Too Close to Holmes - 3/?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3 - A Perfected Act
John woke the next morning to the sound of shouting from downstairs, and so, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs to investigate.
Lestrade was standing in the living room, hands on his hips, watching as Sherlock pinned picture after picture onto the walls. Staring down at them from above the fireplace were twenty-three photos of young boys backs, all with a number carved, bloody and ugly, into the skin, from 01 to 23, with dates scribbled onto the corner of each picture in Sherlock' messy scrawl. A quick glance told John that the date of the first photograph was January 5th 1989, the last dated January 15th 2011.
"Sherlock, you can't seriously be planning to investigate this!" Lestrade growled. "This is insane!"
"Of course I am!" Sherlock snapped, stepping back to investigate his work. "There's something I'm missing. Something I've been missing all this time."
"What are you missing?" John asked, stepping into the room and surveying the pictures on the wall.
Sherlock glanced at him, before turning his gaze back to the photographs.
"There has to be a reason for the timing of the attacks." Sherlock said, pulling on his hair in frustration. "Why does he always carry out the final attack the day before the victim's birthday?"
"Probably because he's a sick bastard." Lestrade replied shortly. "His sick idea of a birthday present."
"Yes." Sherlock replied. "I think the 'Happy Birthday' remark made that much obvious."
"Happy birthday?" John repeated, sitting down on the sofa. "What 'Happy Birthday'?"
A brief moment of silence followed this question, with Lestrade looking tensely at Sherlock.
"That's what he said to his first victim." Sherlock replied finally. "When he was... finished."
"Christ, Sherlock." Lestrade exclaimed. "Seriously, you can't be serious."
"For the thousandth time, I am perfectly serious." Sherlock snapped. "I'm doing this."
"Fine!" Lestrade finally caved. "Fine, if you insist. But I'm warning you now, Holmes, if I get the slightest whiff of shit hitting the fan, one tiny hint of cocaine, or morphine, or heroin, or whatever else you can get your hands on, losing all future work with the police will be the least of your worries."
Sherlock stared for a moment, a multitude of rare emotions flickering across his eyes. "I'm clean." He replied after a moment. "This isn't going to change that."
An hour later, Sherlock still hadn't moved from his place, staring up at the photos. John was sitting at the table, drinking from a mug of tea and reading case reports from the previous cases.
"Why's this name blacked out?" He asked after a moment, holding a file out to Sherlock. "All of the other files contain the victims' names. This one's been blanked out."
Sherlock reached out to take the file and flicked it open, his eyes skimming over the words on the page. "Standard procedure." He replied after a moment. "If the victim's a police officer or works closely with the police the names will be blanked out of most files. Confidentiality."
"Right." John replied, taking the file back and watching as Sherlock wandered back to the wall of photos and plucked the first victim's picture from the wall. "Well, I'm going to go talk to some of the other early victims, since number one's a no-no." Sherlock nodded absently, staring down at the picture. "Try to eat something, eh Sherlock?"
"Not hungry." the detective replied. John just nodded, standing up and grabbing his coat. He hesitated briefly at the door, looking worriedly at Sherlock's dead eyes, before turning and heading off to make some unpleasant visits.
It was several hours later when John once again let himself into 221b Baker Street. His feet were aching, his head was aching, and he had managed to obtain absolutely no new information.
Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he got back, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in thought.
"Complete waste of time." John huffed, strolling into the kitchen to switch on the kettle. "I learned nothing."
"Didn't think you would." Sherlock replied, opening his eyes to glance up at his flatmate. "Pass me another file."
John nodded, grabbing a file from the table (date 18th June 1998, Victim number 10) and passing it to Sherlock. As Sherlock reached out with his left hand to take the file, though, the doctor's eyes were drawn to a red stain on the inside of his sleeve.
"Sherlock." John said, reaching out to grab his arm. "Is that blood?"
"What?" Sherlock replied, glancing down at his sleeve. "Oh. Yes. I... er... cut myself making lunch."
"You cut your forearm making lunch?" John said, staring thoughtfully. "Sherlock, you never eat on cases." Sherlock glared up briefly before looking back at the file in his hand, but didn't respond to the comment. "What really happened?"
"I'm not using again." Sherlock said dismissively. "That's all that matters."
"Are you saying you cut yourself?" John cried. "Deliberately?"
"Oh, that doesn't matter!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Don't you see, this guy is too good!"
"What do you mean, 'too good'?"
"Well he's left us nothing!" Sherlock shouted. He leaves no fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses worth a damn. He hasn't even spoken to his victims since -"
Sherlock froze, his eyes shooting to stare widely at the first victim. "Oh, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid Sherlock."
"Of course?" John asked. "Of course what?"
"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock cried, grabbing the photo off the wall and waving it in the shorter man's face. "It's so backwards it's obvious. Normally, with serial killers or serial anything, you're waiting for the killer to make a mistake. But this guy doesn't make mistakes. He's perfected his act."
"So how does that help us?" John asked, trying to connect the pieces Sherlock seemed to link with such ease. "You just said he's perfected his act. That leaves us with nothing."
"No!" Sherlock said. "Because people who manage to perfect things always do it by learning from their mistakes. He's already made his mistake! He made it on the 5th of January 1989! He gave us everything we need."
"What?" John exclaimed, still confused. "What did he give us?"
Sherlock grabbed John by the arms, grinning manically into his face. "His voice!" He said. "He gave us his voice!"
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs suddenly drew the pair's attention, and they span around to see Lestrade running into the room.
"There's been another one." The Detective Inspector said. "Number twenty-four. Not far from where we found Stephen Matthews."
"Where was he found?" Sherlock asked, standing up excitedly.
"A kids' playground." Lestrade answered.
"Nice open space." Sherlock commented. "Are the press there?"
"Loads of them." Replied Lestrade. "Paps, film crews, the lot."
Sherlock grinned, grabbing his scarf from the back of the sofa. "Perfect. Let's go."
"You not taking your coat?" John asked as he pulled his on.
"Not this time."
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