Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

We are all players in God's game - (Everly's POV)

(Everly's POV)

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I couldn't recall ever being hit over the head. In fact I'd never even been hit hard enough to black out at all. I remembered one time that I'd run headfirst into a lamp post on the way to school when I was little and had ended up with a nice bruise on my forehead and got a mild concussion but never had I been hit by another person, and never with a weapon.

So, when I finally managed to open my eyelids, which felt like they were made of lead; and my vision was fuzzy, I began to panic about my health in general. Was I dead?

After a spell of rapid blinking, my vision cleared enough for me to make out shadowy objects.

Head banging and neck feeling numb, I managed to sit up straighter and realised I was sat with my back up against a cold concrete wall. My hands were bound on my lap with duct tape as were my feet. Thankfully though, I wasn't gagged.

I groaned as a pulsating wave of pain washed over my head again and I longed to nurse the lump on the back of my skull.

Next to me John was slumped against the wall and in pretty much the same situation as me: hands and feet bound with tape and looking like he had a headache the size of Texas.

"You okay?" I whispered to him as he looked groggily at me, squinting against the pain and darkness.

"Super. You?"

I tried to smile, "I've been better." Then I sat forward carefully, waiting for the sickness to take over again. "Where the hell are we?"

John shrugged, "I have no idea but we're near a road, you can hear the cars and maybe a train or two."

I listened and could faintly hear the rumble of London traffic nearby. So close to life but we were so alone.

I looked forward when I heard a sound like someone scrambling over loose gravel.

In front of me was the captive man I had discovered in the studio. He was sprawled on the ground, kicking up dust and gravel as he struggled, trying to yell and talk through the duct-tape across his mouth and failing miserably.

Leigh Kavon was crouched near a tin of red paint, trying to prise the lid off with his shaking fingers by the pitiful light of a torch next to him.

"I thought he painted the bodies at the studio." I whispered and John chewed his lip, watching intently.

"Obviously not."

I frowned, "And the man isn't dead. Usually they are killed in the studio and then transported to the location."

John just shrugged again.

"Why would he change his methods?" I wondered more to myself then actually talking to John. "I mean no criminal changes his ways after five murders all the same. I mean that man must be a loans adviser and I bet we're within walking distance from the bank he works for. So why suddenly mess up the process?" I pondered.

I watched Leigh for a moment or two. He was shaking violently, not just a drunken or drugged up shake . . . a scared, petrified shake. His fingers scrabbled feebly at the paint tin as he tried to remove the lid and he kept talking nervously under his breath and often casting worried glances at the man bound on the ground.

Everything about him was just wrong for a murderer.

Then I wondered.

"What if Leigh only kidnaps the victims? What if someone else murders, paints and dumps them in the locations?" I said and John cast me a questioning look.