This story can take place anytime between Sherlock S2E1 and S2E3. Dexter is set in S1 though I used the Dark Passenger instead of Harry because the DP is just better.
UPDATE: grammar, spelling and punctuation has been fixed where I could find the mistakes. Also, I've developed my own style since I posted this fic and fleshed out the story a bit. So while the plot and events are the same, there are more details.
Thank you all for the reviews, I really appreciate it! Thanks for reading!
I do not own Dexter or Sherlock Holmes.
Have dinner with me. In Miami.
Sherlock Holmes read the text again once he was settled on the plane. Of course I will, he thought to himself with a soft smile. Theresa Barton. He liked that alias she chose. It just seemed to fit, her. He pressed the mobile to his chin as he stared out the small portal window at the clouds below as his thoughts wandered through his memories of her.
After he rescued her from Pakistan, she promised she would let him know where she was. She kept her promise; she had sent that text two days ago.
When he read that simple little message, he felt something he knew he always would when it came to her, but was it love? He wasn't sure and he honestly didn't care. All he knew was that he needed to see her, to be with her and that was good enough for Sherlock Holmes.
He hadn't replied to her text yet. He smirked as he slipped his mobile into his coat pocket. He knew very well he wasn't going to until he landed in Miami. That was all part of the game.
I stood looking up into the blue sky feeling a strange sort of peace because I imagined that everyone knew my dark secret and they thanked me with cheery, smiling faces for what I do. Social acceptance. Isn't that what every normal person wants?
"Hey psycho. Are you going to look at the clouds all day or are you going to do your fucking job?"
Then again, I'm not exactly normal.
I focus on Sergeant Doakes, who is currently standing much to close for anyone's comfort, and paste on my best fake smile. "Sure," I said in an equally fake cheery voice.
"Good," Doakes said with a spit. "Fucking freak."
"Uh yeah. If you say so." I said happily as I walk past him.
Behind me, I could hear Doakes harrumphing to himself. He probably wanted to say something else, but couldn't think of anything. I sometimes wonder if buried somewhere deep inside him, he has his own Dark Passenger. How else could he sense something wrong with me?
A thought to be pondered at some other time because right now, your Dashing Dexter has a body to look at.
The woman's corpse was sitting up against the alley wall, her legs stretched out in front of her and her head lolled to the side. She had been stabbed several times in the chest and her throat was cut. Her clothes and even her purse, was still with her with meant this wasn't a typical mugging gone wrong.
"What do you think, Dex?" asked Masuka. He works in the forensics lab with me. He's always asking me to go do things with him like a 'guys night out' to pick up women. I think he considers me a friend, but I'm really not quite sure.
"Well," I put on a latex glove and began examining the body, "this looks like a typical alley way mugging gone wrong. It was quick. Look at the stab wounds. They're at several different angles. He was probably interrupted though. Her purse is still here."
Masuka nodded as he crouched down next to me for a closer look at the stab wounds I pointed at. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking," he said thoughtfully.
I do know who murdered this woman. I just don't want Miami Metro to know because the killer is my future playmate. I couldn't have them ruin his appointment with my knife, so I purposefully lied to throw them off his trail. Lucky for him.
"Hey! You can't be in here! This is a crime scene!" That was Deborah, my sister. Her screeching voice could easily be heard over the hum drum of the crime scene.
My Dark Passenger, silent and bored till now, stirred and hissed softly in interest. I look up to see her walking briskly up to a tall, thin man with dark hair in a black suit with a wool overcoat draped over his arm. He stood with such a confident demeanor that if he were uncomfortable in a suit in this Miami heat, he certainly didn't show it.
"No fucking reporters," Deb said with her typical loud rudeness. "Leave!" She pointed to somewhere across the street.
"Excuse me," the stranger said in very annoyed, very British tone. "I am not a reporter. I'm a consulting detective and I'll identify the murderer by tomorrow afternoon."
Uh, oh. Normally I ignore detectives, even the ones at Miami Metro, but there was something about that man, something about the way his piercing blue eyes seemed to see right through everything as if it were made of glass and my Dark Passenger didn't like it one bit.
To be continued.