Sherlock and John walked down the street where the blue and red police lights shone out onto the street and radiated off the surrounding buildings. They were in West London, a rather violent and uncivilised corner of London, well, so Sherlock thinks.
A few hours after Sherlock’s epidemic, Lestrade phoned up and said that he has a new case for the two of them. From the description that Lestrade gave Sherlock and John, it sounded like any normal murder, well, as normal as murders get around London. John on the other hand was persistent that Sherlock should stay home while John went and helped Lestrade, but Sherlock convinced John that he was fine, and that he could go.
Police cars were parked on the road, blocking off the street with the added help of police tape tied from one side of the road to the other and an ambulance was parked near an alleyway. Police men and women were hovering around and directing cars through to an alternative route.
Sherlock and John ducked under the police tape and walked up to the crime scene. Lestrade was talking to Sergeant Donavon next to the messy alleyway where the ambulance was parked. He spotted them and waved for them to come over.
As Sherlock and John walked over, Donavon turned and crossed her arms. ‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t the police’s favourite psychopath. Come to solve some more murders, freak
Sherlock rolled his eyes, biting down a nasty comment. ‘Yes, Donavon. And if I might ask you to please swallow all psychopath-related comments for tonight, I’m not up for consistently telling you that I’m actually a sociopath. And don’t object to it, just build a bridge and get over it.’
Donavon’s eyes were large with surprise, and Lestrade was left looking between Sherlock and Donavon with his mouth wide open.
Donavon raised her hands as a gesture of defence and backed away. ‘No need to ask me twice.’ And, at that note, she walked in the direction of where a police car was parked.
Lestrade took a breath and closed his mouth. ‘Uh…right then.’ Lestrade beckoned Sherlock and John to follow him and they did so down the alleyway where police men were taking photographs of a dead body.
‘The name’s Darryl Pierce, 32. He lives in North London and he’s the boss of the United Kingdom’s largest export and import industry.’ Lestrade waved his hand at the body. The man’s body was lying in a pool of blood, his lifeless eyes wide open in a frozen state of terror and a bullet wound right between his eyes. The only odd thing is that he didn’t have a stitch on him. No clothes what so ever.
‘Two weeks ago, he was supposed to go to Edinburgh for a business conference that was supposed to last about two days. When his wife called after the third day, obviously a bit worried, his co-worker said that he didn’t even arrive. He was then called on as missing.’
‘About two weeks had passed since then, and his wife’s been worried sick. Then about three hours ago, an elderly lady was walking past and she found his body.’
‘The medics said that he had been dead for about twenty four to forty eight hours. Now, we would’ve just passed this along as a murder, but we had have at least four of these murders just like this.’ Lestrade held up a plastic evidence bag with a bloody bullet in it.
‘Same bullets as the rest of them, all from the same gun.’ Lestrade rubbed his forehead. ‘Look, if you’ve got anything, tell me. I’m sick of this already. Four people have died.’ Sherlock looked at the body. He couldn’t deduce anything except the obvious fact that he was shot in the head.
‘Someone wants me not to get into this case.’ Sherlock said out loud.
John frowned and Lestrade raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What do you mean, Sherlock?’
Sherlock turned to the pair just as a police officer covered the body with a blue tarp. ‘The clear fact that he has been stripped of any clothing or accessories means that I can’t really deduct anything from the deceased. Either he was going on a walk of shame, or he was killed and dumped here in this way so that the killer didn’t want me to find out anything about him.’ Sherlock frowned at Lestrade. ‘How did you know who he was?’
‘We’ve been looking for him for two weeks. The wife gave us a picture of him and we identified him from that.’
‘Has the wife been informed of her husband’s death?’ John asked.
Lestrade nodded. ‘She’s at the station now, waiting to see the body.’
Sherlock nodded. ‘You said that there have been at least four of these murders.’
‘Yep. Including this guy, a lady and two other men.’
‘What were their jobs? Where were they found?’
Lestrade frowned. ‘Well, the lady was an American. She was a part of the American Embassy. She was found in a shallow grave off the A1. The first man was found rotting a ditch across the road from a primary school. One of the kid’s parents found him. He was the boss of a worldwide broadcasting company. And the last sucker was found in the Thames, stuck in one of the iron gates under a low bridge. He was a politician that just came into power into the British Parliament.’ Lestrade sighed. ‘Yeah, it’s been a busy few weeks at the office.’
‘And all these people were killed in the exact way? Gunshot to the head?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Yes. Used a 6 calibre bullet, and shot by the exact same gun, so say the biolistic team.’
John watched Sherlock’s face with confusion. ‘You’ve got an idea, haven’t you?’
‘Several, in fact.’ Sherlock walked past Lestrade. ‘I’ll text you with the details.’ John ran to keep up with Sherlock, his short legs competing against Sherlock’s long legs.
Sherlock sighed as he slumped into his favourite armchair. Mrs Hudson had lit a fire so the flat was warm. John walked into the lounge room and looked at the back of Sherlock’s head.
‘Well, would you like to share your ever-so-brilliant theories with your flatmate?’ John asked, removing his coat and hanging it on the hook on the door.
‘Well, all the victims were people of importance to some giant business or other.’ Sherlock said, staring into the flames. ‘They were sitting on jobs with high a pay role and possibly well-known to some of the population.’ Sherlock rubbed his eyes and stared out the window. Night had just covered London.
‘You don’t think that this might be the work of Moriarty?’ John asked with a scared tone in his voice.
‘You’re scared of him? Even when he’s dead?’
‘Of course I’m scared of him. He did strap a bomb to my chest.’ John sat by his computer and turned it on. ‘And for all we know, he may be alive. He’s a slippery snake that one is.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘No, this isn’t him. I saw him shoot himself in the brain. This person doesn’t want me progressing in this case, and anyway, Moriarty had a certain type of style in murdering people. This isn’t it.’
John sighed and logged into his blog. ‘Well, now we have to watch out for another serial killer. I’m a little scared, but you’re calmed by serial killings so at least you get to sleep well at night.’
Sherlock chuckled and a lop-sided smile appeared on his face. ‘So, what? Because of this job, you can’t sleep at night?’
John’s eyes grew wide as he read a message that was on his blog. ‘Uh…Sherlock?’
‘What are you afraid of? Some murderer throwing a rock covered in C-4 through your window?’
‘Sherlock.’ John’s voice quivered.
Sherlock laughed. ‘Oh, I know. The ghost of Moriarty might be in the shadows of your bedroom watching you sleep.’
‘Sherlock!’ John practically yelled. Sherlock sat up and turned to face John, but he was frozen, facing his computer screen.
Sherlock heaved himself into standing and stood over John and read the message on John’s blog over his shoulder:
Sherlock,
If you enjoy the petty existence that you have on this world, I suggest that you keep away from the case that your friend Detective Inspector Lestrade has asked you to deduct and is currently attempting to foolishly solve. I have no interest in killing you, but I can. And your little ex-military hedgehog blogger friend if necessary. I’m warning you. I have attempted to kill you once, but judging by your appearance at the fourth murder site, that attempt has failed.
I’m watching you, Mr Holmes, and all the ones that you hold most dear.
The Most Feared.
Sherlock frowned at the name. ‘The Most Feared? Bit heavy, I think.’
‘He called me a hedgehog.’ John scoffed. ‘I don’t look like a hedgehog.’
Sherlock looked at his blogger friend and raised an eyebrow. The criminal was rather observant. John did look a little like a hedgehog in a way. ‘Well…’
‘Oi! I don’t look like a hedgehog. You, on the other hand, look like a otter.’ John retorted. Sherlock’s eyebrows went up in surprise.
‘Wait, he said that he tried to kill you once?’ John frowned. Then he gasped. ‘Wait, he was the one who poisoned you!’
Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Well, he obviously didn’t try very hard.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘He poisoned me with methyl orange. Rather toxic stuff.’ John looked at Sherlock with a confused look on his face. ‘What?’ Sherlock asked. ‘I knew what it was because I recognised the symptoms. Though it must’ve been a rather small dose, otherwise I would’ve been dead by last night.’ Sherlock walked into the kitchen and looked around. The only thing that he had yesterday. Sherlock racked his brain. What was it?! Then Sherlock realised. He had a cup of tea.
Sherlock quickly ripped open the tea jar and sniffed inside the jar. There was something, but it was very faint. Sherlock opened the bin and tipped the tea bags into the bin. Sherlock turned to look at John. He had stood when Sherlock barged into the kitchen.
‘Who is this guy?’ John asked. ‘Why is he doing this to try to get you off the trail?’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘I have no idea. But just by telling me not to continue on this case and attempt to kill me has made me even more eager to solve this one.’ Sherlock looked down at John. ‘E-mail Lestrade. Tell him about the note and ask him to send me the files on the victims.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘We’re going to do this. Even if this “The Most Feared" guy tells us not to.’
Sherlock and John worked through the night, trying to figure out how the victims were connected to each other with the handy help of Lestrade and his files. But Sherlock soon realised that they were going nowhere.
Sherlock sighed and slumped into his armchair again. His watch read 6:47. The early morning sun filtered through the closed curtains. The fire had died out a few hours back. Sherlock turned to look at John. He had fallen asleep at his computer about four hours ago. He seemed peaceful when he slept, Sherlock had noticed. His eyes closed, his face relaxed and his breathing steady. The filtering rays slipped through the curtains and fell apon John’s head, illuminating his light brown hair. Sherlock felt something in him click. His eyes grew large and he quickly faced the other way, towards the burned out fire.
What’s going on with me?! What the…am I …what the hell is going on?
Sherlock looked up at the skull that sat upon his mantelpiece. Hey, what are you looking at? I know it seems weird, but I have no idea what I’m feeling right now…I don’t even feel. I space myself from emotions. I need to. But has my heart started to rule my head? I’ve always said that you shouldn’t let it. Sherlock let a single tear slide down his cheek. Oh God, now I know.
He turned to look at John’s sleeping face again. His head laying on the victims files. Sherlock smiled slightly and turned away again. He looked up at the mirror hanging over the fireplace. He was actually blushing. Another tear fell.
Oh my God…am I…am I actually falling for my flatmate? For John?
Sherlock slowly stood and approached John, trying to be as quiet as he could. Sherlock never figured that he was gay, but that now he had realised his emotions, it was actually rather obvious. So obvious that it practically slapped him in the face and told him to wake up. Sherlock smiled again at John. He was fine with it. It was okay. Then he realised Mrs Hudson’s delicate observations and comments from when John first moved in. Mrs Hudson thought that John was gay. Little did Sherlock know that he was the one who was gay instead. But was John gay as well? John never was good with keeping a solid relationship with his girlfriends, even if it was Sherlock that was drawing them away.
Then Sherlock cleared his throat and wiped away his tears and walked to the curtains and ripped them open. The sound of the curtains and the sudden blast of light to John’s face woke him. He groaned and squinted his eyes at the light. As John raised his arm to shield his face from the sunlight, Sherlock watched him.
John raised his head and groaned again. A piece of paper from one of the victim’s files was stuck to his cheek from where he was sleeping. ‘Jesus, Sherlock.’ John looked at Sherlock with bleary eyes. Sherlock didn’t notice the bleariness. Just his piercing blue eyes. Sherlock straightened himself. ‘Come along John. It’s time to wake up.’
John nodded slowly, then realised the paper that was stuck to his face and pulled it off. Sherlock had to turn away from John to keep him from noticing his smile and another tear that fell to the floor. Sherlock only woke him so that he could see those blue eyes again.