#lmp:sherlock

[lizmindpalace]

Some Sherlock lockscreens with spring vibes.

[lizmindpalace]

Blood and Crime

Summary: A new and unusual murderer will make Sherlock change in ways he would have never expected.

Warnings: In this work there will be eventual explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, there may be a lot of triggers such as anxiety, depression, paranoid, mental illness, murder, suicidal tendencies, horror, very toxic relationships, manipulation, sexual innuendoes, gore, lots of blood, nightmares, fantasy and vampires.

You can find it also on AO3.

Chapter 7- Crime

Newspapers could be found piled up in the centre of the living room at Baker Street on the little table when a recent and interesting crime was slowly encroaching the attention of everyone in London, a serious crime, either because it was ticklish and involved ravening murderers or because it had to be solved having a race against time. It was almost unfathomable the way facts could be twisted among the lines of the sensationalism of the London press and in order to approach as much as possible to the real story, the notes of every newspaper had to be read, hence the coincidences in all of them could be found. 

However, in this specific case, there was little to be told, most of journalists agreed that the atrocity of the crime had been vast, and at the same time invisible, they could not decide, allegedly the case was so eerie, they were all perplexed and their tiny detective skills were useless now, they could not find a rational explanation to the thread that had led to that situation. John, on the other hand, trusted Sherlock would be able to make the pieces fall into places and solve that puzzle, no matter how much tangled it was. 

"So?"

John knew Sherlock's eyes shone every time he had a clue, even if his face remained emotionless, and that triumph expression was now drawn in his pupils, defeating his cold and apathetic look.

"I haven't figured it out yet" he muttered. "I will, soon". 

 Sherlock had given in his habit of smoking and nicotine patches turned out being an effective displacement to fight anxiety, product of the uncertainty that the lack of knowledge brings with it, as if it was a thunder that surprises an individual lost in the middle of the darkness, yet over the last days, Sherlock had increased the amount of patches from three to seven but his anxiety or desire for an adictive substance, that was not cocaine or morphine, would not recede.

He had adopted his usual but always weird position that indicated he was wandering through his mind palace and John noticed he was having trouble focusing, so he decided to give him some time alone, after all, he had things to do and the feeling of a crime such as this one was dismal... or enthralling, it depended on the individual, or rather if his last name was Watson or Holmes.   

It was a mental clinic in the north of London, in the area where the patients under serious conditions were treated, whose mental health was completely damaged. That wing in the hospital served as shelter for people that suffered from schizophrenia and were no longer able to discern real life from their hallucinations, real people from their persecutors; dissociative identity disorder and some with several and more complicated illnesses such as zoophagous people and even there was a case of cannibalism that was under control, according to the expert of the hospital. 

In words of the nurses, one of the patients, who had not been so long there and whose diagnose had recently improved, had to be putted down once more using tranquilisers over the last week, due to a sudden and unexpected aggressive period as well as uneasiness, both making a mortal combination, almost impossible to control. At night, a tranquiliser would be injected after dinner, hence he could sleep, the patient would show some resistance because he argued there was some kind of presence waiting for him to fall asleep though. It was planned some brain radiographs would be taken to find out if it was schizophrenia the new inhabitant of his brain, the one that produced the deliriums. 

That evening he had persisted with his ideas; he said the shadow he would always see under the moonlight that came through the little hole, that was supposed to be a window, had told him it would be his last night. The nurses tried to make him stay calm, tried to shut his fears and provided him the medicine, as they would do now every night. The next morning once they unlocked the door, they found out lying on the floor a distorted face: puffy closed eyes, broken nose, twisted lips, disfigured cheekbones as though he had received a thrashing, the spine was also broken, and he had suffered from an acute anaemia, there was not a single drop of blood in his body. The view left everyone flabbergasted, no one was able to find an explanation to such a violent death for a man, and the way the facts had occurred was also an enigma that could not be solved.

Lestrade was also surprised, and he also lacked a proper explanation of the facts, he was limited by his abilities in the criminology science, so he had called Sherlock at first time in the morning, hoping that his knowledge and abilities would be of use, and he could actually explain what had happened in that case with such a turbulent and dark environment, he knew it was Sherlock's speacialty and at any second, he would be begging for him to come to the crime scene. 

A couple of hours later, the detective moved around the room with cold but light hues as if it was a place he knew well. There was no trace of intruders, no one who was an outsider had been there, except for the detective himself, of course, who carefully walked from one spot to another and was now examining the corpse, there was no trace of murder, yet those injuries had to be produced by someone else, the victim could not have done that to himself, and in addition, no one had heard anything, not a single noise coming from either the room or another part of the hospital. It had been a quiet night for the patients, allegedly, everyone had deeply slept, regardless the fact the screams of the victim must have uttered, due to that massacre, should have been heard all around the place, and someone should have gone to give a look, to help. 

"Any theory?"  Lestrade was shocked, and that picture had left a knot in his stomach that would not disappear before some time, at least some days.

"Two" Sherlock snickered, he didn't think he had to force himself to hide his fun, he hadn't had such a good mood since a long time ago, and this case was both interesting and dreadful, features he loved when it came to a case. Sometimes detective inspector Lestrade could not stand Sherlock Holmes' behaviour, and his blood would freeze.

"Which are?" he asked in an attempt to rush things; hence he could send Sherlock home and stop seeing that damn sociopathic smile.

"Either he was killed under the effects of a strong drug or poison, or someone in this place murdered him and had some allies. We'll wait for the forensic examination results". 

The detective went back to Baker Street under the moonlight, the coldness was slapping his curls and immaculate face, but he didn't feel cold. 

-

Previous chapter

Next Chapter

You can read the finished work in Spanish on Wattpad.

[lizmindpalace]

Blood and Crime

Summary: A new and unusual murderer will make Sherlock change in ways he would have never expected.

Warnings: In this work there will be eventual explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, there may be a lot of triggers such as anxiety, depression, paranoid, mental illness, murder, suicidal tendencies, horror, very toxic relationships, manipulation, sexual innuendoes, gore, lots of blood, nightmares, fantasy and vampires.

You can find it also on AO3.

Chapter 9- Instinct

John had taken with him the old cameras Sherlock had bought some time ago and had finally installed them in the young woman's flat, furthermore, he would keep the place under surveillance and albeit he had been brave enough to accept (or rather defer to the detective's orders), now that darkness embraced him, he started wondering if that wasn't too much of a risk. What would he do if the murderer showed up all of a sudden and attempted to do as he had done to many others?

The feeling he had got many nights ago didn't seem to vanish completely, he wished Sherlock was there with his litheness, his nerve to handle the situation, his lack of sensitivity towards affairs whether they were human or not, he would have liked to share that sentiment prevented him from getting his will crushed even under the most terrible situation, he wanted to be a little more like him, Sherlock had become his role model, and even if he didn't say it out loud, maybe he had become something more. 

Once he was done with his tasks for the night and had as well reported back to Sherlock, who assured him was able of watching him and hearing him through the screen, John though it was time to sleep (or at least try to sleep), in that strange layer of blankets, in the gloom, the psychopath would not be able to recognise if it was the woman he had been chasing or an unknown man until it was too late for him.

Hence, he wrapped himself under the covers and closed his eyes, he knew it was likely that Sherlock was spying on him through the cameras, and even though that should not be important, it somehow had an unsettling effect on John, a new nightmare was taking shape within his subconscious, a nightmare in which Sherlock was made of darkness and used him to satisfy needs that weren't the ones a human being had, but the ones that concerned a monster that had stolen his identity and had to survive due to others as if he were a parasite. The doctor shook his head, trying to get rid of those thoughts, of that feeling creeping into him, because the dream he had fallen in looked more like a memory, a recent one but long forgotten due to the devastation brought by the nocturnal weakness he suffered from lately, but now, being far away from the anguish and that suffocating environment filled with the smell of blood, he was able to think; it was as if he had been under the effects of a sleeping pill that had stolen his ability to react, under the effects of a narcotic that affected his reality and now that he had stopped being influenced by them, was capable to see the answers shattered, almost without any link between the pieces they had been broken and once that they were placed together brought as a result a senseless metaphor that he was not capable of interpreting. Maybe his therapist would be able to, he decided he would get an appointment, he should have never stopped the therapy, now his teraphist seemed to be the only light in that well hidden by dusk where his ability to think was caught.

A minute later, after his reasoning, he fell asleep, yet he didn't rest, his dreams were located in an oneiric world, quite similar to the real one byt where heavy shadows were aiming to steal his soul from him.

Whereas, Sherlock, had indicated the girl where she could sleep, John's bedroom would be that place for the night, the next day they would have to arrange things the threee of them. 

"Tea?" He had taken a seat in his usual place, and was now offering the empty seat that belonged to John to the unknown woman that maybe was not that unknown. 

The girl doubted for a second, but he accepted the white porcelain cup  that seemed to be blended in the icy fingers of the detective, and finally sat in front of him, before the unemotional and untangling sight of her host, that looked as though he was trying to read her inside out, which made her feel a shiver running down her spine, his sight was the prominent kind, and it had an eerie glow that reminded her of something devilish, something he had seen before, something that made her tremble but still made her wonder and intrigued her.

"So, you also enjoy violin music?"

The young woman stopped staring at his cup; it was not that she was staring at it out of curiosity as if she was trying to unveil a mystery, rather, she had hidden her look when her eyes had met with the man's opposite to her, while she had failed in her attempt to understand what kind of secret was hiding behind his phlegmatic demeanour, then he had smiled at her in a peculiar way, making her blush and her face burn. She nodded as only answer to his question.

Sherlock couldn't care less if the person he was with started to feel uncomfortable due to the silence that would arise between the both of them, but this time something was different, he didn't want that result, he wanted somehow to gain her trust, for a reason he could not understand either, hence he took his violin and rose from his comfortable seat. He started to skillfully play the wooden instrument worth at least some thousands of pounds, a melody that she had never listened to before, yet, embraced her attention as it kept going. She imagined a waltz in an ancient ballroom, it was a rousing melody, but it was also melancholy.

The girl clapped briefly when the melody met its end, the performance and the ability of the violinist in front of her had left her certainly impressed.

"What's the name of that song?" She was completely interested in the virtuosity offered by an instrument such as the violin.

"La danse macabre" Sherlock pronounced in excellent French and a new smile was drawn in his long pale face. "Le vent d'hiver souffle et la nuit est sombre".

It was obvious that besides the song, he knew the poem by heart, and despite the inner meaning of that poem, in his gruff and expressive voice, even a threat to life would sound as sweet poetry, that would be welcomed. 

The night became darker and Sherlock kept playing song after song, the girl noticed that she felt some kind of attraction towards that man, she felt she was getting to know him deeply, as if several furtive encounters would have taken place in the gloom of the night, under the reflection dislodged from the satellite that had served the purposes of protector and confidant of secrets to many lovers in their surreptitious affairs along human history.

The detective caught her staring at him, in the middle of the chimera that had arisen due to her latter reflection.

She decided to hide the sunset that was litting her cheecks, using the late hour in the night as excuse and leaving to her bedroom for the night, and regardless it was painful going away from her new deity, she forced herself to leave his enigmatic smiling face watching her go.

Previous chapter

Next Chapter

You can read the finished work in Spanish on Wattpad.

[lizmindpalace]

Blood and Crime

Summary: A new and unusual murderer will make Sherlock change in ways he would have never expected.

Warnings: In this work there will be eventual explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, there may be a lot of triggers such as anxiety, depression, paranoid, mental illness, murder, suicidal tendencies, horror, very toxic relationships, manipulation, sexual innuendoes, gore, lots of blood, nightmares, fantasy and vampires.

You can find it also on AO3.

Chapter 4- Nightmare

"John, John" Sherlock's voice was back to normal after those days at home regarding volume and what could have been described as health, but now it sounded deeper than ever before. "Wake up,  John". 

It took some effort to John in order to finally open his eyes, that actually closed again due to the brightness provided by the drawn curtains, courtesy of his flatmate. 

"What's going on?" John achieved to sit up on his bed, looking with uneasiness at Sherlock, who was staring at him in the same way. 

"You were having a nightmare. The breakfast is getting cold". Sherlock responded quickly, leaving the doctor alone and perturbed, so he could get dressed and make his way to the table when he was ready.

 John was lost in thought the whole day, deeming the horror produced by the nightmare he had had earlier and its effects, since if Sherlock had forced himself to waking him up, it must have been something beyond what he was capable of handle. He had had an array of traumas due to everything he had to face back in Afghanistan, but he had gotten over them and he had not felt fear because of a nightmare ever since, not even when Mary appeared in them. Still, he had a bizarre feeling, as if venomous animals were running through his body and slipping in his eyes, crawling upside down, he was exhausted. 

"John?" It was the third time Sherlock called him, and finally was able to draw his attention handing him his phone. "It's Molly". 

"Of course!" He took the call, locking himself in his bedroom so Sherlock would not hear his conversation. "I know I said I would pick her up tomorrow but... are you sure you don't have any problem? Thank you, Molly. I just need a couple of days, I promise. He's doing fine, but he's still a bit weak, I have to look after him". 

That way it was arranged the little Rosie Watson would stay at Molly's until uncle Sherlock recovered completely or enough to have a child at home. Besides, John didn't feel so well in order to be the responsible father he had to be. 

A week later, John Watson still felt off-colour, and unwell enough to be a father or even to be a human being. He blamed the excessive amount of time that he spent with Sherlock,  because he hadn't been able to attend to any public event or crowded place, and in consequence, the nightmares became more frequent, there was no night when the gloomy silhouette didn't walk towards him, bend over, and muttered some unintelligible words at him, the kind of words that made him sick and at the same time he would find hard to reject if he was conscious. Said nightmare made him feel spent, he felt so weakened that it would take him longer and longer to leave the bed. Except for that night, that night he felt a bit better than the previous nights, he thought it had been a good idea to chatter to Sherlock and taking the pill he had suggested. 

"I'm going out today" he announced the next morning and even though there were wide dark rings under his eyes, he felt a bit better and reckoned the scant London sun would do some good to him. 

The detective, who was curled up on the couch in the dusk, even taking into account the hour, nodded, giving no importance to the words of the doctor. He went back to his bedroom, his vitality seemed to be back and John Watson was pleased because of it. 

John Watson's adventure for the day was about going to the supermarket and retrieving the supplies his flatmate and himself had used up in the two weeks long holidays they had had stuck at home, he knew he had to be the one responsible for getting them, because, otherwise, Sherlock would allow them to starve to death. In his way back home, John got a newspaper with something he thought might draw the interest of his friend. 

"He's back, Sherlock".

The man looked at him uninterested and shrugged.

"You knew it already?"

"Didn't you?"

John kept silent, weighing up that brief and sharp answer.

"What are you going to do?" Watson had left the supplies over the table and was now back analysing the note on the newspaper. "Must be at Bart's. Same signs, invisible, but it is known it was murder. You haven't told me yet what happened that day, Sherlock".

"I think it's better if you don't know, John. You've been so sensitive lately, I would not be able to sleep if I knew I was the one causing you mental damage". Sherlock's tone was sharper than normal and John did not know how to reply. 

"Are you going to abandon the case?" John asked with disbelief drawn on his face since he knew Sherlock didn't enjoy giving in, even if he knew his decision was reasonable due to the fact the danger was imminent and unknown, the first try had been a failure and maybe a second one would actually get him killed. 

"Something like that" Sherlock snorted. "I doubt these attacks happen very often, anyways".

"How do you know?"

"I know it, I know how it works".

And with those words, he left his seat and went back to the place he had come from with that appearance of an enigmatic god who knows everything that happens around and is above everyone else. John felt hatred towards his attitude, the one where he was left with questions, however, he understood perhaps Sherlock was working with his superior mental processes that always made John look like a fool so he allowed him to go, to think. 

John had spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning and ordering the refrigerator while the storm lashed the city once more, he was interrupted by Sherlock, who was putting his coat on with the intention of going out, even considering it was around 10 pm and the downpour outside. 

"Go back to bed, Sherlock". John insisted after giving him a significative glance.

"I have something to do, John, I'll be fine, I'm not ill, either mentally or physically".

John sighed, tired and stepped back of Sherlock's way when the aforementioned, looked at him in certain way he had never perceived before, that made him slightly quake with fear, he thought that if he kept bothering the detective, his placid manners would change and his life would be at risk, he didn't know what it was, it was perhaps that drop of red, stumping with the blue in his eyes, that gave him an aspect ranging from insanity to evil. The detective wrapped his scarf around his neck and left, violently closing the doors of the flat. 

Previous Chapter.

Next Chapter.

You can read the finished work in Spanish on Wattpad.

[lizmindpalace]

Blood and Crime

Summary: A new and unusual murderer will make Sherlock change in ways he would have never expected.

Warnings: In this work there will be eventual explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, there may be a lot of triggers such as anxiety, depression, paranoid, mental illness, murder, suicidal tendencies, horror, very toxic relationships, manipulation, sexual innuendoes, gore, lots of blood, nightmares, fantasy and vampires.

You can find it also on AO3.

Chapter 1- Darkness

It had been a long time albeit it felt like time had been paused at that spot, now his shelter, where darkness was the only inhabitant besides him. This was the way death felt like. It was like falling asleep waiting for waking up without realising it, without waking up and being mindlessness during the act, sleeping without dreaming, forgetting to raise. A fine scarlet line ran as if it was a drop of blood that expanded quickly through his eyes, painting them in red once he had been able to open them. His head was spinning around. He attempted to identify the place he was trapped in, he was not able to remember beyond the pain he had suffered, shadows covered completely the place he was lying on, some seconds later he noticed his hands were unintentionally over his abdomen, his icy fingers were intertwined and he could hardly move them, allegedly, they had been in that position for ages and had lost the ability to move. He searched through the cavity: wooden roof, old and chipped wood, that made his index feel a stabbing pain. The ground was soft; the smell coming from the outside, leaked through a hole, a draught filled with the smell of wet soil, petrichor. It reminded him of the times when he was a child and he would lay on the ground after the rain and would stare at the trees, and in fact, as if he had gone back in time, he was enjoying the night whilst resting on his arms, or at least that was what he was trying to picture, a good moment although at the time he could not remember what existence was like.

The pain in his body, the sensations harassing him and the trembles increased gradually, as if he was coming back to life after a long journey from the unknown to Earth, through the breath of the bottomless pit of hell; he could not breath, or see, or hear, he was disabled due to the restrictions of his prison, that in this case was his own body.

 Going out and leaving that place he was caught in behind became a priority, as soon as he was able to think properly, like he used to. Notwithstanding the fact that despair was aiming to hold him between its cold arms, he would keep moving, he didn't want to be restrained anymore, and yet, his body was so weak, his forces weren't enough to set him free. Tiredness made him fall into the land of sleep for an amount of time he was not able to keep track of.

It was insane he didn't feel as he used to be, because he didn't have any memories he could use as reference of his old self, and he couldn't bring back any memory which could tell him what circumstances had taken him to that specific place and time in those gloomy conditions either. Perhaps it was the effect caused by the darkness, being all alone for such a long portion of time, perhaps it was the fact he was still sleeping among the dead, who also happened to have nightmares.

He was thirsty. He had never been this thirsty in his whole life, if it could be called life this new form of confusing and poisoning existence, there, he could barely receive what was needed in order to survive, which didn't felt like it should, or at least that was what he could think, existence as an idea shouldn’t feel like this. It could be possible he was not really there and he was just drowning in drugs as many times he had been before and his hallucinations had taken him to that oneiric world feared by human conscience, under conditions where weaker minds would develop phobias. Fortunately, his was not that dim, he had to remain in calm and find a way out of the grasp of death. 

Despite the fact he was unable to see, he could perceive the night had come, his weak body felt it, the best way to save energies was by sleeping, or whatever was called the trance he had woken up from a brief interval of time ago.

Days passed, they would not stop just because a man was a convict confined in a wrinkle of time. And even the strongest mind has trouble when found in complete isolation and seclusion, despite the fact he would sleep for most of the time, while he was awake terrible hallucinations would abuse his fragile mind, it was due to it he started to scream and to strike everything at his reach, suddenly, he noticed his prison was not comprised by solid materials, at least not as solid as he had thought of them in the first place, the wood was creaking, a sign it was tearing apart. A hit with his now covered in blood, leg, and he could assert he was not under the soil, because he could feel the air hitting his face, but most important, he was able to hear distant echoes, and sound is a wave that travels through an elastic medium, through a fluid, in this case, wind.

"Help me, please" his gruffly and weak voice due to the lack of use had barely broken the deafening silence. And he decided his loss of voice must have been worse than he had thought because no one came in a long time, and even if he tried it a few more times, not even a murmur or the reverberation of his voice replied.

So he kept fighting, using his fists, legs, arms, hands, fingers along with his head and chest, everything he could to break the now cracked and fragile wood, making injuries that bled, or what else could it be the liquid running through his face until reaching his lips that tasted like metal?

Dawn was about to come to Earth again, he knew because through the hole he had opened, he could clearly observe the roof and darkness was not as dense as it was over the last hours, the darkness his unholy eyes had grown used to, for being plunged into it for so long. The distant cry of a fowl confirmed his deduction, joy spread through his body, it was the first good message he had received from the world in a long period, ever since he had woken up to life; if the day came soon, he could expose his numb limbs to the sunlight, he would be able to feel the wind on his face, nothing would have been more meaningful to him, even if during the past he had never felt the urge to appreciate nature, now it looked like it was a sign that told him everything would get better, and his fears were a product of his human weakness under such conditions. A couple more of hits and he would be free.

It was perhaps the fatigue that came as a result of the strength he had used in order to break his cell, or the lack of food, or just because the day had come and it meant he had to hide from it, but he fell asleep again, before this adventure he had never slept that much.  The sun and the wind would have to wait for him.

-

Next chapter

Notes:

This is the first chapter of this work, I decided to publish it today due to Dracula's release anniversary, however, I plan to post more regularly during autumn and finish it by Halloween.

You can read the finished work in Spanish on Wattpad.

[lizmindpalace]

Blood and Crime

Summary: A new and unusual murderer will make Sherlock change in ways he would have never expected.

Warnings: In this work there will be eventual explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, there may be a lot of triggers such as anxiety, depression, paranoid, mental illness, murder, suicidal tendencies, horror, very toxic relationships, manipulation, sexual innuendoes, gore, lots of blood, nightmares, fantasy and vampires.

You can find it also on AO3.

Chapter 2- Home

He had woken up when it was getting late, obviously, he thought. At a slow pace but gradually, his senses were going back to normal, albeit the weakness kept preventing him from a full recovery, thus  his brain and senses were working again as they used to, using the methods he knew and had developed, yet at a slower pace. 

Night and gloom had lashed the world when he was able to leave the lockup that had kept him caught; he was injured and his legs trembled due to the coldness, usual of the season that devastated London during the small hours, therefore, his legs didn't respond to his thoughts naturally and he had to make big efforts to make them follow his orders, it seemed he had lost a bit of control over his limbs and he felt like floating. Stumbling as if he were the kind of man who had consumed more alcohol  than he should have, finally, through the hidings of homeless and junkies that opposite to his situation had completely fallen into the addiction, and eluding the imposing buildings, reminders of old times attempting to stand against time; he recognised Baker Street, a few steps later, he was standing in front of the 221 B. He admired the black door with golden details that seemed to steady glow that night, regardless the fact the moon had hidden, which had also made his journey home more dangerous and difficult.

"Sherlock?"  The voice that the man would always find familiar under any circumstance no matter how much unsettling and harrowing it was, called from the other side of the street. The aforementioned doubted what his next move should be, he was  afraid to turn around and find out the mas he was expecting to see was not a human in flesh and blood and just another character from his world of shadows and hallucinations, some sort of resource created by his brain as a mechanism for preventing him to fall into the kind of madness from which there is no return for mortals. 

A determined hand touched his shoulder from behind whilst he still hesitated about looking at the owner whose voice called him with so much excitement, he was afraid of getting involved in his dreams and his dystopian world turned out being truth. 

"Sherlock! Oh my god!" the man, shorter than he remembered wrapped him in his arms, for a portion of time than looked like an eternity for the one who hadn't said a single word yet. "You don't have a single idea of... you're freezing, come on".

The door that a couple of minutes ago he had been admiring, opened before him and instead of setting foot in the house, he stood there perplexed, as though something prevented him from walking inside, an idea product of the anxiety due to the events and isolation from the last days, as an invisible shield that protected the door against stranger entities with bad intentions. 

"Come on, go in" the doctor's voice broke the reviere he had fallen into, and at a slow and insecure pace he went inside the building and went upstairs, he contemplated the living room where the stairs had led him to, he doubted about what was before his eyes, he tried to remember if he had been there before, now everything looked like a dream.

Once the door was closed behind his back for a couple of seconds he kept motionless in a corner trying to blend in on the aged tapestries, an astonished look was his only response at everything enclosed by the walls as if he were a foreign in that world, eventually, he sat down as John had indicated from the kitchen, assuring him he would be back with him within some minutes with a cup of tea to make him feel warm and check his state. A minute later, the detective had drunk the hot beverage, with no results, since the coldness in his body didn't leave him, not even a bit, he started to wonder if that would ever happen, he thought he would never get used to that sensation that made his bones tremble and stunned him. 

"You're as weak as I foresaw. No matter what you say, you will not leave this flat until you're fully recovered" John Watson talked with resignation in his voice, he had had time to think about it, to let it got, ever since he had heard the insane plan of his colleague, who knew well he had to let him know it this time or worse consequences could be expected.

His brief examination let him know that Sherlock's respiratory system was hardly working; his pale colour was a result of the lack of food and water, reason of the reduction of the bloodstream and sugar levels and therefore had brought dizziness and coldness to the man, nevertheless, all of the symptoms would disappear soon with the adequate treatment. It was not the first and it looked like it would not be the last time his best friend, the detective with massive intellect that no one was able to compete with, acted in such an unintelligent way putting his life at risk and faked his death, all for a stupid case, as the doctor would argue every time the situation allowed him. "Now, it's time to sleep".

John took the except for the gestures he had used to communicate and the emotions reflected in his languid eyes, speechless detective by the forearm. He was compeled to sit on his bed; John impelled him to eat a boiling soup that Mrs. Hudson had been so kind to prepare for him as the doctor had affirmed, tucked him as a mother would do with his little child and left him rest after giving him a sincere smile from the door frame, after reminding himself that the smell of damp would not do any good and so, he would have to take care of it, later. The only important thing now was Sherlock was back home, safe and sound, he had missed him.

Sherlock was stuck in dullness once again and surmised it was becoming his worst ordeal, and notwithstanding the fact weakness was still there, his body didn't do as it was told and he was unable to sleep, he had to make a big effort to fight his mad deliriums and to be an appropriate companion for blackness.

-

Previous Chapter.

Next Chapter.

You can read the finished work in Spanish on Wattpad.

[lizmindpalace]

Blood and Crime

Summary: A new and unusual murderer will make Sherlock change in ways he would have never expected.

Warnings: In this work there will be eventual explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, there may be a lot of triggers such as anxiety, depression, paranoid, mental illness, murder, suicidal tendencies, horror, very toxic relationships, manipulation, sexual innuendoes, gore, lots of blood, nightmares, fantasy and vampires.

You can find it also on AO3.

Chapter 3- Autumn

The long sunsets with long periods of sunlight over that side of Earth, typical of summer, had come to an end, vanished into the air and October had brought cold, darkness and rain. The melancholy mood of the detective had notably risen and the strings of his violin squeaked deafening languid melodies, that were also unknown to the ears of Doctor Watson, which were used to the kind of songs the detective would play when he was in that mood. It was a combination between depression and despair, between pain and distress. 

"You'll catch him, you'll see" John exclaimed enthusiastically, he had left a cup with hot chocolate on the nearest table to the window the detective was in front of, admiring the metropolis and the people running under colourful umbrellas and coats due to the rain that was quickly becoming a pour; and the trees in orange as well in brown tones dancing to the stridency of the wind, attracting some lightnings that had made their way to them, avoiding lightning conductors placed in tall buildings and burning their leaves instead. The curly headed man glanced for the fraction of a second at the man stuck in a warm jumper with doubt in his look."I mean, the murderer because of whom you got into this".

Sherlock left the violin off and took instead the cup of chocolate John had offered, remaining in silence, he also grabbed a book, next he took a seat on his chair and placed the book open on his lap, by the look on his face it could be said that he was thinking about John's words while his lips were touched by the almost boiling liquid and yet, albeit his fingers were being scalded due to it, he didn't even notice it and his fingers remained as cold as a if the belonged to a corpse. 

"I think so" It was the second sentence he had pronounced in a single week, the first one had been regarding the experience he had suffered, specifically, the way he had hurt his hands while trying to escape, even if they had been just monosyllables that didn't make too much sense. 

"Although, I think you will have to wait for a while, probably he is suspicious, there's no news about similar crimes ever since you left, for sure he is gonna wait for some time before he attacks again".

"Sure."  Sherlock was being one thousand times more talkative and John could notice it and couldn't help but feel good about it, it was great to have him back home, even if he was always showing off, and risking his life in order to get criminals caught. 

"Don't smile, I failed", the detective was really going beyond his own limits. His words, though, seemed to have inner meanings due to the detective's tone of voice, meanings the other man was not capable to get, it was the old arrogant Sherlock, showing again, slowly blowing that fake and ignorant façade that was supposed to be his new self.

John looked at him exasperated.

"Who cares? You're here safe and sound. You might be a genius but still you're an idiot, Sherlock". A smile was drawn in John's face and it grew until it became a laugh, secretly hoping Sherlock would join it, but he didn't and instead, he looked at him showing he didn't have a clue what the doctor was talking about, allegedly, anyone would say that that journey had alienated him. He returned to his book. It gave John the impression that Sherlock wanted to devour books and acquire knowledge of all sorts, ranging from science to literature, definitely, it was the opposite way to spend spare time in comparison to the old Sherlock. It was a new man or maybe just a stage after the shock. 

"Don't be up until late" John smiled again and against his own wishes, left Sherlock all alone in the living room. He knew very well his friend also needed some time alone to think, to make up his mind and thus, heal. 

The doctor went back to his bedroom, where in the middle of his dreams for the rest of the night, he could hear a violin echoing in the storm and he wondered if Sherlock was still awake and playing the instrument or if it was just the effect of the raindrops fooling his senses. Either way, the coldness that the night had brought with it, prevented him at first from getting up at 3 am to send Sherlock back to bed, when he had finally decided it was Sherlock playing. Finally, he stepped out bed, but as soon as his feet touched the cold wooden floor, he could hear the melody had stopped and the sound of the detective's bare feet leading to his room, so he could stop worrying, he hid in the warmth of his bed and placed his head on his pillow, retrieving a calm sleep that only after a few minutes started to acquire shady tones, perhaps because he could perceive Sherlock's steps hadn't stopped and instead impatiently wandered around the house, as though looking for a lost path, strange ideas of what Sherlock might be doing made him feel uneasy, he thought Sherlock could use him as bait; because deep down, he knew in the middle of his nightmare, he wasn't afraid of Sherlock, but of the unknown murderer he had had to encounter, who by now probably would know Sherlock had survived and now would attempt to take revenge on him by risking the life of his pressure point as often happened to Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps, he was afraid because deep down a mysterious voice whispered into his ears that the murderer and his best friend had melted into one as the alloy of two metals, as the blood had mixed into Sherlock's iris and had permanently reddened them. 

John attempted to wake up once the creaking sound of his bedroom's door indicated it was being stealthy opened by a intruder, it was a failed attempt since he could not even open his eyes, and instead felt as if the ambience became heavier, being reflected on his breathing which was becoming more and more difficult, his body shivering due to the growing cold, and his throat unable to open so his bids of screaming always failed, and yet through the gloom of his closed eyelids, he could perceive the tall slim shadow of a man with disheveled hair that stood out the covered windows that from time to time were lit up by the lightnings of the autumnal rain, it was either a spectre or a burglar trying to break in his place, who he could not stop no matter how much he strived. He could also distinguish the figure who slowly creeped up on him, and being close enough whispered a couple of words in a deep voice that he was not able to comprehend, until he was not able to think anymore, he had probably blacked out. 

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[lizmindpalace]

I made this for #SummerofSherlock, triangle by triangle.