Chapter Text
Epilogue- 1 month later
"John?" Sherlock whined in the voice he knew annoyed the doctor the most.
"Sherlock?" The soldier stated firmly. He looked up from the tea he was drinking and over at the detective. He was so glad that he could buy finer brands now that everyone knew. He was supposed to be working but he got a little bit distracted by the fine tea.
"Can I borrow some money?" The sociopath said and he stretched out the words like an infant who was asking for biscuits. The detective was lying with his head flopping upside down off the edge of the sofa. His curls hung down from his head and the very tips of the curls brushed against the floorboards. He studied John carefully.
"What for?" The blond man asked before taking a sip of his steaming tea.
"I need to buy a sheep." The genius said decisively and nodded as if to affirm it to himself.
"What do you want with a sheep?" It sounded like he was making conversation with a child.
"Not an alive one. Don't be ridiculous. No, I need a dead one." The consulting detective corrected his friend.
"What do you want with a sheep, be it dead or alive?" The businessman asked with the patience of a saint. His phone bleeped as he received a message from Lindsey reminding him of a meeting they had tomorrow. He smiled.
"John?! I'm talking. Pay attention!" Sherlock demanded.
John's head shot up and he looked at his friend's upside down face, "Right. Yes. Sorry, what were you saying?"
"I need the sheep for an experiment, obviously!" The genius sang.
"Fine. I'll give you the money but why won't you ask your brother?" John frowned slightly.
"I am fed up with doing him favours." The tall man stated as of it were obvious.
"Of course." The blogger mumbled to himself.
"GO AWAY, MYCROFT!" Sherlock bellowed a second later, making John jump.
The next thing John knew, Mycroft was stepping around the door and into the living room. John quickly scanned his eyes over this friend's brother, the diet had obviously failed. He tried not to chuckle.
Mycroft glided across the room and lowered himself elegantly into his little brother's armchair. The upside down detective scowled at the politician.
"Have you heard, John?" The government official asked while picking non-existent dirt off his neatly pressed suit.
"I've heard a lot of things, Mycroft. You'll have to be more specific." John said while looking down at some budget sheets that were spread on his lap.
"Three men have washed up on the banks of the Thames." When John didn't answer he continued. "Apparently, there are signs of light torture."
The doctor stopped reading and then looked up at the elder Holmes slowly, "Oh dear. You can't help but wonder what they must have done to warrant such a horrible and excruciating death." John said blankly.
"Indeed. The police were going to ask Sherlock to take a look but I suspect that it was nothing more that gang rivalry, don't you think?" Mycroft watched the doctor carefully.
"Yes. That's all it usually is." The soldier replied quietly.
"I thought that you'd share my opinion. Thank you for your time, Dr Watson." Mycroft then stood and exited the room. He'd gotten all he needed.
John's eyes didn't leave the chair that he had previously occupied. The doctor rubbed his right hand. It was still aching from holding a small knife for long periods of time. Sherlock watched his friend carefully but understood why he had done everything that he did.
Lestrade zipped open the body bag and peered inside. Bruises in the shape of chains had formed around the neck. He swallowed as he pulled the zipper further down away from the deformed face. His breath caught in his throat as he saw words carved into the man's torso. The autopsy had stated that the cuts and lacerations had taken place before the man's death. It made Greg scowl. Nobody deserved this. The words were written in sharp lines obviously carved in by a knife. Lestrade knew that he never wanted to meet the man who had done this. Tell man who, without a shaking hand, had carved:
Revenge
Weak
Pain
Hate
Crime
The words were repeated over and over all across the torso. Whoever did this must be a brutal and savage person with no love or compassion inside of them. He never wanted to meet this person.
Just then the door of the autopsy room burst open and Sherlock strode in followed by John.
"John! Sherlock!" She called out cheerfully, happy to see his crime busters. He couldn't be happier to see the two men.