The Struggling Sociopath

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

I need a case!

Sherlock let a light frown as he set the latest letter from John, dated the 11th of January, down on the table. He had received the letter over a week ago yet hadn't read it. Not until now. It was still painful. He had lost John half a year ago and getting letters just reminded him of that fact. He hadn't replied yet. No, he could not reply yet. He didn't know what to say, write. He was slightly confused at the moment. Still. Things were meant to be different. He should be with John right now.

What if John... No. Sherlock couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about what would happen if John didn't come back alive. Instead came back... in a coffin. He wouldn't be able to bear life. No, he wouldn't be able to. If that happened he would be quite happy to fulfil Moriarty's earlier request. To fall.

Sherlock stopped the thoughts, a deep frown marring on his face. He had to reply to John... didn't he? Or else the slightly older man would get worried. Actually... he doubted that would happen. John would have other things on his mind. After all, he was training to be in the army. That must be pretty taxing. He had better things to do than worry about Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, forcing the thoughts out of his head. There was no point in dwelling on these kind of things. God he needed a smoke... But that just wasn't feasible. Not in London. Not with Mycroft (annoyingly) keeping a constant watching on him. He had to settle for nicotine patches to dull his minor addiction. There, he admitted it. He had a slight addiction. But he still mainly smoked to clear his mind. But that was not an option. What else could he do? He needed to take his mind off this! He really did need to.

Sherlock paced around the flat, plopping on the small couch and staring at his mobile. He needed a case. He really needed a case. Why wasn't there a case! Why couldn't there be one right now.

He spent the rest of the afternoon lying there, growing gradually more and more agitated. What was wrong with the criminal class? Why weren't they out performing intricate murders at that very moment? It was rather frustrating. It wasn't like they had anything else to do with their lives.

Sherlock almost jumped for joy when his beeping phone announced a call. He instantly answered, holding the mobile up to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes speaking."

"Its Detective Inspector Gregson."

"Ah, Gregson. I hope all went well in the trial?"

"Yes, thanks to you. Eh, well, we need your help again. There's been a double homicide, the second one occurring only half an hour ago."

"Are you the DI in charge?"

"No."

"Who, then?"

"A new one. So be nice."

"Where?" Sherlock let a wide smile fall over his lips as DI Gregson divulged all the information he had to Sherlock. A curious case. This sounded like it was going to be a whole load of fun. Yes, just what he needed. It took him no time to grab all his stuff and head out the door, after making sure that Gladstone was ok (the dog spent most of his time lazing around). He hailed a taxi, eyes narrowed as he thought over what little facts he knew on the way there. Not anything to build a true explanation on. He had a few suspicions though. He would just have to wait until he got there.

Upon approaching the yellow police line Sherlock was greeted by a rather fierce looking police sergeant. An emotionless mask fell over his face as he scrutinised her. She seemed vaguely familiar.

"No citizens allowed past. This is a crime scene," she stated the obvious.

"Yes, I can see that quite clearly," Sherlock replied coldly, giving her his best hard stare. "I was sent by Gregson."

"I'm afraid I cannot let you past."

"Is that so?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "May I speak to the Detective Inspector in charge."

"I do not think that will be necessary. If you would just be on your way."

"On my way out should I just spread the news that you have been sleeping with the man over there from forensics?" Sherlock nodded in the direction of a rather grumpy looking forensics man standing at the door to the house where the murder had taken place. The sergeant blushed before disappearing off. Sherlock let a small smirk fall over his lips as he considered his victory.

The sergeant returned after a few moments with a rather young man. Sherlock guessed that he was around twenty three years of age, so only two years older than Sherlock, though his slightly greying hair made him looking slightly older than that. His dark eyes narrowed at the sight of Sherlock, as if trying to bring up some long forgotten memory.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man held out his hand with a half smile. "Gregson said that he would send someone over to help. I have to say I thought that it would be someone a bit... older. Who might you be? And if you don't mind me asking, have we met before?" Sherlock raised his dark eyebrow further. Now this was strange. He felt something tugging at his mind, from a room he had locked. The one depicting his last year of senior school. No, he wasn't ready to open that door. He would just have to leave it closed.

"I do not think we have met," Sherlock spoke as he shook Lestrade's hand. That name... it was somehow familiar. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's mouth fell open, as did the sergeants. "Sherlock Holmes? But you're dead! You killed yourself over five years ago. Poor John was over himself with grief." Ah, that explained things. Definitely senior school. Lestrade... Now he remembered. He had been the one who had offered a measly amount of help. And the Sergeant... Sally Donovan. And the man she had slept with was Anderson. How amusing.

"As you can see I am quite alive," Sherlock smiled thinly. "I do not wish to go into the details."

"Does John know?"

"Yes, he has been informed."

"And he still went to the army?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

"Now... if you would take me to the body." Lestrade merely nodded, leading Sherlock into the house and up a flight of stairs. Sherlock instantly fell on the body, which was lying on its back facing the ceiling. He inspected every inch, meticulously finding every detail. He eventually hopped up, turning to Lestrade.

"The victim was killed with the use of poison, quite obviously. The two murders are connected, I believe, if the contact card in his wallet is anything to go by. The poison was applied earlier when the victim was out of the house and put into the tea as the murderer knew that would be drank. So someone close to him. Yes, definitely. The murderer was in fact a colleague. They did not work together in the sense of a normal job but rather some kind of criminal organisation. The murderer wanted to getting higher up within the crime circle thus killed off two of the members. I think you will find that he is currently getting a train from King's Cross station heading to York to find his next victim. This leaves in half an hour so if we hurry we can stop him." Leatrade quickly got a hold of his shock to bark out a few orders before heading to the police cars waiting outside. Sherlock followed, adrenaline pumping through his veins. There was going to be a confrontation, he could just tell. And this wasn't all of it. No there was more to this case.

Sherlock let the excitement run through him. A proper case. This was going to be fun.

So fun that the letter sat forgotten in his flat, never gaining a reply.