In The Footsteps Of The Master. Chapter Four: A Visitation in 221b.
Title: In the Footsteps of The Master. Chapter Four: A Visitation in 221b.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,000
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, et al.
Summary: Sherlock and John return to London to help DI Lestrade catch a serial killer who may not be what he seems.
Warnings: Explicit violence, graphic gore and depictions of brutality, non-con, murder, explicit sex.
In The Footsteps of the Master. Chapter Four: A Visitation in 221b.
Sherlock and Lestrade were looking at autopsy photographs of the dead women. The four victims of the relentless killer that Lestrade adamantly refused to give a sensational nickname.
Lestrade hated raising murderers to any sort of dignity, or giving them the attention they universally craved by encouraging snappy names for them. In his mind, they were all the same, him. More properly called, "it."
They weren’t ever really human, not fully. Not the serial killers. Lestrade mused on this. Neurologists who studied these worthless bastards’ brains found that they were more deeply driven by their reptilian brain than normal people - that is, non-serial killers.
Of course other scientists disagreed, had different findings, different explanations. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was finding and stopping them; Lestrade had found that in general, theories about brain structure weren’t much practical help. But he did like to think of them as a species of reptile.
This particular reptile had removed these women’s tongues, severed, it appeared, by very sharp scissors. Poultry shears, Sherlock opined, and the autopsy report agreed.
Lestrade assumed it was just so the poor women couldn’t talk, and the bastard was a sadist; a gag wouldn’t do. Sherlock merely stared at the photos and neither agreed or disagreed with Lestrade. Which meant he had another theory - but wasn’t ready to share.
Lestrade didn’t feel like giving Sherlock much indulgence to wait for a big reveal, though. He wanted this killer, wanted him now.
* * *
With the makeup finally washed off in the autopsy process, it was possible to see that the women resembled each other to a truly uncanny degree. They might have been sisters. Two of the women were so like one another that they might have been twins.
The women were of medium build, good firm figures; not stick-like drug addicts like so many prostitutes. For all of these women had been prostitutes. They all had somewhat brassy blonde hair that had been recently cut to chin length and curled, rather inexpertly.
Sherlock was of the opinion that the killer had done this. Tests were out on the hair dye.
They all had makeup; some sort of white, cakey powder applied with a sponge, and a rather old-fashioned shade of red lipstick, applied with a brush. Someone had taken the trouble to pluck the women’s eyebrows into a thin, high half-circle. Lestrade commented, as Sherlock had to John, that the effect was somewhat Kabuki-like. Sherlock frowned, then shook his head.
"All right, Sherlock, time to earn your keep," Lestrade said. The Yard had actually finally begun paying a consulting fee to Sherlock after he solved his tenth case under Lestrade’s watch with his hallmark brilliance. He hadn’t actually insisted on this, and Lestade had a firm sense, especially after visiting Lady Holmes’ estate in Yorkshire, that there was a trust fund or some such limitless resource that provided for Sherlock’s minimal wants and freed him to devote his entire attention (when it wasn’t fixated on ruining John Watson, he thought, then told himself to knock it off) to solving crime.
Especially Sherlock’s most favored pursuit - studying and catching serial killers.
"He could restrain them any time with the zipcuffs, but he waits until he’s finished, waits until its time to strangle them. He does this almost as a euthanasia, after he’s done with the part that’s important to him, he just wants them still and quiet. Hence the strangulation. The really important bit is the knife," Sherlock said.
Lestrade was impatient. This wasn’t helping.
"What do we actually know about why he’s doing this to these women? How do we start to zero in on him? Don’t tell me the usual suspect - 25 to 35, male, unemployed or underemployed, no good relationships with women, lives at home with his mommy. Just don’t even say it," he fumed.
"Certainly not," Sherlock huffed. "This man has resources; that much is obvious. He has a secluded place to bring the women and kill them. Probably the same place every time, but possibly not. If he kills them in different places, that is additional proof of his resourcefulness. He has the time to dress them, do their makeup, and put them through . . . whatever happens before they are attacked with the knife.
"He hasn’t varied his routine - he doesn’t make mistakes, doesn’t leave anything to chance. He binds them, strangles them. He has time and privacy to clean the body thoroughly. No trace evidence yet. No DNA, no fingerprints, no hairs, no fibers.
"He has enough privacy to bring the body away from the murder site, and dump them in remote areas. He probably scouts them out ahead of time - but no one has ever seen anything suspicious anywhere near the dump sites. He’s very consistent, very organized. He hasn’t made a mistake, yet.
"But the most important clue is also the most obvious. How does he find these women? These particular women?"
"What do you mean, ‘find’? The women were prostitutes. I imagine finding them was the simple part," Lestrade asked.
"But they look so very similar. These two could be twins - just look at them. How can our killer could just happen to find such similar-looking women in such a short period of time? Four murders, three weeks. He would have to be stalking the prostitutes haunts almost twenty-four hours a day to identify these women. And still it wouldn’t work. No, he has to have some sort of help.
"I’m leaning toward . . .an accomplice."
Lestrade groaned. Two killers. "How can you be sure? He could have been stalking these women. He could have chosen them over a long period of time, as you say. Maybe he just waited until now to kill them."
"No, that’s not very likely, is it? Think, Lestrade - how could he count on still finding these same prostitutes over a long period of time? Prostitutes are transient. And even if he did as you say, it still supports an accomplice. Someone to help him keep track of these women."
"Sherlock, don’t breathe a word to the press, to anyone, do you hear me? We’ll have mass hysteria on our hands if you start putting it about that this is a team of killers. Remember the Moors Murders."
He did. In fact, he and John had assisted in the capture of a murderer in Yorkshire, in those very same northern moors that the notorious Ian Brady and Myra Hindley had used as killing fields, more than 40 years ago.
He looked closer at one of the autopsy photographs. Then he looked at the others. "Lestrade, this is no good. I don’t know why we’re wasting time. I need to see the bodies."
Lestrade nodded.
Sherlock almost always found something that the coroner did not.
* * *
The bodies were brought out. Sherlock examined their pale, naked skins through his magnifier without the slightest sign of discomfort that his nose was within milimeters of a corpse. Finally, he exclaimed, "Yes!" and pointed at some cuts.
"Look, Lestrade. Look here. Look at this cut. And this one."
Lestrade looked. It was just another knife wound. All of the women had numerous stab wounds.
"Don’t you see? Look carefully, look at the angle. These were not made by our killer."
"What are you on about . . . not made by the killer. What do you mean?"
"These women all had a knife in their own hand at one point. He makes them fight."
"What the fuck do you mean? Do you mean what I think you do?"
Sherlock nodded. "He makes them fight him. With a knife."
Lestrade looked closely at the body. Then they pulled out each in turn, finding certain telltale cuts from the victim’s own clumsy wielding of a knife. In a knife fight, it was as likely that you could cut yourself badly than your opponent. Especially when you didn’t really know how to use one.
"They lose, of course," Lestrade said gravely.
"Yes," Sherlock mused with an unreadable expression. "They lose."
* * *
John was pleasantly exhausted after his first day at the trauma unit, and was quietly proud.
There had been two car accident cases, one quite serious, and he had kept a cool head and brought the patients back, pulled their broken bodies back together. They would survive, they would be fine in fact. He felt the unique satisfaction that comes from saving lives. The operating theatre team had all shaken his hand, and the head trauma surgeon had patted him on the back and invited him for drinks on Friday.
He waited a long time for Sherlock in 221b, fruitlessly trying him on his mobile. No luck.
He ordered Chinese takeaway, carefully opening the door for the delivery boy with his loaded gun shoved in his waistband, as he always did now.
He ate his fill, then settled in his chair by the fire to watch telly. The news was full of the serial killings, and he watched Lestrade preside over a press conference with skill and confidence. John thought he and Sherlock must be making progress.
Finally, his eyes drooped and he fell asleep in his chair.
Sherlock still did not come.
After about a quarter of an hour, John was so deeply asleep, his head tipped over on its side, that he didn’t hear the small, almost indistinguishable sound made when the heavy antique mahogany specimen cabinet against the far wall, where Sherlock kept old maps and dried bits of unmentionable body fragments from cases, slowly slid forward a few inches as though a poltergeist was pulling it away from the wall.
And after a moment or two, it just as silently slid back to its place.
John slept.
* * *
He finally woke up to the sound of Sherlock clacketing away on his laptop.
It was very odd to have Sherlock coming and going on a case, and not to go with him.
Despite the rewards of yesterday in the trauma centre, he found himself feeling pangs of loss that he knew just meant he missed Sherlock’s company, being his companion when he was at his most brilliant, most keen, pursuing a killer. There was nothing like it in the world, and the truth was he understood that he wouldn’t be able to keep away from it for long. It called something in him too, something Mycroft as well as Sherlock had instantly recognised in him the very first day that they met.
But for now, he had a promise to keep. A promise to Lestrade.
Sherlock was printing and pasting up on the wall enlargements from Google Maps of satellite images of the areas where the bodies had been found, overlaid on a huge, detailed street map of London.
"I cannot find any pattern at all," Sherlock said, his voice almost angry with frustration at not being able to find the answer. "Perhaps its just . . . random."
John decided it was time to distract him, just a little. He went to Sherlock and put his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, rubbing firmly. Sherlock was oblivious so he tightened his hand, pulling him up. This time Sherlock pushed back, restlessly.
He hadn’t slept since becoming involved in the case; before Lestrade had even asked for his help. His eyes had that unique shine that only came over them when he was obsessed with an especially intriguing case. To anyone that didn’t know Sherlock like John did, he looked under the influence of drugs, or maybe just a little - mad.
He sprang up from the chair and was kissing John forcefully, greedily, almost crushing John now with intense wildness. His teeth made painful marks against John’s lips.
He pushed John roughly across the room and up against one of the walls and just dove onto him, biting John’s neck, hard, hard enough to leave marks. Hard enough to draw blood. Hard enough to make John cry out in pain mixed with desire, which inflamed him even more.
He yanked John around until he had him pressed against the wall, his arms pinned, and was grinding hard against him from behind, pulling off his belt, dragging his trousers down. "Christ, Sherlock, slow down -" he protested, but Sherlock just pushed harder, actually was holding his head against the wall now with one hand while he ripped his own trousers down with the other. John’s heart was pounding at a million beats a minute, thundering in his ears, and he was overwhelmed by claustrophobia, never felt before with Sherlock, ever. He couldn’t stand to be pinned down.
Not by anyone.
And Sherlock was pinning him so hard, he almost couldn’t breathe.
He whispered roughly in John’s ear: "I know you were in Lestrade’s flat. Did you think you could keep that a secret?" He reached around and grasped John’s cock, hard despite his feelings of resistance. "And now I’m thinking it’s time you were taught a few lessons of your own, John. I really, really do."
John struggled back now, hard. "Get the fuck off me, Sherlock, now," he said, low and dangerous. Whatever this game was, it wasn’t going down.
If it was a game.
Sherlock didn’t move. "I don’t think I will," he said, pushing against him even harder, letting John feel him, understand what he wanted to do. It felt angry. Sherlock felt angry. It felt hard, and brutal, and hot.
And John almost succumbed, but couldn’t. "Sherlock. No. Not like this."
He twisted harder and Sherlock finally loosened his grip and they glared at each other, panting.
"I did it for you, I went to him for us," John said. "I told him to let me go, I told him it could never be. I only love you, Sherlock. I told him he had to work with you, I would stay out of the case."
Sherlock gave no sign of absorbing this information. He was still glaring at John, one hand still wrapped around John’s arm. Hard. "So you think you can just go to his flat, let him be alone with you, let him dictate what you will and won’t do, what I can and can’t do . . .and I’m supposed to take that? And I suppose this new job - it’s to what? Appease Lestrade? Please him? Really, John, is that how it is?"
John yanked his arm away. "Christ, Sherlock, listen to yourself. If you think I’m going to stand here and let you treat me like - like you own me, for Christ’s sake, you’ve got another thing coming. I did what I thought was right. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. If this is what this case is going to do to you, turn you half-mad, turn you against me, against me - I won’t stay to see it," he said.
Sherlock turned away, furious.
John tried to ignore Lestrade’s words about sociopaths echoing in his head: "They make no apologies because they are never wrong. They are possessive and controlling when they have something that they think is theirs, that they are entitled to."
There was a silence, hot and furious, hanging in the air. John had a strong impulse to just -- leave --- but decided to stick it out.
Then he realized that Sherlock actually had a point; Lestrade had manipulated him into not working with Sherlock, which might be fine for the moment- but definitely was not what he really wanted. He knew that.
Now Sherlock turned around. His face was no less intense, still glowing with anger: but he stretched his hand out and touched John's arm tentatively where he had gripped it.
"Sherlock. Never think about Lestrade. It’s only you, it will always be you," he said as he pulled Sherlock down. "Let me show you."
The witness was probably a little wasted but seemed as coherent as she probably ever was. Her name was Serena, purportedly.
"Let's take it again, shall we luv," Donovan said.
The woman was a prostitute, had been in London for almost a year. Before that, she confided, she had plied her trade in Blackpool, but with the economy so down the gamblers didn't pay for shite, she said.
London, though, was always steady pickings for an energetic girl like herself. She twiddled her carefully ironed hair extensions that looked like they needed an update. She was flashily dressed in the Camden Town market imitation of attire made de rigueur by the show "Footballer's Wives." Her white vinyl platform pumps were quite a bit worse for wear. Donovan was about to recommend that white was not possibly her best choice of footwear but decided it would not be taken the right way.
The woman was ready to start over, she was a little hyped up on whatever she had snorted a bit earlier, by the look of her reddened nose. But Donovan knew they couldn't afford to disregard even the most dubious witnesses. As usual the prostitution community (and yes, there was one), had failed to rally to the Yard's aid with information.
But this woman seemed different. She had a proper sense of outrage for these terrible murders of her sisters in crime.
"A girl didn't have to look over her shoulder in Blackpool, I can tell you that. Right friendly town, that. Maybe I should go back. Better that than end up dumped in an alley. The mad prick," she fumed.
"Yes, well, all sex workers are well advised to stay off the streets for now, until we catch them. Don't go with anyone you don't know and trust."
The woman looked at Donovan wearily. "Yeah, right. Haven't been back long enough to collect any regulars, have I?" She cried indignantly, rubbing her running nose. Donovan offered her a clean tissue.
"Thanks, luv, so kind. Well then," she started again. "It's like I said. I was out on the Gillman Road, busy enough about eleven o' clock. This would have been three nights gone." The night of the fourth murder. "It was getting pretty cold that night. It's better today, innit? Anyways, so I see this man pull up in a very posh car; maybe a Mercedes, I think. Silver. Very shiny. Dark windows, I didn't get much of a look at him, how could I, then?" She said as though Donovan were questioning her diligence.
"Did you ever see his face? Anything at all?"
"Not exactly. He had dark hair, Black maybe. It seemed long, you know? Not like a regular businessman. I can spot a regular businessman," she said proudly. "Or maybe just bushy. But definitely dark hair. He stuck his head out the window and called out to one of the girls. She went with him. I only remember at all because it was the nicest car I've ever seen on this street, I can tell you that," She gestured to encompass the seedy, graffiti-marred street. "I don't keep track of other girls' business and I'll thank them to keep their butt out of mine, right?"
Donovan asked, "Did you hear his voice? What did he say?"
Serena shook her head. "Lots of other cars going by, there was some music, too . . . there's that boy down the corner, thinks he's in that talent show on telly, you know the one. Didn't hear a thing, did I?"
"So how do you know he said anything to the girl?"
Serena frowned. "Why else would she get in the car? Girl's got to have some understanding of what's what."
Donovan nodded her agreement and took it all down in her notes.
"Tell me again what the girl looked like. The one that got in the car."
Serena impatiently and without much detail described a medium-build blonde girl in flashy streetwalker attire that could match one of the victims, or a million other women in London. No, Serena didn't know the other girl at all. Couldn't remember ever seeing her before, but then again she was new to this particular street.
"Are you absolutely certain you didn't catch the license plate on the car?"
"Course. I didn't look at that, I hardly looked at all. Like I said, it was just such a nice car. I wished he had stopped for me," she said without thinking.
Then she realized what she had just said, and put her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with fright.
* * *
Later that day, John was working at the Barts Trauma Centre and Sherlock was at home, obsessively reviewing other cases that might shed light on this particular killer.
Sherlock had arrived at a pretty full outline of what he thought the motiviation and the goals were for this very organized killer.
But there were always lessons to be learned from the past.
And so he was very focused on his laptop, fingers flying, and did not hear the almost silent slide of the specimen case as it glided away from the wall behind him. And did not hear the silent footfall of the tall, slender, dark-haired man who leaped on him from behind and overwhelmed him with a powerful anesthetic-soaked rag to his face, instantly subduing him. The man carefully pulled Sherlock's limp body from his chair, and dragged him across the floor, behind the cabinet, and into the hidden hole behind it.
After a few minutes, the figure returned and retrieved Sherlock's coat and scarf where they had been flung across the sofa. He put them on. He went to a mirror in the bathroom and checked his hair, mussed it a bit.
He put the cabinet back in place. The smooth, silicon coated ball bearing runners that he had installed under the cabinet worked like a charm. But you had to trigger them from the other side. Otherwise it wouldn't budge an inch. No one would ever see the hole behind the cabinet, either: the hole which he had carefully cut through the adjoining wall inside the flat at 223b. With the hidden panel in place, it would take very thorough forensic work to detect it. He didn't worry about that in the slightest.
By the time anyone ever thought to move that specimen case, the entire hole would be completely repaired, the concealing panel gone, and no one would ever know it had been there.
Now he sat down to work at Sherlock's laptop.
It was amazing, really, how close Sherlock Holmes had gotten. His timing was perfect, really. And what he saw there just confirmed all of his plans, hopes and dreams for the future.
Finally he had read enough. It was very dark outside now and misty, thankfully. The mist and fog was his friend, always. Doctor Watson would be returning shortly to 221b. Time to go.
The man stood up, practiced his walk, and went rapidly down the stair and out into Baker Street.
He looked down at the sidewalk and walked hurriedly down the block, where he hailed a taxi and disappeared into the London mist.
To be continued . . .
Listen to Sugar is Sweeter - Armand Remix: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYWYDJNzPCw
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