Hi guys! So, I recently noticed a small flaw on . There's no Sherlock/River! Well, you all know rule 35 of the internet... please review, I'm not sure if I'll carry it on or not... Enjoy! A, x
(John Watsons POV)
The piece of plywood smashed down to the floor, and Sherlock dove ahead of me, into the dark, mouth of damp room in front of us, throwing the crowbar to one side as h did so. The building was pitch black inside, I followed him as best I could, sticking as close as possible to the splashing sound his boots made, as he bounded through the gutted cavity of the enormous building.
Suddenly, he seemed to stop, as the sound of his running ceased. I paused, pondering over the urge to call out to him, but there was no need. A few heartbeats later, there was the unmistakeable sound of rusted metal being wrenched out of place, and a thick humming seemed to emanate from the bowels of the earth itself. One by one, each row of dusty, dirty strip lights stuttered into life, casting a violently dim glow over out surroundings.
Sherlock was standing only a few feet from me; I was clearly getting better at keeping up with him. His hand was on the handle of a large generator switch, and he was grinning proudly to himself, like on overgrown kid.
We were inside an abandoned cotton mill, although it was hard to tell. Any machinery that had ever been here had long since been taken out, leaving a large, empty space, to collect dust. We were standing in an inch thick layer of mud, and fifty year old engine oil. I stirred my feet, trying to get rid of the grime, but to no avail.
"You know Sherlock," We both spun on our heel, to see Lastrade standing just outside the door we had broken down. "If that building comes down, it's your fault. We were meant to wait for the safety team..." From over his shoulder, three weary looking detectives peered over his shoulder.
"Yes, but that would have taken at least two hours," Sherlock was already walking across the room again, to a new door. "Leave it that long and this oil," he kicked his foot back and forth through the stuff, "could have started corroding the skin."
"That's nonsense Sherlock," Anderson had edged around his commanding officer, into the building. "Since when did engine oil corrode skin?"
"Since the oil in question was fifty years old Anderson. Now shut up." Sherlock had reached the door, which was apparently metal. I walked towards him, and saw that he was fingering the thin line, where the door apparently split in two, like a lift.
Lastrade came up behind us, rolling his eyes as he did so. "So come on then, what does the great Sherlock think this time? Where do we need to look?" He leant against the wall, eyebrows raised, hands in his pockets.
Sherlock did not look at him, but ran his hand once over the tattered metal in front of him. "Go away. Go and make Anderson get my crow-" But before he could finish, Anderson had appeared next to him, crowbar in hand, looking disgusted. Sherlock frowned at him for a split second, before snatching it out of his grasp, like a boy afraid to have his toys taken away.
Anderson walked away, trying to flick the grime from his shoes as he did so. The man in front of me wedged his new toy into the gap between the doors, braced one foot against the frame, and quickly threw all of his weight against the crowbar. The doors groaned, moaned, and then a hole started to form in the middle, growing slowly wider. When it was about half a metre wide, he seemed satisfied, withdrew the crowbar, and slipped the upper part of his thin frame through the gap. Lastrade pinched the bridge of his nose. I rocked backward and forwards on me feet for a moment, unsure of if I should try to stop Sherlock or not.
He twisted around, so that he must have been facing the inside of the door. With one hand gripping the doorframe, the other slipped through with him, and reached up to fiddle with something above his head.
Presently, there was a soft click, and Sherlock reappeared as the doors slid apart, to reveal and empty lift shaft. Two ripped steel cables swung in the gloom a few feet above us. Sherlock pulled and old Bakelite torch from one of the many pockets in his felt trench coat, and clicked it on. The soft beam of yellow light swung from side to side in the cavernous space. Then he swung it down. Three feet below us was the floor of the lift shaft. A bare floor of hard, grey concrete. It had recently been cleaned; there was no mud, no oil, and no litter. No trace of the thin, remaining cotton fibres that clung to the walls in the rest of the mill. It was even possible to make out a certain dampened in the corners, where someone had mopped it.
Only one thing marred the appearance of the space. A thin woman, in a grey suit, with blonde hair, lay in the middle of the floor, dead.
Sherlock gripped the torch in his teeth and jumped down next to her, before glancing up at me. "Would the good doctor like to give his opinion?"
I followed him down into the black pit, landing on the opposite side of the woman to him. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, I carefully, turned her head to the side, lifted an arm, twisted her trouser leg to see her ankle, where purple bruises littered the side of the gray skin. I straighted up. "Well, she's been dead almost two days, but I don't think it was here. The bruising shows she was originally lying on her side, someone's moved her."
"I thought as much. I doubt whoever put here is the killer."
"And why do you think that?"
By way of answering, Sherlock reached into the left inside pocket of the woman's dark blazer. He searched for a second, the pulled out a business card. Holding it up to me, I saw the words, written in red lipstick.