I found the school to be in a state of chaos upon arriving on the premises Monday morning. Instead of bustling around the halls to do God-knows-what, as they usually would, students were gathered mainly around the first floor science classroom (this was, in fact, the same room that I took Earth Sciences in, and I was very anxious to see whether the event that must have caused this would interfere with my schedule). I tried to find a way around the gathered teens, but before I could make any moves, someone called out my name through the excitement.
I turned in the direction of the door to find John fighting his way out of the crowd towards me. It was unsettling to find that when I gave him a grin of salutation, he did not return it. As soon as he reached me, we moved a few inches away from the crowd, so we could speak without disruption.
Curiosity intensifying, I attempted to see over the swarm of my peers. "What on earth is going on? Has Mr. Hart injured himself?"
"Mr. Hart is fine," said John.
"That's a shame."
He didn't laugh, which caused even more uneasiness within me. "Someone's been killed, Sherlock."
Immediately, I turned towards John, looking down at him from my taller height. "What?"
He shrugged and took a deep breath. Shaking. Obviously distressed. "That's what everyone is saying. There are cops in there and everything. It..." John exhaled. "It looks bad, Sherlock."
"Murder, then?"
The blonde quickly ran his tongue over his lips. Annoyed. "Yes, generally, that can be assumed when someone is killed."
I set my shoulders back and stood up straight, head high. "In that case, I think I'd like a look."
John grabbed me by the arm just as I was about to head into the throng. "You can't just march onto a crime scene!"
His hand lingered on my skin, and a flutter of butterflies quickly filled my stomach. (Of course, butterflies are simply the effect of increased blood pressure during an adrenaline rush. I suppose I was just trying my hand at being romantic. It won't happen again. Probably.)
I gave him a confident smile despite my rushing emotions. "Would you like to come with me?"
Before John could give a response of any sort, the school bell rang. However, instead of dispersing to their regular classes, students lingered in the corridor. The intercom cackled to life, and my peers quieted down.
The speaker, Professor Millyweed, cleared her throat. "Students and teachers, due to... recent events, classes are cancelled today. Buses will be here within the quarter-hour to return students to their individual homes, but for now if you could all go straight to your homeroom classes..."
She continued to speak, but I had grabbed John by the shoulders (an act that I would probably dwell on if not for the situation). "John, don't go home on your bus. Meet me here as soon as they let you leave. Please."
He gave the slightest of nods, and I let him go. Quickly, I left for my class, my skin still tingling from his touch.
The classroom was already filled with idiots when I walked in, and I chose to ignore their numerous taunts in my direction as I headed straight for my seat in the back of the room. Our teacher continued to work, paying us no mind.
I'd hardly been seated for a moment when the boy in front of me turned around. "Hey Sherlock, you're the genius here. What do you reckon happened?"
The classroom quieted quickly, waiting to hear my response. I raised an eyebrow at the boy, who had tried to speak to me several times before without success. "I can't imagine why that would ever be your business, George."
"It's Greg," he muttered.
Sally Donovan, a girl who was going through a rather impressive scene phase, called from the front of the room. "Hey, freak! You seem to like showing off enough every other second of the day, why don't you do it now? Maybe you could finally be of some use!"
The class laughed. Greg, still turned around in his chair, sneered at me. "What? Are you scared that you can't live up to your own reputation as the freakiest genius in all of London?"
"I think you would find it beneficial if you shut up now," I said quietly.
He leaned in. "What are you gonna do? Beat me in chess?"
Luckily, the teacher had finally moved to the front of the room, and the class had more or less turned its attention to her. "Alright, kids, the buses are here, if you could all neatly file out the door..."
I lingered near my seat as my peers shoved out of the room. If I waited long enough... Yes, the corridors were beginning to clear out now. Students seemed to be in an even greater hurry than usual to escape from the place.
John gave me a small, nervous wave upon seeing me from his post outside of the science classroom. He was twitching about even more than usual.
As soon as I was standing by the door with him, I gave a quick nod. "Are you ready?"
He shrugged and took a fast, heavy breath. Was this really taking such a toll on him? "Yeah, I guess."
"Shoulders back, eyes forward, head up." As I named the motions, I performed them. "They'll respect you more. Do this, and you can never fail, John Watson."
I felt John change his posture next to me before pulling the door open. With the squeal of hinges in great need of oiling, we were in. There were a few police officers lingering around the outer edges of the room. One was an alcoholic; the other was having an affair with a waitress. The station obviously hadn't bothered to send their best men. The headmaster watched from afar, obviously disturbed, as what appeared to be two detectives took a look at the corpse.
The body was definitely what interested me the most. It was sat at the teacher's desk, facing the rows of empty lab tables. However, instead of being slumped over, as it naturally would be, the corpse was somehow sitting up with perfect posture- shoulders back, eyes forward, head up. From my position at the doorway, I couldn't see how this was possible. I heard a quiet dripping, and realized that blood from an open stomach wound in the victim was still trickling onto the linoleum.
"Molly Hooper," John mumbled softly, voice cracking.
It took me a moment to realize exactly what he meant by this. The one thing I hadn't noticed (mainly because it was simply a fact that didn't have much significance for the moment) was the identity of the victim. The girl looked almost the same as the first day I'd met her- still dressing to make a good impression, probably trying to become popular. Surely, though, if any event was to encourage attention, it would be one such as this.
"Good riddance," I laughed quietly.
John gave no immediate response, and when I looked down at him again, his face was red with anger, eyes wet with tears. Still, he spoke calmly. "This is not something to joke about. Someone is dead, Sherlock! Dead!"
I'd hit a nerve. Clearing my throat and lifting my head, I apologized.
It was at that moment that the headmaster finally detected us and swiftly sauntered over to us, glaring at me. "This is a restricted area," he said through gritted teeth.
I shrugged. "I believe you need some help around here."
"We have all the help we need, Mr. Holmes, and unless you'd like to face expulsion, I suggest you leave."
"Expulsion? My, that seems a bit rash. No, I think I'll stay. Those detectives of yours definitely need some assistance."
"The investigators need no such thing."
I raised an eyebrow. "Really, now?" I shoved past him and moved towards the female detective, who was inspecting the corpse's face. "What have you observed?"
She turned around, startled by my voice. "Well, she's been dead about four hours, I'd say, based on the purpling skin."
I waved away her opinion. "Oh, no. Definitely not." I pulled on a pair of disposable blue gloves, found in a nearby box, and lifted Molly's hand into the air. As I let it drop, it fell limply back to its spot on the table. "Rigor mortis hasn't set in, see? The muscles are still relaxed, instead of tense. I'd say it's only been around 30 minutes."
The inspector raised an eyebrow. "That's... Well, that's genius."
"Oh yes, I know I am." I stepped away from her and back to where the headmaster stood. "Really, I think you'd be much better off with our help," I said to him.
He sighed deeply and sank into one of the empty chairs. "Fine. But they," he pointed to the detectives, "are still in charge."
I smirked. "Sure, whatever you choose to believe. Come along, John."
We strode over to the corpse. John appeared to be on the verge of vomiting. He stood close to me, obviously uncomfortable with the entirety of the situation, but I remained calm (excluding, of course, the tingles that ran through me if he stood too close or accidentally bumped me).
I cleared my throat. "First things first, we need to figure out how she's suspended like that. No corpse could naturally sit as this one does. Next, we examine the wound- John, this will be your main job. After that," I turned to my companion, raising an eyebrow, "we decide whether or not we should take it."
John had quietly been taking this in, still looking a bit panicky and green. "Take... Take what?"
"The case. Obviously."
"Right, obviously," said John, growing more upset by the minute.
We snapped on some disposable gloves and began to work. John kneeled down to inspect the stomach wound, grimacing all the while. I ran my hand through the air above Molly's head, and was appalled. Fishing lines were attached somewhere in her mouth, holding her head and body high.
Before I could inspect the lines further, John called up to me from his position on the floor. "Sherlock, you should... You should definitely see this."
I kneeled next to him, doing my best to avoid sitting in any blood. My attempts were futile, as the liquid was everywhere. From my position on the ground, it was easy to see a spot of blood feet away. How did it end up over there? "Hang on a minute," I muttered.
I began crawling around on the floor towards the spot, quickly finding the linoleum to be slightly damp. Not with blood, this time, but with just a little bit of water. Floor mopped. 25 minutes ago. The trail of moisture led all the way to the back door, where I popped to my feet. "She didn't die here," I announced.
The detective that I'd spoken to previously quickly lifted her head from the files she'd been inspecting. "I'm sorry?"
"She was dragged," I explained, pleased that I'd captured the attention of not only the female detective, but everyone in the room. "The corpse was dragged in through the back door. Someone suspended her in here- so we can assume that they weren't doing this against Miss Hooper in particular: they've probably set her up like this just to put on a show."
One of the police officers (the alcoholic) finally spoke up. "Then why isn't there blood all over the floor? You know, where she was dragged?"
I rolled my eyes. "It must be physically painful to be such an oblivious moron. They mopped up the trail. See? That's why the floor is damp through here."
"Sorry, did you say she was suspended here?" It was the female detective again.
I nodded and jogged back over to the corpse. Quickly finding one of the many fishing lines, I traced it with my finger while the others watched attentively. The line led straight into her closed mouth. I gently pulled her jaw down, spreading apart her lips. Blood poured through the opening, and I shuddered, but continued the investigation. I gave a quick tug on the fishing line, and, along with a rush of blood, a small hook came out of the roof of her mouth. Molly slumped a little bit, but still held decent posture. I raised my eyebrows and showed the small, silver hook to the others.
Pointing up at the ceiling, where the connected line and hook I held were still attached, I explained, "She's been suspended with many of these hooks. That's why she isn't slumped over like a regular corpse."
"Brilliant," the investigator murmured. I caught her taking down a note or two.
"Sherlock, really," John said again, "I think you should see this."
Letting go of the hook so it hung limply from the ceiling, I took a seat on the ground by my friend. He spread the wound (which looked like a massive cut from a knife) a little bit wider and stuck two fingers inside, looking terribly disgusted. Within seconds, he had pulled out another hook, this one much larger than those I'd found inside the mouth. It also lacked a connection to a fishing line of any sort, and was instead simply... wedged inside Molly's stomach.
John handed the hook to me, and I quickly brought it to the investigator. She silently put it into a plastic bag, looking very put-off by the situation.
"Sh- Sherlock?!"
It was John again, sounding absolutely terrified. I hurried over to where he stood by the corpse, shaking. Immediately, I knew what he was looking at. Written across the teacher's desk in what could only be Molly's blood were five gut-wrenching words.
Terrific catch, don't you think?