Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

[fourteen]

John thrust his body at the door to his room (with Sherlock inside) and staggered in. His usually tanned skin had flushed a ghostly white and his face had fear; panic seeping through it.

"Sherlock," he gasped, his chest rising abnormally quickly.

Sherlock hastily finished buttoning up his shirt and nodded, silently insisting John to explain his unexpected burst in.

"There's - Sherlock - there's been a murder," He stammered.

"A murder?" Sherlock asked, sounding a bit too happy and awe filled.

"Y-yes,"

Sherlock tugged on the sleeves of his shirt, straightening it out before slipping on his jacket.

"Tell me what happened," Sherlock demanded, intrigued.

"W-Well, big crowd of people, N-no one knew what was h-happening and then someone at-at the front screamed," John paused, covering his face and trying to calm his disrupted breathing, "T-teachers came coming and there were whispers everywhere, teachers got r-rid of us and then someone yelled ab-about the murder. Some g-girl called Lizzie f-found the body first and l-legged it to the teachers, a-apparently she fainted,"

Sherlock grinned, tapping his fingers together as a way of thinking.

"A murder," he breathed, his eyes lighting up.

Sherlock had never encountered a murder before, sure he'd seen lots of dead bodies but only from natural things, or cases that were easy and that even Scotland Yard could figure out.

"Some student probably pushed the other. Solved. It was probably Phoebe. A lethal accident," Sherlock grunted.

"N-nope," John stuttered.

"No?"

"They weren't pushed," John explained, picking himself up from the floor.

"Okay, so what?" Sherlock persisted.

"I don't know,"

"I have to see," Sherlock decided, peering around the door to see if the commotion had faded.

The last few escape students were being dragged back to their rooms like animals.

"I'll go in a minute," Sherlock mumbled to himself, he had no intention of asking John this time because of what happened last time.

"Oh god, you're not actually going?" John groaned.

"Of coarse. I wouldn't miss this for the world,"

"There's police, they won't let you near," John explained nervously.

"Just watch," Sherlock smirked, opening the door again and grinning at the empty corridor, "see ya,"

"Wait no no no," John muttered, scurrying after him.

From the doorway, the silhouette of a body captured Sherlock's attention, it hung from the ceiling, a rope supporting its neck - suicide. But the odd thing was that the hands were holding tightly upon the rope above its head - like it had realised its mistake and was trying to release itself. But it was dead. The hands should be limp, not holding on to the rope.

They walked into the canteen, there were two police officers - oh - from the way they awkwardly bustled around each other and the way they walked Sherlock could easily explain their previous night.

"Excuse me," The policewoman exclaimed at sight of Sherlock and John, "this is a restricted area,"

"Noted," Sherlock replied, taking another confident stride forward.

"You can't be here," she repeated, slowly.

"Neither can you," Sherlock mocked, "hangover," he explained when he caught a glimpse of her confusion.

The policewoman glanced at the policeman, blushing slightly.

"Both of you," Sherlock added, "your wives won't be happy,"

The policeman shuffled away from his partner, scratching the back of his head in confusion and also amazement.

Sherlock took another large step forward, grabbing Johns small wrist and dragging him forward too.

"How?" John whispered to Sherlock.

"How?" The policeman snarled defensively.

"I'm clever and you're not," Sherlock pointed out with a one sided grin.

The headteacher stood - retreated - in one corner of the room, clearly disturbed by the scene, he failed to say anything towards Sherlock, even he was intimidated by this creature from the Holmes family.

Sherlock stood opposite the corpse, it was a girl, a student. It's milky eyes were frozen, fixed upon the cheap, scratched floor. It's mouth was ajar, already bluing. In life she had this confident aura; in death she looked lost and ordinary. Although it's eyes were closed, it didn't have the appearance of sleep - even in the deepest of slumber there would be tiny movements of breath and a healthy glow of flesh.

Now he could see why the corpses hands were holding onto the rope - a needle had been pierced into the fingers and then into the rope, fixing them in perfect position. In its stomach there was a gaping hole from the lethal stab wound, browning blood crawled around the opening where tears still leaked out, spilling onto the floor like knocked over Ribena.

Circling the body was the writing: 'I don't want to die,' it was scraped - engraved onto the floor in crimson blood like a scene in a horror movie.

This murderer was not afraid to show off their capabilities.

"Been dead for about half an hour, poor thing," the police woman sighed sadly, "now, you boys need to go,"

"No, not half an hour. Longer, they've been dead at least an hour. Looking at the bluing Of it's lips and fingertips. And the pins holding up the fingers, ripped through several layers of skin from the weight: If you were too leave it here over night it would completely tear through the skin and the fingers would be loose. It's cut several layers already - too many for half an hour and the line from wear its torn is too neat to be from a struggle," Sherlock corrected.

The police officers followed Sherlock's gaze, absorbing his correct words.

"Oh wow, you're blessed!" One of them chuckled, inspired by Sherlock's observational skills.

"Cursed," Sherlock growled back, "though of coarse that is metaphorical. No human can be cursed, that's fantasy,"

"Cursed, why?" John asked, struggling to keep up with Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't reply - he wasn't one for sharing his thoughts or emotions.

"You do have to go now," the policeman urged, stepping towards them, Sherlock looked discouraged at the realisation he was being rejected.

"Do we?" He quizzed, standing his ground, "we wouldn't want your wives to find out what you were up to last night," he winked.

"Are you blackmailing us?" He spat, alarmed by the confidence and power of this teenage boy.

"Yup," Sherlock admitted with a smile.

The two officers made quick eye contact, debating their next moves. When their eyes detached themselves the policeman shrugged in defeat.

"Fine, but only because you're good," he declared before muttering to his partner, "I can't believe we're letting two kids run around and play murder. If someone finds out we're gonna be in so much trouble,"

Sherlock snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and passed two to John who struggled with them for a bit until he'd finally rolled them uncomfortably on.

"Okay," Sherlock whispered, "okay,"