Lost Girl 🔍 (Sherlock x Reader) [EDITING]

Chapter 57: Favorite Room

THIS GIF IS THE SHOT THAT MADE ME CRY IN THE LYING DETECTIVE. IT WAS THIS AND THEN THE JOHNLOCK HUG. DONE.

This is after the children part (where he goes and speaks to the kids) because that was boring and now we'll get to the part where he screams and then we'll be in home stretch for the Final Problem. I'm going to cut a lot of the dialogue down so it's less boring and dragged on. 

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Your POV

"Where are we going now?" Sherlock asks, throwing me out of my dreamy state and making my eyes land on him. Sherlock was right, Culverton was an evil man, we just didn't know how to prove it. Many of my deductions landed on Serial Killer. Well, no shit. But how can we prove it?

"I want to show you my favourite room. Let's hurry it up a bit, we're wasting time."

"Indeed. You have – I estimate – twenty minutes left." Sherlock spits, looking at his watch and smiling humorlessly back at Smith, a certain degree of shock clouding his terrifying features.

"Sorry?"

"I sent a text from your phone, remember? It was read almost immediately. Factoring in a degree of shock, an emotional decision and a journey time based on the associated address, I'd say that your life as you know it has twenty minutes left to run." Oh Sherlock you bastard. My thoughts lie awake in the midst of my deductions, and I can't put them to sleep. I was worried, Sherlock may or may not have put us in danger, what if he gets hurt?

Smith only chuckles, continuing to walk down the hallway as Sherlock shoots nasty glares towards the back of his head. "Come along." After a few moments - yet what felt like an eternity - of walking down the endless corridor, Smith finally takes out his keys and stops at a room. Sherlock quickly peaks inside before speaking again.

"So, your favourite room: the mortuary."

"Fitting." I murmur, and Smith opens the door. The cold air of the room and the light blue blinding tint make me shield my eyes for a moment and shudder, and the strong smell of bleach whiffed around the room making my nostrils burn. The reflection of myself on every surface, the floor, the ceilings, the doors to the slabs, I could see myself in every single one.

Smith ignores us and walks into the room, seeing the finished work of a few people who were in here probably contacting family or finding the cause of death. The woman on the slab makes me cover my mouth, her pale body seems to glow as a Y-shaped cut cascades down her chest, stopping at the naval. Though she is clean, it's disgusting to witness.

"I've always found 'em quite pliable." Smith chuckles, reaching out towards the body and moving her jaw down with his fingers, making me screw my eyes shut and turn away.

"Don't do that." John snarls, seeing my reaction and stepping towards the man who was surprisingly shorter than him.

"She's fine. She's dead." He smirks, finally releasing her jaw and taking into account the misty grey eyes and stained, misshapen teeth. 

"Can we be clear? Are you confessing?" John says in disbelief, based on what he told us on the elevator ride up here, he was a serial killer, but he wouldn't confess. Serial killers are smart, this is too easy. "The way you're talking..."

"Oh, sorry." Smith pauses briefly. "Yes. You mean, am I a serial killer, or am I just trying to mess with your funny little head? Well, it's true. I use it to sell breakfast cereal. But am I what he says I am? Is that what you're asking?" He asks, pointing at Sherlock. Sherlock looks round to both of us, and I try to take a tiny step towards the body on the slab, but I find my feet are glued to the ground. I can't move, I'm paralyzed.