Theatre Dramatics

Chapter Three

Two months before

'Yeah, Sherlock Holmes, you're going to like this one.' And Lestrade hung up.

'We found him like this.'

'Oh,' Sherlock faintly heard John behind him.

'John I would've thought this be nothing to you,' Anderson said, while cracking his gloved fingers mockingly.

'Anderson what have I told you about speaking whilst others are trying to think? You bring down the IQ of the whole neighbourhood, Anderson. No wonder why you work with the dead ones, you can't hurt them; they're already brain dead.'

John raised an eyebrow, pulling on his other rubber glove. Lestrade snorted, receiving a rather nasty stare from Anderson. 'Sorry.' Lestrade did not sound sorry.

'Hush Lestrade. John Watson, what do you think?'

John looked a little bewildered. The three men looked at him as if waiting for him to say something marvellous or make some brilliant deduction like Sherlock always did. He only ever remembered Sherlock asking for John's opinion on two occasions. One; was when they had first worked on a case together, and two; was when Sherlock was feeling bored and had wished to be amused. Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, he looked neither bored nor in need of amusement.

John stepped forward. They were in the middle of an abandoned theatre situated in the dodgy parts of London. The wooden floorboards creaking under John's foot, seemed to be the loudest thing in the much too silent room. 'Well, I think whoever did this was very creative. A little morbid, but, nonetheless, creative.'

Indeed they had been creative. The victim was lying, well, the victims torso was lying on the floor, however the victims head, hands, feet, legs and arms were spread out seated on a chair in a circle around the torso.

'No shit, Sherlock,' Anderson said.

The three other men stared at Anderson. 'You know I can hear the Australians suffering from your stupidity, Anderson.' Sherlock said simply.

'You –' Anderson began but Lestrade cut in.

'Yes, I would agree with that, John.'

'Lestrade, you said I would like this one. I don't see anything special other than a creative murder, and quite frankly, I have seen much better. He didn't even remove the eyes out of their sockets. An opportunity missed I think Lestrade.'

'Sherlock,' John hissed. 'Have some respect.'

Sherlock, stared at John, then at the floor, but did not say anything back.

'Yes, well … no, we thought you might like this.' Lestrade bent over picking up a plastic evidence bag and handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock examined the torn piece of paper briefly, handing it to John.

'It's alright to die, it's the only thing you haven't tried,' John read out.

'Yes … it sounds … familiar.'

'There was also this,' Lestrade went on, handing Sherlock another evidence bag. This piece of paper looked rather torn, and quiet bloody. There were several inscriptions, numbers and codes splattered across the page.

'Where did you find this?'

'Well, it had been sewn into the man's foot.'

Sherlock took the statement in as though Lestrade had said nothing at all. 'These papers are torn. They obviously don't match, even someone as stupid as Anderson could work that one out.' Anderson began to open his mouth, but was cut off once more with a menacing look being shot his way by both Sherlock and Lestrade. 'No – but I want to know where these papers came from, where their matches are.'

'That's the thing, we did.' Lestrade said pointedly.

'So now it gets interesting.'

'This man wasn't very good with knives,' John observed, looking at the cuttings of the body.

'Oh, thank god, somebody said that finally,' Sherlock heaved.

John ignored him. 'But why would they do this? Why?'

Lestrade threw his hands up as if to say he had no idea. 'The man's brother has a book that matches the rip of the quote.'

'But that isn't right. He wouldn't be so stupid. Not even Anderson would be so stupid as to leave a book around the place that had the rips of a murder.'

'Yes. Exactly. But this is what you'll like, when we tested the paper for finger tips, we found some. Many actually. On both of the papers. But the thing is, the finger prints changed.'

'Changed?' John asked. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that the finger prints changed. I don't know how, but when we got them tested they changed within the time period of say only ten minutes testing, according to Molly.'

'Are you – '

'Sure? Yes, I am sure. Molly is sure. She's not an idiot. She knows what she's doing when it comes to this stuff. She said that the finger prints from the quote changed. And the victim's brother, Mitchell Levi, says that he's never seen that book with the ripped page before today.'

John muttered something along the lines of 'don't they all' while he shook his head in utter confusion.

Two months later

'Sherlock Holmes, you get your good-lookin' British arse down here right now!' John breathed in and out several times heavily, picturing as many ways as possible to cage Sherlock Holmes in his head before Sherlock came stumbling down the stairs, his dressing gown fluttering open. John tried to look away, but only met the man's deep blue eyes and almost felt bad for yelling. Almost.

'I'm sorry, but did I just hear you say that I had a good-looking British arse?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

Sometimes, I just want to strangle the man. John thought to himself frustratingly.

He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. 'Yes. I did. But that's not the point. The poi – '

'Actually, whenever we are on the subject of my brilliant body, it is always the point John Watson. I don't see what could be better to discuss rather than my good-looking British tushi.'

John snorted. 'Did you just say tushi?'

'Yes, John Watson, I did. I found the word rather exasperating to start with, but I soon enough found reason to use it. Perhaps I could find reason to touch yours ... someday…'

John's jaw dropped; not because he was in absolute horror and shock, but because he was sure he hadn't heard right. However, if what he heard was correct, then he surely thought he would enjoy it. John just looked at Sherlock. Honestly, you're sometimes the dumbest genius ever.

Sherlock bit his lip.

John breathed in steadily and as subtly as possible. 'Why? Why are you doing that now?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes smiling. 'Doing what, John?' Sherlock asked as innocently and as dumbly as possible.

'This,' John said, bitting his lower lip as quickly as possible. If he started thinking like that god wouldn't even want to watch what would happen.

Sherlock blinked, trying not to laugh. 'John Watson,' he said, sounding way too truthful for the truth. 'My lips are parched.'

'Who the bleeding hell says parched?' John squeaked. 'And if your lips are so goddamn parched then go drink some bloody water, instead of standing there with your hair all tousled like that while talking about tushies and biting your parched lips!'

Sherlock seemed to show absolutely no emotion. 'John Watson, what do you want from me? I was just about to go shampoo my tousled hair.'

John had to blink a few times. He cleared his throat roughly. Did I just say that Sherlock's hair was tousled? Oh for the love of god. John turned around avoiding Sherlock's heavy gaze, pointing to the messy papers, newspaper cuttings and folders of Sherlock's past, present and much to John's annoyance, future case.

'Yes,' Sherlock said. 'Those are papers John, very good observance. You're improving.'

'Shut up Sherlock.'

'Now John Watson, there is no need to be rude is there, my dear?'

'My dear, what is wrong with you this morning Sherlock?' John leant back against the wooden old-fashioned desk near the window.

'Nothing, John Watson. I'm just opening my British blue eyes a bit more. I have learnt to observe, not just see.'

'Sherlock, I'm not the poetic one here. Have you read my emails to my ex-girlfriends? Actually don't answer that, I know you've read them. Of course you've read them. But what –?'

'You know exactly what I mean my dear, John Watson.' Sherlock interrupted. Somehow, John picked up what Sherlock was getting at.

'Look, I may understand … and because of that … you need to stop doing this.' John slammed his hand down on the desk, the cases papers fluttering around in the cool London breeze.

'Stop what?'

John rolled his eyes. 'This! Sherlock, you are obsessed! You couldn't solve it, get over yourself! There hasn't been another victim like that since. It's finished. Let the poor man mourn; stop letting him think that there's hope that you'll find the murderer.'

'And, John Watson; what is your point?' I wish; I hope …

'There are plenty of other cases and no matter how many you solve, you always seemed to go back to this one. Why, Sherlock?' John's voice dropped.

'I'm interested.' Sherlock shrugged, trying to deter himself from rushing over to John and hugging him; he knew exactly what John was getting at and he hated himself for be such as snob when he liked that John was thinking that.

'Interested in what? Interested in him?' John stabbed an image of a rather tired but pretty looking man, his eyes the colour of wet grass in the winter. 'Because I have never seen you get so involved in a case. What is this about now? Do you just want the satisfaction of solving another unsolvable case, or is it the emotion to care that you have buried deep down in you somewhere?'

He does … Sherlock began to think with a smile on the inside. No, he can't, but what if he does …

'Well, Sherlock?'

'John Watson …' Sherlock's voice nearly cracked. He couldn't help himself anymore; he made his way over to the man, placing his hands over John's, moving it away from the image of the victim's brother.

John made the undeniable perfect mistake of looking up into Sherlock's eyes; then he saw his soft pink lips and … 'You don't mean this, Sherlock … you don't care. You like the chase, you like the thrill. You crave the gore, the mystery and the pain.'

'Yes …' Sherlock let his thumb rub over the soft skin of John's hand. 'Yes, I do … I do care.' He let his other hand trail down the back of John's spin, sending electric shivers all over John; he nearly gasped in surprise. 'John Watson, I do.'

And, before John Watson could stop himself, he was cupping Sherlock's sculpted face, the face of an angel, a fallen angel that John wanted to catch over and over again. 'You are so, so, beautiful.' He's ignoring the point. He's deliberately dodging my point.

'Only, because I've been lit up on the inside by somebody like you, my dear.'

'I need to kiss you. I want to kiss you.' I can be mad at him tomorrow. Later on. Later on …

'My dear, John Watson, do as you please …'