(no subject)
Title: Happily ever after
Author: dweo
Words: 749 words
category: AU
Rating: PG13
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Pairings: None
Warnings:Character Death, mentioning of torture and drugs
Summary: When John moves 221B Baker street things don't go as planned and he finds himself the suspect of 4 murders.
AN: Written for thegameison_sh The challenge was one change. So I decided to go all out.
Sherlock's mind was firing with deductions.
Victim: Male, 30 years old.
Naked: the remains of an expensive suit on the floor next to the body. Clothes cut away.
Thin: malnutrition, due to lack of interest, not lack of funds, going by the clothes.
Plastic in the corner: Tied up with hemp rope, brought to the crime scene by the killer, bought especially for the job.
Cause of death: blood loss, due to many cuts, deep and shallow; painful way to die.
Knife: Surgeon's scalpel, same one used for the clothes.
Cocaine bottle, needle and elastic on the table: junkie with too many enemies.
Sherlock was walking through the room, when an object caught his attention. He stopped next to the broken violin. The sight of it made his heart clench, such a waste of a fine instrument. The violin was thrown to the wall with force, before carelessly dropped on the floor. Probably just out of a sadistic need to hurt the victim.
Sherlock stepped back, cataloging all he knew about this death. Uninteresting, boring, predictable, even the police should be able to figure this out with his help. He stood back watching them move around, taking picture, collecting their evidence.
And then watching detachedly as they removed his body.
***
John wondered how he ended up here. A few days ago he had told Mike Stamford he couldn't afford London on his army pension and now he was being interrogated by Scotland Yard on the suspicion of at least four murders.
He knew he should have stayed in bed this morning. But no, he had to follow his Good Samaritan side and now here he was.
Without shoelaces and belt.
He looked at the mirror, having a good suspicion what was going on behind it and he scowled. They left him for far longer than was necessary, he was sure.
Then the door opened and Lestrade entered, closely followed by the dark haired man who got him in this mess in the first place.
John looked at the gray haired DI, the one he had tried to explain things to, the one that had promptly arrested him.
"Doctor Watson, care to explain how you knew so much about the crime scene?"
"Would you believe me if I said it was a ghost who told me?" John's eyes locked with the tall man standing behind Lestrade.
"A ghost, that's a new one," Lestrade said, as he looked through the file in front of him, reading through the statement John had already given.
"Ex-army, a doctor. Pretty impressive. You're living in a small bedsit, must be lonely and frustrating." John sighed; he got enough of these sorts of comments from his therapist.
"It's 221B Bakerstreet now, actually. I moved out of that bedsit two days ago."
Lestrade's hand stilled and he looked up slowly.
"What did you say your new address was?"
"221B Bakerstreet. Why?"
The DI closed his eyes, shook his head and opened them again.
"No matter, not important."
The man standing behind him rolled his eyes.
"Tell the idiot that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." John relegated the words and watch with some fascination how the DI turned white, dropped John's file and with in seconds had John pinned to the wall by the throat.
"Who told you that?" Lestrade actually growled.
"I told you," John managed to choke out, "a ghost."
"Ghosts don't exist."
"He said you'd say that. He also asks why you still haven't captured his killer. It's been more than year. And even a blind idiot could see who did it. "
"Damn it, Sherlock, can't you do anything like a normal person, or is even dying too boring for you?" The look of disgust on Sherlock's face was answer enough.
The rest of the afternoon was spent between convincing Lestrade that he had not lost his mind and solving every single cold case in the Yard. Apparently being a ghost meant you had little else to do than to solve crimes and insult people.
And since being death meant serial killer cabbies couldn't kill you again, he even managed to clear John's name. Although John still wasn't sure how an incorporeal ghost manage to swallow that pill.
John smiled contently as he sat down on the sofa in 221B Bakerstreet that evening. It would take some getting used to, sharing a flat with a ghost, but at least he would never be bored.
Author: dweo
Words: 749 words
category: AU
Rating: PG13
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Pairings: None
Warnings:Character Death, mentioning of torture and drugs
Summary: When John moves 221B Baker street things don't go as planned and he finds himself the suspect of 4 murders.
AN: Written for thegameison_sh The challenge was one change. So I decided to go all out.
Sherlock's mind was firing with deductions.
Victim: Male, 30 years old.
Naked: the remains of an expensive suit on the floor next to the body. Clothes cut away.
Thin: malnutrition, due to lack of interest, not lack of funds, going by the clothes.
Plastic in the corner: Tied up with hemp rope, brought to the crime scene by the killer, bought especially for the job.
Cause of death: blood loss, due to many cuts, deep and shallow; painful way to die.
Knife: Surgeon's scalpel, same one used for the clothes.
Cocaine bottle, needle and elastic on the table: junkie with too many enemies.
Sherlock was walking through the room, when an object caught his attention. He stopped next to the broken violin. The sight of it made his heart clench, such a waste of a fine instrument. The violin was thrown to the wall with force, before carelessly dropped on the floor. Probably just out of a sadistic need to hurt the victim.
Sherlock stepped back, cataloging all he knew about this death. Uninteresting, boring, predictable, even the police should be able to figure this out with his help. He stood back watching them move around, taking picture, collecting their evidence.
And then watching detachedly as they removed his body.
***
John wondered how he ended up here. A few days ago he had told Mike Stamford he couldn't afford London on his army pension and now he was being interrogated by Scotland Yard on the suspicion of at least four murders.
He knew he should have stayed in bed this morning. But no, he had to follow his Good Samaritan side and now here he was.
Without shoelaces and belt.
He looked at the mirror, having a good suspicion what was going on behind it and he scowled. They left him for far longer than was necessary, he was sure.
Then the door opened and Lestrade entered, closely followed by the dark haired man who got him in this mess in the first place.
John looked at the gray haired DI, the one he had tried to explain things to, the one that had promptly arrested him.
"Doctor Watson, care to explain how you knew so much about the crime scene?"
"Would you believe me if I said it was a ghost who told me?" John's eyes locked with the tall man standing behind Lestrade.
"A ghost, that's a new one," Lestrade said, as he looked through the file in front of him, reading through the statement John had already given.
"Ex-army, a doctor. Pretty impressive. You're living in a small bedsit, must be lonely and frustrating." John sighed; he got enough of these sorts of comments from his therapist.
"It's 221B Bakerstreet now, actually. I moved out of that bedsit two days ago."
Lestrade's hand stilled and he looked up slowly.
"What did you say your new address was?"
"221B Bakerstreet. Why?"
The DI closed his eyes, shook his head and opened them again.
"No matter, not important."
The man standing behind him rolled his eyes.
"Tell the idiot that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." John relegated the words and watch with some fascination how the DI turned white, dropped John's file and with in seconds had John pinned to the wall by the throat.
"Who told you that?" Lestrade actually growled.
"I told you," John managed to choke out, "a ghost."
"Ghosts don't exist."
"He said you'd say that. He also asks why you still haven't captured his killer. It's been more than year. And even a blind idiot could see who did it. "
"Damn it, Sherlock, can't you do anything like a normal person, or is even dying too boring for you?" The look of disgust on Sherlock's face was answer enough.
The rest of the afternoon was spent between convincing Lestrade that he had not lost his mind and solving every single cold case in the Yard. Apparently being a ghost meant you had little else to do than to solve crimes and insult people.
And since being death meant serial killer cabbies couldn't kill you again, he even managed to clear John's name. Although John still wasn't sure how an incorporeal ghost manage to swallow that pill.
John smiled contently as he sat down on the sofa in 221B Bakerstreet that evening. It would take some getting used to, sharing a flat with a ghost, but at least he would never be bored.