[Sherlock BBC] {Fic}
Title: Cycle 1/Round 4: AU
Series: thegameison_sh
Genre/Warnings: AU, semi-graphic character death
Rating: G
Characters: Dr John Watson, D.I G Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, mentions of Mary Watson
Word Count: 742
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
“I didn't kill my wife!”
He was desperate, exhausted, wrung down to bones and anger and they weren't listening. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they sat on their chairs, in the set of their shoulders and the small movements of the D.I's fingers over the file he held loosely in his hands. They didn't believe him. They had already made up their minds.
“Then who did?”
“I don't know!” He didn't know, he didn't. God, please believe me. If I knew I would tell you!
“Did you see him?”
“Yes! I fought with him!”
“Well, then what did he look like? Tall, short? Caucasian? What colour was his hair? What colour were his eyes?”
“It was dark!” He slammed his fists down on the table. “I came out of the bathroom and he was there! Mary was... Mary was...” His throat closed on her name. He could still see her, sprawled across the bed. She had been waiting for him. It was their first anniversary and she had wanted to do something special. God, the way the candlelight glistened in the dark spread of blood across the sheets, the way her left foot, hanging over the edge of the mattress, twitched and twitched and twitched even though he knew with one look that she was long gone.
“Dead. Her throat had been slit, ear to ear,” The DI finished for him. “While you were conveniently in the shower. So tell me, Dr. Watson,” and he leaned forward, too recklessly far forward for confronting a military man suspected of slitting his wife's throat, “Why I should be looking for a killer you can't describe, who you fought with but who left no marks on you, who left no traces in your flat, when we have the murder weapon found at the scene of the crime with your prints all over it. It hardly seems logical, does it?”
“It's my razor. Of course it's got my prints on it!”
“And your wife's blood.”
John Watson; orthopaedic surgeon, Major in the RAMC, husband, widower, and murder suspect, fisted his hands and swallowed back his despair.
The DI leaned back in his chair. “You see,” he started. “I don't know about most other people, but I'd have thought it rather standard to keep one's razor in the bathroom. By the bathroom mirror, in the convenient and quite nice, I must say, stand that you had there. It's a very nice straight razor, by the way.”
John flinched. It had been a wedding gift from his best friend Bill.
“But what I can't understand from your story, is how did this other man who killed your wife get his hands on it when you were in the bathroom?”
A cool puddle of dread settled in John's gut. His stomach flexed, and bile flooded up to sit lingeringly at the back of his throat. “He must have been watching us.”
“Having sex?”
John's voice was quiet. “Yes.”
“Any idea why?”
And swift as that the anger was back. “No!” he shouted, the table bearing the force of his fists again. “Biding his time, maybe? It makes no sense! We were vulnerable, he could have killed us both then!”
“But he didn't,” A new voice interjected sharply. “Why not? Was it perhaps because he liked to watch? Or, was it that he wanted you off guard, relaxed, and separated. No, he didn't want to kill you both. Just your wife.”
John eyed the new man warily. He was pale and dark with features both distinctive and striking, and he filled the open doorway with presence more than form.
“Sherlock, what are you-”
“Who are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man introduced himself, pale eyes alight with an insufferable surety of self that John was not yet in the position to say was entirely undeserved. “And you, Lestrade, have bungled this case phenomenally.”
“Now just wait a minute, Sherlock. I didn't call you in-”
“You didn't have to. I saw your ineptitude condemning this man yesterday. Now it may be too late to find Mrs. Watson's killer, for surely he's run to ground. He has connections. He'll be well-hidden by now.”
“What makes you so certain?” Lestrade sounded disgruntled but resigned.
“Because I'm a genius.”
.
Series: thegameison_sh
Genre/Warnings: AU, semi-graphic character death
Rating: G
Characters: Dr John Watson, D.I G Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, mentions of Mary Watson
Word Count: 742
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
“I didn't kill my wife!”
He was desperate, exhausted, wrung down to bones and anger and they weren't listening. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they sat on their chairs, in the set of their shoulders and the small movements of the D.I's fingers over the file he held loosely in his hands. They didn't believe him. They had already made up their minds.
“Then who did?”
“I don't know!” He didn't know, he didn't. God, please believe me. If I knew I would tell you!
“Did you see him?”
“Yes! I fought with him!”
“Well, then what did he look like? Tall, short? Caucasian? What colour was his hair? What colour were his eyes?”
“It was dark!” He slammed his fists down on the table. “I came out of the bathroom and he was there! Mary was... Mary was...” His throat closed on her name. He could still see her, sprawled across the bed. She had been waiting for him. It was their first anniversary and she had wanted to do something special. God, the way the candlelight glistened in the dark spread of blood across the sheets, the way her left foot, hanging over the edge of the mattress, twitched and twitched and twitched even though he knew with one look that she was long gone.
“Dead. Her throat had been slit, ear to ear,” The DI finished for him. “While you were conveniently in the shower. So tell me, Dr. Watson,” and he leaned forward, too recklessly far forward for confronting a military man suspected of slitting his wife's throat, “Why I should be looking for a killer you can't describe, who you fought with but who left no marks on you, who left no traces in your flat, when we have the murder weapon found at the scene of the crime with your prints all over it. It hardly seems logical, does it?”
“It's my razor. Of course it's got my prints on it!”
“And your wife's blood.”
John Watson; orthopaedic surgeon, Major in the RAMC, husband, widower, and murder suspect, fisted his hands and swallowed back his despair.
The DI leaned back in his chair. “You see,” he started. “I don't know about most other people, but I'd have thought it rather standard to keep one's razor in the bathroom. By the bathroom mirror, in the convenient and quite nice, I must say, stand that you had there. It's a very nice straight razor, by the way.”
John flinched. It had been a wedding gift from his best friend Bill.
“But what I can't understand from your story, is how did this other man who killed your wife get his hands on it when you were in the bathroom?”
A cool puddle of dread settled in John's gut. His stomach flexed, and bile flooded up to sit lingeringly at the back of his throat. “He must have been watching us.”
“Having sex?”
John's voice was quiet. “Yes.”
“Any idea why?”
And swift as that the anger was back. “No!” he shouted, the table bearing the force of his fists again. “Biding his time, maybe? It makes no sense! We were vulnerable, he could have killed us both then!”
“But he didn't,” A new voice interjected sharply. “Why not? Was it perhaps because he liked to watch? Or, was it that he wanted you off guard, relaxed, and separated. No, he didn't want to kill you both. Just your wife.”
John eyed the new man warily. He was pale and dark with features both distinctive and striking, and he filled the open doorway with presence more than form.
“Sherlock, what are you-”
“Who are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man introduced himself, pale eyes alight with an insufferable surety of self that John was not yet in the position to say was entirely undeserved. “And you, Lestrade, have bungled this case phenomenally.”
“Now just wait a minute, Sherlock. I didn't call you in-”
“You didn't have to. I saw your ineptitude condemning this man yesterday. Now it may be too late to find Mrs. Watson's killer, for surely he's run to ground. He has connections. He'll be well-hidden by now.”
“What makes you so certain?” Lestrade sounded disgruntled but resigned.
“Because I'm a genius.”
.