Sherlock fanfic: 'Burn Me from the Outside In' - ch1
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It was a quiet evening at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was slouched in his chair, plucking idly at his violin - at least, he did when he remembered it was in his hand. The angry bubbling of the kettle and the occasional murmur of exasperated disgust floated in from the kitchen to mix with the occasional twang of Sherlock’s violin to breach the comfortable silence that enclosed the flat. Everything was calm, and warm, and relaxed.
Sherlock was sick of it.
Yes, the past few hours had been rather nice; sitting with John and watching some stranger on the television produce gourmet meals as they ate Chinese take-away from the container, Sherlock’s chair comfortable and the cold outside kept at bay by the warmth of the fire... But that had been hours ago and here he still sat: Idle. Lazy. Bored.
The past few days had been too quiet for his liking, the all too familiar itch to just do something was starting to settle under his skin and Sherlock took a moment to consider how long he could go without scratching it. He needed something to do other than stare listlessly into the kitchen, John’s movements more interesting by far than the hogwash still playing on the now muted TV. He needed some action. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to roam the desk and settle on his phone, which remained dark, silent. He sighed. What he really needed--
The sound of a car hastily drawing up outside seemed to echo his thoughts and as Mrs Hudson answered the agitated knocking at the door, Sherlock allowed himself a smile. By the time Detective Inspector Lestrade burst into their flat, Sherlock had grabbed what he needed (including John, who spluttered as he downed his still-too-hot cup of tea) and was waiting impatiently by the window.
“What’s happened?”
Lestrade wasn’t put off by the lack of greeting, having known Sherlock too long to be anything but resigned to the Consulting Detective’s abrasive ways.
“Murder; a nasty one. We’re having some trouble identifying the woman...” he trailed off, and Sherlock turned from his position at the window to look at him.
“But not the murderer?”
“There was...” Lestrade hesitated a moment, before continuing, “a message. An envelope - bohemian, blue ink used. It’s addressed to you.”
The sudden silence in the room was nearly unbearable, each of the three men repressing their reactions from memories of a few months prior.
“We’d better get going then” John said to break the quiet. Sherlock nodded sharply in agreement, pushing away the imagined and overwhelming smell of chlorine, before striding from the apartment leaving John and Lestrade to follow.
~
The car ride didn’t take very long, and soon they were pulling up outside an unfamiliar pub. Sherlock’s eyes roamed the building as he stepped out of the barely parked car, taking in the worn but clean state of the obviously aging building. A single sign hung above the door, depicting a simple black lizard painted onto a red backdrop. Sherlock followed Lestrade into the building, John following along silently behind him as they veered past the first door and started upstairs.
“We’ve only got a couple of people on site with this one. I, ah... I thought it best it was kept as quiet as possible before you could get a look,” Lestrade explained over his shoulder, “This place is split in two. Downstairs is a cafe with the storage room and a small kitchen out back. Upstairs is the bar.”
“And I wonder where our victim is,” John muttered quietly to himself. Sherlock heard the sarcastic comment anyway and repressed a smile as Sally Donavan came down the stairs towards them, retying her hair back as her eyes narrowed when she saw who approached.
“Freak.”
“Sally. And how are you this evening?” Sherlock said, barely pausing as he brushed past her, still following Lestrade. John stopped and turned sideways on the narrow stairwell to let the Sergeant pass: a move which went unnoticed by Sally as she paused, blocking John’s path as she turned to face Sherlock again.
“Can’t you tell?” She called after him spitefully and Sherlock’s smirk was evident in his voice when he replied.
“Tell what? That you’ve just been, ah... talking to Anderson in one of the storage rooms upstairs?” Sherlock turned to give her a deprecating look. “Really Sally, your hair is a mess as it is, no one’s going to notice the difference after Anderson’s had his hands through it. Or was I meant to comment on the fact that Anderson’s changed his deodorant to try and fool me? You smell completely different today than you usually do after one of your many trysts.”
Sally was red in the face by the time he was done, mouth open in outrage, spluttering noises and cussing being her only rebuttal. Sherlock turned around to the sounds of John trying to placate her. He left him to it, following Lestrade up the rest of the stairs and into the room beyond. The happy, smug feeling of leaving someone so very speechless left him immediately and he froze in place in the doorway. Sherlock’s gaze flickered over the body spread out on the floor in the centre of the room, the familiar eyes, face and hair. Usually the first words out of Sherlock’s mouth after seeing a victim at a crime scene were deductions and facts - but not this time.
He swore.
Loudly.
~
John sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, standing back as Donavan surged past him, broiling with rage. Sherlock certainly knew how to win his fights, though John doubted it would help the man in the long run. Of course, it no use telling Sherlock that; he would just wave an elegant hand and nod, agree that in future should be more polite to people - - and then he'd continue on exactly as he always had.
John shook his head, trying to hide his amusement at the thought. There really was no changing the man. He started up the stairs after the subject of his thoughts, but stopped when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out, hoping almost unconsciously that it wasn’t Sarah because he probably didn't have enough time to think up a convincing lie as to why he couldn't make dinner sometime this week.
1 TEXT
received from: UNKNOWN NUMBER
Eyebrows drawing together, John quickly skimmed the text, ignoring the dread that pooled in his stomach. It was nothing. A prank. Some stupid kids who thought it'd be funny... Despite this, he had just opened his mouth to call for Sherlock when the man in question swore violently from inside the room above. John’s head snapped up at that and he climbed the remaining stairs quickly, calling out to his flatmate as he did so.
The feeling of dread grew with his every step.
~
Geoffrey Lestrade had known Sherlock for five years. Five years of watching the younger man swoop in and take charge of crimes that he was supposed to solve, five years of being annoyed and angry and maddened and just generally in awe of the guy as he jumped from problem to murder to puzzle, nothing standing against the onslaught of pure thought that Sherlock Holmes armed himself with. Always composed, always one step ahead of everyone else and always unfeelingly, unfailingly logical. He’d heard and seen a lot of impossible things in those five years; some things he will never forget and some things he wished he could... but Lestrade had never, ever heard Sherlock Holmes swear and he’d certainly never seen him look like he’d just been punched in the gut (even after he had been punched in the gut, that one time - the memory still made Donavan smile). So his shock was understandable when, instead of the usual deductions, the first word out of Sherlock Holmes’ mouth was a loud, wretched “Fuck”.
Lestrade will deny it later - much later - but he jumped at the sudden foul language, and his gaze moved between Sherlock and the woman’s body quickly, the look in the Consulting Detective’s eyes frightening him more than a bit.
“Sherlock!” John’s voice came from the hallway as his footsteps fell heavily on the stairs, the noise seemingly bringing Sherlock back to the present. Lestrade watched as guilt and - was that fear? - passed rapidly over the younger man’s usually closed face. Sherlock seemed to have forgotten the other man was even there as he finally wrenched his eyes away from the corpse on the floor, spinning to block the doorway.
“No John, don’t!”
Lestrade could see John as he stopped just outside the doorway - his face had a confused trepidation about it as he stared up at the taller man who now had a hand on each of his shoulders, barring him access to the room. Lestrade could also see the exact moment where, for perhaps the first time since the two had met - since they had moved in together since the first letter since the bomb and the pool and the hospital and all of that - John ignored what Sherlock had told him to do. His eyes shifted from Sherlock’s face to look behind the taller man and into the room, and the horror that slowly dawned in those blue orbs was unmistakable.
Lestrade saw all of this and more - but he didn’t see the way Sherlock’s eyes slammed desperately shut against what was to come, his young, tired face drawn in helpless resignation.
~
The moment John’s eyes moved past his own, Sherlock knew there was nothing more he could do. Not yet. He squeezed John’s shoulders gently before letting his arms drop wearily to his sides, and he stood aside for John to move into the room should he wish.
The army doctor stepped forward slightly, as though in a daze, eyes still clinging to the motionless figure on the floor. Her legs had been quite obviously broken and her hair was matted with blood that had dried and caked on her face. It hadn’t been enough to hide her identity though. Not from Sherlock and certainly not from John. A single letter clutched in her lifeless hand suggested that this might have been the idea: that they would recognize her. Would know exactly what had happened. What, Sherlock had no doubt, would continue to happen if they didn’t stop it.
He was brought out of his morbid thoughts by a chocked off sob and he glanced at John just in time to see the elder man clapping a hand over his mouth as he backed quickly away from the room and bolted down the stairs. Sherlock hoped he made it outside - John may be a doctor, but he hated throwing up; more so than the average person. If anything, he seemed embarrassed to show such a weakness, especially in front of others. It was this thought that made him turn away from the room and follow John’s path downstairs, absent-mindedly noting that Lestrade was, in turn, following him.
Sherlock had barely made it onto the staircase before he was once again stopped by Donavan, only this time she was accompanied by Anderson, who was looking at him with a cruel smirk.
“That was awfully quick, even for you. What’s the matter Freak? Are your tricks not working tonight?” Donavan snipped at him, and he ignored her as he continued past her. He was not quick enough to get past Anderson before the forensic scientist added in his own comment.
“I think even the freak can see what’s happened here; it’s pretty obvious. Going by the fact that she was killed in a shoddy little bar, her slutty clothes and her injuries, I think it’s safe to say that she was a stupid whore who wasn’t honest with her pimp. She’s a warning.”
Sherlock didn’t even realised he’d done it, but he had blinked and suddenly he was pinning Anderson up against the wall of the stairway, one hand twisted in blue jumpsuit for leverage and his other arm pressing hard down against the other man’s collarbone to keep him in place. He ignored Donavan and Lestrade’s exclamations of shock as he snarled his response quickly and harshly into Anderson’s face.
“First of all, this bar is old, not ‘shoddy’ - other than the young woman lying dead upstairs, this place is immaculate. It’s a community pub and cafe, not a lecherous tavern like you no doubt frequent. Secondly, the woman’s clothes have nothing to do with it, though they perhaps tell us what she was doing when she was taken.” Anderson’s eyes were wide - with confusion or fright, Sherlock didn’t know; he offered an explanation anyway. “Dancing, Anderson. She’s dressed up for a night on the town, though she’s not at all ‘slutty’. She’s no more promiscuously dressed than Donavan’s usual state of attire. A lot less so, in fact. Thirdly; her injuries are extensive and I have no doubt that you think yourself completely capable in listing them. However, I rely on one man’s expertise in this matter and as you no doubt have noticed, he’s not able to assist at this time - quite possibly not at all.” Here Sherlock moved closer to his captive, aware of Donavan and Lestrade waiting to intervene if things took a more violent spin. “One more thing; if John heard any of the shit that fell out of your mouth just now... Let me assure you, Anderson, that you will regret it.”
Sherlock pushed himself away from Anderson, letting the shorter man drop back to lean against the wall he had just been pinned against. Donavan moved forward to place a calming hand on his shoulder as she turned to glare at Sherlock, who, feeling vindictive, stopped whatever she was going to say with a few choice words.
“I’ll give you something though Anderson; you were right in your certainty of yourself in one regard. You’re practically an expert when it comes to whores.” He turned continued downstairs, throwing another comment over his shoulder. "Oh, speaking of - Sally? So sorry about earlier: my mistake. Anderson hasn’t changed his deodorant at all. Must’ve been someone else’s I smelt on you.”
“That’s enough” Lestrade interrupted whatever attacks his sergeant was about to hurl back in reply as he moved downstairs. “Sherlock, you ever threaten one of my people again and I’ll have you locked up. Now, if the woman upstairs isn’t a prostitute as Anderson quite logically suggested, then who the hell is she?”
Sherlock paused as he reached the open door, the sidewalk just a few feet away. He closed his eyes briefly before turning around and leaning tiredly against the doorframe, the three people above silently judging his every move. He wondered briefly what they were seeing? What they observed? Surely not the Sherlock Holmes they were used to at crime scenes; surely even they, ignorant as they were, could see the difference. Logical. Intrigued. Cold. Factual. Excited. He didn’t feel any of those things at the moment. There was no mystery in this; no puzzle. Anderson had, in fact been right, though Sherlock hated to admit it. This was a warning.
Unconsciously running a hand through his dark curls, Sherlock raised his eyes to meet the stares from above and let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He realises he can't consciously remember drawing breath since John looked past him and into the room beyond, effectively viewing the destruction of everything they had built together.
“The woman upstairs is not a whore, as Anderson so ridiculously suggests. Her name...” Sherlock swallows back the bile desperately trying to rise up his throat. “Her name was Harriet Watson. John’s sister.”
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