October 21, 2013
The sunrise was rather beautiful later on that morning. There were various oranges and pinks that provided a nice contrast to the grey clouds in the background. My favorite part of the sunset was it was lacking in the color red. Ever since Lestrade and I talked I have felt very shitty and red is the last color I wish to see. The color's cameo in my nightmare earlier was bad enough.
I was seated in my chair wearing a clean set of clothes: a grey vest over a white button-down with a blue square pattern littered across the fabric. I also had on a pair of dark grey trousers and black socks. Really it was just a simple outfit I threw together quickly after I had taken a shower. The amount of thought put into my clothing for each day is one thing that has not changed over time.
Of course I wasn't admiring my clothes as I sat in the living room. No, I was flipping through the journal from Sherlock. Due to recent events I have not had the time to thoroughly read what he wrote for me and it has been bugging me since I got it. At first I wanted to postpone reading it for a few days so I could recover from my outbreak yesterday, but I was honestly very peaceful and fascinated when I skimmed through a paragraph on the page where Sherlock mentioned Lestrade.
It didn't take a long time to read through most of the book. I'm a quick reader and Sherlock's thoughts were just so brilliant I couldn't put the bloody thing down. The part I had trouble with was truly understanding the printed words. They spoke of basic things when faced with common situations but how could I adopt his thought process? How could I tell if a happy man is depressed, a lovely couple is cheating on each other, or if a successful man was secretly a serial kill-
The door to the flat swung open and a very miserable looking Lestrade rubbed his eyes with one hand, while placing his car keys into his pocket with the other. He had left maybe an hour or so after our conversation, I assumed to get some fresh air. I was a little worried when he was gone for quite a few hours - thought he might've gotten hurt or something - but then I remembered how he still had to go to work so he could find more information on James Moran and interview anyone who was in contact with the victims before their murder.
I shut the book, and then set it down on the small table resting by my arm. My gaze focused on Greg as he made his way over to the couch. Something about the way he moved told me that he hasn't smoked a lot today; maybe it was the way his hands shook or the way his foot kept tapping on the wooden floorboards when he sat down.
My hand now rested on the pocket containing my lighter, ready to take it out. "Need a smoke?"
He covered his face with both of his hands - almost disappointed that his physical state was so poor. "Fucking hell... is it really that obvious? Jesus..."
"Tough day?"
"I did nothing all day except interview this one lady who used to be friends with James Moran. She wouldn't shut the hell up about what a nice mate he was a few years back. She's also against smoking. Nearly killed me when I asked to go out for a second 'cause I haven't smoked all day. I think I misplaced my lighter too. Fuck, I'm itching for a bloody cigarette."
I removed the small lighter and tossed it over to where he sat. He clumsily took out a box of smokes and lit one up. A huge wave of relief washed over him as he blew out a small cloud of smoke. Greg took a long drag on the cigarette, leaned back into the couch, and closed his eyes. I should feel bad for supporting this man's addiction, but then I would be a bloody hypocrite. In this past week it has become apparent that I have grown an addiction to smoking as well. I'm not as bad as Lestrade is - he smokes every ten minutes or so - although I do find myself desperate for a cigarette now and then.
"The woman wouldn't even let you smoke outside?"
He didn't look at me when he answered, just nodded then said, "I. Was. There. For. Hours."
"Isn't she a piece of work."
"Fucking insane is what she is. I didn't have the time to see anyone else after her. More work I have to do tomorrow. Speaking of work, I need you to go over and talk to James Moran. That is if you're okay enough to do it."
"I almost blew my fucking brains out last night because of that man and you want me to go pop in for a visit?"
"In my defense I asked if you would be okay enough to do it."
I thought it over for a second. I could get a little revenge for this hell I'm going through, if the murderer is actually part of Moriarty's network. If they aren't, I could still explain how much shit they've put me through in the last week. Either way I could make them regret fucking with me.
"I'll go. Do you need me to interview him right now?"
"Wait, what?" He sat up and stared at me, taken aback by my willingness to see Moran.
"I'll go. Right now if I must. Should I bring my gun?" I was on my feet and searching around for the weapon usually hidden in the desk drawer. Did Lestrade forget to put it back when he took it from me last night? "Where's my gun?" I asked.
"Whoa, hold on. Why the fuck do you need your bloody gun?" Lestrade was standing too.
He was careful not to drop any ash from the cigarette onto the floor when he nearly flew off the couch to stop my pointless searching. He placed his hands on my shoulders and had me look him in the eye.
He thinks I want to kill the man. I mean, there's a part of me that does, but I know it wouldn't be a smart thing to do with a DI sitting in your flat.
"No I want it in case I run into a man who makes a living by killing people. I'm not gonna off myself either. Seriously Greg I'm okay. I want to go talk to Moran."
Lestrade noticed the journal sitting next to my chair. "John. Now that I think about it, you shouldn't go. Stay here and finish reading Sherlock's journal. See if he has anything written down that could help us. I can go see what Moran is doing. I don't need you breaking down again."
There was nothing I could say to convince Lestrade I was fine so I lied. I told him I would sit in the living room and read for the rest of the day. I agreed that I could break down and that I was rushing into things. The saddest part is how he believed everything I said. I hate lying to Greg - to betray the man who has literally saved my life - but he doesn't understand that this is a part of moving on. I need to go interview this man so I can determine if he is the killer. That's what Sherlock always did regardless of shit that's happened to him. He would solve a case while he was going through withdrawal because I took his drugs away. Now Lestrade thinks I can't set my personal problems aside to do my fucking job. Hell, I even assured him I would be fine if he went out to buy a new lighter.
It took some time though for Greg to leave. He wanted to make sure I was calm before he left me alone for a few minutes. In order to show him my sanity, I continued reading the journal. Ironically Sherlock wrote about how to spot a lie by the way someone looks around the room. Occasionally I would read sentences aloud to Lestrade because he could find them to be helpful and he would think I was dedicated to finding information so we could solve this case properly. The thing I left out was how I was going to head over to Moran's flat the moment Greg left.
~
I phoned a cab immediately. Before Lestrade went to the store I took his gun from his jacket. A little trick I learned from Sherlock. Speaking of Sherlock, I almost finished reading his book. I had one page to go, but I wanted to finish it when I got home.
The cab pulled up to a large building full of flats. The sky was already turning dark and I could hear some thunder in the distance which made me wish I had brought a better jacket. Doesn't matter. I'll hopefully not be here long.
I gave the cabbie some money and entered the building. It looked abandoned. Probably the shittiest looking building I've ever seen. Thank God there was someone to direct me to Moran's flat. The place was such a mess I was afraid I might get lost in all the trash strewn about the floor. How the hell could a criminal mastermind live here?
Of course the door was locked so I had to ask the landlord for a key. They didn't even ask who I was. There's something not right about everything here. That or the people living there really didn't have a single fuck to give anymore.
My first impression of the flat was even worse than the one for the overall building. It was pitch black. I was overcome with a strong, disgusting smell that suggested a good amount of rotten food. It was like death had plagued the room a long time ago and no one ever noticed. And this was all before I turned on the lights.
"Goddamn..." I muttered.
There was blood splattered on the walls. The couch was torn up and flipped over. Any breakable object was in a million pieces on the floor.
Everywhere I looked I could see bloody knives followed by a large puddle of blood. It was horrible. If I had eaten anything recently I would've lost it near the doorway. No horror film is as bad as what I had just seen with my own two eyes. This was the murderer's flat alright.
I cautiously walked around - my hand covering my nose to prevent the smell from overpowering me - on the clean bits of hardwood floor. There was no sign whatsoever of the killer himself, just the murder weapons.
The last time I had to question Moran was a few years ago. We met at a café. The conversation we had would've never revealed that he was a bloody psychopath. Yet here I am walking through his flat which is covered in blood and knives. The man has the nerve to say he's a fucking Catholic.
The smell was incredibly strong where the couch rested on the floor. I went into a coughing fit because there was nothing in my stomach to be thrown up. I should leave and report this to the police. I can't stay here any longer or it'll kill me. I should evacuate the building and tell them how dangerous this man is. I should-
Suddenly I heard a faint ringing coming from the other side of the couch. I had to force myself to stop coughing so I could hear what was ringing. It sounded like a telephone. I walked around to the source of the noise and sure enough there it was: an old, black phone sitting upright on the ground. It was the only thing untouched and the wood under it was spotless. Someone made a point not to mess up the phone when they trashed the place. I hesitated a moment. Should I pick it up? It could lead me to Moran. I could stop him before he kills another set of lovers. It was a bloody stupid idea for me to answer the phone, but I need to find Moran.
"Hello?" I said.
No one responded and I thought "Maybe it's a poorly timed prank call." Then a deep voice said something back that was rather surprising. He said my name. I figured the man knew who I was after the Sherlock lookalike we found, but it was still surprising to know I was right. It's not a good thing if a murderer knows your name. Then everything got worse.
He told me to come to the pool where Sherlock and I first encountered Moriarty.
So I'm up against a bloody psychopath who worked for another bloody psychopath and was possibly good friends with him.
I ran out of the flat immediately after the man hung up and hailed a cab.