The Third One [Sherlock Fanfiction]

Chapter 2

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“Straggled to death. Judging from the skin’s toughness, colour and her pupils, she is killed about an hour ago,” John concludes, standing up from his kneeling position. I hold onto a breath, masking my emotions on my face carefully. Since my brother is already quite unhappy about me going onto a crime scene with them, I can’t show fears and discomfort. Or else, John will have sent me back to 221B right away. Sherlock shifts and bends, moving and narrowing his eyes restlessly. I wish I could see what he is seeing. From his deductions that I have heard earlier on, I bet he is like reading an essay just from a look from the body before us.

Greg, turns out the name of the grey haired man is, crosses his arms in front of his chest and watches Sherlock closely. I stare down at the girl, letting the cruelty of death eats me inside out. Her wavy hair is spread out in a pool around her chalk white face. Her neck shows signs of harsh bruises and marks. Her face freezes at a look of mortification and horror. I can almost see the way she struggled as life drained out of her.

My eyes drag over her body, my ears picking up every noise around us. For some reasons, the crime scene gives me a chill in the spine, waking up every senses of mine, making me sharper than usual. I can hear the policemen chatting casually on the front line, some pacing by the police tap as their shoes make contact with the ground.

A wave of nausea settles in my chest as I realize how unnatural I am acting. I am almost like an animal in the wild, alert for the night and ready for the prey.

“Look, there,” Sherlock says suddenly, cutting me short from my thoughts, which I am grateful for. I follow his cautious glance and see the purple trace of marks on the girl’s neck. It’s a line of bruises. Weird, almost like a-

“A chain or some sort. A necklace,” Sherlock finishes my thought. I peek at him sideway, slightly proud at myself for getting to the conclusion that Sherlock just does.

“Sir,” a young policemen runs by, panting lightly, “Found her wallet nearby. There are 500 pounds in it and a credit card.”

John hums, “no money loss. So what does the murderer want?”

“Good,” Sherlock looks approvingly at John as he takes the wallet from the policeman, “not as bad as I have thought.” I swear to god John flushes.