Fic for rileyc: A Killer Christmas
Title: A Killer Christmas
Recipient: rileyc
Author: piplover
Beta: pennin_ink
Wordcount: 2330
Author’s note: I didn’t manage to everything you requested, but I hope you enjoy this nonetheless. Happy Holidays!
The first killing happened three weeks before Christmas. The second, a week later, and the third three days after that. There had been no apparent connection between them, save that the victims had all been members of London’s more elite society.
Sherlock, with his usual twists of logic and scorn, had determined the identity of the killer within an hour of being presented with the facts by a close-to-desperate Lestrade.
Now, armed with the killer’s identity and an educated guess as to his next victim, the three of them navigated their way through one of London's most glittery, high end apartment complexes.
“How could you not realize it was the bookkeeper?” Sherlock finally blurted as he crowded into the overly ostentatious lift with Lestrade and John, absently pressing the button for the fifth floor.
“Account specialist,” John murmured, running a hand through his hair self consciously as the doors closed and his image stared back at him, reflected from the gaudy mirrors which made up the walls.
Sherlock watched as Lestrade adjusted the cuffs of his coat, then found his eyes wandering to the perfect view of John’s backside in the reflection. He allowed himself a moment to catalogue and save the image before firmly turning his eyes back to his own mirrored gaze and his mind back to the case at hand. There would be time later to remember and fantasize.
“I thought you didn’t like to repeat yourself?” Lestrade finally grumbled when it became obvious Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything more until he received a response.
“I only mean, I can understand the first murder throwing you lot off, that even gave me pause, but surely you should have noticed the callus pattern on the fingerprint you found. Even Donovan -”
“Enough!”
John’s voice had become stern, the tone brooking no argument. Even though Sherlock had been back for several months from his… time way… there were still certain things none of them spoke of, and Sgt Donovan was one of them.
Sherlock huffed out a breath but a moment later the lift stopped and the doors opened, sparing them all from the suddenly awkward silence.
The three of them entered a private hallway, heading toward the single door at the end. They would be the last of the team that had been assembled that night to take down the killer. A large force had been amassed to cover the lobby and surrounding area, and most of them were already hidden in place. In the flat itself would be Lestrade, Sherlock, John and two members of Lestrade’s team recently transferred in.
Upon Sherlock’s quizzical glance back at the Yard, Lestrade had merely raised his own eyebrow and tilted his head to indicate the newcomers.
“They’re replacements. I’ve had to do some restructuring of the team and they’re the poor sods who drew the short straw. Now,” he added, placing a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and using it to guide him toward his office, “play nice.”
John’s grin had been infectious, and Sherlock had merely nodded his understanding as the task force was assembled. Donovan’s absence had been louder than any of her tirades.
Now, as the door was opened by the fresh faced young man who had been introduced as Badri Singh, he could only sigh at the eager light glinting in his eyes. How Lestrade managed to deal with fresh faced rookies every day was beyond him.
“Detective,” Singh greeted, ushering the three of them into the flat. “Mrs. Hazel has been taken to her sister’s and we’re as prepared as we can be here.”
Lestrade nodded, motioning the young sergeant to lead the way as he detailed the entrances and exits and what measures had been taken to secure them. Sherlock turned to John, to see him smiling wickedly back at him.
“Were you ever that young and eager to please?” he teased quietly, his smile growing at Sherlock’s scowl. “Come on, let’s get ready. You said Thompson should be here soon. I’d rather be in place and wait a while than be caught unprepared.”
Sherlock smiled as he followed John into the living room, absently taking in the facts of Margaret Hazel’s life. Single, no children, but several lovers she entertained often. She came from money, but respected those who weren’t as well off, and worked with several charities. If not for the fact that she was the most likely to be murdered next, her life would be utterly dull.
“Must be nice to have so much money,” John sighed as they watched the other officer on their team, Sergeant Jennifer Camden, investigate the numerous windows one last time for any signs of tampering.
“What’s wrong with Baker Street?’ Sherlock asked, turning to John with a frown. “I think it’s perfectly lovely.” He looked around the flat, scowling at the hardwood floors and the plain white walls, the giant fireplace on the opposite wall and the furniture which would have cost more than John, Lestrade and Sherlock all made in a year. “It looks like a showroom. Why would you want to live in a place so…unlivable?”
John’s smile was softer as he met Sherlock’s eyes. “I guess it just comes from not having much. Everyone dreams of making it big, being able to afford a place like this.”
“Boring,” Sherlock scowled, tapping the toe of his shoe against the wood of the floor. It was the same color brown as the flooring in Mycroft‘s house. He despised it on principle.
“Oi, you lot,” Lestrade said loudly from the kitchen. “Our mark has been spotted heading up, so get yourself in place and let’s do this right.”
“Finally!” Sherlock sighed, tugging John over to their chosen hiding place near the fireplace, behind an overstuffed green couch which had been set at such an angle that they wouldn’t be detected until a person was right next to them.
Both men were unarmed, and were only there because Sherlock had convinced Lestrade that if he didn’t let them come officially they would only break in and beat the police to apprehending the suspect. Though all involved knew John would have prevented such a situation, it had seemed Lestrade was operating under the notion that keeping Sherlock close meant keeping an eye on him and preventing him from doing anything stupid.
“He’s reached the lift,” Lestrade murmured. The lights were on, as the victim was supposed to be home entertaining for the night. Lestrade was in the kitchen, hidden from view by the angle of the wall, while Singh and Camden had taken up position near the door.
The ding of the lift sounded loud in the suddenly quiet flat, and beside him Sherlock could feel John tense, getting ready for whatever may happen next.
All eyes were riveted to the door, listening to the faint scrabbling sound of lock picks before the handle began to turn. Beside him, John took a deep breath, a stillness taking over from his nervous excitement as the door slowly swung open.
The man who entered did not fit what most would consider the killer profile. In his mid thirties, with a slight paunch and balding, his glasses reflected back the light from the kitchen and hid his eyes.
He wore a brown suit, plain and nondescript as the rest of him, and black gloves on his hands. He carried no weapon, which fit with the profile, as all victims had been killed with something from within their own homes.
Sherlock tensed as he watched him slowly make his way into the room, his shoes well worn and making no sound on the wooden floor. In just a moment either Lestrade or Singh and Camden would reveal themselves, and another killer would be taken off the street.
Of course, that was when it all went to hell.
****
Later, when events had settled in everyone’s minds, no one could recall what alerted the man that something was off. Not even Sherlock, who had been watching him with all of his keen perception turned his way, could say what had frozen him in his tracks.
But freeze he did, his head swiveling around the room as though trying to hone in on something only he could detect. Then, without warning, he turned for the door and bolted.
Everyone erupted from their hiding spots, Singh and Camden the first to tackle Thompson to the ground. A table splintered, and curses and grunts filled the air as Lestrade shouted orders into his radio as he emerged from the kitchen, securing the doorway and giving his two sergeants room to apprehend the suspect.
Somehow Thompson escaped, wriggling away from his would be captors and leaving a bloody nosed Camden in his wake.
Sherlock leapt into the fray next, with a perhaps unhealthy amount of glee, and found himself trading blows with a surprisingly strong opponent. Thompson landed a particularly vicious punch to his jaw, leaving Sherlock staggering back, and then John was there.
Before he could seize him, however, Thompson lunged for the nearest weapon at hand, the fireplace poker, and swung it blindly about him like a child playing swords.
The crack of John’s arm as he landed a solid blow seemed to echo in Sherlock’s head, and for one moment time seemed to freeze.
As though in slow motion, he watched as John fell, clutching his arm while trying to frantically avoid any further blows, his face pinched tight in a grimace even as he struggled to keep his eyes on the man before him.
Without thought, Sherlock tackled Thompson to the ground, using his greater height and strength to restrain the man’s hands. He banged Thompson’s wrist against the floor until he was forced to drop the poker, but even then he couldn’t seem to contain himself.
Knelt above the dazed man, Sherlock heard a stream of growled invectives coming from his mouth, his voice guttural in a manner he seemed to have no control over. Without hesitation he punched the man several times, until strong arms wrapped around his waist and hauled him up.
“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s bellow was sharp and hoarse, as though he had been yelling for some time. “Enough, he’s out! Enough!”
For a moment Sherlock struggled to get away, to get back to the man who had hurt John, when sense came back to him and he found himself panting, suddenly weak in Lestrade’s arms.
“Singh is going to secure him, and backup should be here any minute. Go see how John’s doing,” Lestrade ordered, and released Sherlock slowly, as though afraid he would have to grab him again.
Sherlock ignored him as he staggered over to where John was sitting propped up against the couch, holding his arm close to his chest and very pale.
“Well, that was certainly more excitement than I bargained for,” he said conversationally as Sherlock knelt down next to him.
“John -” Sherlock stopped, uncertain what to say, and found himself instead clutching John’s shoulder tightly as he looked him over for other wounds.
“Just a broken warm,” John assured him, smiling around his grimace. “I’ll be in a cast for a while, I’m afraid.”
Sherlock’s eyes darkened, and he lowered his head as he growled, “He’s very lucky he didn’t do anything worse, or no one would find his body.”
“Sherlock… Sherlock, stop that. We’ve both had worse than this,” John protested, trying to meet his friends’ eyes.
“I mean it, John.“ John’s eyes widened slightly at the venom in Sherlock’s voice, and a slight tinge of color came back to his cheeks. For a long moment there seemed to be only the two of them, the background fading away as Sherlock finally raised his head and met John’s gaze.
“Let’s get you taken care of and then back home,” he finally murmured, and helped John stand.
No one stopped them as they left the scene, though Sherlock could feel Lestrade’s eyes follow them out.
****
John was seen to by one of the young doctors he worked with as a locum, a man in his early twenties who stared at John with wide eyes as he recounted how he had come to be injured.
Sherlock watched their interaction with a studiously blank face, keeping his jealousy to himself and his comments to a minimum. Despite popular belief to the contrary, he knew when to show discretion.
After, as they climbed the stairs to 221B, Sherlock hovered by John’s side, his hand guiding him from the middle of the back as they ascended the steps. It was only after John was comfortably settled on the couch with a blanket over his lap and several pillows propping his arm up that Sherlock retreated to the kitchen.
His hands shook as he made two cups of tea, and as the water steeped he found himself holding onto the edge of the counter and breathing deeply. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that John was safe and mostly whole, that the fear gripping his heart and squeezing it still was unnecessary and unneeded.
When a hand touched his shoulder he started, slamming back into the kitchen table with a horrible screeching sound as the wood legs skittered across the floor. The two of them stared at each other for a moment in surprise, until John was the first to break, the giggle escaping him before Sherlock had fully recovered.
For a moment he considered being insulted, but he knew full well if the situation had been reversed he’d have the same reaction, and finally allowed himself to smile at his own taut nerves.
“Come here,” John finally said, a gentle smile lingering around his mouth as Sherlock complied.
They stood toe to toe for a moment, whole conversations passing between them before Sherlock leaned down and placed a delicate kiss on John’s mouth.
Their lips were slightly dry and chapped, and John tasted of hospital and stale breath. They kept their eyes closed, and breathed each other’s air, as the world settled around them. As firsts kisses went, it was neither passionate nor lustful. It was, however, perfect.
“Best early Christmas gift ever,” John sighed, and laughed at Sherlock expression as they separated.
They retrieved their tea and settled comfortably by the fire, sleepily watching the flames as their ankles met between the chairs and rested companionably together. Outside the wind picked up, the threat of snow looming on its gusts, and tomorrow there would be paperwork to sign.
But as the two men retreated to Sherlock’s room, hands clasped tightly together, the world faded away for a little while longer.
Recipient: rileyc
Author: piplover
Beta: pennin_ink
Wordcount: 2330
Author’s note: I didn’t manage to everything you requested, but I hope you enjoy this nonetheless. Happy Holidays!
The first killing happened three weeks before Christmas. The second, a week later, and the third three days after that. There had been no apparent connection between them, save that the victims had all been members of London’s more elite society.
Sherlock, with his usual twists of logic and scorn, had determined the identity of the killer within an hour of being presented with the facts by a close-to-desperate Lestrade.
Now, armed with the killer’s identity and an educated guess as to his next victim, the three of them navigated their way through one of London's most glittery, high end apartment complexes.
“How could you not realize it was the bookkeeper?” Sherlock finally blurted as he crowded into the overly ostentatious lift with Lestrade and John, absently pressing the button for the fifth floor.
“Account specialist,” John murmured, running a hand through his hair self consciously as the doors closed and his image stared back at him, reflected from the gaudy mirrors which made up the walls.
Sherlock watched as Lestrade adjusted the cuffs of his coat, then found his eyes wandering to the perfect view of John’s backside in the reflection. He allowed himself a moment to catalogue and save the image before firmly turning his eyes back to his own mirrored gaze and his mind back to the case at hand. There would be time later to remember and fantasize.
“I thought you didn’t like to repeat yourself?” Lestrade finally grumbled when it became obvious Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything more until he received a response.
“I only mean, I can understand the first murder throwing you lot off, that even gave me pause, but surely you should have noticed the callus pattern on the fingerprint you found. Even Donovan -”
“Enough!”
John’s voice had become stern, the tone brooking no argument. Even though Sherlock had been back for several months from his… time way… there were still certain things none of them spoke of, and Sgt Donovan was one of them.
Sherlock huffed out a breath but a moment later the lift stopped and the doors opened, sparing them all from the suddenly awkward silence.
The three of them entered a private hallway, heading toward the single door at the end. They would be the last of the team that had been assembled that night to take down the killer. A large force had been amassed to cover the lobby and surrounding area, and most of them were already hidden in place. In the flat itself would be Lestrade, Sherlock, John and two members of Lestrade’s team recently transferred in.
Upon Sherlock’s quizzical glance back at the Yard, Lestrade had merely raised his own eyebrow and tilted his head to indicate the newcomers.
“They’re replacements. I’ve had to do some restructuring of the team and they’re the poor sods who drew the short straw. Now,” he added, placing a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and using it to guide him toward his office, “play nice.”
John’s grin had been infectious, and Sherlock had merely nodded his understanding as the task force was assembled. Donovan’s absence had been louder than any of her tirades.
Now, as the door was opened by the fresh faced young man who had been introduced as Badri Singh, he could only sigh at the eager light glinting in his eyes. How Lestrade managed to deal with fresh faced rookies every day was beyond him.
“Detective,” Singh greeted, ushering the three of them into the flat. “Mrs. Hazel has been taken to her sister’s and we’re as prepared as we can be here.”
Lestrade nodded, motioning the young sergeant to lead the way as he detailed the entrances and exits and what measures had been taken to secure them. Sherlock turned to John, to see him smiling wickedly back at him.
“Were you ever that young and eager to please?” he teased quietly, his smile growing at Sherlock’s scowl. “Come on, let’s get ready. You said Thompson should be here soon. I’d rather be in place and wait a while than be caught unprepared.”
Sherlock smiled as he followed John into the living room, absently taking in the facts of Margaret Hazel’s life. Single, no children, but several lovers she entertained often. She came from money, but respected those who weren’t as well off, and worked with several charities. If not for the fact that she was the most likely to be murdered next, her life would be utterly dull.
“Must be nice to have so much money,” John sighed as they watched the other officer on their team, Sergeant Jennifer Camden, investigate the numerous windows one last time for any signs of tampering.
“What’s wrong with Baker Street?’ Sherlock asked, turning to John with a frown. “I think it’s perfectly lovely.” He looked around the flat, scowling at the hardwood floors and the plain white walls, the giant fireplace on the opposite wall and the furniture which would have cost more than John, Lestrade and Sherlock all made in a year. “It looks like a showroom. Why would you want to live in a place so…unlivable?”
John’s smile was softer as he met Sherlock’s eyes. “I guess it just comes from not having much. Everyone dreams of making it big, being able to afford a place like this.”
“Boring,” Sherlock scowled, tapping the toe of his shoe against the wood of the floor. It was the same color brown as the flooring in Mycroft‘s house. He despised it on principle.
“Oi, you lot,” Lestrade said loudly from the kitchen. “Our mark has been spotted heading up, so get yourself in place and let’s do this right.”
“Finally!” Sherlock sighed, tugging John over to their chosen hiding place near the fireplace, behind an overstuffed green couch which had been set at such an angle that they wouldn’t be detected until a person was right next to them.
Both men were unarmed, and were only there because Sherlock had convinced Lestrade that if he didn’t let them come officially they would only break in and beat the police to apprehending the suspect. Though all involved knew John would have prevented such a situation, it had seemed Lestrade was operating under the notion that keeping Sherlock close meant keeping an eye on him and preventing him from doing anything stupid.
“He’s reached the lift,” Lestrade murmured. The lights were on, as the victim was supposed to be home entertaining for the night. Lestrade was in the kitchen, hidden from view by the angle of the wall, while Singh and Camden had taken up position near the door.
The ding of the lift sounded loud in the suddenly quiet flat, and beside him Sherlock could feel John tense, getting ready for whatever may happen next.
All eyes were riveted to the door, listening to the faint scrabbling sound of lock picks before the handle began to turn. Beside him, John took a deep breath, a stillness taking over from his nervous excitement as the door slowly swung open.
The man who entered did not fit what most would consider the killer profile. In his mid thirties, with a slight paunch and balding, his glasses reflected back the light from the kitchen and hid his eyes.
He wore a brown suit, plain and nondescript as the rest of him, and black gloves on his hands. He carried no weapon, which fit with the profile, as all victims had been killed with something from within their own homes.
Sherlock tensed as he watched him slowly make his way into the room, his shoes well worn and making no sound on the wooden floor. In just a moment either Lestrade or Singh and Camden would reveal themselves, and another killer would be taken off the street.
Of course, that was when it all went to hell.
****
Later, when events had settled in everyone’s minds, no one could recall what alerted the man that something was off. Not even Sherlock, who had been watching him with all of his keen perception turned his way, could say what had frozen him in his tracks.
But freeze he did, his head swiveling around the room as though trying to hone in on something only he could detect. Then, without warning, he turned for the door and bolted.
Everyone erupted from their hiding spots, Singh and Camden the first to tackle Thompson to the ground. A table splintered, and curses and grunts filled the air as Lestrade shouted orders into his radio as he emerged from the kitchen, securing the doorway and giving his two sergeants room to apprehend the suspect.
Somehow Thompson escaped, wriggling away from his would be captors and leaving a bloody nosed Camden in his wake.
Sherlock leapt into the fray next, with a perhaps unhealthy amount of glee, and found himself trading blows with a surprisingly strong opponent. Thompson landed a particularly vicious punch to his jaw, leaving Sherlock staggering back, and then John was there.
Before he could seize him, however, Thompson lunged for the nearest weapon at hand, the fireplace poker, and swung it blindly about him like a child playing swords.
The crack of John’s arm as he landed a solid blow seemed to echo in Sherlock’s head, and for one moment time seemed to freeze.
As though in slow motion, he watched as John fell, clutching his arm while trying to frantically avoid any further blows, his face pinched tight in a grimace even as he struggled to keep his eyes on the man before him.
Without thought, Sherlock tackled Thompson to the ground, using his greater height and strength to restrain the man’s hands. He banged Thompson’s wrist against the floor until he was forced to drop the poker, but even then he couldn’t seem to contain himself.
Knelt above the dazed man, Sherlock heard a stream of growled invectives coming from his mouth, his voice guttural in a manner he seemed to have no control over. Without hesitation he punched the man several times, until strong arms wrapped around his waist and hauled him up.
“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s bellow was sharp and hoarse, as though he had been yelling for some time. “Enough, he’s out! Enough!”
For a moment Sherlock struggled to get away, to get back to the man who had hurt John, when sense came back to him and he found himself panting, suddenly weak in Lestrade’s arms.
“Singh is going to secure him, and backup should be here any minute. Go see how John’s doing,” Lestrade ordered, and released Sherlock slowly, as though afraid he would have to grab him again.
Sherlock ignored him as he staggered over to where John was sitting propped up against the couch, holding his arm close to his chest and very pale.
“Well, that was certainly more excitement than I bargained for,” he said conversationally as Sherlock knelt down next to him.
“John -” Sherlock stopped, uncertain what to say, and found himself instead clutching John’s shoulder tightly as he looked him over for other wounds.
“Just a broken warm,” John assured him, smiling around his grimace. “I’ll be in a cast for a while, I’m afraid.”
Sherlock’s eyes darkened, and he lowered his head as he growled, “He’s very lucky he didn’t do anything worse, or no one would find his body.”
“Sherlock… Sherlock, stop that. We’ve both had worse than this,” John protested, trying to meet his friends’ eyes.
“I mean it, John.“ John’s eyes widened slightly at the venom in Sherlock’s voice, and a slight tinge of color came back to his cheeks. For a long moment there seemed to be only the two of them, the background fading away as Sherlock finally raised his head and met John’s gaze.
“Let’s get you taken care of and then back home,” he finally murmured, and helped John stand.
No one stopped them as they left the scene, though Sherlock could feel Lestrade’s eyes follow them out.
****
John was seen to by one of the young doctors he worked with as a locum, a man in his early twenties who stared at John with wide eyes as he recounted how he had come to be injured.
Sherlock watched their interaction with a studiously blank face, keeping his jealousy to himself and his comments to a minimum. Despite popular belief to the contrary, he knew when to show discretion.
After, as they climbed the stairs to 221B, Sherlock hovered by John’s side, his hand guiding him from the middle of the back as they ascended the steps. It was only after John was comfortably settled on the couch with a blanket over his lap and several pillows propping his arm up that Sherlock retreated to the kitchen.
His hands shook as he made two cups of tea, and as the water steeped he found himself holding onto the edge of the counter and breathing deeply. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that John was safe and mostly whole, that the fear gripping his heart and squeezing it still was unnecessary and unneeded.
When a hand touched his shoulder he started, slamming back into the kitchen table with a horrible screeching sound as the wood legs skittered across the floor. The two of them stared at each other for a moment in surprise, until John was the first to break, the giggle escaping him before Sherlock had fully recovered.
For a moment he considered being insulted, but he knew full well if the situation had been reversed he’d have the same reaction, and finally allowed himself to smile at his own taut nerves.
“Come here,” John finally said, a gentle smile lingering around his mouth as Sherlock complied.
They stood toe to toe for a moment, whole conversations passing between them before Sherlock leaned down and placed a delicate kiss on John’s mouth.
Their lips were slightly dry and chapped, and John tasted of hospital and stale breath. They kept their eyes closed, and breathed each other’s air, as the world settled around them. As firsts kisses went, it was neither passionate nor lustful. It was, however, perfect.
“Best early Christmas gift ever,” John sighed, and laughed at Sherlock expression as they separated.
They retrieved their tea and settled comfortably by the fire, sleepily watching the flames as their ankles met between the chairs and rested companionably together. Outside the wind picked up, the threat of snow looming on its gusts, and tomorrow there would be paperwork to sign.
But as the two men retreated to Sherlock’s room, hands clasped tightly together, the world faded away for a little while longer.