Would anyone be interested in reading my writing?
I’m thinking of making my first Sherlock fanfiction. I only have a small bit written out so far, I just don’t know if it’s any good or if anyone would enjoy my writing style.
Enjoy the draft excerpt! Please give me feedback!
WIP titles: The Art of Murder / Art is Murder / The Bloodied Paintbrush / Murder is a Timed Art
please take note this writing style is inspired by the original novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as John’s blog posts in the series. the fanfiction takes place from John’s perspective, but it is written and titled as if he shares this on his blog after the fact (with a little fictional storytelling sparkle! Parentheses are thoughts he added after the investigation).
“John,” a voice rang over my contemplation.
“Ughhh…who-‘s-zer…” I felt as if I was weighed down by an invisible force. I barely moved, unable to process my name being called, slurring my words under the spell of sleep. I nodded off again.
“John,” The stranger’s speech violently grew in sound, and I felt a rising uneasiness. I ignored him the second time.
“JOHN!” At this point, I could tell the voice was male, and he had now screamed at full volume. It was clear he was irritated with me, but for what reason, I could not describe.
“WHAT?!” I yelled, taken aback by the man’s close presence. With great exertion, I fought the exhaustion which pulled my eyelids shut. Through the blurred light as my eyes adjusted, I could make out only the shape of the figure looming over me. I waited a few more moments and, upon regaining my whereabouts, I saw that the lights to the flat were bright as day, which served as something migraine-inducing in contrast to the ominous, blackened sky outside. I could hear water pouring and thunderous cracks coming from beyond our small flat at 221b Baker Street. After noting this all, I finally glanced at the eager silhouette; it was, unsurprisingly (and unfortunately for me), Sherlock.
“Great, you’re awake. Took you long enough. We have an appointment in approximately 30 minutes, if you don’t want to be late, I suggest you get some clothes on.”
I tried to digest the words he had spoken, but it was in vain. My mind was clouded with confusion.
“Well, come now, we haven’t got all day. Are you getting ready or not? I don’t think the Galvin La Chapelle takes courtesy towards guests dressed in…” he observed my attire, “Peppa Pig Pajamas.”
“Now hold on-” I began. He was prepared to exit the room, but turned back at my half-inquiry, aghast I had finally spoken. A late night spent helping Rosie study, and this is what I’m greeted with? That’s Sherlock for you. Besides, I’m… rather fond of the pajamas.
“Well, first of all, there’s nothing wrong with the pajamas,” I insisted. Silence. “Ahem. Secondly, do you mind, at least, telling me what time it is?! I’ve been woken up in the dead of night—a stormy one no less—just to have my pajamas insulted. We’re matching, you know.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, but in a swift motion, he reluctantly checked out his watch.
“It is currently,” he paused for a moment, “3:30 AM. If you’re wondering about the date or day, which I know you’ve likely forgotten too, it’s Wednesday, September 15th. Ehm. Who are you matching with?”
I processed his words and responded with grogginess, slowly and egregiously, “Rosie of course. Speaking of—you want us to leave,” I yawned, “—well, what about Rosie? Who’s going to take care of her?”
(Dear Reader, you may be wondering why I left this interaction in the blog post. It was to call upon you: is there really anything so wrong with matching pajamas with my daughter? I’d wager not.)
“Ugh, so many questions! Don’t worry, John,” he appeared viscerally annoyed at this point, “I’ve got that covered. Up, now! Meet me outside the flat. I’ve already got a cab ready.” He spoke as he left the room, attempting to slip on his coat as he walked out. (If our lives were on tele, I’m certain an exhilarating theme song would have played as he strode confidently out the door.
I won’t bore you with the details as I readied myself for the early morning, but my movements started out sluggish and slowly increased in speed alongside my intrigue in the case. So let’s get to the more interesting part of this occasion.)
Upon arrival at the restaurant, I had predicted the case possibly involved a witness we were interviewing, or perhaps some other form of lead on a case Sherlock picked up, but… (well, let me simply allow the past to play out.)
Greg met us outside the doorway, and we locked eyes in confusion.
“Greg, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“Uh, I was told by Sherlock to meet him here urgently on a case… have you any ide—“
“Are you two done speaking? Hurry, we are restricted on time, so follow me.” Sherlock interrupted, entering the restaurant in haste. I vaguely heard him mutter about being glad Andrew wasn’t here too, and how his “Useless mindset would delay our business for weeks;” Greg and I shared a stare at each other once more. (I believed Sherlock to be acting more erratically than usual.)
“Alright, then.” I despairingly whispered, and we followed him into the unspoken catastrophe which lay ahead.
The restaurant was spacious with golden arches lining the walls behind white table-clothed tables, those of which were presented with fancy decor in the center. The architecture was vertiginous and grandeur, mimicking the scale of the royal palace. Moonlight seeped through the lofty windows, and I was awestruck by the gargantuan chandeliers. It definitely wasn’t a place I had been before. I must’ve spent several minutes admiring my surroundings, as Sherlock snapped me back to the purpose of our visit.
“And here we are,” Sherlock spoke, fighting the elasticity of nylon gloves as he slipped one of them onto his hand, and I, followed by Greg, entered the kitchen behind him. There were several chefs and waitresses standing before us, all of which I observed to be fidgety and wore faces of utter horror. It was then, and only then, I looked at the very thing which lay at the center of us all...
“Would anyone care for a freshly served corpse?”
The staff of the restaurant were horrified at this inappropriate question, but that didn’t stop Sherlock, “No, just me? Alright then. Let’s dig in…” and with a smile, he let go of the second elastic glove, a soft phck! resonating throughout the kitchen as the glove slingshot into place on his second hand.
I had so many questions, but my first thought was laminated with a bubbling rage: Sherlock dragged me to a murder scene in the dead of night, without explaining a single detail. Greg motioned for the staff to clear the scene but to remain present while he reported the murder to the station.
The face of the man was bashed in only on his nasal and frontal bones of his skull, and his eyes had been squished out. In one eye, the tool that led to his untimely demise stuck out at an angle. The killer had left the corpse in such a way it appeared to be his idea of art on display. There was blood surrounding him, but in no way did the pattern match the wound. It could’ve been painted around him after he died.
“Bloody hell!” Greg spoke. I had been so preoccupied with the scene itself I had completely forgotten he had returned from making the report.
“So somebody killed this guy? With a… a… I’m not even sure what that is,”
“Hand blender,” Sherlock chimed in. “Commonly used in French cooking. But that isn’t what killed this man.”
“But, it’s sticking straight out of his face... how… right, if that’s not what killed him then what did? That’s horrible.” Greg responded.
“It is horrible and he would’ve died because of it, but it’s not what killed him. Look closely. What do you notice about his face, John?”
Sherlock was right. There were red burns around his lips, a sign of poison intake. He had died of poison, but that meant that the hand blender was used after he died or while he was dying. I shuddered at the thought of the latter. I also noted that there were blisters covering his skin and swelling of the eyelids. Likely, the swelling was caused before the hand blender. Finally, the corpse was fresh; rigor mortis hadn’t set in, meaning he was recently murdered. The only ones on scene and ready were Sherlock, myself, and Greg. An unsettling thought occurred to me…
“Sherlock, how did you find out about this murder? The police weren’t even called in on this, yet, you brought us here, and as soon as we got here there was a corpse as if the murder had just happened. What’s really going on here?”
“The police weren’t called because I was called. I was told there was going to be a murder at this hour, at precisely 4:00 AM, and I needed to come quickly. Sadly, we weren’t fast enough because John decided to move along slowly.”
(At this notion, I was to what I still believe, rightfully indignant.)
“Well Sherlock, I would’ve hurried up if you’d’v told me this was for a murder itself! And that this man was going to die for it? How was I supposed to know? I thought we were headed here for a witness interview for God’s sake!” I paused. “I would’ve… spent less time explaining the Peppa Pig Pajamas.” I murmured each word more quietly than the last.
“Oh John, use deduction yourself some time, it would help you answer more questions. There’s a reason I was in a hurry. It was quite obvious.”
Greg processed my last words. “Your what?” He inquired.
“Let’s focus on the crime scene…” I softly responded to Greg. (Sometimes it is unnecessary for a man to explain himself.)
Greg pondered the interaction some more, but refused to question me further. “Right, let’s please get focused, then? We’ve got enough to deal with right now. Some suspected serial killer is going around calling up Sherlock beforehand, and puttin’ his victims on display like it’s a museum.”
Sherlock began with a response, “Right! We’ve wasted enough precious time---” but cut himself off after reconsidering Greg’s words. His face lit up with intrigue. (I’ve known Sherlock long enough now to know when he’s conjured an idea from Greg’s words.) Those twisted cogs and wheels were turning in his head as clear as day, in contrast to the pouring rain outside dowsed in darkness.
“You’re right for once,” he finally said, “Gavin, you and John are both right…” without further explanation, he put his fingers up like a picture frame and looked through them at the corpse from various angles. Across from me, I saw Greg motion a hand toward Sherlock, then shrugged with both arms in defeat. Sherlock still can’t get Greg’s name right, I thought. I chuckled silently at this notion coupled with Sherlock’s theatrics in the moment.
“What’s so funny John?” Sherlock inquired, but his concentration remained fixated on the pictures he was taking through his makeshift frame.
“Oh, ah, it’s nothin’,” I responded, continuing to smile. I wiped my nose as it began to run. Sherlock gave me a side eye, then an expression of mild consideration, but beneath it all, I could sense a subtle smile. Having finished capturing angles of the corpse, he returned to standing in front of us.
“So, did you enjoy the photoshoot?” I inquired. “Was it perfect?”
“As a matter of fact, John, yes it was. You see… this murderer is looking to play a game with me! And in this game, he thinks each murder he makes is a work of art,” he moved around the room, closer and further away until he found a spot from the kitchen’s side entryway where he could see the corpse perfectly in frame, “Graham was right about this being a museum. And you were right about perfection, because for the murderer, he wants the perfect piece. He’s an utter psychopath... Take a look.”
Greg and I followed him to the spot of which he was viewing the corpse, as instructed. And before us, the corpse of the man now lay with a bloodstain message because of the angle; It read a single letter initial: “T.”
“T. What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked.
“Yeah, what if it’s just that the blood spilled outta him in a weird way? It’s strange and all but it could just be us grasping at straws.” Greg added.
There was a short pause, where my face maintained an expression of confusion. Then, Sherlock put his hands back at his sides, turning to face Greg and I, pacing back and forth from him to me.
“No, there is no way the blood spilled out of him in this manner. The splatter was arranged specifically for him to share his handy work. It was spilled post-mortem. But the letter T… Why a letter?” Sherlock stopped to ponder.
“Maybe it’ll reveal itself in time. You said it yourself, Sherlock: he’s messin’ with you, and we know how these killers like to string you along.” I share.
that’s all, folks! I know it’s been a minute since I’ve posted anything Sherlock related.
Are you interested in me publishing a whole fanfiction of this story here and on fanfiction.net?
Voting ended onAug 10
again, please give me feedback!
