((A/N: I'm spoiling you people today. Forever trying to make it up to you guys.
A change in tone again now. Warning: It might be graphic. It might not be, I reckon it's pretty tame, but the warning is there just in case. I had a blast writing this. ))
Like a high-speed train, John and Mary's wedding soon arrived. The day ran smoothly. It was joyous for everyone to see the couple become Mr and Mrs Watson, especially for Mrs Hudson, who hadn't stopped crying all day. Having Sherlock as his best man probably wasn't one of John's wisest ideas, but the detective's speech was amusing plentiful. All in all, everyone had a good day.
Receptions were always Amy's favorite part of any wedding. It was when she could really let go and people watch. There was always someone dad-dancing - which was Lestrade; there was always someone crying - again that was Mrs Hudson; there was always someone drunk - that was some bloke slouched in the corner that she didn't know; and there was always someone nicking the food from the table - Molly's new squeeze, Tom. She was all over him and the photographer loved them. By the end of the night Amy reckoned the majority of his photos would be Molly and Tom smooching each other's faces off. Still, she was happy, and that made Amy happy.
Mary looked stunning in her vintage dress. Everyone came together to watch the bride and groom's first dance to a tune Sherlock had composed especially for them. Amy's eyes were on Sherlock the whole time. His playing was so beautiful she almost joined Mrs Hudson in flooding the venue. She had never admired Sherlock as much as she did in those two minutes. Sure, she was impressed with his deduction skills. Though this, it was different. He was opening up his heart to the two people he loved most in all this world. It was a side of him people rarely saw and she was in a complete trance. Dare she think he even looked beautiful standing up there with an instrument at his disposal.
After, the cheesy music flared up and everyone lost it. Amy downed three glasses of champagne in half an hour and decided to throw off her shoes and wiggle herself into oblivion. She laughed and took selfies with Molly and Lestrade, and a group of women she didn't know but what the hell? She'd started the day assuming she'd be a nervous wreck, worried that all sorts of memories and emotions would boil up to the surface yet they had been non-existent. Frankly, she was having the time of her life.
"I hate weddings." Sherlock appeared at her side, examining the scene. Amy recognized his tone as not really meaning it because it was his best friends wedding, but also really meaning it because he genuinely didn't like weddings and still didn't see much point in them.
"You only hate them when it's not your own," she replied, raising her voice so he could hear her over the music.
"If it was my own wedding I would most likely die of utter boredom."
"I'm sure you're a romantic at heart." With a grin she pulled him onto the dance floor without asking. He looked startled and she laughed.
"What is so romantic about throwing your life away to live with someone until you die?"
"Stop. Talking." She took his hand in hers and twirled herself around slowly, the skirt of her dress rising and falling with the motion. She forced his other hand onto her hip and looked up at him with a smile.
"Why are we dancing?" he asked with a slight frown.
"Because I want to." Her smile turned into a smirk. "And because someone told me that you like to dance."
"Whoever it was, I'm going to create a slow and painful way for them to die." He tried to sound bitter but Amy thought she could sense playfulness there, too.
"I don't think you'd be able to kill your brother, Sherlock. He's too smart to let you. Even if you did, he would probably have some big official bloke or whatever to take you down."
Sherlock's eyes widened, and then he became irritated. "Mycroft told you I liked to dance?" They stepped left and right slowly, then around in a circle in unison with other dancers.
"Yup." A melodic laugh escaped her. "I had a brief conversation with him over the phone this morning. You wouldn't answer so he decided to spill the beans to me. He said he caught you practicing the quickstep when you were nine."
He tensed a little, shaking his head. "My brother likes to make an array of things up to undermine me. Don't believe him."
"I'm afraid I do believe him. You're dancing pretty well right now, I'd say."
She laughed at his scowl. He almost swore. He would never forgive his parents for their oldest creation. Nonetheless, he carried on dancing because he was actually enjoying himself. In secret, of course. God forbid if everyone else found out. He moved with Amy, slowly, elegantly, even smiling when she laughed or pulled a stupid face. She lived such a full life, grabbed it with both hands and took whatever was thrown her way. He was almost jealous. He could never quite grasp the concept of living. The way he saw living was to just avoid dying, and to stop other people dying, to avenge those that did die. Often he wondered what living was like through the eyes of the ordinary.
When the music changed and the tempo sped up, he decided enough was enough despite the flame-haired woman's protests. She clawed at his arms, tipsy, and he pushed her away gently, and thank whatever being that existed up above Lestrade showed up. The DI didn't look like everyone else. He looked serious.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock knew straight away that something had happened and he wanted in on it.
Lestrade ushered Sherlock to the side of the hall where it was considerably quieter and where no-one could hear what he was about to say next. Apart from Amy, who had followed out of instinct. "I just got a call from Donovan." At the mention of her name Sherlock recoiled. "Trust me, Sherlock, you'll want to see this."
The three of them left the venue in silence. Amy wasn't asked to come, she just invited herself. Neither of them complained. They drove off into the night, to a disused factory north of the river Thames. "What are we going to see?" Amy asked Lestrade.
"I don't know but I was told it's not pretty."
The smell of the factory itself made Amy want to bail. What they found was even worse and Amy felt sick to her stomach. Someone had created a trail of body parts, an arm, a leg, a random ear. On and on. Covered in blood and decaying rather rapidly. How not even this phased Sherlock she would never understand. What a way to end a lovely day!
Automatically, Sherlock was slipping on gloves and examining the body parts intensely.
"How long have these been here?" Lestrade asked Donovan who was surrounded by a number of police officers.
"A day at least," she replied.
"Two days," Sherlock interjected, peering over an arm he was holding.
"This place is up for sale," she continued, ignoring Sherlock. "Some prospective buyers are supposed to be visting tomorrow. The owner arrived about an hour ago to make sure everything was fit for viewing and came across this... I don't even know what it is. It's a mess."
Lestrade nodded, hands in his pockets. "Anything?" He waited for Sherlock to start talking.
The detective walked up and down the trail once more. "There are three victims here. One woman, two men. Ages vary between twenty and forty years. I doubt they have any connection to each other. We'll find that out once DNA tests have been carried out." He looked at Donovan. He saw the disgust and fear in her eyes and as much as he disliked the woman he couldn't find it in himself to be mean to her at a scene like this. "Also check the missing persons list. Find out who these people are and find their families."
"What about the killer?" Lestrade inquired, trying his up most best to not look at the scene in front of him.
"He watches Hannibal," Amy spoke up, still stood a distance away from everyone else and really wishing she hadn't tagged along after all.
Both men stared at her incredulous. "Sorry?" Lestrade asked.
"Haven't you seen it?" Amy sounded a tad amazed. "It's a show. A TV show. This guy kills a load of people... Occasionally eats them... This looks like something out of that show. I'm sorry, I really need to-" She couldn't take it anymore and dived for the exit, hand to her mouth.
"Thank you, Amy, that was very helpful," Sherlock sighed. He got back to the DI's question. "The way the limbs have been hacked off the bodies I'd highly suggest that the killer is male. There are marks on some of the skin. His nails dug in as he gripped hard, so see if you can find any traces of his DNA in them. Make a note of that."
Lestrade patted himself down. "I don't have a pen..."
"Well go and get one. Seriously, what kind of detective doesn't carry a pen?"
"You don't."
"I don't need one."
When Lestrade finally got a pen Sherlock carried on. "Now, the killer, he's an artist. He's inspired by the human body and he loves to know how it works. He could have just placed these body parts any way he liked, but look at them - they create a branch from a tree. So he's thought about it. The shape and the form, how everything will fit together. He's frustrated. He wants to be seen. He wants the world to know who he is and what he can do. What better way than to create a installation piece made out of the human body." He was incredibly fascinated by it.
"He wants to be noticed alright," piped up Donovan upon her return. "Take a look over there."
She directed Sherlock towards the wall the trail led up to. Stuck on it was a sticky note. He ripped it from the wall and read it thrice over.
I'm watching you, Sherlock.
Despite the ounce of fear Sherlock felt rise in his blood, he smirked. Things just got even better. Who exactly was watching him? How many more enemies did he have? And why didn't he know about them?
"'I'm watching you, Sherlock'." Sherlock was unaware of Lestrade's presence at his side until that very moment. "What does that mean?"
"Someone else is trying to get my attention. Can I keep this?"
"Not really. It's evidence. But seeing as you decided to ask this time, I suppose I can let you keep it for a day or two."
Sherlock nodded and swiftly made for the exit.
"Where are you going?"
He was gone. Outside, he met up with Amy, noticing the vomit on the floor. "Too much champagne?"
"Too much gore," she replied, wiping her mouth for the sixth time. Her complexion had turned a ghostly white, her eyes were grey and she'd been crying.
"You watch a TV show about a man who kills people in this manner yet you can't hold your stomach when you see it for real?"
"I never thought I'd ever see it for real!" she yelled.
"I've never seen anything on this scale," he commented in pure amazement.
"It was horrible." She wiped her eyes. "Why would someone do that?"
"To get attention. Especially mine." He waved the note in front of her. She couldn't read it. Her eyes were spotting.
"I just want to go home, Sherlock."
((A/N: Yes, I was inspired by Hannibal, which is a great show by the way! If you haven't seen it, you should. Providing you're over 18, of course. If you're not, you can still watch it if you want. But it's pretty graphic some times. Much Love!))