Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

[fifteen]

John looked slightly repulsed, Sherlock noticed, as they circled the crime scene inquisitively. The wound on the corpse was grim, the way it was peeled back and the organs seemed to be dropping out of place.

Sherlock studied the body, the body that used to belong to a student: Alexa Brown. Looking at the expensive clothing and jewellery stacked upon her fingers, she was an only child. She had been sneaking back to her room after a night spent with her boyfriend - thats when she was stabbed. She hadn't been stabbed in the canteen - there were mop stains licking at the floor, tracing back to an ordinary corridor. The door to the canteen had been bashed about, as if someone had forced their way in - so it was probably a student, because they didn't have access to the canteen keys and forced entry would have had to be necessary.

Sherlock leant back from the corpse and began scouring around the surrounding area, insisting it was John's turn to take a look.

Reluctantly, he stepped forward, his eyes first went to the wound - where the knife had shot through her skin and had then been insanely twisted around, exposing retired organs. The sickly greening of Johns skin did not stop him from forcing his hand forward into the messy hole.

"Sherlock," he hissed, removing his hand with a disturbed face, "I've found something - it feels like... laminated paper?"

Sherlock bounced over, patiently waiting for John to smear off the blood from the object in his hand.

"It is," Sherlock pointed out as John swivelled it over to read what was on it: 'Sherlock Holmes, hi.'

John stumbled back in shock, like an amusing scene in a film, but Sherlock didn't get the urge to laugh. His guts twisted uncomfortably and he got the feeling he was being watched but with two paranoid spins around to check for any unwanted guests, he confirmed it was just a stupid feeling.

He snatched the blood coated paper from John, slipping it into one of the plastic bags and stuffing it guiltily into his pocket. So, someone knew he'd be here?

"So, you've found much?" the police officers asked in unison, stepping forward in preparation to take control of the situation once more.

"Yeah," Sherlock admitted, telling the police officers as much as he had figured out, skipping the rather odd note they had found.

"You're pretty good. You'd make a good detective for the police force," the policeman smiled.

"I'm never going to work for the police - never do I want to be associated with those idiots," Sherlock snapped a reply.

"Right well," the police man sighed, unsure what to say, "thanks for your help... what's your name?"

"Sherlock,"

"Thanks Sherlock and -" the policewoman started, before turning her gaze, questioningly to John.

"John,"

"Thanks Sherlock, John," she finally said, dismissing them both, who acceptingly turned away.

* * *

It had been 4 days since the murder, the disruptive uproar and unplanned commotion had settled and classes were back on.

The corridors were swarmed with tearful students, people that hardly knew Alexa Brown. Sherlock would roll his eyes - getting some disapproving stares, but he didn't particularly care, he'd probably get them anyway - passing sobbing groups and frightened couples.

The news spread unfortunately quickly, rushing over every student like a tidal wave: there was a murderer at school. It could be anyone: a parent, student, teacher. But who?

No one had accused anyone yet, but they were all excessively wary and distrusting - expecting someone to impale them with a knife every few seconds.

English.

The teacher at the front of the class - young and enthusiastic, dressed professionally but her hair was curled playfully - waved her hands around, continuing to waffle on about DH Lawrence (a dead writer from Nottingham).

Behind Sherlock were rapid whispers, firing suggestions about the murder that was still present in peoples minds. Fear had corrupted most of the students and none of them could properly focus on writing facts about the mining communities.

"I heard he was shot in the head and then skinned alive!" one of the students muttered in a high pitched voice of terror.

"I bet it was a teacher, they get access everywhere," someone else added.

Sherlock unnaturally curled his body so he was facing the trembling group: Anderson and Sally being part of it. Of coarse.

"Don't be stupid," he sneered at them, "No one got skinned. It was a student, anyway. The door was forced open, so it wasn't anyone that could have the keys,"

"How do you know they didn't make it look like a student?" Sally snarled, folding her arms.

"Because it would have been easier to get the keys, there'd be less of a risk of anyone hearing the forced entry," Sherlock explained.

"Wait, how do you know about the forced entry?" Anderson interrogated.

Sherlock stuttered, aware he probably shouldn't mention having investigated at the scene.

"Oh my god," Anderson cried, "It's so obvious,"

Everyone in the class propelled their heads - like robots - to stare at Anderson, curious as to what was going on.

"Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock killed Alexa. The unstable sociopath of the school, the narcissistic, serial killer loving, emotionless, Sherlock is the murderer. We knew all along,"

And that was it.

* * *

At first it was Sherlock eating his lunch in the grubby little toilets because he couldn't think properly when people were constantly spitting opinions at him and then at night he would wonder around, he couldn't go back to his room and face John. What if John believed the rumours? Imagine the disappointment, imagine his face, imagine him...

He was too focused on the murder to participate in any classes, his brain was whirring, trying to string together the evidence at the crime scene. Next, he was too focused to eat or sleep, he just became a human shell with an unstoppable brain.

Finally, it was a repeat of two months ago. He disappeared from the school grounds.

Sherlock wobbled down the street, unlit due to the lack of moonlight. Shadows slinked around corners, squirming on the concrete of the floor, helpless yet so intimidating, enveloping the weak, shaky and fatigued Sherlock.

He looked drunk, the way he staggered blindly, but his mind just felt so heavy, his whole body was having to support this crazy mad house, cased in his skull. He usually had this manic energy in his body, but it had all been transferred to his brain, so his whole body was exhausted but his mind was whirring, screaming with energy. Shaking in the fragility of his pounding skull.

He dropped the cigarette which had been wedged between his index and middle finger, exhaling one last time so thick plumes of smoke polluted the air, the nicotine fogging his mind, but not enough. Never enough.

He knew where he'd be in the morning and he knew that in the morning he wouldn't know where he was. Thats how those places worked.