Distasteful Profession

Last Friday night.

Sherlock Hailed a cab to the Precinct, where he pulled out a pair of stray keys from his pocket. He plugged in the pieces of metal and opened the door to a car that was taken into evidence a few months ago. Sherlock had been using it secretly ever since It's been brought in. He snatched the spare keys off of Anderson's desk, so if anything did pop up, they'd all blame Anderson at first. That would give him enough time to figure out what to do.

He drove to the abandoned cabin where he would have his crime victim. He prepared the pictures and plastic wrap and all of his tools to do the dirty deed. Sherlock was positive That's was fully prepared for his misfortunate visitor. He smirked to himself as he left the scene well hidden still, to drive to their house.

Sherlock parked outside. He made his way inside pretty easily, he didn't believe it at first. He carefully made his way to the lonely man's bedroom. The man was a cabby, who had three confirmed victims, but because he's being sponsored to kill to increase his last will & testimony's funds, who knows how much he's done?

Sherlock quickly jammed the needle of strong tranquillizers into the old man's neck. He carried the body as if the man were his drunk friend, as to not get any strange looks. Sherlock placed the old man in the back seat of the car. And, Sherlock drove on toward the Cabin. He opened the door and dragged the man out of his car through the dirt. Though, he slipped in a mud puddle and fell. His precious black coat was now dirty. His trousers were grossly muddied and his hands in his now wet gloves became cold. "Dammit!" He shouted, pounding his fists into the mud. He quickly calmed himself, giving himself a reminder that he had literally all night if he wanted to. He took a deep breath and continued on, smearing his foot in the puddle to rid it of any indents that may refer to his height or weight.

He waited for the man to wake up, which took a bit longer than he'd like it to. Sherlock was pacing around, looking at the infuriating taunting the yellow smiley face was doing on the wall. 'Acting so posh,' Sherlock thought, 'You remind me of,' He swiftly pulled it his gun, just as the old man was beginning to stir. "MYCROFT!" He shot three rounds into the wall, surprising the man with a shriek of fear. "Oh, hello,"

"What am I doing here?" He asked. "Dying, obviously," Sherlock said, running a gentle blade against the man's cheek. He watched methodically as he placed the plastic blaster against the man's skin to squeeze and collect the blood trickling down with his tears. "Stop crying. You might've messed up my trophy. Then, I'd have to do it again," Sherlock warned as he squeezed precisely and a droplet of the thick red bodily fluid fell against a glass slide, and Sherlock smiled wickedly as he pressed a second thin plate of glass against the slide, holding it above the elderly man's face for him to watch.

"You're Right, I did kill them," He admitted. "Oh, I know that I'm right; I'm always right. But I just need to ask, because, you have kids, don't you?" Sherlock asked, unwrapping a Lollie and tossing the trash to the floor, chuckling at the thought of Lestrade and his crew having a field day over that one meaningless wrapper. "I have a little girl, smaller than ever, but gorgeous all the same. Okay? I need to know how to be a good dad, I mean, my partner is pretty well fit for the job but, you know. I want to prove to him I can be a human, too." Sherlock explained. "Well, just do what you can do, I suppose," The man said, "That'd be better than what I did to my kids. I left their mom-" "No, you didn't," Sherlock interrupted. "She got a divorce for you because you're a poor man who's dying. Aneurysm. They told you three years ago. That's why you're killing, isn't it, old man? To please your sponsor?" He deduced.

Sherlock spent another five minutes on interrogation, then he let the fun begin. He began to drill and saw at the cabbie's limbs, tearing them away from the body with a very precise slice. He was very happy and relaxed about his work. He left his signature smile on his neck. He'd make sure to cut off all of the meat from the bones and separated them accordingly.

Sherlock packaged up the muscles from the body parts and tied up the bags. He opened the hatch to the pens on a nearby farm and threw the meat out to the animal fields for when they come out to graze. After he got back to the cabin, he burned the blood covered plastic wrap in the back bonfire but put the bones into the incinerator in the cellar.

Sherlock looked at his watch and sighed as he finished a lot earlier than he'd anticipated. He supposed he could shoot up, only enough for John not to get suspicious. He got changed back into his day clothes. His coat was still in the dryer. He sat in a corner and pulled up his sleeve. He tied a short piece of thinned out rope around his upper arm, right above the elbow joint. Sherlock held still as the point of the syringe poked its way under his skin. He pushed the bottom in, injecting himself with the high inducing drug.

He then spent an hour in his mind palace. When he's come down a bit, he stood to grab his coat from the dryer. He gathered his recently cleaned equipment and left the cabin, locking the doors. He drove back to the precinct and dropped off the car just as he'd found it. He hailed a cabby home and welcomed himself back early.

"G'night, Love."