Chapter Text
Sherlock was curled up in his chair towards the corner of the room, knees pulled up to his chest and partially sitting on his feet. He was in his dressing gown and long pajama pants, rumpled and curly hair messy from that morning. His forearms rest against his knees, hands pressed into a praying position and hovering over his cupid's bow. It was a fluid movement that he did subconsciously, almost as natural as breathing. Silver-grey eyes flickered left and right, staring forwards like he was zoned out, analyzing something.
John had no idea how Sherlock could stay in that position for hours on end and not get one single cramp or give the slightest hint of being uncomfortable. Of course, he himself had been in worse positions during his time in the army, so he had some understanding. But Sherlock hadn't been any type of military services or anything similar.
Dressed in jeans and a woolen sweater, John made his way down the stairs to the kitchen where he expected some type of obstacle - whether it be some type of acid or random body part lying around on the counter - to be in his way. He found himself disappointingly correct, pausing once he entered.
"Sherlock?" John called. "Are these human tongues?" When he'd first moved in, he would've been horrified, but now it was an everyday event. There wasn't much that he hadn't seen by then in the field of chemistry and health. Well, that's what Sherlock referred them to. John would've said fields of 'dangerous chemicals that cause our flat to become toxic for a month' and 'what pathologists and the forensics team is for.'
"Of course they're tongues," Sherlock's biting response came back from the living room. "What else would they be?"
John rolled his eyes, sucking in a deep breath and sighing. "O-kay then," he said under his breath to himself. Speaking up, he asked, "What, exactly, are you doing?"
"I'm doing an experiment."
"I see that. On what?"
"The tongue is the strongest muscle in the body, so I've put them in acid to see how long it would take for them to fully disintegrate," Sherlock explained simply, his tone matching his expression as blank and somewhat distracted.
John scowled as he moved the tub aside, checking the surface of the counter and bottom the tongue-container to see if the acid had somehow burned its way through the plastic yet. He really hated the idea of having to clean up charred tongues and explain the bizarre event to Mrs. Hudson. She'd put up with bullet holes in her walls and 3 AM violin playing, loud arguing, and more experiments ruining her floors or seeping into her flat from the ceiling. He had a feeling if one more thing happened that she'd snap, despite her patient personality.
Grabbing a cooking pan, large bowl, and necessary ingredients to make a few pancakes, John began to make breakfast that didn't have any experiments contaminating it. He ended up making 4 pancakes, hoping that Sherlock would eat some. Sherlock rarely ate at all, and John was 99% sure that with force he'd eat one.
He's just served out the plates when he heard a 'ding!' from Sherlock's phone on the living room table. He heard Sherlock scramble up from his seat and hurry over to his phone, checking for Lestrade's text that he was dying to get. Sherlock's been complaining about London being to dull and boring with no crimes being committed. Only he would say that - anyone else would call it a blessing.
"Ugh," Sherlock scowled, only looking at the contact name and tossing the mobile aside. "Mycroft," he muttered, slinking back to his chair disappointed.
John, thinking this this sibling rivalry completely ridiculous but had some good reason to it, ignored Sherlock's complaint. "Breakfast's ready, Sherlock, if you want to eat." Knowing that with John this wasn't a question, but an order, Sherlock bit back any remarks and hauled himself up and into their shared kitchen.
Throughout breakfast, Sherlock phone continued buzzing in the living room. It'd vibrate against the polished wood, annoying the hell out of John, where Sherlock easily ignored it. After the 8th vibration, John spoke.
"Are you gonna get that, or..?" John asked expectantly, his annoyance not masked like he would with people other than his flatmate. He set his fork down on his plate and stood up, setting his dishes in the sink and waiting until Sherlock had decided not to be as slow as a turtle to avoid being caught in only eating half his breakfast.
Sherlock, pushing his plate away and standing up, scrunched up his nose and shook his head. Periodically, the phone would ding, in which he finally just stuffed it underneath the Union Jack pillow on the couch to muffle the noise. He didn't understand why Mycroft didn't get the message. Sherlock was a grown man, for god's sakes. His big brother didn't need to be in every single part of his life or know every little thing about it. He didn't need to be watched. He was very much fine on his own, though Mycroft begged to differ.
The two flatmates were satisfied until John's mobile started ringing. There was a load groan on the bull skull's side of the room and a huff of annoyance from John's. John swiped up the mobile and answered without checking the caller ID.
"What the hell do you want?!" John exclaimed into the phone.
"What?" Lestrade's voice came, confusion evident.
John's eyes widened for a moment and he ran a hand down his face, trying to explain. "Oh my god-" he muttered, "sorry. Sherlock hasn't been answering his mobile because he's being a stubborn git" - he turned around to shoot a pointed look at the detective- "towards his brother."
"That explains a lot," Lestrade said. "Just tell him to get down here. There's been a murder."
"He'll be glad to hear that," John replied. "He's been moping around the whole weekend because London's being too civilized. Where is it?"
"I'll send you the address."
****************
When John and Sherlock got to the crime scene, it was swarming with police as usual. There was caution tape surrounding the entrance of a big home, barricading it from curious civilians. The house was elegant in its tall height, but the painted copper was starting to chip off with age and crumble. People with gloves and covering over their regular clothes exited the house, followed by people entering.
The two flatmates walked up to the crime scene tape and Sherlock ducked under first, holding it up for John. Then they made their way inside, ignoring any dirty looks or nasty comments that were made about them. The inside of the house seemed somewhat similar to the posh look of the outside, organised and expensive.
Anderson passed them on his way out, wearing gloves and covering as the rest did. He scowled upon sight of Sherlock, about to say something, but was interrupted.
"I'd highly advise you to rethink anything you say before you speak it," Sherlock said. "The world would be a whole lot better, wouldn't it?" He went on his way, John following, and Anderson yelling at him from behind. It was easily ignored.
Sherlock and Anderson never liked each other, nor did he and Sally Donovan. They always questioned his presence and argued, quite tedious if you'd ask him. He had a way of doing things and they manage to get in the way of it quite often. They called him freak too. Such children.
Lestrade finished talking with another forensics member when Sherlock made his dramatic entrance to the living room, the black coat giving good effect. The forensics member nodded and walked around John, Lestrade turning around and nodding towards a cart that had bins on it with clean scrubs. John began to slip some over his clothing and shoes, where Sherlock didn't give a second glance at the black bin.
"What do we have Lestrade?" the youngest Holmes asked immediately, skipping any types of greeting. It was better to get straight to the point than beat around the bush in pleasantries. "You didn't exactly give us any information." He shot a glare at the Detective Inspector.
Lestrade passed the harsh gaze off with a roll of his eyes and made a gesture to follow. He showed them to the kitchen where the body of a middle aged man lied in the middle of the floor. His eyes were dead and glazed over, lifeless and staring up at the ceiling. His expression showed a somewhat betrayed emotion, as if someone he trusted had stabbed him in the back. Which, quite ironically, happened but in his chest where his heart should be instead.
The weird thing about the crime scene that had everyone talking was the wings. There were long, black scorch marks of wings extending from the middle of his back. They crawled up the stove and counter, going up the walls. They were so long that they seemed to drape over everything that stood in its way and bent to run up the sides of the walls until a foot or two below the ceiling. Feathers were individually drawn or burned, so majestic and detailed that you could say they were real.
Sherlock strode into the room, not hesitating at the sight and ignoring anything that came out of Lestrade and John's mouth for the time being. He crouched down beneath the body, careful to not rub off the marks (paint? chalk?). He inspected the wound; a gaping hole right where the man's heart was. It was messy and ragged, showing that it had been stabbed through the same wound multiple times, making it bigger that it would have been with one entry. Blood crusted around it and ran down the man's pale skin, some dripping onto the white floor.
The blade, Sherlock deduced, was long (by how deep it went) and not of any ordinary knives. This one had to be ridged - that would be the only explanation for the very slight points around the wound. Ordinary knives and blades were thin and meant for cutting on its edge with a sharp point at the top. But the murder weapon was thick and made for doing just what it proved to do.
As Sherlock inspected, he reeled off everything that flew through his mind. His voice was a low and rich baritone, becoming a bit uneasy for the ears after a while of continuous talking. He hardly stopped to take a breath, taking off the man's ring and putting it back on, and taking in absolutely everything.
"This man was 35 years old. Healthy weight and a good job, a wealthy paying on by his clothing. Leather shoes and business clothing, no tears or dirt, but well worn and wrinkled. His personal hygiene is kept to, but not exemplary such as when you want to make a good impression on someone of importance. He's been married for 15 years, but not a happy one. The inside and outside of the ring are scratched and not tended to, showing a possible divorce or separation. Lestrade, who's he married to?"
"Chloe Jameson was Robert Jameson's wife," Lestrade replied. "She reported him missing 2 years ago, claiming that Robert said he was being spoken to by an 'angel of the Lord.'"
Sherlock scoffed at that, naming it a useless piece of information, and kept on talking. "So, that explains it. He doesn't care about her or the marriage, so why would he have kept the ring? Family heirloom? No, it's too modern." He paused, his lips pressed into a thin line as he racked brain for any more explanations. "He's been away, hasn't he?"
"Correct."
"Ah, that explains it. He hadn't taken it off because it reminded him of home," Sherlock sighed disapprovingly. "Sentiment. He hasn't changed his clothes at all from when he left, no evidence of being laundered. That is a bit odd in your standards."
John nodded in agreement, going over and kneeling down next to the body, careful of the wing marks. Sherlock stood up and backed away from the body, done with his deductions and giving John a turn.
"He was in perfect health," John concluded, setting Robert's right hand down on the floor carefully after inspecting his nails. "No nicotine stains or any signs of addiction at all. He was clean - this shouldn't be something of a gang murdering him."
Sherlock nodded in approval, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. John was learning.
"So, do you have any idea who killed him?" Lestrade asked.
"His wife of course," Sherlock revealed. "She had every reason to do so. When he came back, she took her revenge and murdered him. The murder weapon, though, is another story."
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is," Sherlock explained slowly, "that the weapon shouldn't exist. Of all the blades I've heard of and known from previous cases, this one is extraordinarily different." He paused. "Surely you and your team are intelligent enough to get at least a brief idea of what type it is." He made his way towards the front door and John took off his scrubs, said goodbye to Lestrade, and followed. Sherlock ducked under the crime scene tape and held it up for John. Police almost barricaded the general area completely.
Sherlock felt that annoying itch in the back of his mind, nagging at him that something was different and wrong. It was the feeling that he got when he thinks that he's solved the case incorrectly, and he despised that feeling. Why would the wife draw wings across the entire kitchen? Perhaps it was symbolism for him being her angel before he left? This case is very odd and had an almost supernatural feeling to it. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice that he's come to hate over the years.
"Little brother," his big brother, Mycroft, greeted. "I see you've solved another case."
"Hm," Sherlock merely hummed, turning on his heel to face the man. "Yes, I have. Is that a big surprise to you or has your act of avoiding the diet screwed up your brain?"
Mycroft showed distaste, a scowl tilting his lips. "The diet's fine," he said, tapping his umbrella on the concrete twice. "You know, Sherlock, it would be most pleasant if you picked up your phone every once in a while when I call." He had an expecting look on his face, eyebrows raised.
"I wouldn't want to make your life easier though," Sherlock said, filling his tone with fake concern. "That would be dreadful. Besides, you know I'd rather text, even if I must talk to you. Surely the British government would understand that by now?"
Mycroft fought the urge to roll his eyes. The accusation was getting old now and it was funny anymore. It never was funny to begin with, but now it's just annoying. "I occupy a minor position in the British government," he's repeated thousands of times.
John looked up at the oldest Holmes, not bothering to hide the fact that he found the man quite a pest. "What do you want, Mycroft?"
"Ah, now there's a question I've been wanting to hear," Mycroft said, glad that someone has finally gotten to the point. "I'm actually here to talk to you about a case."
"You know I don't take cases from you anymore," Sherlock dismissed, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets as if the gloves on his hands weren't warm enough.
"This is different," Mycroft insisted.
"How different?" Sherlock rose an eyebrow defiantly.
"I'm here to talk to you about a case in the states," Mycroft began. Sherlock began to protest when he held his hand up, cutting off the detective. Maybe if he'd just listen, they wouldn't argue as much.
"His name is Lucifer Morningstar."