Cycle 3 Round 4 Results and standing!
Hiya!!!:
pennies_4_eyes of bwblack here with the results for this round. We had a blow out of amazing fics and close numbers with a tie for 1st place, a 3-way tie for 2nd place, and a tie in 3rd place as well. And again, only one vote separates the winners of first, second, and third places... So it's been an amazing round of fics!
Give a hand to my team! Joint First Place winners are: bwblack (#5) and messageredacted (#7), both from Team Sherlock, both with 7 votes each, collectively earning 6 canes for their team!
(5)
The corpse is a young looking girl in a blue dress, sprawled in the bathroom of a restaurant. Her brown hair flares around her head in a halo, wicking up water and blood from the puddles on the floor.
Amanda, says the corpse. My name is Amanda.
Sally seals the murder weapon into an evidence bag. The corpse’s grieving mother already identified her daughter, so the name doesn’t really help, does it? Maybe if the corpse could tell her a different name-say, the name of the murderer-that would be far more useful to everyone involved.
I was going to turn seventeen next week, says the corpse.
Anderson is analysing blood drops on the far wall and doesn’t give any indication that he
can hear the corpse telling him about her life, but Sally isn’t surprised, because it’s always like that. Sally’s different. She hears things.
Nothing useful, though.
I wanted concert tickets for my birthday. I wonder if my mother bought them. I hope she didn’t, now. It would have been a waste.
Sally doesn’t care about the birthday or the concert or the name. She doesn’t want to know any of this, because she can hear Holmes coming up the stairs, already haranguing someone about something and she really fucking wishes she could come up with a clue that he can’t see, something to show that yes, the long hours and the hard work and the harassment that she has
put up with for years were worth it because she’s just as good at her fucking job as the sociopath who sweeps in and solves the crime on a lark. But no, she can’t, because all the
fucking corpse wants to talk about is her fucking birthday present.
Don’t call me a corpse. I said my name was Amanda.
Fine. Amanda. Amanda was bludgeoned to death with a wine bottle, which still has bits of her hair stuck to the glass. The bottle was full, which meant that when it hit her, her skull broke first.
Holmes comes into the room in his ridiculous coat, with Watson close behind. Lestrade intercepts them, although Sally has long given up hope that Lestrade will actually hold firm and make them leave. Only a moment later, Lestrade is shooing everyone out of the room so his majesty can have some quality time alone with the c-with Amanda. Sally loiters outside the door, listening to Holmes start his deduction.
“The murderer can’t have been tall-see, anyone over six feet would have brushed against this as they entered the room-”
I don’t know what my mother will do with herself now that I’m dead, Amanda says. I hope she’s okay. I hope she knows I loved her.
Sally doesn’t need this. She doesn’t know where this ability came from, listening to the dead, but it’s always plagued her. She doesn’t want to know about their lives. She wants to know about their deaths, so she can help them. But the dead never want to talk about their deaths. Instead they just give her details that clutter up her thoughts, make her feel terrible. Sally is certain that Holmes won’t be haunted by thoughts of Amanda’s mother tonight, spending her first night alone without her daughter. But Sally is going to be up half the night, debating whether to call her own mother and tell her she loves her.
Sometimes, although she would never admit it, Sally wishes she were more like Holmes. He doesn’t care about the personal details of the lives of the victims unless they mean something
to the case. He wouldn’t get upset if a murder victim told him that they wished they could have seen their children grow up, or complained that they had only just met the love of their life and wanted more time. Holmes doesn't let humanity get in his way. That’s what makes him a good detective. But maybe it doesn't make him a good person.
Sometimes Sally wishes she could find a way to be both.
Holmes comes out of the bathroom like a bloodhound on a scent. Lestrade shouts a question out at him, hurrying to catch up.
“Just look at the body. Look at her elbows,” Holmes calls back to him impatiently.
“Her name is Amanda,” Sally says out loud. Holmes doesn’t pay any attention to her, already out the door of the restaurant. Lestrade shoots her a strange look and then wearily beckons her back inside to finish doing her job.
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(7)
The Powers Papers
Sunday newspapers were ritual in the Holmes family, the pecking order was set long before Sherlock been old enough to read, much less understand, the stories reported in them. At two he spent hours circling every S in the telegraph while his father poured over the Financial Times, his mother worked the puzzles in the Times and Mycroft composed angry letters to the editors at the Guardian. When Sherlock finished marking all the plurals and possessives in the paper, and Mycroft noted every out of place apostrophe, everybody passed the paper in front of them to the left and started from page one.
When each paper had been fully examined by all of them, the discussion hour began. This hour usually lasted for the rest of the day, and often felt like it lasted for days, years, or decades. Sherlock’s mother, father, brother and sometimes guests expounded on what they’d read, complained about Parliament, the Prime Minister, taxes, police, and the lowering standards of education, not just in Britain but in every country in the world, alphabetically.
Mycroft always paid such close attention to every word uttered by their father, eager to gain the man’s rare, silent nods of approval. In Sherlock’s memory those dinners were dull, interminably long, and full of terribly pompous, boring blather.
And for what? Nothing was ever solved. No governments were ever toppled, no reform ever enacted, nor any point conceded on any national, or even local, level because they wasted an entire Sunday arguing it!
So, while the rest of the family read every word, Sherlock skimmed. In his head, he plotted the murder of the editor of the Daily Mail. He plotted really fine, near perfect crimes against publishing, but nobody ever wanted to talk about them. The best he could manage was to bring the discussion around to prison reform, dull.
Then, in Sherlock’s 12th year, Carl Powers drowned. Sherlock read the article with more than usual interest. He even asked Mycroft to switch papers early so he could read more about the drowning.
Their father cleared his throat, a clear sign he disapproved of the commotion.
“Sherlock always takes an interest in stories involving children, they are the only things he can relate to, it is immature, of course, but he will grow out of it, in time.” Mycroft explained, stupidly. Mycroft had always been a know-it-all, but since entering university he'd become unbearable.
“That isn’t true!” Sherlock narrowed his eyes in anger.
“Isn’t it?” Mycroft asked, as if he were really curious and not purposefully goading his younger brother. “From the time you could first read, the boy in the bubble, the baby with the baboon heart..."
“I am always interested in children who are lucky enough to be out making news instead of stuck inside reading about it.”
“Those children died, Sherlock. Dying isn’t lucky,” Mycroft argued.
“And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier,” His father looked up over his paper and quoted a line from poetry.
“Walt Whitman,” Mycroft waved his hand dismissively.
“He was murdered,” Sherlock interjected before they got into the always contentious subject of comparative world literature.
“Walt Whitman was murdered?” Mummy frowned, “I thought he’d had a stroke... or was it tuberculosis?”
“Both, actually…” Father began.
“Carl Powers was murdered!” Sherlock interrupted, although as conversations went, a statistical analysis of the causes of death for poets wasn't too terrible.
“Carl Powers? Murdered?“ Sherlock’s father met his gaze, “Why would you assume that?”
“He was an accomplished swimmer, swimming his best event. He wasn’t on record pace so he shouldn’t have been too physically taxed, but still he died, just like that. And what of his shoes? They never found the shoes.”
“You can drown in two inches of water,” his father mentioned this fact often, none of them knew why.
“Carl Powers was murdered.”
“If you’re certain, write a letter to the authorities,” Mycroft loved letters.
“They won’t listen,” Sherlock sighed.
“They can’t listen if nobody is speaking,” Mummy put her pen down signaling the end of her puzzling.
“They’ll listen eventually, Sherlock, when you prove yourself,” Mycroft said.
“They never listen to you at The Guardian, or in the prime minister’s office, or at the BBC or…”
“One day they will,” Mycroft reached for the paper their mother had just finished. “You’ll make them.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he reached for the paper with renewed interest.
2nd Place was a 3-way tie between:jesse_kips (#14) from Team Watson, gayalondiel (#21) from Team Watson as well, and Irisbleufic (#26) from Team Mycroft--all with 6 votes each, collectively earning 4 canes for Team Watson and 2 canes for Team Mycroft!
(14)
Day 0 John is still. John’s still and pale and unmoving and Sherlock knows, he knows that this means John’s dead. That John won’t blink open his eyes; won’t smile at Sherlock, won’t make him a cup of tea and let his warm (always so warm) fingers brush Sherlock’s wrist, ever again.
As hands pull at his shoulders, force him up and away from John, something warm brushes lightly against his cheek, smearing tears he hadn’t been aware he was shedding.
For just a moment, his heart stops breaking.
Day 5 Sherlock doesn’t speak at the funeral. Instead, he sits on a cold, unyielding pew and scowls as he listens to people talk about a John that Sherlock doesn’t recognise; loving and honourable and perfect. The John that Sherlock remembers had a quick temper; yelled about Sherlock’s habits, swore, lied, shot people, and yet was still the best man that Sherlock will ever, ever know.
Tears well in his eyes but he refuses to let them fall. Not here, not now. He clenches his fists against his thighs and starts when a sudden warmth appears along his side, comforting.
It doesn’t move until the funeral is over. Sherlock’s face remains dry.
Day 21A thud snaps Sherlock awake. It takes him a minute to realise that the noise was a book falling from a shelf, then another to realise that the book belonged to John.
When he goes to place it back on the shelf an envelope falls out. It’s addressed to Sherlock in John’s hand, and Sherlock’s stomach clenches as he drops the book and rips it open.
Sherlock.
If you’re reading this, then I’m dead and you’re reading a cliché. Sorry about that, know you hate them.
Don’t blame yourself. It won’t have been your fault, and if you don’t know that I don’t regret a single second spent with you, then you really aren’t a genius.
Live well and die of old age, Sherlock.
I’ll be waiting.
Yours, always,
John.
Sherlock laughs, watery, when he finishes the letter - so short and to the point, so like John - then folds it carefully and places it into his wallet.
It never lives anywhere else.
Day 45 The click of the kettle boiling pulls Sherlock’s attention from the papers spread in front of him, the frustration slowing his brain. He moves into the kitchen to see a swirl of steam floating from the kettle’s spout. There’s a cup with a teabag in it standing next to the kettle Sherlock hadn’t boiled.
When Sherlock pours in the water and then takes a sip, it tastes exactly like the tea John used to make for him.
He smiles against the rim of the mug and moves back to the living room.
Moments later, he solves the case.
Day 137 The killer shouldn’t have missed. He’d been aiming the gun directly at Sherlock when he pulled the trigger - there was no way for Sherlock to have dodged the bullet. And yet, here he is; lying on the floor, bullet trapped in the wall above his head and not an injury to be found.
Sherlock pulls himself up so he’s leant against the wall, and stares at the man who had tried to shoot him and is now lying unconscious on the ground. There’s no logical explanation for how he got there, but when something soft and warm and invisible briefly touches his forehead, Sherlock simply leans his head back and stops thinking.
In this one thing, Sherlock’s happy not to dig too deep.
On Day 498 something catches the back of Sherlock’s coat, gives him the momentum to pull back and remain on solid ground as Moriarty falls to his death, warm despite the spray of the waterfall against his skin.
On Day 2830 he solves the second most difficult case of his career. There’s a puff of warm air in his ear, and the echo of the word brilliant.
On Day 10597, Sherlock speaks aloud to John’s familiar, constant, presence for the first time since his death. “I don’t need protection from my hives,” he smiles. As he closes the door to his new cottage behind him he hears the sound of John’s laughter in the wind.
On Day 12780, Sherlock dies in his sleep, and opens his eyes to find John leaning over him, smile as warm as the phantom touches he’d left behind. Sherlock pulls him into a hug and laughs and decides that now he can touch John again, he’ll never let go.
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(21)
John sleeps, and wakes in Afghanistan.
The first time, he thinks it’s a dream, until he realises that it’s now, today, tomorrow. He sees a patrol in the distance, and feels the thrill of anticipation moments before the IED goes off and one of the trucks veers off the road.
He runs for them and gets there in time to see Withers, a friend of his from a lifetime ago, pushing himself painfully from the ground, blood spurting from his leg. John shouts his name and runs to help him, but when he gets there his hand seems to dissipate as he tries to grab Withers’ arm, and he feels only the ghost of body heat.
He is there, but cut off, and can only watch as they patch themselves together, all but one. He stays until help arrives and accompanies them back to base.
Just as he gets there he turns and sees a familiar silhouette watching him, and then he wakes.
He flicks on the radio and hears that one young soldier has been lost to a roadside bomb in Helmand.
~
Every night, John keeps unseen communion with his brother soldiers. He accompanies patrols, sits talking to sentries, and watches men hold back the tears at letters from home. Once he watches a patrol get jumped by insurgents, and remains behind with the youngest who has been hit and is bleeding profusely. He reaches out to stem the flow, remembers that he can’t - and then a pale hand is taking his, a cold touch that tingles, not real but more substantial than a ghost.
He looks up into Sherlock’s eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
John gestures to the young man. “I’m keeping people company.”
Sherlock smiles. “And I you.”
When John wakes, the MOD website tells him that a young man has been wounded on patrol but will survive.
Sherlock notices nothing.
~
After that Sherlock accompanies him. Normally Afghanistan, watching John’s friends fight the fight he can no longer be part of and rest a comforting hand on his shoulder with phantom pins-and-needles.
Once they are in the dark on a landing strip, figures scurrying back and forth to a small squadron of planes, panic in the warm night air. They remain all night, watching men John recognises but can’t name, and he slips a hand into Sherlock’s as a look of confusion and maybe fear clouds his features.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“The Falklands,” John replies. He’s never been but he knows. They stand shoulder to shoulder all night as the Army and RAF flitter about, and offshore a Royal Navy destroyer patrols relentlessly.
In the morning the news insists that everything is fine. Sherlock mentions that Mycroft has left the country unexpectedly, and John wonders how he will like Argentina.
~
Another time they are flying in an Apache over Libya, as Dave, his crush from the OTC, leads his Army Air Corps team through hostile skies, then back to the launching craft. They slip away discreetly as he returns to his bunk, but he seems for a second to see John from far away. John knows who will be in Dave’s mind tonight and hopes the younger, more arrogant and attractive memory of him might bring the man some comfort. Sherlock pulls him into the empty wardroom, all chintz and uncomfortable chairs, smiles at him and presses a cold tingling kiss on his lips, looking as though he’s been waiting for the final piece of the puzzle to fall into place.
John wakes in a sweat and can’t bring himself to look Sherlock in the eye all day.
~
Tonight they are back in Afghanistan, under the stars, sitting leaning against each other after following a patrol all night, fingers entwined with an intimacy that doesn’t exist in the real world. John finally voices his confusion.
“I don’t get why you’re here.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. It’s my dream, my history. Why are you here?”
Sherlock sits up abruptly, and John only just catches himself before sprawling on the sandy road.
“John...” he says slowly. “This is my dream.”
John is about to reply when the world dissolves and he’s waking up, confused. He stares at the ceiling, wondering what his brain is playing at, and then the door creaks and Sherlock, wearing only pyjama bottoms against the oppressive summer night, slips into the room.
“I was dreaming about you,” John says.
Sherlock smiles. “And I you.”
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(26)
Lady in Waiting
Day in and day out, it's difficult watching the dangers they court. Gunshot and knife-flash,
gas explosions and hot ash: she'd shield them from danger at every turn if she could. Her whim often reaches them in the nick of time, whether to jog loose a rusted gate or to point them in the direction of that certain, secret escape.
She lives in the detective's head and heart: each neuron a carefully plotted network of streets, every pulse of blood from chamber to ventricle a shortcut. She's come close to watching him die, only to whisper resurrection in the rustle of discarded newspaper or the distant grind of an overground train. Time and time again, she watches him rise in a blaze of sullen triumph. He is the most contrary of all her wayward sons.
She lingers in the doctor's conscience: buried deep, but never far at a moment's need. Where once she followed him through sandstorms and firefights, she follows him now through the shadows and dim lights of her boroughs' abandoned spaces, surreptitiously prompting him to strike. Of all her lately wounded sons, he is the most loyal.
Together, they're an improbable sum: her terror and glory incarnate. There's tenderness in them, too, a sense of wonder and belonging. She feeds them when she's able, tilts her pavements so that their steps find nourishment and harbour. She guides them both back to her shelter, draws them inexorably home (together).
She sets a guard on them, reticent sons and willing daughters. They'll be hated by many and cherished by a few. Those who hunt them, she'll send minions to slay. She'll reward the truest of those who aid them with safe passage and honour. To those who shield them and heal them, she'll give riches beyond telling: her ripest and rarest fruits she'll offer up, her choicest treasures she'll lay bare for the taking.
She'll command the waters to yield what they hide. She'll lift them to her highest places, let them seek the unseen from her ramparts and towers. She'll cast nets of silver by nightfall and wash the morning with gold dust. She'll ensnare their myriad foes and preserve their fingerprints. What her gutters can hold fast, they will.
She'll trail them in the rush of every hard-won breath, give life to their flight when they falter. She'll hiss lies in the ears of their enemies, sing the sleepless doctor soundless lullabies. And as for his opposite number, she'll give him the map to the heart of her mystery: persistence and sharpness beyond mortal sight.
Above all, she'll give them what they lack. She'll see that no lingering glance is wasted, reassure each that the other is always just behind. She'll knock sense into the blind and hobble the stubborn, even if she must lead them close to drowning. She'll show no shame or mercy: trip them into each other's arms, no forfeit.
Contrary to legend and hearsay, London is not a harsh mistress.
She'd tell you that she loves them if she could bear it.
Third Place is a tie as well between: annievh (#15)from Team Watson, and _sofiej_ (#29)from Team Mycroft--with 5 votes, earning 1 cane each for their teams!
(15)
**The Skull of Arthur Mann**
At midnight, Sherlock believed he had opened his eyes. To be fair, it was an honest mistake; he could see the ceiling staring down at him and he could feel the coldness of the living room. When his feet touched the floor, he could sense its cracks, and the number of steps to the kitchen was still the same. All of it seemed and felt very real. So, when an unknown voice softly sighed, "Evening, lad." Sherlock jumped on the spot and got ready for a fight with whoever henchman, ninja or his brother's minions had broken into the flat.
But the living room was empty. It was half filled (the half John claimed was his) with Christmas crap, including a huge plastic tree and a dancing Santa. But there was no living man there.
"John?" He asked. For a moment, there was no answer. He could swear he had heard an unfamiliar voice, high pitched and giggly. But there was no one else, and Sherlock was about to admit that maybe he had imagined things, when someone said, "No, the other flatmate." And Sherlock feared he was going crazy, because it seemed the mysterious voice was coming from the skull on the mantel.
"Merry Christmas!" It wished, its bare teeth clicking along, sounding disturbingly cartoonish.
He came closer. Took it in his hands, examining it. Same bone, same cracks, no hidden devices. Nothing strange. Except the talking.
"You are getting too handsy with me, young lad."
"Be quiet, you cannot talk," Sherlock ordered, still trying to find an explanation inside the skull.
With a much bothered voice, the skull answered, "Not usually. But this is a special situation- could you please place me back on the mantel, I'd like to have an eye to eye conversation."
The skull had no eyes, but Sherlock didn't bother tell it that, instead placing it on its rightful place, ready to observe and find out what was going on.
"Thank you."
"What's happening..." Sherlock searched for a name to call it, realized there was none and settled for "... Skull."
"Skull," It repeated, disdainful. Sherlock could identify a hint of a Scottish accent.
"Mister Skull," He tried.
"Why, thank you, Mister Sherlock. But there's no need for these formalities. We know each other long enough. Just call me Arthur."
"Arthur?"
"Professor Arthur Mann, yes. Very nice to finally be properly introduced. I'd shake your hand, but I believe the best moving part I can offer is my jaw, would that be acceptable?"
"No."
"If you want this to be a pleasant dream, you'll have to try harder at embracing the experience, lad"
"Dreaming?" Sherlock looked around. The flat looked pretty much real. "I'm dreaming?"
There was a moment of silence and Sherlock could swear the empty eyes were judging him for asking such a stupid question. Finally, the teeth parted and the voice came out, "You're talking to a dead man's head. Lets hope you are dreaming."
"Excellent point."
"I came to deliver a couple of messages. The first is from myself, so please pay attention, it's relevant to my well being in our flat."
Sherlock could have reminded Arthur Mann he didn't pay the rent, and therefore was a prop, not a flatmate, but decided not to make the conversation longer than necessary, and just nodded.
"The Santa hat was cozy and warm. I want it back."
"You're not getting it back, it's stupid."
"I'm sorry. Are you the one wearing it?"
"I-"
"Are you the one sitting on your jaw every day and night on this freezing mantel?"
"You-"
"Most importantly, did I ask your opinion?"
"No, you did not, Arthur," Sherlock said, defeated, knowing John would gloat in the morning once he heard his "Grinch of a flatmate" wanted the stupid red hat back on his "too good for Christmas" skull.
"The hat stays on," Arthur said.
"Of course. Anything else?"
"Yes, tonight, you'll be visited by three ghosts."
Sherlock stared at the skull of Arthur Mann. "Sorry, what did you just say?"
"Try to keep up, lad, you have the brain power."
"You're saying I'm going to be visited by three ghosts?"
"See, you heard it the first time."
"What is this madness?!"
"Don't look at me like this, lad!" Said Arthur Mann, defensive. "I am only the translator between your subconscious and... well, the part of your subconscious that is most aware at the moment! Not my fault you're a big Dickens fan!"
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(29)
"I'm missing something," Sherlock announced from the second floor landing.
John started, his friend's booming voice rousing him from his light doze. Sherlock had been all over the house--four times--looking for clues relating to how three people had fallen to their deaths. John had lost track of time, though he was pretty sure it was early morning, and he was due at the surgery at nine.
He stifled a yawn. Sarah was going to kill him.
Honestly, John didn't see what the big deal was--people fall down stairs all the time. It was odd that all three died within two months, but each of the victims had been alone in the house at the time of their demise. Still Sherlock was convinced there had been foul play, even though the ME had concluded the deaths were accidental.
After a quick glance at his watch, John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock he needed to go, when he saw the consulting detective lose his balance and pitch forward into midair.
John was frozen in place as his friend tumbled down the staircase. Sherlock hit the landing with a sickening thump, and John's immobility vanished. His fingers dialed 999 as he ran to Sherlock, shouting his name. No response. John put a trembling hand to Sherlock's neck to check for a pulse, releasing a breath when he found one.
John's eyes roamed over his friend, assessing the details. Sherlock's left arm was at an odd angle, most likely broken. The rest of his limbs, though twisted, looked undamaged. But John couldn't tell if there was internal--or spinal--damage.
The ambulance took forever to arrive. John hustled in the medical personnel and started directing them, not caring one whit whether they thought he was overstepping. The ride to A&E was tense and, on arrival, John was quickly shoved to the background.
He sat down to wait.
John fiddled with his mobile, wondering if he should call Mycroft or Lestrade. Eventually, he decided to hold off until he knew more. His fists clenched and unclenched as people moved around him.
Eventually, John was allowed to see Sherlock--or, rather, was begged to come pacify him. Sherlock had awoken and was pleased as ever to be in hospital.
A doctor and nurse tried to cast his left arm while Sherlock typed one-handed into a laptop on a table to his right.
"Where-?"
The nurse rolled her eyes. "It was the only way to shut him up."
Sherlock glanced over. "John. Perfect. Who was behind me before I went down the stairs?"
John was caught flat-footed by the question. "No one. You lost your balance and fell forward."
Sherlock snorted disdainfully. "I did no such thing; I was pushed."
"Sherlock, there was no one else there."
"Exactly." Sherlock smiled.
~*0*~*0*~*0*~*0*~*0*~
"Tell me again why we're doing this?" John hauled another shovelful of dirt to the side.
"My contact in the States informed me this is the only way to ensure a permanent resolution."
"Uh-huh." John must've sounded as skeptical as he felt because Sherlock and shot him an accusing glare.
"It's the only explanation that fits all of the evidence."
"You're barmy." John wasn't sure why he kept poking Sherlock. It's not as though John wasn't digging up a corpse as instructed. Sherlock's arm prevented him from helping--not that John thought their positions would have been any different had Sherlock been at full strength.
But at least this way Sherlock could be lookout...if he would get his face out of his mobile.
"Sherlock," John hissed.
"Hmm?"
"Can you please make sure we don't get arrested?"
"Calm yourself, John. No one of any official capacity will be driving past this graveyard before four a.m."
John paused, shovel halfway out of the grave. "How do you know that?"
"From a...reliable...source."
John laughed, resuming his digging. "Mycroft knows about this?"
Sherlock stuck his nose back into his phone.
The shovel struck wood, and John cleared off the casket. He lifted the lid and levered out of the grave. Sherlock moved in, covered the corpse in salt and kerosene, then dropped a lit match.
Fire engulfed the body. There was a shriek, and then silence.
Flames reflected in Sherlock's eyes. "Interesting."
John groaned, wondering how many more nights he would spend molesting the dead before Sherlock became bored with the paranormal.
Overall Standings:
1st - team_mycroft with 25 canes, 4 patches
2nd - team_sherlock with 24 canes, 4 patches
3rd - team_watson with 23 canes, 4 patches
4th - team_lestrade with 12 canes, 3 patches
pennies_4_eyes of bwblack here with the results for this round. We had a blow out of amazing fics and close numbers with a tie for 1st place, a 3-way tie for 2nd place, and a tie in 3rd place as well. And again, only one vote separates the winners of first, second, and third places... So it's been an amazing round of fics!
Give a hand to my team! Joint First Place winners are: bwblack (#5) and messageredacted (#7), both from Team Sherlock, both with 7 votes each, collectively earning 6 canes for their team!
(5)
The corpse is a young looking girl in a blue dress, sprawled in the bathroom of a restaurant. Her brown hair flares around her head in a halo, wicking up water and blood from the puddles on the floor.
Amanda, says the corpse. My name is Amanda.
Sally seals the murder weapon into an evidence bag. The corpse’s grieving mother already identified her daughter, so the name doesn’t really help, does it? Maybe if the corpse could tell her a different name-say, the name of the murderer-that would be far more useful to everyone involved.
I was going to turn seventeen next week, says the corpse.
Anderson is analysing blood drops on the far wall and doesn’t give any indication that he
can hear the corpse telling him about her life, but Sally isn’t surprised, because it’s always like that. Sally’s different. She hears things.
Nothing useful, though.
I wanted concert tickets for my birthday. I wonder if my mother bought them. I hope she didn’t, now. It would have been a waste.
Sally doesn’t care about the birthday or the concert or the name. She doesn’t want to know any of this, because she can hear Holmes coming up the stairs, already haranguing someone about something and she really fucking wishes she could come up with a clue that he can’t see, something to show that yes, the long hours and the hard work and the harassment that she has
put up with for years were worth it because she’s just as good at her fucking job as the sociopath who sweeps in and solves the crime on a lark. But no, she can’t, because all the
fucking corpse wants to talk about is her fucking birthday present.
Don’t call me a corpse. I said my name was Amanda.
Fine. Amanda. Amanda was bludgeoned to death with a wine bottle, which still has bits of her hair stuck to the glass. The bottle was full, which meant that when it hit her, her skull broke first.
Holmes comes into the room in his ridiculous coat, with Watson close behind. Lestrade intercepts them, although Sally has long given up hope that Lestrade will actually hold firm and make them leave. Only a moment later, Lestrade is shooing everyone out of the room so his majesty can have some quality time alone with the c-with Amanda. Sally loiters outside the door, listening to Holmes start his deduction.
“The murderer can’t have been tall-see, anyone over six feet would have brushed against this as they entered the room-”
I don’t know what my mother will do with herself now that I’m dead, Amanda says. I hope she’s okay. I hope she knows I loved her.
Sally doesn’t need this. She doesn’t know where this ability came from, listening to the dead, but it’s always plagued her. She doesn’t want to know about their lives. She wants to know about their deaths, so she can help them. But the dead never want to talk about their deaths. Instead they just give her details that clutter up her thoughts, make her feel terrible. Sally is certain that Holmes won’t be haunted by thoughts of Amanda’s mother tonight, spending her first night alone without her daughter. But Sally is going to be up half the night, debating whether to call her own mother and tell her she loves her.
Sometimes, although she would never admit it, Sally wishes she were more like Holmes. He doesn’t care about the personal details of the lives of the victims unless they mean something
to the case. He wouldn’t get upset if a murder victim told him that they wished they could have seen their children grow up, or complained that they had only just met the love of their life and wanted more time. Holmes doesn't let humanity get in his way. That’s what makes him a good detective. But maybe it doesn't make him a good person.
Sometimes Sally wishes she could find a way to be both.
Holmes comes out of the bathroom like a bloodhound on a scent. Lestrade shouts a question out at him, hurrying to catch up.
“Just look at the body. Look at her elbows,” Holmes calls back to him impatiently.
“Her name is Amanda,” Sally says out loud. Holmes doesn’t pay any attention to her, already out the door of the restaurant. Lestrade shoots her a strange look and then wearily beckons her back inside to finish doing her job.
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(7)
The Powers Papers
Sunday newspapers were ritual in the Holmes family, the pecking order was set long before Sherlock been old enough to read, much less understand, the stories reported in them. At two he spent hours circling every S in the telegraph while his father poured over the Financial Times, his mother worked the puzzles in the Times and Mycroft composed angry letters to the editors at the Guardian. When Sherlock finished marking all the plurals and possessives in the paper, and Mycroft noted every out of place apostrophe, everybody passed the paper in front of them to the left and started from page one.
When each paper had been fully examined by all of them, the discussion hour began. This hour usually lasted for the rest of the day, and often felt like it lasted for days, years, or decades. Sherlock’s mother, father, brother and sometimes guests expounded on what they’d read, complained about Parliament, the Prime Minister, taxes, police, and the lowering standards of education, not just in Britain but in every country in the world, alphabetically.
Mycroft always paid such close attention to every word uttered by their father, eager to gain the man’s rare, silent nods of approval. In Sherlock’s memory those dinners were dull, interminably long, and full of terribly pompous, boring blather.
And for what? Nothing was ever solved. No governments were ever toppled, no reform ever enacted, nor any point conceded on any national, or even local, level because they wasted an entire Sunday arguing it!
So, while the rest of the family read every word, Sherlock skimmed. In his head, he plotted the murder of the editor of the Daily Mail. He plotted really fine, near perfect crimes against publishing, but nobody ever wanted to talk about them. The best he could manage was to bring the discussion around to prison reform, dull.
Then, in Sherlock’s 12th year, Carl Powers drowned. Sherlock read the article with more than usual interest. He even asked Mycroft to switch papers early so he could read more about the drowning.
Their father cleared his throat, a clear sign he disapproved of the commotion.
“Sherlock always takes an interest in stories involving children, they are the only things he can relate to, it is immature, of course, but he will grow out of it, in time.” Mycroft explained, stupidly. Mycroft had always been a know-it-all, but since entering university he'd become unbearable.
“That isn’t true!” Sherlock narrowed his eyes in anger.
“Isn’t it?” Mycroft asked, as if he were really curious and not purposefully goading his younger brother. “From the time you could first read, the boy in the bubble, the baby with the baboon heart..."
“I am always interested in children who are lucky enough to be out making news instead of stuck inside reading about it.”
“Those children died, Sherlock. Dying isn’t lucky,” Mycroft argued.
“And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier,” His father looked up over his paper and quoted a line from poetry.
“Walt Whitman,” Mycroft waved his hand dismissively.
“He was murdered,” Sherlock interjected before they got into the always contentious subject of comparative world literature.
“Walt Whitman was murdered?” Mummy frowned, “I thought he’d had a stroke... or was it tuberculosis?”
“Both, actually…” Father began.
“Carl Powers was murdered!” Sherlock interrupted, although as conversations went, a statistical analysis of the causes of death for poets wasn't too terrible.
“Carl Powers? Murdered?“ Sherlock’s father met his gaze, “Why would you assume that?”
“He was an accomplished swimmer, swimming his best event. He wasn’t on record pace so he shouldn’t have been too physically taxed, but still he died, just like that. And what of his shoes? They never found the shoes.”
“You can drown in two inches of water,” his father mentioned this fact often, none of them knew why.
“Carl Powers was murdered.”
“If you’re certain, write a letter to the authorities,” Mycroft loved letters.
“They won’t listen,” Sherlock sighed.
“They can’t listen if nobody is speaking,” Mummy put her pen down signaling the end of her puzzling.
“They’ll listen eventually, Sherlock, when you prove yourself,” Mycroft said.
“They never listen to you at The Guardian, or in the prime minister’s office, or at the BBC or…”
“One day they will,” Mycroft reached for the paper their mother had just finished. “You’ll make them.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he reached for the paper with renewed interest.
2nd Place was a 3-way tie between:jesse_kips (#14) from Team Watson, gayalondiel (#21) from Team Watson as well, and Irisbleufic (#26) from Team Mycroft--all with 6 votes each, collectively earning 4 canes for Team Watson and 2 canes for Team Mycroft!
(14)
Day 0 John is still. John’s still and pale and unmoving and Sherlock knows, he knows that this means John’s dead. That John won’t blink open his eyes; won’t smile at Sherlock, won’t make him a cup of tea and let his warm (always so warm) fingers brush Sherlock’s wrist, ever again.
As hands pull at his shoulders, force him up and away from John, something warm brushes lightly against his cheek, smearing tears he hadn’t been aware he was shedding.
For just a moment, his heart stops breaking.
Day 5 Sherlock doesn’t speak at the funeral. Instead, he sits on a cold, unyielding pew and scowls as he listens to people talk about a John that Sherlock doesn’t recognise; loving and honourable and perfect. The John that Sherlock remembers had a quick temper; yelled about Sherlock’s habits, swore, lied, shot people, and yet was still the best man that Sherlock will ever, ever know.
Tears well in his eyes but he refuses to let them fall. Not here, not now. He clenches his fists against his thighs and starts when a sudden warmth appears along his side, comforting.
It doesn’t move until the funeral is over. Sherlock’s face remains dry.
Day 21A thud snaps Sherlock awake. It takes him a minute to realise that the noise was a book falling from a shelf, then another to realise that the book belonged to John.
When he goes to place it back on the shelf an envelope falls out. It’s addressed to Sherlock in John’s hand, and Sherlock’s stomach clenches as he drops the book and rips it open.
Sherlock.
If you’re reading this, then I’m dead and you’re reading a cliché. Sorry about that, know you hate them.
Don’t blame yourself. It won’t have been your fault, and if you don’t know that I don’t regret a single second spent with you, then you really aren’t a genius.
Live well and die of old age, Sherlock.
I’ll be waiting.
Yours, always,
John.
Sherlock laughs, watery, when he finishes the letter - so short and to the point, so like John - then folds it carefully and places it into his wallet.
It never lives anywhere else.
Day 45 The click of the kettle boiling pulls Sherlock’s attention from the papers spread in front of him, the frustration slowing his brain. He moves into the kitchen to see a swirl of steam floating from the kettle’s spout. There’s a cup with a teabag in it standing next to the kettle Sherlock hadn’t boiled.
When Sherlock pours in the water and then takes a sip, it tastes exactly like the tea John used to make for him.
He smiles against the rim of the mug and moves back to the living room.
Moments later, he solves the case.
Day 137 The killer shouldn’t have missed. He’d been aiming the gun directly at Sherlock when he pulled the trigger - there was no way for Sherlock to have dodged the bullet. And yet, here he is; lying on the floor, bullet trapped in the wall above his head and not an injury to be found.
Sherlock pulls himself up so he’s leant against the wall, and stares at the man who had tried to shoot him and is now lying unconscious on the ground. There’s no logical explanation for how he got there, but when something soft and warm and invisible briefly touches his forehead, Sherlock simply leans his head back and stops thinking.
In this one thing, Sherlock’s happy not to dig too deep.
On Day 498 something catches the back of Sherlock’s coat, gives him the momentum to pull back and remain on solid ground as Moriarty falls to his death, warm despite the spray of the waterfall against his skin.
On Day 2830 he solves the second most difficult case of his career. There’s a puff of warm air in his ear, and the echo of the word brilliant.
On Day 10597, Sherlock speaks aloud to John’s familiar, constant, presence for the first time since his death. “I don’t need protection from my hives,” he smiles. As he closes the door to his new cottage behind him he hears the sound of John’s laughter in the wind.
On Day 12780, Sherlock dies in his sleep, and opens his eyes to find John leaning over him, smile as warm as the phantom touches he’d left behind. Sherlock pulls him into a hug and laughs and decides that now he can touch John again, he’ll never let go.
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(21)
John sleeps, and wakes in Afghanistan.
The first time, he thinks it’s a dream, until he realises that it’s now, today, tomorrow. He sees a patrol in the distance, and feels the thrill of anticipation moments before the IED goes off and one of the trucks veers off the road.
He runs for them and gets there in time to see Withers, a friend of his from a lifetime ago, pushing himself painfully from the ground, blood spurting from his leg. John shouts his name and runs to help him, but when he gets there his hand seems to dissipate as he tries to grab Withers’ arm, and he feels only the ghost of body heat.
He is there, but cut off, and can only watch as they patch themselves together, all but one. He stays until help arrives and accompanies them back to base.
Just as he gets there he turns and sees a familiar silhouette watching him, and then he wakes.
He flicks on the radio and hears that one young soldier has been lost to a roadside bomb in Helmand.
~
Every night, John keeps unseen communion with his brother soldiers. He accompanies patrols, sits talking to sentries, and watches men hold back the tears at letters from home. Once he watches a patrol get jumped by insurgents, and remains behind with the youngest who has been hit and is bleeding profusely. He reaches out to stem the flow, remembers that he can’t - and then a pale hand is taking his, a cold touch that tingles, not real but more substantial than a ghost.
He looks up into Sherlock’s eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
John gestures to the young man. “I’m keeping people company.”
Sherlock smiles. “And I you.”
When John wakes, the MOD website tells him that a young man has been wounded on patrol but will survive.
Sherlock notices nothing.
~
After that Sherlock accompanies him. Normally Afghanistan, watching John’s friends fight the fight he can no longer be part of and rest a comforting hand on his shoulder with phantom pins-and-needles.
Once they are in the dark on a landing strip, figures scurrying back and forth to a small squadron of planes, panic in the warm night air. They remain all night, watching men John recognises but can’t name, and he slips a hand into Sherlock’s as a look of confusion and maybe fear clouds his features.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“The Falklands,” John replies. He’s never been but he knows. They stand shoulder to shoulder all night as the Army and RAF flitter about, and offshore a Royal Navy destroyer patrols relentlessly.
In the morning the news insists that everything is fine. Sherlock mentions that Mycroft has left the country unexpectedly, and John wonders how he will like Argentina.
~
Another time they are flying in an Apache over Libya, as Dave, his crush from the OTC, leads his Army Air Corps team through hostile skies, then back to the launching craft. They slip away discreetly as he returns to his bunk, but he seems for a second to see John from far away. John knows who will be in Dave’s mind tonight and hopes the younger, more arrogant and attractive memory of him might bring the man some comfort. Sherlock pulls him into the empty wardroom, all chintz and uncomfortable chairs, smiles at him and presses a cold tingling kiss on his lips, looking as though he’s been waiting for the final piece of the puzzle to fall into place.
John wakes in a sweat and can’t bring himself to look Sherlock in the eye all day.
~
Tonight they are back in Afghanistan, under the stars, sitting leaning against each other after following a patrol all night, fingers entwined with an intimacy that doesn’t exist in the real world. John finally voices his confusion.
“I don’t get why you’re here.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. It’s my dream, my history. Why are you here?”
Sherlock sits up abruptly, and John only just catches himself before sprawling on the sandy road.
“John...” he says slowly. “This is my dream.”
John is about to reply when the world dissolves and he’s waking up, confused. He stares at the ceiling, wondering what his brain is playing at, and then the door creaks and Sherlock, wearing only pyjama bottoms against the oppressive summer night, slips into the room.
“I was dreaming about you,” John says.
Sherlock smiles. “And I you.”
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(26)
Lady in Waiting
Day in and day out, it's difficult watching the dangers they court. Gunshot and knife-flash,
gas explosions and hot ash: she'd shield them from danger at every turn if she could. Her whim often reaches them in the nick of time, whether to jog loose a rusted gate or to point them in the direction of that certain, secret escape.
She lives in the detective's head and heart: each neuron a carefully plotted network of streets, every pulse of blood from chamber to ventricle a shortcut. She's come close to watching him die, only to whisper resurrection in the rustle of discarded newspaper or the distant grind of an overground train. Time and time again, she watches him rise in a blaze of sullen triumph. He is the most contrary of all her wayward sons.
She lingers in the doctor's conscience: buried deep, but never far at a moment's need. Where once she followed him through sandstorms and firefights, she follows him now through the shadows and dim lights of her boroughs' abandoned spaces, surreptitiously prompting him to strike. Of all her lately wounded sons, he is the most loyal.
Together, they're an improbable sum: her terror and glory incarnate. There's tenderness in them, too, a sense of wonder and belonging. She feeds them when she's able, tilts her pavements so that their steps find nourishment and harbour. She guides them both back to her shelter, draws them inexorably home (together).
She sets a guard on them, reticent sons and willing daughters. They'll be hated by many and cherished by a few. Those who hunt them, she'll send minions to slay. She'll reward the truest of those who aid them with safe passage and honour. To those who shield them and heal them, she'll give riches beyond telling: her ripest and rarest fruits she'll offer up, her choicest treasures she'll lay bare for the taking.
She'll command the waters to yield what they hide. She'll lift them to her highest places, let them seek the unseen from her ramparts and towers. She'll cast nets of silver by nightfall and wash the morning with gold dust. She'll ensnare their myriad foes and preserve their fingerprints. What her gutters can hold fast, they will.
She'll trail them in the rush of every hard-won breath, give life to their flight when they falter. She'll hiss lies in the ears of their enemies, sing the sleepless doctor soundless lullabies. And as for his opposite number, she'll give him the map to the heart of her mystery: persistence and sharpness beyond mortal sight.
Above all, she'll give them what they lack. She'll see that no lingering glance is wasted, reassure each that the other is always just behind. She'll knock sense into the blind and hobble the stubborn, even if she must lead them close to drowning. She'll show no shame or mercy: trip them into each other's arms, no forfeit.
Contrary to legend and hearsay, London is not a harsh mistress.
She'd tell you that she loves them if she could bear it.
Third Place is a tie as well between: annievh (#15)from Team Watson, and _sofiej_ (#29)from Team Mycroft--with 5 votes, earning 1 cane each for their teams!
(15)
**The Skull of Arthur Mann**
At midnight, Sherlock believed he had opened his eyes. To be fair, it was an honest mistake; he could see the ceiling staring down at him and he could feel the coldness of the living room. When his feet touched the floor, he could sense its cracks, and the number of steps to the kitchen was still the same. All of it seemed and felt very real. So, when an unknown voice softly sighed, "Evening, lad." Sherlock jumped on the spot and got ready for a fight with whoever henchman, ninja or his brother's minions had broken into the flat.
But the living room was empty. It was half filled (the half John claimed was his) with Christmas crap, including a huge plastic tree and a dancing Santa. But there was no living man there.
"John?" He asked. For a moment, there was no answer. He could swear he had heard an unfamiliar voice, high pitched and giggly. But there was no one else, and Sherlock was about to admit that maybe he had imagined things, when someone said, "No, the other flatmate." And Sherlock feared he was going crazy, because it seemed the mysterious voice was coming from the skull on the mantel.
"Merry Christmas!" It wished, its bare teeth clicking along, sounding disturbingly cartoonish.
He came closer. Took it in his hands, examining it. Same bone, same cracks, no hidden devices. Nothing strange. Except the talking.
"You are getting too handsy with me, young lad."
"Be quiet, you cannot talk," Sherlock ordered, still trying to find an explanation inside the skull.
With a much bothered voice, the skull answered, "Not usually. But this is a special situation- could you please place me back on the mantel, I'd like to have an eye to eye conversation."
The skull had no eyes, but Sherlock didn't bother tell it that, instead placing it on its rightful place, ready to observe and find out what was going on.
"Thank you."
"What's happening..." Sherlock searched for a name to call it, realized there was none and settled for "... Skull."
"Skull," It repeated, disdainful. Sherlock could identify a hint of a Scottish accent.
"Mister Skull," He tried.
"Why, thank you, Mister Sherlock. But there's no need for these formalities. We know each other long enough. Just call me Arthur."
"Arthur?"
"Professor Arthur Mann, yes. Very nice to finally be properly introduced. I'd shake your hand, but I believe the best moving part I can offer is my jaw, would that be acceptable?"
"No."
"If you want this to be a pleasant dream, you'll have to try harder at embracing the experience, lad"
"Dreaming?" Sherlock looked around. The flat looked pretty much real. "I'm dreaming?"
There was a moment of silence and Sherlock could swear the empty eyes were judging him for asking such a stupid question. Finally, the teeth parted and the voice came out, "You're talking to a dead man's head. Lets hope you are dreaming."
"Excellent point."
"I came to deliver a couple of messages. The first is from myself, so please pay attention, it's relevant to my well being in our flat."
Sherlock could have reminded Arthur Mann he didn't pay the rent, and therefore was a prop, not a flatmate, but decided not to make the conversation longer than necessary, and just nodded.
"The Santa hat was cozy and warm. I want it back."
"You're not getting it back, it's stupid."
"I'm sorry. Are you the one wearing it?"
"I-"
"Are you the one sitting on your jaw every day and night on this freezing mantel?"
"You-"
"Most importantly, did I ask your opinion?"
"No, you did not, Arthur," Sherlock said, defeated, knowing John would gloat in the morning once he heard his "Grinch of a flatmate" wanted the stupid red hat back on his "too good for Christmas" skull.
"The hat stays on," Arthur said.
"Of course. Anything else?"
"Yes, tonight, you'll be visited by three ghosts."
Sherlock stared at the skull of Arthur Mann. "Sorry, what did you just say?"
"Try to keep up, lad, you have the brain power."
"You're saying I'm going to be visited by three ghosts?"
"See, you heard it the first time."
"What is this madness?!"
"Don't look at me like this, lad!" Said Arthur Mann, defensive. "I am only the translator between your subconscious and... well, the part of your subconscious that is most aware at the moment! Not my fault you're a big Dickens fan!"
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(29)
"I'm missing something," Sherlock announced from the second floor landing.
John started, his friend's booming voice rousing him from his light doze. Sherlock had been all over the house--four times--looking for clues relating to how three people had fallen to their deaths. John had lost track of time, though he was pretty sure it was early morning, and he was due at the surgery at nine.
He stifled a yawn. Sarah was going to kill him.
Honestly, John didn't see what the big deal was--people fall down stairs all the time. It was odd that all three died within two months, but each of the victims had been alone in the house at the time of their demise. Still Sherlock was convinced there had been foul play, even though the ME had concluded the deaths were accidental.
After a quick glance at his watch, John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock he needed to go, when he saw the consulting detective lose his balance and pitch forward into midair.
John was frozen in place as his friend tumbled down the staircase. Sherlock hit the landing with a sickening thump, and John's immobility vanished. His fingers dialed 999 as he ran to Sherlock, shouting his name. No response. John put a trembling hand to Sherlock's neck to check for a pulse, releasing a breath when he found one.
John's eyes roamed over his friend, assessing the details. Sherlock's left arm was at an odd angle, most likely broken. The rest of his limbs, though twisted, looked undamaged. But John couldn't tell if there was internal--or spinal--damage.
The ambulance took forever to arrive. John hustled in the medical personnel and started directing them, not caring one whit whether they thought he was overstepping. The ride to A&E was tense and, on arrival, John was quickly shoved to the background.
He sat down to wait.
John fiddled with his mobile, wondering if he should call Mycroft or Lestrade. Eventually, he decided to hold off until he knew more. His fists clenched and unclenched as people moved around him.
Eventually, John was allowed to see Sherlock--or, rather, was begged to come pacify him. Sherlock had awoken and was pleased as ever to be in hospital.
A doctor and nurse tried to cast his left arm while Sherlock typed one-handed into a laptop on a table to his right.
"Where-?"
The nurse rolled her eyes. "It was the only way to shut him up."
Sherlock glanced over. "John. Perfect. Who was behind me before I went down the stairs?"
John was caught flat-footed by the question. "No one. You lost your balance and fell forward."
Sherlock snorted disdainfully. "I did no such thing; I was pushed."
"Sherlock, there was no one else there."
"Exactly." Sherlock smiled.
~*0*~*0*~*0*~*0*~*0*~
"Tell me again why we're doing this?" John hauled another shovelful of dirt to the side.
"My contact in the States informed me this is the only way to ensure a permanent resolution."
"Uh-huh." John must've sounded as skeptical as he felt because Sherlock and shot him an accusing glare.
"It's the only explanation that fits all of the evidence."
"You're barmy." John wasn't sure why he kept poking Sherlock. It's not as though John wasn't digging up a corpse as instructed. Sherlock's arm prevented him from helping--not that John thought their positions would have been any different had Sherlock been at full strength.
But at least this way Sherlock could be lookout...if he would get his face out of his mobile.
"Sherlock," John hissed.
"Hmm?"
"Can you please make sure we don't get arrested?"
"Calm yourself, John. No one of any official capacity will be driving past this graveyard before four a.m."
John paused, shovel halfway out of the grave. "How do you know that?"
"From a...reliable...source."
John laughed, resuming his digging. "Mycroft knows about this?"
Sherlock stuck his nose back into his phone.
The shovel struck wood, and John cleared off the casket. He lifted the lid and levered out of the grave. Sherlock moved in, covered the corpse in salt and kerosene, then dropped a lit match.
Fire engulfed the body. There was a shriek, and then silence.
Flames reflected in Sherlock's eyes. "Interesting."
John groaned, wondering how many more nights he would spend molesting the dead before Sherlock became bored with the paranormal.
Overall Standings:
1st - team_mycroft with 25 canes, 4 patches
2nd - team_sherlock with 24 canes, 4 patches
3rd - team_watson with 23 canes, 4 patches
4th - team_lestrade with 12 canes, 3 patches