A/N: I think I kind of liked this chapter. Plenty of research and my own little original thing here and there. For one, I think you can tell the first immediately. I really wanted to have it set like you will see since it will be definitely better when I bring said change back later.
Gott... being vague is not my usual cup of tea. Hm... Ah, whatever. The usual drill: Read/reviw/fav/follow.
I apologize for my epic skills of not editing any of these chapters. Beware the grammar and spelling mistakes I have.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (How long should I have this here?)
Chapter 12 – Dimmed
I recognized the man Sherlock was going to greet me to before the detective could utter a word. Mostly due to my profession, but partially since he was the one man who seemed to actually show interest in helping those I deemed needed it. He held a moral mind compared to the others who dismissed my words like some annoying banter. He definitely left a mark in my book and I smiled once I recognized the man
"Lestrade!" I shouted and the man with disheveled hair and more than a weeks' worth of stubble turned to look at me with raised brows. They rose even further once they took in the voice to my face. A smile followed but it was one of complete surprise. That is, until he saw the detective. Then he rolled his eyes before making his way over to me. All surprise left his features by that point.
"Doctor Watson, nice seeing you, mate. Haven't spoken to you since the last Translucence ordeal you brought to my attention. How's the hospital these days?" He shook my hand firmly before resting it against his side.
I shrugged, "The usual. If it's not some drug attack, it's always something to do with the violent vicinity. We have had a few cases with unstable Discoloured and Sombres but nothing remarkable I'll admit." The only truly interesting thing that happened since my last intervention with Lestrade was meeting Sherlock Holmes in the ER along with his posh excuse of a brother who I haven't heard from since the information he left me.
Speaking of which, I should probably burn that when I get home. I didn't have the chance to and then last night I was in a state of disarray mixed with restraint. I don't believe in Mycroft's motives to keep this from Sherlock, but I guess it is for his own good in some sort of way I cannot comprehend at the moment.
If Sherlock spotted that, he would lose trust in me and I didn't want to lose that. Not as his newly acquainted friend and possible mate.
Lestrade nodded, "I can relate. Is that why you have been chasing this reckless kid here?" He jabbed his thumb over to Sherlock and the man in question scoffed, grumbling about not being a kid or the other.
I laughed, "Actually he found me and I seemed to have found my path mingling with his. I suppose it's too late to leave now considering I'm sharing a flat with him."
Lestrade seemed more surprised with the flat than anything, "Oh? So he actually let somebody live with him? That's a first. When I first knew him, he would live in all these places alone since he said he couldn't bear the company of any person he ever met. You must be something special-"
"That's enough Lestrade." I glanced at Sherlock's face and wanted to smirk when his face seemed tinted just a twinge darker. That was one of the pluses of Monochromism. You could tell easier when a comment affects someone which, if it wasn't yourself, made it all the more amusing. You don't have to rely on color. Although, seeing his pale complexion turn red probably wouldn't be too bad either. "The murder, if you will. I would rather see it before Anderson intervenes and destroys everything of worth."
The detective inspector chuckled, but didn't let Sherlock pass as easily as I thought, "And who are you going to let diagnose the body if Anderson isn't allowed?"
"You were talking to him a few seconds ago. Do I need to state it any further?"
Lestrade turned to look at me then to him before mulling over the same issue I had when I met Sherlock: morality or curiosity.
Curiosity won, as it always seemed to, and Lestrade moved aside, leading the way to the murder. Sherlock smiled grimly though I could see that distinct glint in his eye. He was fascinated with the murder. Or any murder perhaps. Either way, I didn't know if it was worrying or… intriguing?
"The victim is a woman, went by the name Florence Gale. She was of age 34 and according to Iridescence, she was definitely a Monochrome. They also clarified she wasn't a Sombre or Discoloured. The murder weapon is like all the others. Suicide." Once we reached the entry room, Lestrade handed me a white scrub to wear over my clothing and I slipped it on effortlessly before following them into the living room where a vial full of white and grey splattered pills laid strewn next to a corpse.
"I highly doubt suicide is the cause of death, Lestrade. It's amusing to realize that even though centuries have passed with your sort of occupation and you still like to assume the easiest conclusion is the right one. How predictable." Lestrade bristled a little but I saw it fizzle away quickly. He was used to this.
Well, he did know Sherlock longer than I did. I suppose I would react the same if I were in his shoes.
I slipped my gloves on and patted a mask into the pockets of my scrubs before walking over to the inspector.
He glanced at me and nodded me forward, "Go ahead doctor. I need him and if he needs you to do his work, I have no say against that. Just know that I give you both five minutes to relay whatever you find. After that, I will have to lead you off the scene."
"More than enough time," Sherlock murmured but was already entranced with the murder, looking under the corpse's nails and at her hair. He was analyzing anything and everything and I would give anything to see how his mind worked. It was amazing. Extraordinary.
Gears roaming through his skull like clockwork. Each thought and rambling accusation scrolling through the machine like some sort of generator. Fascinating.
I shook myself out of my stupor. Get it together John. You are not here to marvel at Sherlock. You are here to figure out how this person died and who might have done it. Not this soul mating business that you never even showed interest in before this man. Actually, why should you change? It's not like he has shown any visible sense of acknowledging you as such. Why start now?
I winced but knelt before the body and begin to check for discolorations and anything out of the ordinary.
A smile fell on my lips triumphantly even though my pride was over the murder cause of a dead woman.
It only took me a moment to see what the cause was, "Potassium Cyanide poisoning."
Lestrade took out his notepad and a pen, clicking the end, "Oh? How so if you don't mind me asking, doctor."
"Not at all. This person has been exposed to cyanide over a long period of time from the looks of it and the pills only quickened it towards the end. The skin is red from the chemicals not allowing oxygen to get to the cells. When I neared the individual, their breath, although almost undetectable, had a distinct bitter smell to it which seemed to accompany the foam that is protruding from the mouth. That mixed in with the clear erratic motions stressed on the body and the pills following suit, I would diagnose that this was due to cyanide poisoning." When I looked up, I glanced at Sherlock and then at Lestrade. Sherlock was grinning to himself while Lestrade was surprised but in an impressed way.
I did well. That's good. I suppose it is all thanks to the military for that. I have seen plenty of people use these pills when we have to take the more guilty ones into interrogation. I have known men who had to use them themselves. Overall, I knew the symptoms of a common cyanide pill and the knowledge that this was now being used as common suicide – or murder – tactics did not settle well.
"Can you tell if it was murder or suicide, John?" Sherlock questioned and I shook my head. "Ah, well I suppose you did well despite the fact that you have much to learn." He probably meant it as a compliment but I found it bitter-sweet. Mocking my knowledge but at the same time impressed by it. That detective. He had a way with words that seemed to cause confliction. He probably did it on purpose.
"Did the Iridescence clarify if the victim was depressed in any manner?" Sherlock asked the inspector and Lestrade replied a negative. Nodding to himself, Sherlock stood.
"Any color aspects I should be aware of?"
"None except for the common ones expressed in the most recent murder spree," the inspector responded curtly.
Sherlock smirked, "Oh this is brilliant then! Absolutely grand! This murder has only gotten more interesting! Ah I love a good murder. A serial killer at that. Always wishing to get caught and deliberately avoiding it."
"Sherlock!" I hissed, pinching my nose.
He looked at me innocently, "Yes?"
"Care to introduce us to your apparent euphoria?"
Sherlock sighed reluctantly, "This was not done by the same individual as the other murders. This is someone new altogether. In fact, it is more of a copy-cat killer than anything considering you have said they have the same nails, scleras, and the like. That being said, there were a few other signs to clarify this. The fondness expressed in the former murders were dropped here. Bruises aligned the wrists and throat. Also, the hand itself of the murderer is different. Very much so. There are distinct impressions left along the lower jaw and bridge of the nose to infer that the murderer forced the pill into her mouth before suffocating her to the point that she would have to swallow it by default." He paused, amused. "Like I said, not a suicide."
Lestrade nodded while scribbling along the notepad in his palms. I was surprised how much he actually got written down. I probably would have contributed a few things here and there, but I was too busy being overwhelmed by the man's deductions. Was this how he was in every single one of his cases? If so, it was going to take a while to get used to this. This was breath taking and alluring.
And damn him for making it like that.
Damn this. Damn that. I seem to like combining that word to him like it was a nickname. I really should stop that before I let it slip, not that he would mind anyway.
The detective walked out of the living room with a "farewell Lestrade" and motioned for me to follow. I was making my way but Lestrade stopped me.
"John, I hope you don't mind my prodding, but… are you and him possibly…" I paused, tempted to brush it aside again. "It's just, when you were near him and especially when he was deducing and doing his normal antics, I could see a distinct white aura around you and him. I don't mean to prod, mate. It's not my intentions. I'm just a tad curious."
Mulling over what to say, I sighed and nodded.
"Yeah, but I doubt he will ever realize. You have known him a long time, Lestrade. He is intelligent in everything knowledgeable but oblivious in the social and human of life. Whatever the case, I've gotten used to it. I think as long as he keeps being his childish and abruptly confusing self, I will manage being the one to keep him out of danger."
Lestrade patted my back and pushed me out the door, "Well, best of luck, mate! I will say that if nothing happens by the next case, I might have to interfere!" We both laughed at that and he waved goodbye before shutting the door.
I, on the other hand, took quick and contrasting heavy steps to the cab. Each step was like concrete that matched my heart thumping to the delegating fear of mating.