020 - [voice]
[There was finally a break in the case. After going through countless pictures of work from tattoo parlors, Sherlock and John found the specific one described by Mr. Vaughn, the latest victim of the Left Arm Bandit, as they'd begun to call him. As it turned out, things were not as simple as just finding whoever had the tattoo. By law, that man, Li Luis, was dead. Long dead, if documents were to be believed, after a house fire in the previous November. The body was burned beyond recognition, but like Luis, was missing a left arm. Therein lay the curiosity. Luis lost the arm in an accident at the brewery where he worked. Were he not dead, he'd be the perfect suspect.
But Sherlock was fairly certain that Luis wasn't dead. No one else on the island had that tattoo-- it was a custom job. Whatever the official documents said, Sherlock was now operating under the belief that they were wrong. Vaughn's attacker had both arms, but one didn't match the other. Whoever the attacker might be, he had the ability to transplant one used limb for another. A little digging into the brewery history around the time led Sherlock to the man that fired Luis. He was missing for over a week at the time of Luis' supposed death, and was never found. No known enemies, no affiliations with the companies, no habits of staying out too late. On top of that, Luis had a history of violence, both sober and drunk. Most importantly, arson and murder charges that never held any water. Luis had the motivation, the means, and the state of mind. The puzzle pieces were there, but they still had to be connected. And of course, it's always difficult to prove that a dead man actually isn't. But he's done it before.]
[It's only after he tries to think back to last November in Port news that Sherlock realizes he's been stuck here for a year. It's an odd feeling that comes up in light of this. There's a cavalcade of faces he can think of that have come and gone, while he's still here. John's is one of them, even if he is with him again. He'll be hard pressed to admit it, but Sherlock misses London. As full of intrigue as Siren's Port is, it's not his city, not his home, not his battlefield. The flat isn't Baker Street, the violin isn't the Stradivarius, the eyes on him when they think he's not paying attention are caped children and not Mycroft.
This becomes frustrating to dwell on, so he doesn't for long. Sherlock flips on the NV, for the twentieth time talking to a mass community of strangers he was meant to relate to, and largely could not. If one strains their ears, they might be able to hear a trace of exhaustion in his voice.]
I hope the Core is a little more creative than a zombie apocalypse this year. That theme is beaten to death nightly, I'd think. And I hope you've all learned not to take candy from strangers. Entertaining though it may be when you do.
But Sherlock was fairly certain that Luis wasn't dead. No one else on the island had that tattoo-- it was a custom job. Whatever the official documents said, Sherlock was now operating under the belief that they were wrong. Vaughn's attacker had both arms, but one didn't match the other. Whoever the attacker might be, he had the ability to transplant one used limb for another. A little digging into the brewery history around the time led Sherlock to the man that fired Luis. He was missing for over a week at the time of Luis' supposed death, and was never found. No known enemies, no affiliations with the companies, no habits of staying out too late. On top of that, Luis had a history of violence, both sober and drunk. Most importantly, arson and murder charges that never held any water. Luis had the motivation, the means, and the state of mind. The puzzle pieces were there, but they still had to be connected. And of course, it's always difficult to prove that a dead man actually isn't. But he's done it before.]
[It's only after he tries to think back to last November in Port news that Sherlock realizes he's been stuck here for a year. It's an odd feeling that comes up in light of this. There's a cavalcade of faces he can think of that have come and gone, while he's still here. John's is one of them, even if he is with him again. He'll be hard pressed to admit it, but Sherlock misses London. As full of intrigue as Siren's Port is, it's not his city, not his home, not his battlefield. The flat isn't Baker Street, the violin isn't the Stradivarius, the eyes on him when they think he's not paying attention are caped children and not Mycroft.
This becomes frustrating to dwell on, so he doesn't for long. Sherlock flips on the NV, for the twentieth time talking to a mass community of strangers he was meant to relate to, and largely could not. If one strains their ears, they might be able to hear a trace of exhaustion in his voice.]
I hope the Core is a little more creative than a zombie apocalypse this year. That theme is beaten to death nightly, I'd think. And I hope you've all learned not to take candy from strangers. Entertaining though it may be when you do.