Hello, all! Guys, I am so sorry for that little impromptu hiatus. I really didn't plan to be gone this long! Life happens, and sometimes real life has to be taken care of before fanfiction. I really did mean to get this chapter up sooner, but it seemed that everything has been thrown on top of me from school, work, family, and all sorts of other things going on. Again, I'm really sorry. I can't promise that chapter 5 will be up before Dec 18th, but I can promise that chapter 5 will be here. I won't ask for more than some understanding and support as I finish out this semester and find time for this story. Thank you to those that are following and reviewing. You guys make me so happy! Oh, and if -for some reason- you still want to read something of mine that is posted, I have my completed one-shot "Three Years, Sherlock" for your angsty pleasure, and my completed "It Takes a Bomb". If anyone has read these before, you'll know that I wrote ITAB with my best friend, 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked.
I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving (to my American followers) and I hope everyone starts off the Christmas season on a happy note. Thank you again, and I will have another chapter before Season 3 airs. I love you all! ^-^ xoxo
The next day began abruptly when Sherlock's mobile woke the men up from their uneasy slumber, chirping loudly in the hushed, sleepy silence of their bedroom.
John groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers up over his head and hoping Sherlock hadn't heard so that he could go back to sleep. It'd only been a few hours since they'd drifted into a restless sleep, and he was knackered.
It was wishful thinking.
He listened with a sinking feeling- knowing he wouldn't be getting any more sleep- as Sherlock rolled opposite him and fumbled with his mobile. There was a beat of silence, then-
"John." Sherlock nudged him, his voice roughened with sleep. "It's Lestrade. There's been another murder."
John groaned again and tightened his grip on the covers as Sherlock tugged at them.
"John." Annoyance crept into Sherlock's voice. "John. Did you hear me? There's been another murder!"
"Mmmrgh." John mumbled incoherently, squinting his eyes closed determinedly and refusing to relinquish his grip on the covers.
Sherlock, though, was not to be dissuaded. He gave a sudden and almighty yank, jerking the fabric from John's hands and leaving him cowering in the cold air.
"Sherlock!" John protested, throwing his pillow over his head in an attempt to conceal his eyes from the sunshine streaming in at the window. Sherlock snatched that away as well.
"We don't have time for this, John." Sherlock huffed. "There's been another murder. Now get up."
John continued grumbling as he was reluctantly pulled from the bed by an overly eager Sherlock and made to get dressed "quickly, quickly, John!" and was almost all-together discouraged from personal hygiene.
That was where he drew the line.
"No, Sherlock." He said, pulling away as Sherlock tried to rush him past the loo. "I am getting a shower before we leave. Now, if you don't get your sorry arse in here with me, then we'll both offend everyone we come across." He snapped, letting his annoyance with the entire situation creep into his voice.
Sherlock looked ready to argue.
"Your breath stinks and your hair looks like rats are living in it." John informed him brutally. "Not to mention the way your armpits-"
"All right!" Sherlock snapped back, grimacing. "Fine. Ten minutes."
"Make it fifteen." John said, eyeing Sherlock's face. "You're looking scruffy."
After almost twenty "needless" minutes of undressing, showering, shaving, teeth brushing and then re-dressing, Sherlock and John hailed a cab and were finally- finally!- on the move for the case. Lestrade had been texting Sherlock the details as they got ready as much as possible and the consulting detective was practically vibrating in his seat with anticipation.
When they finally got to the crime scene, Sherlock bolted out of the cab like a bullet from a gun, leaving John to, sighing, pay the fare.
Following after the retreating back of his boyfriend, John glanced up at the beautiful exterior of the house and experienced an odd sense of de'ja'vu. This house was similar to the last one in which they'd investigated a murder a few days ago: it was in a good, upper-class neighborhood where murders didn't usually take place, large-very large, and elaborately done up on the outside. It had an intricate garden path leading to the front door, framed on both sides by flowers, so many different kinds John didn't know the name of and so many different colors he felt his eyes were being assaulted. The house looked as though it were fitted up for the royal family. Definitely one of the best houses John had ever been in.
It seemed this was a case for that.
Once John finished gawking, he gathered his scattered thoughts, reached for his professionalism, squared his shoulders, and walked briskly inside.
He paused in the entryway - which was just as extravagant as the last house they'd been in (though this one had more artwork on the walls John actually recognized) -unsure where to go. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, nor were there any cops to direct him to the crime scene.
John took his time to look around as he wandered down the hallway toward the distant sound of voices, eyes widening despite himself as he took in the sumptuous fixtures around him. There were doors on either side of the hallway leading to different rooms and he took the opportunity to glance in at each one in case he saw something important.
Bathroom. Nothing important there.
Coat closet. Seemed this was a bust.
Ah, sitting room.
There was a grand piano proudly on display in the sitting room he glanced in, the gleaming top littered with sheet music. A large basket sat beside the piano, containing books and books of music.
It seemed there was another pattern to these murders.
The room wasn't quite as exquisite as John had expected from the way the house was fitted up on the outside. It was slightly less flashy than Nora's house and was only marginally smaller. Fortunately, it was easy to navigate, as there were fewer pieces of furniture.
A little further down the hall, toward what appeared to be a kitchen, Sherlock called for John.
"John, come here!" the detective yelled.
John quit his impromptu tour and hurried to his love. He was met with a very familiar sight once he got there.
It was a young woman – possibly mid-twenties – with long, brown hair splayed around her. She'd been left face down in a pool of blood and her hair stuck to the floor in a gruesome pattern, held there by the patina of by her clothing – a set of silken pajamas – she had not been expecting visitors; not like their deceased piano instructor, who'd been fully clothed.
At Sherlock's behest, John snapped on a pair of gloves and set to work at turning the slender body over.
"Oh, Christ!" Lestrade breathed out in disbelief once she'd been turned.
This woman had been treated nearly the same as Nora, but the killer had attacked differently this time. This woman had her throat sliced open – her blood having been drained from there – with two slashes under her cheekbones, and a large IX carved into her torso. This abrasion was slightly less ragged, but still just as grisly, as her organs gleamed under the surface. The smell of intestines rose in a choking cloud from the body and each man fought to keep from wrinkling his nose or gagging unprofessionally at the smell.
John kept a solemn look on his face as he gazed down at the victim, but Sherlock was bursting with excitement. It'd been a while since they had a serial killer on their hands.
"What's her name?"
"Catherine Lipton." Lestrade answered promptly, flipping through his notes.
"Like the tea?" John asked half amused, despite himself. He knew that being amused at a crime scene was more than a bit not good. He'd lectured Sherlock about it on more than one occasion.
"Pretty much, yeah." Lestrade responded, "She was a cousin of the owner's son, if you can believe that."
"Also a former competitor of ours, John. Her name was on the list."
"Of suspects or competition?" John asked.
Sherlock hummed in annoyance and moved around the body. John rolled his eyes and went with 'competition', rather than trying to ask any more apparently 'stupid' questions.
Sherlock's eyes flicked over the corpse as he examined every abrasion and oddity of her death. The same deductions were made as last time, apart from the fact that there was no glaring picture of an engagement in her home.
She did however appear to be missing something important to her.
"She's missing her engagement ring." Sherlock declared, picking up the corpse's hand with his own plastic gloved ones. "The skin is worn smooth. She's been wearing it for a while and yet, not married. Fiancé?"
"Yeah. William 's the one who found her apparently. He's the one who made the call to 999."
"Where is he?" John asked Lestrade.
"In the ambulance outside. He's in shock."
Sherlock nodded, straightening from his crouch over the body and giving John a look.
"Let's go find a hideous orange blanket, shall we? Come along, John."
Once the men were in the fresh air again and away from the stench of blood and excretory material, which always went along with violent death, John easily spotted the man in question.
William Barton sat on the back steps of one of the ambulances assembled on the long, sweeping driveway. Hewas an athletic looking young man, tall and toned with solid muscles. His hair was buzzed short and he looked about the right age for a professional rugby player.
As Sherlock and John walked over, William was in the process of slowly and methodically breathing into a paper bag slowly, obviously coming down from a panic attack.
"Mr. Barton?" Sherlock asked as they drew level with him.
William gave a nod and the lowered the bag from his mouth.
"That's me. Look, I've already talked to the police, can I please just...?"
"We're not the police," Sherlock interrupted, not softened by the man's shaking and weak voice, "but we do need you to answer some questions."
John took in William's bemused expression and shook his head at Sherlock's less-than-stellar people skills.
"This is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." John intervened, "I'm Doctor John Watson, his assistant. We just need you to answer a few questions and we'll be out of your way."
"Sherlock Holmes? Like, from the internet?"
"The very one." Sherlock replied dryly, rolling his eyes, shooting John a put-out look. He hated being reminded that his celebrity was tied to John's blog.
William nodded and breathed out in defeat. He looked as though he would shatter at just the slightest breeze. John felt sympathy for him.
"Ask away, Mr. Holmes." William muttered, running a hand through his hair and visibly trying to steady himself.
Sherlock, remembering the ordeal of last night, used a slightly gentler tone than usual.
"I need you to tell me exactly what happened this morning. Don't leave anything out, even if you think it's not important."
William shifted and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, not that it covered much, and cleared his tear clogged throat.
"I'd been out with some of my mates last night – drinkin', celebratin' our latest win at rugby, and I stayed at my brother's house. I wasn't drunk or nothin'- not bad at least- but he was. I wanted to keep an eye on him. He's a right bloody idiot when he's plastered and you never know what he might get up to left on his own."
Sherlock tried his best not to roll his eyes. He'd probably get in trouble with John for that.
"I called and asked Cathy if it'd be alright with her first, and she told me that she was fine, had the doors bolted, and the security system on. She said she could take care of herself one night. It was just for one night. Said she'd be fine. So I trusted her. I called her last night before we passed out- just to check on her- and she said she was safe. Got shirty with me for calling. Said she could take care of herself." William sniffed, his face screwing up, remembering the last time he'd heard his fiancé's voice. "I didn't know it'd be the last time I… I wish I'd told her I loved her, you know? But I was tired and just wantin' to go to bed and get off the phone as fast as I could. And I didn't." He furiously rubbed at his eyes and John shifted awkwardly beside Sherlock.
"Anyway. When I woke up this mornin', I decided I'd surprise her and make breakfast before she got up. Make up for me staying out all night. When I got home though…the door was standin' wide open. I knew something had happened…she never would've left the door open like that…but the alarm hadn't gone off. I ran in and..."
"You found her corpse." Sherlock finished.
William bowed his head and covered his face, struggling to keep his composure in front of strangers. John's heart ached for the man's misfortune and he stood a little closer.
"William, do you have cameras set up with your security system? We may be able to ID the killer that way."
After a moment of contemplation, during which he scrubbed at his eyes to keep the tears at bay, William stood and motioned for the men to follow him. They were slightly surprised at William's sudden change in stature, but were relieved to finally have a lead.
As they entered the house, William pointed out the security cameras mounted at each of the windows and situated over the front door. John hadn't noticed them when he first entered the house but Sherlock didn't even look as William gestured, already having seen them. The cameras blinked red, showing they were working; that is, all but one.
John pursed his lips and continued walking.
William led them down the stairs to the basement where the security office was set up. When they entered the office, William showed them to the high tech system. Sherlock recognized it as one of the top systems created. It was only a few advancements short of being equal to Mycroft's system.
"There. I'm sure the police have probably gone over it by now." William sighed.
"Did you mention it to them?" Sherlock asked impatiently, seating himself at the desk and clicking on the televisions. The screens flickered to life, showing different feeds from all over the house.
"Well, er, no?"
"You have to point out everything to this lot." Sherlock muttered darkly, "Who developed the password?"
"Well, we came up with it together." William stammered, thrown off a bit by Sherlock's petulant mood.
Sherlock contemplated the desk then lifted up the coffee mug which held an array of pens and pencils, revealing a crumpled slip of paper with the password printed neatly on it.
"What…how'd you…?" William trailed off as Sherlock, with the arch of one elegant eyebrow, ignored him and keyed in the password, easily maneuvering his way through the security system.
He rewound the footage from the night before, then restarted it, playing it at two times the normal speed. All three men fell silent as they watched the play of film.
Nothing out of the ordinary showed on the footage until the clock on the cameras flipped to 3:45 in the morning.
The video showed Catherine walking down the hall, looking rather disgruntled and disoriented, in her pajamas, hair mussed, obviously having been woken rather abruptly. She padded to the front door, visibly muttering something with her face screwed in irritation. At that point, the camera overlooking the door cut out and nothing could be seen for the next few moments until Catherine was seen running into the kitchen, a tall, dark figure trailing behind her. She turned to face her assailant, but was caught in his arms as he pulled her against his body, slitting her throat in one quick, well-executed move.
Will made a high-pitched noise of distress and John reached over to turn the video off- no man needed to see his fiancé murdered so brutally and then cut up- but the man stopped him. John looked back to give some sort of comfort to the grieving ex-fiancé, but was floored by his expression.
William looked positively shattered, unhinged, murderous, and vindictive all in one expression on his countenance. John drew his hand away as the grisly scene played before the three men; a woman drained of her life and then carved into a warning.
Sherlock's face matched John's in that they were both equally horrified, but masked over with solemn, deadpan expressions. William stood and quickly walked out of the room, not waiting for Sherlock or John to ask any questions.
"William?" John called after him as he and Sherlock followed behind, not close enough to intrude, but far enough to keep a safe distance, lest he lash out. People who had had a shock were often not reasonable.
"I only know of one person who could have...would have done this." William growled, stopping in the center of the hallway and clenching his oversized fists.
Sherlock and John exchanged a glance.
"Who would have done this, William?" Sherlock asked carefully, almost comfortingly,but John could hear the sound of excitement beneath the veneer.
The way Sherlock was handling the situation reminded John of their case with Henry Knight -how Sherlock was mostly considerate for the man traumatized by H.O.U.N.D. and its effects while still being transported by the convoluted madness of the case.
"There's this guy. He's had his eye on her for a while. Her and most of her friends. He even threatened me once."
"Did you report the threat?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the man skeptically.
"Nah, he's a coward. I could knock him out in just one swing."
"If he's such a coward, then why would he kill someone he fancied?" John asked. He didn't intend for the question to sound like a challenge, but it may have come out that way, because William looked peevishly down at him.
"That's your job to figure that one out, yeah?"
"What's his name?" Sherlock broke in, sounding equally peeved. Or was that protection for John in his voice?
William blinked and gathered his thoughts. It took him merely a moment and a series of faces as if he'd come up with something, but he finally found the name he was looking for.
"Dimitri Schmit." William snapped his fingers in recollection.
John turned and looked at Sherlock for a moment.
"Schmit? Like the guy in the papers? The one that goes to every musical competition in England?"
"And also one of our competitors." Sherlock noted to John.
William nodded.
"The very one. Right conceited bastard, he is. If anyone that would go crazy like that, it's him."
Sherlock straightened his coat and puffed out his chest a little.
"John, I do think it's time for us to go. Mr. William, if you will give any information you can to Detective Inspector Lestrade, this case will be solved and this lot will be out of your hair. My condolences." Sherlock rushed to say before deliberately turning on his heel and walking away briskly.
John turned and offered his hand to William, who took it as he looked on at Sherlock with a quirked eyebrow.
"And, you're this bloke's…umm…assistant?" William asked John, tilting his head slightly.
John smirked a bit.
"A lot more than 'assistant', actually."
Sherlock slid into the cab and leaned back into the seat peevishly. John took the initiative to give directions back to Baker Street as Sherlock stared at his mobile, furiously pecking away at the buttons, sending a message to Lestrade to let him know what they'd found out from William. John sat back and moved slightly closer to Sherlock. Why on earth the genius would be upset was beyond John, but there was something about Sherlock's face that gave away just enough to let John know that something was bothering him.
John slid his hand beside Sherlock's thigh and waited for his boyfriend to slide their hands together, as he usually did on cab rides.
It never happened.
John looked up to find Sherlock in his thinking pose, hands clasped beneath his chin, eyes closed.
"Oh no," John thought, "not now."
John gently rested his hand on Sherlock's upper thigh and watched Sherlock peep one eye down at him. After a moment, Sherlock's eye closed again and he breathed out a long-suffering sigh. Obviously, John's interference wasn't wanted.
John frowned and withdrew his hand. Alright then. He'd just have to physically pull Sherlock out of the cab when they finally got back to the flat. It wasn't the first time he'd had to do it. When the genius was thinking he was downright hard to manage.
A few minutes passed and Sherlock was completely oblivious to the fact that their arrival at Baker Street was imminent. John grunted as he paid for the fare and wrapped a hand around Sherlock's upper arm. Sherlock opened his eyes quickly, jerked away from John, and nearly ran his boyfriend down as he stalked darkly into the flat.
John glared after Sherlock but followed behind, finding himself and Sherlock, instead of going upstairs, going directlyto Baker Street's makeshift music studio.
Once they were in the room, the men were met with a few more boxes containing music. Most of them were elaborate pieces dedicated solely to piano and violin duets, while others were solely piano pieces. John spotted a few that he recognized upon riffling through one of the boxes while Sherlock paced the perimeter of the room, hands under his chin and a deep fury in his eyes.
Sherlock couldn't stop moving. He felt as if he were burning up inside, his chest on fire and his heart trying to claw out of his throat. If he were still, John would notice the slight tremble in his hands. There was only one other time that he'd felt this scorching blaze, and that was at Baskerville. There was no way that he'd been poisoned; this was natural, self-inflicted dread that came from nowhere and was highly illogical.
Sherlock was vaguely aware of John speaking behind him as he made another lap around the room.
"I think maybe we should stick to the ones you picked out. I can pick up on the music quickly enough and it's pretty familiar. Do you think we should start of soft and slowly meld into a crescendo? Perhaps not a piece that jumps from mezzo forte to mezzo piano every fourth bar. Those annoy me to no end; they aren't consistent enough. What do you think, love? Love?"
John stopped talking and watched as Sherlock walked straight to his violin and stared at it for several moments. John looked on in bafflement when Sherlock darkened his glare at three of his favored musical pieces and swiped his arm across them in a mighty swing, sending them scattering across the room.
"Oi, Sherlock!" John said as he moved towards his love, "What's wrong with you? That wasn't-"
Sherlock spun around and took John by the arms and drew him extremely close and kept a firm grip on his arms as his gaze flew all over John's face.
"Sherlock…?"
"John, I need you to forget everything we've practiced, and choose a piece that you want. I don't care how ridiculous or flamboyant it is, just choose music that you want. Something that you are familiar with. Just…choose something that makes you happy, John."
John tilted his head and carefully led Sherlock to sit on the bench beside him and he rubbed Sherlock's arms up and down. What was he going on about?
"Okay, love, calm down for a moment…and tell me what is going through your mind. Alright?"
Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, shot up from the seat, and began pacing the small space between the piano and his violin on the stand.
"John, there is no logical reason for me to feel this way, but I am worried, John. Worried." He spat, "This killer is taking out the competition one by one and both of the victims had something in common: they were committed to someone. Granted, Nora's fiancée had been dead for over a year, but she was still committed wholly to her. He's close to some of the competition. Tomorrow is the rehearsal and every living competitor will be there – he'll be there too. John, don't you see?"
Sherlock spun around and stalked to John and took him by the shoulders.
"He could possibly target you. I would lose you on a frankly bad note, probably after choosing a song you don't like, and I would never…I wouldn't be able to…" Sherlock closed his fists and tried to suppress the awful dread and anger that rose in his chest, despite none of these thoughts being valid or logical.
John pulled Sherlock into his lap and wrapped his arms tightly around the agitated man. Stress was getting to him, it was apparent. No matter how brilliant Sherlock was to everyone, John knew the human side to him, and very few people do well with competitions within a three day time span – let alone trying to solve a murder along-side it. John gently rubbed Sherlock's arms and kissed his upper arm as the younger man sat stark still with his chin lowered to his chest. John pressed his head against' his love's shoulder and held him close. Sherlock really wasn't good at emotions, so John had to steer him in the right direction.
"Sherlock, there's no need for you to worry about me. I can fight if I have to, Scotland Yard will be there, and I will have you with me. We're going to be alright." John turned Sherlock's chin so he could meet his eyes, "Okay?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a mighty breath, "Alright."
John planted a tender kiss on his detective's lips and pulled him in tighter. After a few moments of comfort, Sherlock peeled himself away and caressed John's face before walking over to the box of music pieces.
"What exactly do you have in mind, John?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.
A moment later, strong arms were sliding around his waist and a firm chest was pressed warm against his back. Sherlock let out a breath and rested his arms atop John's arms. Warm breath tickled his ear and Sherlock closed his eyes against the open mouthed kiss on his neck.
"I have the perfect song in mind," John whispered, "all I need you to do is follow me."