Author's note: I won't rant much, just a quick note. Because doesn't allow me to answer reviews of guests who don't have an account, I want to take the opportunity to say a big, great thank you to DonGately, for a truly beautiful review on "Anticlockwise" – it is much appreciated.
Well, here is the second chapter...
Enojy! :)
Chapter 2: The transience of the present tense
The body is bent in a strange way, with arms tied at the wrists and outstretched upwards, while the legs, bound at the ankles, are flipped over the head, feet falling into palms. Five centimetres above the tips of the victim's fingers (and toes, seeing as they are all curled together), there is a small heap of dull-grey metal shavings.
She is young – not older than 20 – delicately built, and in death she seems to posses some sort of cold, eerie elegance. Positioned as she is, and dressed in a simple white jumpsuit, it is easy to imagine that in another life – in any life – she could have been a gymnast or a ballerina. The impression of strange sophistication is further contributed to by the fact that her wrists and ankles are not bound by string or wire, as is usually the case, but a fine-linked chain that looks like it belongs to a jewellery set.
Were it not for the police tape, the flash of the camera capturing everything and the general air of solemnity, the whole scene could have easily been mistaken for some sort of contemporary performance piece. Well...maybe the camera flash would have blended in, but still, it is not a performance...at least not one of an artist.
"The position could indicate some sort of ritualistic killing, although it's too early to tell what. I will need more data in order to rule on that option, though. The metal shavings look like they could be iron – I will need to refresh my knowledge of rituals involving use of metal, in order to connect the position of the body and the iron.
As for the victim, she is twenty, a student – some sort of arts, judging by the crusted paint around her fingernails. There are no external signs of foul play, no petechae or ligature marks that would indicate or suffocation, no bullet or knife wounds, and no bruising around vital organs, which means we will have to wait for the toxicology report to establish cause of death. John, anything you have to add?"
John, who has been standing next to the police tape, listening to Sherlock's soliloquy, walks over to the body.
"Yeah...there's a puncture mark, small, below her ear – it is possible she was injected with some sort of poison...as you said, we'll have to wait for the tox screen to come back to be sure."
Sherlock gives him a curt nod, bent over the victim like an oversized crow.
"She's still just a kid..." John says, as they stand cramped up in the limited space of a storage unit. The storage unit facility that hosts the crime scene is in Northern London, an abandoned one, already giving into the damp and lack of maintenance, with crumbling walls and smell of wet concrete.
"Hardly. In many cultures, including ours only several decades ago, she would already be expected to be married, possibly bearing her first child, by this age. In others, she would have been proclaimed a full-grown woman long before the age of twenty." Sherlock is still fussing over the body, magnifying lens in hand. "Lestrade, have forensics pack some of the metal shavings for me, I need to take them to the lab for analysis."
"What I meant to say was that she is young. She still had her whole life waiting for her."
Sherlock turns to John, obviously annoyed by the doctor's refusal to just let the matter lie.
"Yes, and now, she doesn't. I don't see how this is in any way related to finding who robbed her of that opportunity."
"Not everything has to serve the singular purpose of being a piece of a puzzle, Sherlock." John's voice is equal parts tired and angry. He is aware of the futility of having this discussion, again, but he isn't ready to let it go. He knows Sherlock, knows the way he operates, and accepts him for what he is – brilliant, but not the most tactful of men. He knows this, and for the most part, it's ok. Sherlock is Sherlock, and John accepts him as such, but this – this careless disregard for a rather important aspect of the way humans function – still bothers him. It's not about changing Sherlock or forcing him to care to make John feel at ease. John knows Sherlock is not casting away caring because of malice – he simply fails to see its importance in the context of his work – but he just wishes Sherlock would stop and think about the way he acts at times, if only so others wouldn't get the wrong impression of him. John knows Sherlock is not heartless, despite the common conviction, and he hates to think others still believe it. That is why he is so annoyed when Sherlock provides them with ample evidence to support this illusion.
Sherlock is just about to reply, frustration radiating off him in a way that makes it almost tangible, when the forensic technician assigned to the case pushes up the police tape and steps into the unit. He is almost as young as the victim, no older than 26, and moving timidly around the space. He smiles a shy smile at John, greeting him with "Hello, good doctor." John smiles back, trying to dispel the tense atmosphere that has crowded into the small chamber in which they stand. Sherlock looks even more irritated than a few moments before, possibly by the young man's twitchy demeanour and rather slow movements. John can't really blame the boy, seeing as he has already been a target of Sherlock's sharp tongue, being proclaimed an incapable idiot during the last case they worked, which happened to be the young tech's first official investigation. Back then, the lad was so in awe of Sherlock, so John knows how much it must have hurt to be humiliated by no other than his idol. In front of all his colleagues. In public. God, Sherlock...
"I will need no less than 5 grams of the metal shavings, and once the body is released to the morgue, I will need all that was found on it – chains, clothes, etc. And do try not to mess up again." With that, Sherlock turns and starts walking away from the flustered tech. John just smiles at the young man, and goes after his flatmate.
"Really, Sherlock, it wouldn't kill you to be nice to the boy...or, you know, at least not as vicious. He's not Anderson, he hasn't done anything to you, so just cut him some slack. He's new, it's his first real job."
"And how should that warrant for his incompetence? If anything, it should encourage him to be as meticulous as possible, in order to prove himself."
"Just lay off him, ok?"
Sherlock doesn't grace John with an answer, and John is left feeling deflated and somewhat demoralised. It is a strange sensation – to be disappointed by the most amazing man he's ever met. He tries to squash the bitter feeling, but there are muddy drops polluting that deep-lying pool of happiness that has accumulated in the recent months. Sherlock is many things – amazing, infuriating, mesmerising, inconsiderate, at times – and most of that John can deal with, because that's simply who Sherlock is – flawed and imperfect, just like anyone else. Only, this, this eternal stretch of no-man's land that separates them, always manages to put John out, because Sherlock simply fails to see it as a fault. He doesn't see why he should care, about the dead or about most of the living people he encounters, and John can't help but be disappointed, because it means this man, this great man he is so in awe of, most of the time, is still not as good a man as John knows him to be capable of being.
John tries to tell himself it's simply the way Sherlock is, but the issue keeps on coming back, nagging at the edges of his mind, and polluting that deep-running happiness of his. He tries to ignore the ominous feeling that one day, possibly soon, it will start to tear at them at the seams. For now, he settles with scolding Sherlock and hoping that some of his words will find a home in that big head.
Sherlock does his best to ignore the look of disappointment that arranges the lines of John's face in a way Sherlock finds disconcertingly unpleasant. He doesn't like the fact that he finds the disappointment unpleasant – he shouldn't care about the disappointment at all. In attempt to bar further thoughts of such detrimental nature, Sherlock focuses on the one thing that has always proven a satisfying distraction from all things bothersome – the case.
As they make their way from the crime scene to st. Bart's, he rattles off his deductions.
"The killer incorporated several elements in the murder, which are seemingly unconnected. Judging from the type of iron shavings left, whoever did this probably has access to chemical supplies – whether only basic ones or advanced, is yet to be determined, but that narrows the pool of suspects, to some extent. I am not yet sure what the position of the body means, though. The nature of the metal shavings might shed some light on that. How familiar are you with Middle Eastern traditions and rituals from your days in Afghanistan?"
John seems to startle as Sherlock abruptly turns towards him, expecting an answer.
"Urm, not very. We rarely got the chance to mingle with the locals, unless it was to patch them up. We were taught the basic manners, so not to offend anyone and get in trouble for it."
"Never mind, the likeness that the murderer used such exotic culture as inspiration is minute. Still, we should keep our options open." Sherlock's brisk tone seems to draw John out of whatever troubling reverie he has fallen into, seeing as, by the time they reach the lab, he directs his thoughts back towards the case, much to Sherlock's pleasure.
"I could run a search of metal-related rituals while you analyze the shavings."
"That would be useful."
As Sherlock walks away to look at the sample of metal shavings (which turn out to be iron, just as suspected), he is pleased to notice that the unsettling pang of whatever it was John's disappointment elicited, has simmered down to an almost unnoticeable quiver of discomfort, somewhere at the back of his mind. It is too weak a sensation to pose a serious threat to Sherlock's deep contentment, and he is satisfied to simply ignore it. It should prove to be enough, if only for now.
What John and Sherlock don't know, but I do, is that for now is not an undefined, indefinite amount of time. Not at all. In reality, for now is exactly 24 days, starting at that moment.
Thank you for reading :) See you on Sunday.
