Never done this before, but I was inspired by the show. I need good practice writing a mystery, anyway, I hope you enjoy it.
'
The Menagerie - A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction by Emergency Blanket

Prologue

Molly turned the knob with careful precision. What came into focus confused her.

“Sea monkeys?'” she muttered, feeling the pressure of the lens against her eye as she unconsciously leaned closer.

“Not surprising,” said Sherlock.

And it normally wouldn't have been, except that it was nearing three in the morning and she'd assumed she was alone.

“Jesus!” she cried, and proceeded to try and leap off of the stool with her ankle still wound around the base. She landed hard on her bottom and received an eye-watering blow on the shin from one of its metal legs.

“Not even close,” he replied with a tight smile.

Molly struggled to heave her weight off of the floor while still entwined in the stool and only succeeded in embarrassing herself. She only hesitated a moment before taking the hand Sherlock offered her.

As usual, his presence made her feel so vulnerable and exposed that it took all of her attention to keep a straight face. Molly, whose life seemed to be one long, humiliating moment, was never any good at seeming unaffected. She compromised by turning red and tripping over her own words.

“I'm sorry,” she began, and was very cross with herself. She hated how she was forever apologizing over nothing. “I just- the woman, the one they found in the toilet-”

An almost cat-like satisfaction breezed across his face.

“Precisely who I am looking for. Tell me, what did they make of the pressure markings around her mouth?”

Molly's own went slack with surprise but she was quick to snap it closed. That detail, of course, had not made the papers. The fact that a naked woman had been found head-first in a toilet at the train station was more than enough news for London.

“A snorkel, actually,” she replied. Here, at least, she felt grounded. “And I'm sure you've guessed the epidermis showed signs of dermatitis secondary to prolonged exposure to water. Which is odd, because when I did the autopsy-”

“You discovered that she had asphyxiated instead of drowned?”

Only self-control secondary to prolonged exposure prevented her from asking how he had known.

“Hands also bound behind the back, I presume?” The self-satisfaction in his tone was totally indecent, as was the eagerness in his next request. “Show me the body.”

She was halfway through tidying her station and brushing croissant crumbs off the counter when she realized.

“Hang on,” she said. “Did Lestrade actually call you in?”

“He will, shortly enough.”

Suddenly, he was standing right in front of her. Their eyes met. Sherlock's darted away again almost immediately, over her face, her blouse, the cuffs of her sleeves, her shoes. Molly's hand flew up to check for crumbs and the corner of her mouth didn't disappoint.

God. It was withering, that he should be able to see so much about her stale and lonely life. An excruciating silence followed. She looked away first.

“I can't let you in if he didn't call you,” she mumbled, looking at the floor. “The last time you tricked me, I was in a lot of hot water.” She busied herself with putting away the microscope and properly storing the sample. How dull she must seem to someone like Sherlock, who never followed the rules!

She felt torn between right and proper, as usual. She considered the apprehension of murderers to be of much more importance than police politics. It chafed her to shut him out. Lestrade was totally out of his depth and they all knew it. Did he judge her to be the same as the rest of them, begrudging of his talent and his help?

“I'm sorry,” she added again, this time with sincerity. When she looked up, it was to find a curious expression on his face as he digested her apology.

“I know,” he replied after a moment. He inclined his head and, with a flourish of his coat, began to stride away. The moment his back was turned her muscles began to slack. Being so closely observed was exhausting. She jumped again when he addressed her from the doorway.

“Do tell Lestrade to ring me on April the twentieth, after they find the next one.”

He left. It took her a moment to dash after him. By the time she'd flown out the doorway he'd already opened the exit.

“Wait!” she cried, “Another one? You think this is a serial killer?”

Did she look silly to him, she wondered, huffing and puffing and wild-eyed? His features became sharp.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “As for the one you've got now, look for missing persons reports dated around mid-February. Before the eighteenth.”

The implication washed over her. It made her feel sick.

“She was kept in a tank for a month?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The asphyxiation- a snorkel tube that was too long. They're only supposed to be a certain height so you can breathe easily. Make it too long, and it's too much of a struggle for the lungs to draw air. A tube of just the right height would allow her to breathe laboriously for a while, but eventually she wouldn't have the strength to-”

The look on her face must have been really something to stop Sherlock Holmes mid-sentence. He cleared his throat and adjusted his scarf in a businesslike fashion before addressing her again.

“Let us hope Lestrade comes to his senses, and soon. I have no doubt he's already abducted his second victim, which only leaves us 'til the twentieth of April-”

“Another victim? Are you sure?” She didn't know what possessed her to ask. The man was always sure. “How do we know they're still alive?”

With one hand on the door frame, ready to leave, Sherlock's response raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It stayed with her on the walk home. It crept up on her as she poured herself a glass of water before bed. It loomed at her every time she tried to drift off to sleep.

“Because,” he replied, “he's keeping them as pets.”

Last edited by Emergency Blanket (April 2, 2014 10:19 pm)