Dice - a johnlock fanfiction

Meet Cace Dansworth

Hi, I've never done this before... writing. Other then for school. So, here goes nothing I guess? I hope you "enjoy" my awful writing!!
(Also I did not take the forest photo, therefore I do NOT own it).

    An older black car wound lazily along the bumpy pavement, worn out over many years. At the wheel, a young man thrummed his fingers restlessly as he drove. The man was fairly tall with a strong, broad build, and short crisply cut dirty blond hair. His eyes were the pale blue of a brightening sky at dawn. Yet, unlike the sky in the early morning, full of potential and possibilities, this mans eyes were cold and calculating. No warmth within them. They lacked light, lacked joy, lacked emotion.

The man slowed the car to a crawl as he came to a dusty inlet on the side of the worn road. It was one of those crescent moon curved dirt filled places overlooking a particularly beautiful scene. A place for families, friends, and lone travelers alike to breath in the crisp fresh air and take dazzling photographs of picturesque sunrises and sunsets, of awe inspiring sheer cliffs, or of cascading brilliant blue waterfalls. This man however, was not there to take in the scenery, he was there for something much more sinister.

As the man slides his bulk out of the car, and slams the door behind him there is a pounding,   thrashing sound coming from the trunk, the vehicle bounces on its axes, moved by the sudden and ferocious movement within it. A women's desperate and terror filled screams fill the air, casting a deathly silence over the wilderness surroundings. The man makes his way around to the rear of the car, unaffected by the women's pleas, her begging for mercy. He doesn't mind the noise, in fact he  likes it, the power it gives him, surging through his veins. Plus, there is no one to hear, other than the chipmunks I suppose the man thinks, and chuckles to himself. A low throaty rumble, with very little happiness behind the action. Any happiness that is there, is a result of the women's tormented screams.

The man opens the trunk, and the wails immediately stop, suffocated by fear. The women's eyes are rimmed with red, and choked sobs wrack her slight frame. She has long dark hair, now tangled and limp around her trembling shoulders, her bright hazel eyes alight with terror. Hot fresh tears stream down her face, tinged with the shadows of her makeups former glory. The man grabs her by the elbow, heaving her thrashing body from the trunk. Her mouth, along with her arms and legs, are bound tightly with duct tape, cutting into her soft flesh, making it raw. He rips off the tape on her face, exposing the tender pink skin below. She gasped, relieved at the sudden burst of fresh air.

The man grabs her and pins her writhing form beneath his grasp. From his right pocket he pulls out a metal die, perfectly cubed, with crisp divets on its faces. The metal die twinkles in the ghastly moonlight as he shoves the women against the passenger car door, holding her there with his knee planted firmly in the small of her back, pinning her shoulder blades together. She gasps in terror and pain.

The man reaches into his left coat pocket, retrieving a lighter. He clicks it on and the flame hisses to life. The flames lick and dance along the die's twinkling surface, turning it the color of embers and burning coal. The man flicks off the flame and lifts the smoldering die to the women's trembling cheek, pressing it into her cool skin. The unmistakable reek of burning flesh coupled with the woman's pained  and smothered screams fill the air as the women writhes and flails under the mans firm grasp, holding her mouth and nose tightly, not able to breathe, the woman dies, with the number three seared into her now eerily still cheek.

So who is this man you might ask? The names Cace Dansworth, and he will certainly kill again.

3 hours later, 221b Baker Street, London:

"Sherlock dear!" Called Mrs. Hudson from the doorway of Sherlock and John's flat.
"Sherlock! Your damned telephone is buzzing off the hook, it's driving me mad all the way down stairs!"

"Sherlock..." John muttered sleepily. "Mrs. Hudson... Your phone... Sherlock! Wake up!" John scolded while attempting to shake awake a still slumbering Sherlock.
"Mmhmm.." Sherlock mumbled. "5 more minutes..." he pleaded.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson hollered while banging quite violently on their bedroom door. "It's that inspector Lestrade, he's got a case for you two." "Oh you'll love this!" She continued excitedly. "It's a serial killer, Sherlock!" She yelled through the door. "This is the bastard's 3rd victim!"
"Coming, coming" John yawned, rolling out of bed.

"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock babbled, a giddy grin spreading from his lips to his eyes, as if a fire was set off in them. "We have work to do!" He sang, bounding out the door.
"Dammit Sherlock, hey! Wait up!" John called as he hurriedly yanked on his trousers. Still partly asleep, John half ran, half stumbled out the door.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Ok, so I saw this kind of thing on other fan fictions, where the author adds a bolded note at the end. So umm... thanks for reading! Any comments, criticism and the like is greatly appreciated! Have a lovely day!

Also, sorry this section is so short, the next ones will be longer!

-Alex :)