Venenum [Sheriarty I]

Chapter I

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Prologue
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A year has passed since the Eurus incident. Not a lot has changed really. John kept living in his old place with his daughter, dropping her off to daycare when he went to work and taking her back once he finished. Sherlock had his apartment rebuilt after a bomb had blown up right in the middle of the living room. Greg had managed to turn up with surprisingly interesting cases and London has proved to be a lot more in Sherlock's favor than usual. Perhaps it was the overwhelming feeling that everything turned out good in the end. Like the end of a fairytale. His "Happily ever after". That is until during a small period of time while he was investigating a few cases, he couldn't help but feel like he was being led up to something.

It wasn't obvious at first. It was faint, unnoticeable, and when it first happened, undetected. But it was there, and Sherlock felt it. It happened during a case. It wasn't interesting by any means, other than the fact that the murder weapon was nowhere in sight and the only visible injuries were a few smartly placed cuts on the back of the victims. The case was simple enough to solve, yet Sherlock felt like something was lingering. An essence of... something. It was familiar, and it brought him an unusual feeling in his chest. The detective, however, paid it no mind, seeing how it had nothing to do with solving the case.

The next one, however, Sherlock couldn't help but take notice of the reoccurring scent. It was an Irish brand perfume called "Creed" as he recalled smelling it somewhere before, however, he couldn't tell what the name of the perfume was. Either way, Sherlock felt an unnerving wave of deja vu. The cologne had that spark go off in the back of his mind. Like it was trying to relive a dead memory that faded years ago. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, and it was frustrating to not be in full control of his mind palace. Having a locked door was nothing unusual but not being able to find the key to it was. And this memory that was hiding behind the locked doors of his palace was no exception. It was taunting him, the scent of that perfume making the door creak open, not quite enough to see into but enough to hear the rattle of chains being dragged on what he deduced to be a marble floor. And once that scent went away, the door closed again, leaving Sherlock on the other side, with no way of knowing what was hiding in his own mind.

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Chapter one, Summer of 2018
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Summer evenings are perpetually tedious. The heat of the sun vanishes, yet long after dusk, you can still feel the lingering warmth in the streets of London radiating off of the sidewalk. And every so often the summer sprinkles fall down, and the pitter patter of raindrops against the flat's window fills up the air ever so slightly with noise. On said evening, the consulting detective was sitting on his leather chair, his knees hugged tightly against his chest as his hands unconsciously plucked at a single string on his violin. The sound that filtered through the air meant nothing to him. It had no rhythm, no pattern. Just a dead sound to fill the void of silence and give a glimpse of color in front of Sherlock's dull eyes. But behind that glass cover, a fire roared, his mind jumping back and forth, thinking of a million things and none at the same time. But his mind seemed to focus on two particularly recent cases.

The first case itself wasn't a challenge. Nothing he hadn't seen before. But what struck him as eerie was the scent he picked up when he entered the first crime scene. It was faint, but the moment it hit Sherlock, his feet felt heavy, like walking through drying cement, his arms falling to his side almost too stiffly, and for a second he forgot to breathe, allowing himself to analyze everything about this aroma that made it so... familiar. It made the pit of his stomach go up in flames and his skin becomes damp with a thin layer of cold sweat. And for the first time since the Baskerville case, his hands start shaking, not violently, but enough to be noticed by Inspector Lestrade. The man in question was writing something in his notebook when Sherlock came in. But before he could say anything the detective went awfully still, like every muscle in his body just... paused. Now, Lestrade was nowhere near the same level of intellect as Sherlock, but he knew him for long enough to notice when was something didn't bode well with him. The inspector made his way over to Sherlock, his hands lightly gripping the detective's shoulder as he physically forced him to turn towards him. Sherlock snapped back to reality, his breath coming back to him with a huff as he looked down at Greg, reality fading back in, as he heard the distant voice of the inspector dart back to him with a long ring in his ear "Sherlock? You feeling alright?". The detective visibly frowned as he took a second to process what Lestrade said to him, and once he did, his body morphed back to its usual posture, his mind composing itself "Quite. The slight breeze caught me off guard is all.". The inspector let out a soft but audible 'Oh' as he stepped back, allowing Sherlock to continue with the investigation.