Cloud Covered - S.Holmes
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality
Word: approx 3.5k
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Chapters index
Bloodbath (you are reading this) | Marionette | Invisible Strings
It's an abominable to see.
Two victims were strewn on the floor, and one was hanging upside down. Blood is spilled as far as the eye can perceive, staining both the walls and the ceiling, creating a gruesome bloodfield scene. The odour in the air is revolting.
"My god," Sherlock hears you gasp next to him, shaken by the sight. He doesn't blame you; it's beyond anything he's ever seen, and he can easily say he's been in some gruesome crime scenes in the course of his job.
But his concerned against one another continues to be and before proceeding and allowing his own inquiry to begin, a gentle hand grips his partner's shoulder and he leans close. "Wait outside," he asserts that reassuring squeezed into your shoulder. He watches as you give a nod giving one final startled glance around his surroundings before turning around and going towards the police outside the warehouse's closed doors.
Sherlock returned his concentration to the crime scene only when you were close enough to the door, taking his first steps ahead and closer to the corpses. He crouches close the first, his sombre stare fixed on the horrified, wide-eyed look of the dead body, apprehension from his final moments on earth imprinted on his soulless eyes.
Only a few details emerge from his solitary observations: the corpses are soaked in their own blood, concealing any wounds or scars. Before handling the bodies in the mortuary, Sherlock always waits to meet them. He argues that people should look with their eyes, not their hands, because hands are awkward and untidy, and dragging their fingers across a flawless crime scene ruins so many aspects.
Many facts can be deduced by Sherlock with a single glance at a person, object, or scenario without even moving a muscle.
He takes his time studying the bodies and their ravaged faces, capturing everything in his memory and safely storing it for future use. It takes him twenty minutes in that stinky warehouse to be satisfied with his mental notes, and he turns to leave, his own feet leaving faint bloody prints behind from how dirty the floor was.
Once outside, he nods to the fellow officers, indicating that he has finished his studies and that the bodies may be taken away for further investigation before making his approach towards you, who appeared to be preoccupied in a hushed conversation with two police officers and a witness.
When they notice Sherlock's arrival, both officers leave, assuming it was time to get back to work. "How do I address you?" Sherlock asks the witness, a youngster of the same height as himself, pretty directly.
"James. McGuigan, James." The boy responds calmly, despite the fact that he, too, is visibly shaken by the circumstances. Sherlock took note of every expression he made. "I was just telling the officers that I have no idea what happened here," he adds, casting a furtive glance towards the warehouse before returning his attention to Sherlock. "I was going for a morning jog when I saw all the blood, so I immediately called the police."
"You did well," Sherlock replies, his hands in the pockets of his long coat. He casts a glance at you, who returns his stare with a begging look to leave the location within as little time as possible. "Do you usually go for a jog around here?"
"Yes," the boy says, nodding. "It's serene in here, and there's plenty of space." I went here this morning as well, and there was no blood."
Sherlock's brow furrows slightly, allowing the witness's comments to enter. "Interesting," he says, though you groan at his uncommon habit, he speaking slowly and attentively before nodding. There's nothing else to listen to, so there's no time to waste. "I'm sure you've had enough of the cops.” Sherlock steps towards to the boy, “thank you for your time with us." He gracefully lowers his head, hand finding your back to stroke against before departing and tugging the shorter along; which meant you.
You take out your phone and dial your friend's number; it takes a few moments for her to answer. "Hey, Molly." You greet with large exhaustion. "Have your toys arrived?"
The mortuary room, shall be you both next stop.
"Jeff Hewlett, Vincent Mcbride, and Reynard Hall." Molly says it with her arms crossed across her chest and an uncomfortable expression on her face, as if corpses still frightened her despite years of working in a mortuary. "Vincent and Jeff are siblings, not sure how Reynard falls into the picture."
Despite hearing Molly's remarks, Sherlock remains silent, leaning over Reynard's corpse and studying. The bodies had all been cleaned of blood, and the cause was clear; they had all been shot, albeit no bullets were recovered in them or at the warehouse.
"Jeff and Vincent have been dead for a while." Molly speaks up once more, watching as he moves on to Vincent's body. "I'd guess two days. Perhaps three."
"But our witness said there was nothing in the warehouse yesterday." You ponder during where you stood against the wall, brow furrowed, looking, waiting, having never been fond of mortuary space.
“Indeed,” Sherlock straightens himself up. “Only Reynard was killed there. Whoever did it painted us a whole show to make it seem like all three murders happened at the same time, in the same place.”
You pucker up, your weary face tilting. "But why?"
"Why not?" Sherlock retorts. "Perhaps it was a warning for Reynard, showing him Jeff's corpse as a threat. He wasn't given a choice, however. The killer definitely wanted him dead as well. It was most likely a game for their own entertainment, as well as an opportunity to leave a magnificent crime scene behind with all that splattered blood."
You ponder, your mind already absence. "Bloody Hell..."
"I wouldn't use the word magnificent to describe such a bloody scene." Molly mutters, breathes deeply, and shakes her head slightly. "In any case, there's more. Check their chests."
Sherlock doesn't need to be told once more, yanking at the white sheet that covers the rest of the dead. His brows furrow and he leans in, curious.
"What on earth is it?" You ask yourself, moving closer.
"All three bodies have the letter J carved on the left side of their chest." Molly adds this as she uncovers the two more bodies, displaying the same wounds that Sherlock saw with a little magnifying glass.
"Beautiful," Sherlock thinks to himself as he walks up to examine Reynard's scar. "The murderer left his imprint... He wants everyone to know that he did it. It's another jeopardy a warning that this could be a case for a serial killer."
The proprietor of the mortuary room frowns. "You should tone down your enthusiasm for murd-"
"Collect their files and bring them to me. All three of them." Sherlock commands, straightening his back and walking towards you, his arm wrapping across your shorter shoulders to urge you along. "I need to do some research."
Things were finally getting fascinating around there.
Shouting out the route out of Sherlock's flat to take you home. "Jeff and Vincent were cousins," he recalls fast as the outcome of his momentous laboratory spills out, loud enough to alarms you, half-sleeping from the passenger seat window.
You two share a knowing, amused gaze as a bright shade of pink sweeps across your cheeks after his delicate smooch on your hairline. "The entire thing could have been a family issue, a misunderstanding- but then you have Reynard, eh? Who appears to have no connection to them. However," Sherlock says, raising his finger. "According to my research, Vincent and Jeff were in a relationship. This could be a love problem instead, but it's still strange because of the cousins."
"Ugh, please. Don't tell me it was about illicit bromance like old fashioned in 70' European," you counsel with a smile. And your comment made him snort next to you.
"This J is dropping hints, which indicates that they intend to return. But if they don't, we can rely on your brilliant cousin illicit bromance concept." You can't stop yourself from laughing. Till you realize what he implied then your smile faded: "Are you trying to say we supposed wait for someone else to die before going after this 'J' ?” Your brow furrows in bewilderment.
“Exactly.” Sherlock gives a short, innocent smile. "God! Sherlock Holmes, that’s bloody nonsense. What's we need to do is avoid the next victim, not waiting and enjoying it!" You shout out as he turns right, leaving you dumbfounded.
Your water is just starting to boil when Sherlock asks, "-so what about steak and your fondness for wine?"
"Huh," you keep staring out the window, knowing he's only attempting to loosen you by addressing the food topic, and the only response you gave him was the muttering in rage. "Nah, I saw plenty of blood today."
"We're going to have burger for dinner," Sherlock replies hastily. "There will be no more second thoughts."
“Fries, also”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You were about going over soda when Sherlock's phone started ringing. He urged him to slow down his car and search his trousers pocket for the device. He frowned at the number as you gazed upon him doubtfully, then slid his thumb to the green button. "—Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock stared down at the body, and the body stared back to him.
"She was discovered exactly like this an hour ago." The officer from the local police department explained. "She drowned and washed up on shore, but we called you because she has the letter J carved on her. We do believe you are familiar with this."
Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. He'd been overly confident, certain that he'd put the pieces of the puzzle together, that he'd tied all the traces together and located the real victim the murderer was looking for.
And now this - an elderly woman and she defies the men-only pattern, has no ties to any of the previous cases, and smashes Sherlock's assumptions and inferences in the blink of an eye.
And Sherlock is never, ever wrong with his predictions.
He feels your palm on his arm, a delicate tug of reassurance, of comfort, but he brushes it aside and walks to kneel over the body. You shake your head at the others, signalling that Sherlock needs a bit of solitude time.
"She used to work at a local, tiny grocery store." Sherlock claims that bending his head as he searches the body with furrowed brows for any wound other than the J sliced through her garments. There was nothing, which was not surprising given that drowning her shouldn't take much effort.
"Hold on, Greg." You paused the line and step over him, scracth your shoulder; by now it's already midnight and you're still at the crime scenes with nothing in your tiresome stomach. "You got that from just looking at her?" He sighs as he hears you ask in stupor.
"When I was younger, I used to go to her store and buy candy." He explains, possibly in a fairly harsh tone, though it was common for the frustration to crawl up on his chest and adhere to his ribcage. "She is unrelated to the other victims. She's most likely retired by now. It makes no sense."
No one says a thing. The wind from the Thames is refreshing, yet the air is dense. If Sherlock doesn't comprehend, the others obviously don’t either.
"Perhaps the connections between the victims weren't as straightforward as I would assumed."
Curled up within your coat, you allowed the darknight breezes swirl over you, leaving your blonde hair tangled. You've known your thoughts went away into the cloud from your body since this granny bodie had a sheer string with Sherlock.
"Anytime," you say as you offer your namecard to one of the local police officers, who appears to be the lieutenant.
Sherlock could hear your breath hitching behind him, followed by the noises of you turning around and exiting the room. He looked over his shoulder as his girl walked away, briefly wondering if the mortuary had finally become a bit too much for you to bear, before returning his gaze to the corpse.
"Mercury poisoning." Greg reinforced his thoughts, an uncomfortable expression on his face as he gripped the victim's files against his chest and watched Sherlock. "In his body, a big dose was injected. Considering the others, I'd say this was a rather clean death."
Sherlock concurred silently, his gaze fixed on the J cut right below the body's collarbone. “Name?”
"Clifford Shelton," the proprietor of the mortuary room replies, returning her gaze to the paperwork. "A kindergarten teacher, Oxford Montessori Schools."
There it was. The headache came slowly, cautiously, curling its twisted fingers around his thoughts and squeezing it.
"Do you think there's any connection to the other victims?" Sherlock questions, putting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and frowning at the gathering annoyance.
"Nothing that I can think of."
“Figured.”
Sherlock straightens up, disregarding Greg's somewhat irritated expression. Seconds passed slowly, static silence filling the air as he stared harder and harder at the corpse, as if the jigsaw pieces might fall into place on their own if he did it long enough.
"Where did Y/N go?" Molly is the one who breaks the silence, her hands moving to draw the sheet over the dead, effectively ending Sherlock's investigation.
The detective's attention slowly returns from the shrouded body to the pathologist, accepting the query before returning to the exit. "I don’t know.”
"So," Greg begins, his tone tinged with doubt and perhaps a hint of amusement. "You can't figure it out?"
"I haven't start to figured it out yet." Sherlock corrects Greg, irritated by his choice of words. He has copies of all the victims' files strewn over his desk, but the more he stares at them, the more difficult it is to think. Part of him blames Greg; honestly, the shorter's presence lowers his IQ by the second.
“Right.” He nods slowly, a kitten-like smile twisting on his lips, yet he doesn't dare to continue his tormenting.
"He was thirty-two years old, making him the second oldest victim so far, but there's still a significant age difference between him and Mrs. Madison from Thames river." They both were in your house, Sherlock muses as he leans over the papers, fists gripping the table. "In any case, it's barely significant. He was born and reared in Scotland and has no history of being linked with any of the men." He sighs and leans back against the table, his palms against his face, away from the paperwork. "I feel like there's something obvious here which I'm overlooking."
There was a brief moment of silence before you stood up, the entrance of the door. "He should be in Oxford, it’s Tuesday and no necessary to be in London." You mutter, barely audible, before turning and heading for the bedroom instead.
Sherlock kept an eye on you, the unfamiliarity of the circumstance, along with your out-of-character actions, making you nervous. He exchanges a glance with Greg, who returns his gaze, and he suddenly feels as if there's something else he's missing that isn't related to the murders.
"Is she-"
"Is she okay? You should go ahead and ask her." Greg shrugs, maintaining his nice, casual grin, but his eyes were clearly prodding Sherlock; attempting to break past his thick mind loaded with puzzles and detective novels. "Did you happen to forget Clifford was Y/N's ex?"
Sherlock's mouth opens in surprise, then closes again.
"Thought so." Greg laughs and shakes his head slightly. "Go talk to her."
Three knocks on the door before Sherlock stepped in, turning the handle. “Y/N?”
His shorter girlfriend sat on the bed, phone lighting out on your hands, apparently doing nothing more than being lost in your own thoughts, yet a smile spreads across your lips as your gaze meets Sherlock's, albeit somewhat tiredly. "Hey, beb."
Sherlock pursed his lips, locking the door behind him; he believed Greg would busy himself in the sitting room or the kitchen (like he always did), so he stepped farther into the room. He knew about Clifford and you, but the whole serial murderer thing managed to take over his entire head, seizing its place and leaving no room for other facts.
Even those about his girlfriend.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, the mattress sinking slightly as he sat next to the shorter, bony fingers searching for you to hold. He senses you relaxing only for his touch, and you shrug.
“I hate your silly question.. It has been a long time. I haven't spoken to him for years." You say, seizing the opportunity to finally express yourself now that you have the opportunity. "It's just... strange -- you know? That someone I used to know..." You trail off, words turning to ash in your tongue before you can say anything, yet there is no need for a detective to figure out the finish of this phrase this time.
Sherlock's hand squeezes yours, and your head leans on his shoulder. "Suddenly, it all feels a lot more threatening when it's about someone you know, doesn't it?" Sherlock hums, now his head resting on his woman's shoulder, lips placing a kiss to the top of your hair. "Are you scared?"
“Kinda.” You chuckled defeatistically. "Well, if something happens to us, I mean; I guess 'J' knows who we are. Mrs Madison and Clifford happen to be related to us." You breathe out with a slight smile on your face. "And I wished I'd died first because I couldn't live without your goofy face."
Sherlock's stomach clenches, and he is anxious but determined. He presses your hand once more. "Nothing is going to happen to us." He then draws you closer into his warm embrace. "Just put your trust in me."
“I always did.”
“I know.”
While his lips were connected to yours, the deadpanned blank countenance quickly covered over your agonised sorrowful appearance that you showed to him. And, despite your best efforts, you sense no peace from his embrace, at all.
To your mastermind that running back and forth in your veins, something within you shouts louder and more profoundly in the silence.
a/t: eh i did told you don’t hate me yet xD
