all the time for business (and loved to bring along beautiful women) and then tipped her with a hundred…
…suddenly Jim's strange accent started to sound sexy.
So Jim and the bartender were laughing together when the busboy returned, now without his tray.
Seeing this, the busboy's face was almost as red as his hair.
(Which Jim realized now was dyed. Why? Because the bartender kept a small magazine cut-out of a handsome ginger actor near the cash register.)
"Lemme get another shot." The busboy said, sitting down at the stool next to Jim.
"Oh, but you are too young to drink!" Jim reminded, still in euro-trash, chuckling.
The bartender giggled.
"He's cute, isn't he?" she gestured to the busboy who was still red and now glaring.
"Ya! Oh, ya!" Jim agreed, eyeing the boy but then looking back to the bartender and eyeing her, "You are too…"
The bartender giggled again.
"You still just drinking water, then?" the busboy interjected.
"Very healthy!" Jim exclaimed, taking and long gulp from his cup.
"Why don't you get it to go?" the busboy suggested sharply, "I'll get room service to take it up."
"Don't be rude—" the bartender began but was cut off.
"No, is okay." Jim said, standing up, "The boy has good idea. I decide I do want room service.
"…you do?" the bartender inquired, raising an eyebrow confusedly.
"Ya, ya." Jim confirmed, "Room service. I want one water to room service. Room 221. You'll bring it up?"
(And yes, 221 was an obvious reference. Shame the hotel didn't have lettered sections.)
"I'm sorry, I can't." the bartender apologized, "I'm on shift…"
The busboy grinned victoriously.
"What time do you get off?" Jim asked.
"She doesn't work for room service!" the busboy declared, "It's not her job to take it up, no matter when, no matter what!"
"My shift ends at two." The bartender told Jim and then glanced over to the clock on the wall.
It was still only about ten thirty in the morning.
"I didn't ask when your shift ended…" Jim explained, smirking, "I asked when you 'get off'."
"You don't talk her like that!" the busboy shouted, jabbing a finger towards Jim.
He was too red in the face to notice that Jim's accent was slipping.
"Let it go—" the bartender attempted, placing a hand on the busboy's shoulder.
"No, I won't just let it go, the guy's an ass!" the busboy roared, shoving off the bartender's touch which he normally so coveted, and then turning back to Jim, "Get out of here, man! I'll call security! You don't talk to her like that! Get out of here!"
"Alright, alright. I go, I go…" Jim conceded, strolling away, "…but I'll be expecting that room service…."
The bartender couldn't believe she was doing this.
But she had so many good reasons (money, to 'get off', money, world travel, money, boredom, money…).
And her excuses (she had the cup of water in her hand).
She stood in front of room 221 and knocked gently with her free hand.
"Room service…!" she called in.
"…Come in…!" the accent eventually answered.
The bartender used her staff cardkey to open the door and step into the hotel room.
She walked past the bathroom and the closet, noting the luxury that those who could afford nice hotels lived in, before turning the corner into the alcove where the bed was.
The glass in her hand fell to the floor.
Water and ice cubes spilled everywhere.
Jim loved the look of shock and horror on the bartender's face, eyes and mouth so wide open…
He himself, of course, was grinning like a maniac and on the verge of terrible laughing induced seizure.
He was stretched out leisurely on the king sized bed, propped up against the plush pillows with one hand behind his head.
He was completely naked, reclining on top of the covers.
And so was the teenaged busboy, lying soundly asleep on his stomach next to Jim.
The bartender could not find words.
"You got off shift at two..." Jim explained, shrugged, "But he 'got off' at one….and then again at one thirty—"
"My…god!" the bartender finally screeched.
As she stomped out of the room, Jim called after her.
"Oh baby, please don't be mad at me. I just couldn't help myself! You did say he was cute…!"
The room was sectioned off by yellow tape that clashed with its elegant furnishings.
Lestrade lifted it slightly to duck under and step into the room where various uniformed police officers were already inside dusting for prints and picking up and bagging pieces of evidence.
He passed the bathroom, and the closet, turned and saw the bed.
That's where the boy was.
He was only just a teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and he was lying naked and dead on the bed.
He had overdosed.
Some were saying he was a guest at the hotel, others that he had snuck in and others that he was an employee (no one had yet identified the body).
It always bothered Lestrade the most, the deaths of children (he refused to think of his son at this point).
And so for a moment he just stood there staring at the boy in hopelessness.
Who was this boy?
What had happened to him?
Why?
Finally, Lestrade reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.
He dialed a familiar number and received a familiar sequence of rings before getting the voicemail.
Sighing, Lestrade left his message.
"Hello, Sherlock. It's Lestrade again. I know I've been calling a lot lately and I'm sure you're very busy so I'm sorry to bother you and I'm sorry for what you're going through but…we just really need your help here and so please. Sherlock, please, if you could just-call me back. When you have the time. Thank you."
Molly POV next chapter!
I know it's been a while lol
PLEASE REVIEW!