Distorted Touch

The scene to most people would have been described as gruesome, the exposure of human depravity on a cold rainy November morning. However, to one man, the crime scene was a puzzle; he only needed to find the pieces.

“What do you see Sherlock?” Lestrade rubbed his temples; the partially mutilated body on the floor was not how he had envisioned waking up to. Sherlock bridged his fingers, tuning this way and that as he compiled all of the information that had been assimilated thus far.

“Victim: male, late 30s. He spent time outside, worked with his hands judging by the callouses. His tan is well developed, difficult in London, unless you are outside all day and his body is well muscled eliminating all but construction worker. His apartment is furnished sparsely, he either didn't make much money or his ex-wife took everything. There is a lighter patch on his ring finger and indentations in the carpet where furniture used to be, so ex-wife. Judging by the damage done to him he was tortured, but not for an extended period of time, but lack of blood in this apartment points to the killer washing up carefully or his body was moved. There is an unmistakable smell of bleach, which is strongest in the area of the bathroom, so he was tortured here and the killer cleaned up. A co-worker called when he missed work and stopped by, thus the call to the police early in the morning.” Sherlock straightened as his phone vibrated, alerting him to a text. Lestrade began to speak, confirming all that he had said.

“However, the man was his ride to work.” Lestrade watched annoyance play over Sherlock's features.

“Ride... his ride, there's always something...” He stepped closer to the body.

“We should start talking to friends and co-workers, see where he likes to hang out.” Lestrade pointed out just as Sherlock pulled out his phone. The number was blocked.

You're looking in the wrong direction.

Who are you? - SH

The question was unusual for him to ask, but the blocked number sparked a curiosity about who this person could be as well as many others. Sherlock's fingers moved swiftly to respond quickly to each text.

That is not the question you should be asking.

Who did this? Where should I be looking? – SH

A Ghost. Look to his next victim.

It was the last message, though he sent one more enquiring how a ghost; which are only myths and legends and how could they possibly have anything to do with someone’s murder. This person intrigued him to no end, why text him and tell him those things, was it the killer begging to be caught or possibly a witness to the crime seeking anonymity. The computer that was his brain began processing every possible reason. If it had been a witness then why the cryptic clue, why not just tell me who had done it? How had they known the person would strike again, were the thoughts going through Sherlocks mind as his changeling eyes picked up even more details.

“I put the time of death at about 4am.” John Watson stood up, pulling his gloves off. “Several of these marks were made post mortem, particularly these two burns on the bottom of the feet.” Sherlock looked over them quickly deducing they came from a wrench.

“Seeking out his friends will not catch this killer.” All eyes were on him then. “This one has done this before. He will do it again, and soon.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade paused. “How do you know that?” There was a hint in that voice, Lestrade wondered if the killer was right in front of them. He had known Sherlock for years and felt it in his bones that the proclaimed “consulting detective” would never cross the line and kill in cold blood or for the sake of an experiment, though there were times he worried his friend had slipped from the side of the angels.

“I received a text just now; also if you really look at the body you can tell this is not the first victim.” The others were perplexed. “Do you really not see, each mark made was expertly done, the person only died when he wanted them, this is not the work of someone inexperienced.” One hand swept out in the direction of the deceased.

“Also the body has been washed down and scrubbed clean, there are tiny scratch marks made by something coarse along the skin, and if you get close enough the scent of bleach is there under the decay.” He could see the others sniff at the air, trying to see and smell what Sherlock did.

“An anonymous text?” Lestrade moved towards him, expecting to see it for himself.

“I was warned that we were looking in the wrong direction and that a Ghost, of all things, committed this crime, whatever that means.” Sherlock smiled then, the day was becoming quite fascinating.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After hours of internet research, annoying phone calls, several bullet holes in the wall, and two nicotine patches Sherlock was stumped. There was no possible way to trace the mobile phone, even a call to the ministry proved fruitless. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and annoyance as he leaned back and looked at the clock, 11:06pm. John was asleep in his chair.

“Come on, we're going out.” He nudged the sleeping man. John woke with a start.

“And where are we going?” John stood up and reached for his coat.

“To the police station.” John was curious.

“Sherlock Holmes needs to take another look?” John laughed. “What next, dancing flying elephants.”

“What I need to do is find out if this killer has done this before in other parts of the country.” Sherlock fixed his coat into place. His phone eerily went off.

You're wasting your time

Again the number was blocked. Sherlock gripped the phone in irritation; he should have been able to discover who this person was. His brain worked in overdrive on possible ways to trace the call, but discovered none to be had; an untraceable phone was by definition untraceable.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John stopped as he was about to walk out the door.

“Another text.” John walks over quickly and takes a look. “Maybe you should ask where we should be looking.” Sherlock tensed for a moment.

“Or maybe we're heading in the right direction. This person could be our killer.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“The marks are different.” Lestrade stated. He pointed it out even though he knew it was beyond obvious and redundant.

“Except for the finger tips.” Sherlock began to determine the tools used to make each and every mark. “Why the finger tips...” He asked to himself as he measures and takes a closer look.

“Same as the last, tortured till the killer ended it himself.” John pointed to the killing blow, a tiny barely there mark angled for the heart. “Ice pick?”

“It was caused by a skewer, not ice pick. The wound is not round as you would see with an ice pick but squared which is seen typically in metal skewers” Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. “Does no one here notice anything of importance?”

“What else can you tell me Sherlock. I need anything you can give me.” Lestrade pushed Anderson out of the door before the two could begin to bicker.

“Wound tracks are much different. The finger tips are sliced as with the last but each and every mark here is different. Whereas our construction worker carried wounds by a sander, wrench burns to his feet, just to name a few and a serrated blade which severed the carotid artery, this man has unusual scratching along his thigh, his skin was grated with a zester across his upper back which are only a few of the many wounds shown here and the death blow was from an ice pick! Both worked day shifts, were in good physical shape, tortured to death. I bet that neither of them had a single person, place, or thing in common. These deaths were random, and that random element works to our killers’ advantage. Chaos throws any patters that could have been out the window so to speak.” Sherlock walked over to the window, they were several stories up, the flat was well furnished, and the man had some money working as a stock broker. Sherlock steepled his fingers together, trying to find reason in the confusion of the murder, why were they killed, or was it just to satisfy some urge or craving... His thoughts were interrupted by a vibration in his pocket.

Now you see what you are up against.

Sherlock began to type swiftly.

Leaving no traces and picking victims at complete random? If you know all of this then I can conclude that you are the killer. – SH

Correct on all accounts except one, I am not the murderer. Use that intellect for something useful and figure it out.

His phone snapped shut and two sets of eyes went to him.

“Another text?” Lestrade was becoming very interested in the strange notes. Sherlock barely nodded his head; he had to control the anger that bubbled inside of him. It was so unusual for something to rile him up so.

“Whoever this is, they must be good. I didn’t think anyone could stump the great Sherlock Holmes.” Lestrade laughed.

“Our mysterious texter is somehow involved.” Sherlock's contemplation grew fiercer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“He is accelerating in his kills, only 2 days between this and the last.” Sherlock was puzzled once more. The finger tips were cut again but the other marks were different, even the killing blow. This time a jagged hole was ripped in his throat. His eyes locked on that wound, comparing it to all known weapon marks. “He used a corkscrew then ripped it out.” John visibly shuddered.

“It seems he is also becoming more violent, most of these wounds are messier.” Sherlock added after a moment. “Degeneration and acceleration...”

“How do we catch him, how can we stop him?” Lestrade seemed to be going even grayer as the case went on, stress was beginning to show.

“How does he pick his victims... that is the key!” Sherlock wheeled around. He started to speak again when the phone went off.

You are still heading in the wrong direction.

Sherlock's hold on his every emotion was shaky at that moment; he needed to know what was going on.

Then point the way. – SH

Data is your friend

Sherlock let out a string of curses which blew everyone away; he normally enjoyed cryptic remarks especially if he was giving them. However, this person was pushing it too far. He felt as though he was being toyed with and one thing he could not stand was when someone toyed with his mind (not that it happened often, most people were idiots).

“Come, John, I feel the need to take a walk.” Sherlock turned on a well-polished heel and left, not even bothering to wait.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“What do we do next--Sherlock!...” John ran to catch up. “Sherlock! What is the plan?” The other man seemed to be ignoring him.

That was when John noticed a figure blocking their path. Sherlock's crystal blue eyes were looking down and began at the person's feet. Black trainers, a knock off brand with no tell-tale icon screaming the makers name. That led to black boot cut jeans that were well worn judging by the fade and the signs of thinning around the knees. The cut of the jeans and the curve of hips told him the woman was young but not too young. More obsidian covered her in the form of a turtleneck; the cloth was also well-worn in places where it frayed around the neck, elbows, and cuffs to which he concluded that the owner had a nervous gesture which involved tugging at the sleeves and pulling at the collar. Leather gloves also in black covered her hands. Last he studied her face. Lips were sensuous, not filled to bursting with collagen like the women trying to look like ducks on television (he could not fathom why women would deliberately make their faces into an unmoving mass). Cheekbones angled to give her a triangular shape, skin was pale, but he could see some lingering tan trying to survive the London winter. Her eyes were a solid brown ringed in black, the eyes told him much. He could see the tired look of someone who has seen too much in the world. There was unease in those eyes, the eyes of an animal that had been kicked too much and left broken. Lastly he saw her hair, quite long, pulled back in a harsh braid, sharing the same color as her eyes.

“I thought I warned you. You're not going in the right direction.” Her voice held no British accent.

“American?” Sherlock knew it to be true but made it a question anyway. The body language spoke of an arrogance that refused to go away, even though he could see in the posture something had changed in her to try and rip that integral part of her out. “I would wager from New York, but not the city.” She smiled then, one corner upturning more than the other, it was a wicked devil-may-care smirk.

“Correct, Sherlock.” She stood her ground as they came closer. John was unsure of this strange woman.

“Clever, sending me those texts.... Miss?” He was trying for polite, maybe even some false adulation to reveal information. The look he received as the words left his mouth made him rethink his ploy.

“Teresa, and can the false flattery.” Her tone was harsh, a bit too harsh. She looked away from Sherlock, eyes settling on John for a moment and it told her much. She saw no danger from him. “Now, will you both kindly come with me we have much to discuss.”

“I think you should come with us for now.” Sherlock suggested, noticing the minute details that were screaming to be pointed out.

“I do not think that is wise.” She shifted her stance nervously, head turning casually to study the people that walked by.

“You have no place to go, living on the streets is not an easy thing, might as well be comfortable while we talk business.” John's mouth opened in surprise, finally noticing only the details he wished to know.

“I must insist that you come with us, and stay with us, I will not see you sleeping on the streets,” John ever the gallant soldier.

“That is not the wisest of ideas.” She took a step back, seeking a quick way out.

“You're in need of a hot shower and a good meal; I implore you, please stay with us.” Sherlock did not disagree with John's statement, nor did he encourage it. Sherlock was taking in more information than he had realized, something about the woman was not quite right. John was not taking no for an answer as he came towards her.

“I believe I no longer have a choice in the matter.” She caved, her shoulders slumping just a bit. Her words echoed, reverberating with details stored in a brilliant mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Clean, fed, and safely tucked in 221B Baker Street Teresa looked different to the duo. Standing by the window her body was held straight, no longer looking as though weights had been piled on. John was reclining in his favorite seat while Sherlock stood near the wall. Studying the passersby she cocked her head to the side, watching them in her peripheries.

“You told me that this killer is a Ghost? Why? There are no such things.” Sherlock wasted no time.

“The man you are trying to catch, never leaves any trace behind, he is immaculate when it comes to it. I called him Ghost after the 5th victim was found.” She paused as memories like movie reels began to play. “The others on the case believed he was just some kind of normal psychopath who would mess up one day and be caught like the others, but I knew better, I saw beyond their tiny little minds.” Bitter with a blade of ice; like acorns encased in frost.

“How many?” John leaned forward, not sure what to expect.

“In the States, there were a grand total of 76 that were confirmed,” each and every victim played across her vision. “A dozen or more were cited as possible victims.” John couldn't keep the surprise from his face.

“How is it the rest of the world hasn't heard of this?” Sherlock's eyes were intense. He began to compile a list of information he required.

“Most of the cases were never linked. I put them together, but my theory was…”she paused while searching for the correct word. “…rejected due to lack of evidence. Police departments hate speaking to each other, key items went missing, and potential witnesses changed statements.” A wash of anger coated her words. Sherlock didn't quite know what to make of her, she seemed to be almost like him, her mind a high functioning machine, but she held strong emotions that seemed to get away from time to time.

“Did no one care that this maniac was getting away with it.” John was flabbergasted.

“No, the cases were buried, not high profile enough, budget cuts, and lack of sustainable evidence were the excuses.” She crossed her arms over her chest, fingers gripping into upper arms.

“How is it that you came to...?” Sherlock turned towards her. “Follow this case across the globe?”

“I have chased this man from New York to California. I was a Detective, a glittering career ahead of me I had been told; now he has become my only goal.” Teresa dug in her fingers sharply. The pain brought memories, terrible visions. “He likes to torture… to break his victims.” It was nearly a growl.

She continued, body thrumming as adrenaline poured through her veins, “I thought I could out smart him--but I was wrong.... so very wrong.” Scalding waves of anger flowed from her, it was a wonder the building did not burst into flames. John went to speak, it was his nature to try and soothe, but she left him no room to even try.

“Before... before.” The faltering of the word confirmed Sherlock's suspicion. “I believed myself a genius... that no one could match my intellect, but he showed me otherwise.” Pain laced in those words, an old pain, but clear to anyone hearing it.

“Slicing open the finger tips is his signature, a single vertical cut on the pads making sure their marks on the world are forever changed and they know from the moment they wake up that nothing would ever be the same” John was just about the grasp the significance when Sherlock spoke.

“He captured you... but you somehow escaped” it wasn't a question. Sherlock had seen the signs, felt it in his bones, no need to guess.

“What?” John looked between the two. “How could you possible know that?” He still hadn't grasped the significance of each word, each detail that had been presented.

“Really look John, isn't it obvious?” Teresa nodded and quietly agreed that it was obvious. John gave a blank stare.

“She is wearing a turtleneck; it is obvious at the fraying edges that she does not care for such a snug garment around her neck. She grew up in a state where this would be considered a warm day and yet she has on long sleeves. To top it off she has on leather gloves, even after coming inside. She also had admitted to have knowledge of which body part was cut first.” He sometimes wondered if John was deliberately being dense to get him to explain or he wasn’t actually noticing the crucial details.

“Brilliant as always Sherlock.” John never could seem to stop himself from saying it. “Brilliant…” He could see John wanted to say more, that his friend needed to show Sherlock that it was a human being they were talking about, not just another object.

“Correct, except I did not escape,” she paused, rubbing along her gloves as if in pain.

“He let me go… no… he toyed with me before dumping me in a ditch.” She turned abruptly to face him. From the first moment they had met he knew, had read it in her face, her careful movements, in her choice of clothes.

“Tell me what he did, every detail, I need more data.” Those ever changing eyes were aflame with his passion. “Show me.” His voice had gone lower. John made an astonished noise from behind them, but neither turned towards him.

“Sherlock!” He breathed out. “She survived a terrible ordeal and you're going to make her relive it?” Ever the knight in shining armor.

“I need to know.” His voice was steady; knowledge was the key to tracking him down.

“Then I will have no part in it.” John stalked away, feeling quite annoyed, but before he disappeared out of the door he turned, “do you truly think this will catch our killer?” No response was needed and Sherlock, for a brief moment, thought he had let his friend down, but the thought was deleted. More important things were at hand.

“I believe it best to do this where prying eyes are not watching.” She started to walk towards the door. Without another word they moved towards Sherlock's bedroom. It was the next door over, separate from the other living spaces. Stepping through the threshold she stopped in the middle of a metaphorical battlefield. All around her were odds and ends collected by the great Sherlock Holmes. Books, journals, scientific equipment and other stranger things littered the floor and walls. The bed took up the biggest space and looked sadly under used, Sherlock barely slept. The door closed softly.

“Wouldn't want Mrs. Hudson to see.” He didn't have to say it, but living with John had loosened his tongue. She walked to the window, shades already down. The shadows comforted her for a moment until the fluorescent lights came on and burned bright, throwing the room into sharp relief. Her mind assimilated all the details as the drumming in her mind grew to a screaming pitch, wanting to be freed. She came to many conclusions about the man behind her as she turned.

“As you know he began with my fingertips.” As she turned the gloves came off, dropping to the floor. Holding up her hands he saw the white, raised scar tissue on each finger. Each cut was made with a single swipe, deep and to the bone, Sherlock concluded. “I was held down by plastic, something that would leave no trace or scarce any the police would detect.” Her hands traveled the thin scars along the backs of her hands, between each knuckle ending at the wrists. “My eyes were kept shut by cling film as well, but I could still hear, still speak.” she closed her dark eyes, remembering everything as if it were yesterday. She could feel the warmth of her blood pulsing from her fingers, thin rivulets running from the back of her hands.

“The cuts to the back of my hands were lighter, no risk of nicking an artery or vein.” Knowledge and fear returned. She remembered keeping still with those cuts, they weren’t as painful due to the hormones released during the initial cuts, but keeping still was necessary to avoid any veins being cut. “He never spoke, not once, but I could hear his breathing which would change when I could not keep from crying out.” Her shirt tore as she pulled it off, the worn cloth unable to take more abuse. Cool air met burning skin in blessed relief, a fraction of the tension held in her shoulders abated. Sherlocks’ eyes traveled from one scar to the next and fought not to show anything on his face as he understood.

“He used a red hot horseshoe along my forearm.” Sherlock studied the mark, curving around. The skin was white and shiny; the edges were slightly pulled from where she had struggled. She could still smell singed flesh and the agony it had caused, she had wished to slip into oblivion then to try and retreat from the pain. “It felt as though hell fire had dripped down my arm.”

Her upper arm looked untouched on the right side, Teresa watched his gaze linger there. “My humerus was broken when I tried to break free after being branded.” The feel of bones grating together set her teeth on edge, her stomach roiling in the sickening pain.

“Then he became creative...” She unhooked her bra and let it drift to the floor, completely bare from the waist up. A jagged raised scar curved from collar bone, between her breasts to curl underneath. “He used barbed wire wrapped around something. It took three tried till he stopped.” Those wounds she barely remembered. A haze had settled in her mind, separating her from most of the pain, but each movement jostled the broken bone and pulled at the charred flesh till she had screamed. “You can see the separate start marks, he wanted it perfect.” She touched the tips of the snarled edges, tracing along them. The barbs had cut along the underside of her breast, a peppering of short cuts.

A hand went down lower, over the ribs on her right, a perfect circle an inch and a half across was there, raised much more than the others. “He drilled here, making sure not to hit anything vital.” Sherlock's brain was already deducing that the only drill bit able to make such a mark would have been a flat wood drill bit. He took a step closer, involuntarily. The drill was when she had lost her voice for a time, screaming as it tore and ripped into her skin, sinking down to the bone, scraping along it till he was satisfied.

“Next he decided that my right arm was lacking something and used an ice pick.” He almost missed it, the small pale dots creating a swirling pattern reaching from shoulder to wrist; it was done well enough that a professional scarification expert could have produced it. The last of her clothing came off, falling into a dark heap on the floor. Her right hand went down to her abdomen where a mass of scar tissue was twisted just above pelvic bone, once again a place with nothing vital to hit. He noticed near the side there was a distinct mark, just off set enough for him to know it had to have been the first.

“A claw hammer struck right here.” Two dents that he had been studying suddenly became clear. “He hit over and over again, pulling and ripping.” Bone had been cracked beneath the blows, blood flowed in waves. Her vocal cords burned from the wordless screams. Sherlock could not stop himself then and came within inches of her. Fingers reached out, tracing the tragedy in flesh, pain given life and form. Each scar felt different, a different texture for sensitive fingers.

“He was becoming more disorganized.” He observed.

“At times he seemed it, but he had some lucid moments.” Near the edge of the particularly viscous scar was another, thinner that crossed the abdomen in a curve, dipping down across upper hip to disappear behind. He traced it and she turned for him. When the line touched her spine it made a straight line all the way up to her hair line. The end was messy, multiple drag marks curled downwards creating a fountain of tear drop scars. “It was a fishing hook, smallish.” Then he looked around, seeing more slashes, from knives or something equally as sharp.

“How were you tied?” She said nothing, only lifted her arms out, and pressed her legs together. She held the position for a few moments before relaxing; it had given him much to think about.

“He used mostly a knife on my back, trying to get a sound from me.” She held back a shudder. The knife wounds appeared random, until he looked at all of them together. The patterns oddly resembled scratches, groups of 5 around the shoulder blades, middle back, and parallel to the spine. “The last thing he did was with claws, not metallic, for they caught on my skin differently, they were real. It was the only real thing he used, those claws were from an animal, and I could feel a touch of fur against my skin.” Sherlock looked down to where the marks were. On the left they started on the lower back and trailed along one side of her pale ass to end on the outer thigh. Goosebumps ran along her skin as he touched each line separate, five claws and many different animals they could have come from. Then he noticed the others, more marks, fainter that ran along her legs. Some curved; others lay straight as if a house cat had used her for a scratching post. Even the tops of her feet bore scars. He wanted to examine them all, but he had other questions on his mind first.

“What happened next?” He continued to touch her as she turned to face him.

“I remembered a sharp pain in the back of my neck and waking up to an alleyway two states from where I had been.” Her shoulders slumped. “A coroner I knew stitched me up, the cops found no evidence and the rest is in the report I filed…” He could see it in her, a report that was probably sitting at the bottom of a trash bin. Jealous cops could be the most cruel.

“How were you captured?” He realized she never mentioned it. She closed her eyes, trembling softly.

“I was stupid,” her eyes filled with raw pain. “I gave in,” he raised a curious eyebrow at the statement. “I'm not like you Sherlock, and I can never be that way.” She resisted the need to try and hide the scars. “I cannot bury my emotions or my needs deep enough.” Her eyes drowned in the memories. “I cannot carve them out and become some heartless villain.” She sounded so bitter as she continued, “I let my body's cravings get the best of me. In a few towns I did this, picking up strangers in bars having my fun and leaving them. That night I went to do it again, but he was there, he knew, he knew about my flings and captured me. He left me alive knowing what it would do to me.” Twisted anger and self-loathing curled around her, tearing her apart. He could see it, see she could take physical pain, but failing had crippled her.

“Teresa...” It was the first time he had ever said her name, and it made her look at him. “You are still brilliant.” He had never said such things to anyone; it felt strange speaking the words. “You managed to evade me for days. I couldn't even trace your texts. You are not an imbecile.” She finally peered into his blue eyes.

“I am damaged!” The outburst was unexpected. “He broke me, Sherlock. I'm not good to anyone now, a worthless body.” She really believed it.

"If you were you would have perished, not lived. You wouldn’t have chased him halfway around the world! However, if you really are no good then why not go ahead and die.” The words were harsh, unlike his touch; those fleeting bits of contact were just the opposite. There was a challenge in her eyes then, a spark she thought forgotten.

A brush along her hip made her give in. He was half a foot taller, but going to her toes she grazed her lips against his, as soft as his touch had been. For a second the fleeting thought that she had made a grave mistake crossed her mind. Fingers tightened against her cool skin as he responded. At first it was light, exploring, testing the waters. He was collecting information, judging her reactions, studying her. Her hands came up grabbing onto his suit coat to steady her-self. Exploring fingers slid up to cup her face giving him a better angle. It was Sherlock who deepened the kiss, sliding that witty tongue out to play along hers. She knew that sensual muscle would be just as talented. He used it just as he would on a case, pointing out the truth in minute details. Unsteady hands tugged at that dark suit pulling it over his shoulders. Warm lips vanished as eyes searched across her flushed features. Passion burned in those chocolate orbs, a desire that fueled her that had given her life and until that moment had been snuffed. He saw that unique mind and the damage defeat had wrought; a pain he could mend.

The great Sherlock Holmes who in the past had ruled with logic even in the midst of illogical times allowed the tiny bit of emotion in him to peak out to reveal the attraction he felt for her. She did have a wit to match his, but she was also a being of the flesh, craving the touch and pleasure only another could bring. She gave herself over to those primal needs and he wanted to follow. She reached up, brushing those scarred fingers across his lips. The sensation it caused was strange, an alternation of soft but warm and nothing. It was all twisted, everything she came in contact with, a distorted touch. He memorized the feel of that scar, slightly raised, nearly smooth as if the finger prints tried to regrow over the damage giving it dips and contours. One hand left her cheek to rest on that mound the claw hammer had produced. He suddenly had a vivid image of tracing it with his lips, to feel the differences, to catalog the contrast in textures. Fingers went to his jaw line and up to stroke a wayward curl, it made her smile. As he dipped his head down once more as her hand buried in those sleek locks and held him in place as she poured her need into that kiss.

Fierce and fiery, he could taste it on her lips; she was shedding the insecurities that had plagued her. Reborn and remade through his touch. His other hand drifted to those claw marks, tracing them with light touches over and over again. A button went flying, hitting the wall with a dull thud, his plum dress shirt ruined in her left hand. She finally was able to touch beneath those concealing clothes. His skin was hot, scalding, as if a furnace lay just beneath the surface. Silky material fell from her hand to caress defined lean muscles. Sherlock was a man of the senses, observing everything and refining each detail, but that careful and sensual stroke that detailed every dip and contour of his back made his processor skip a beat. He slipped away from her mouth again to ghost along her pulse, it throbbed beneath warm lips. Her heart was pounding; she reached lower to brush a hip dragging her short nails across the skin when he closed his pearly teeth over it. A moment after he had done it, his brain functioned again, realizing an action such as that may not have been the logical thing to do. He released her now bruised skin, seeing the marks he had made and straightened. Those dark eyes were closed, crimson lips parted, and he felt where her fingers had gripped his hip. The hand that had been in his hair slid down, almost boneless, catching it before those unique fingers pulled away. Brown eyes opened lightning quick as he nipped at a finger pad. She enjoyed it, as he knew she would, just as the bite had, he could hear her breath hitch as he repeated with the other four fingers.

When he finished her muscles were jumping, she was stopping herself from doing something and he intended to find out what. Eyes were closed once more, an iron will keeping her still, she didn't see, didn't know what he would do next. He went to his knees, leaving her grasping at air till he touched the scar, the one he had wanted to explore. Holding her hips still he brushed warm lips along the edge, her skin so soft while the pink white scar was harsh. Rolling his eyes up, wanting to see her reaction. He bit at the fringe, where the contrast was plentiful. Her fingers convulsed in the air, her legs buckling. If he hadn't watched, hadn't observed he would have missed the instant her resistance crumbled and she gave in to all that she wanted. The expression on her face was pure passion, those fervid eyes snapped opened, a promise in them to consume him with her fire, a blaze he had stoked. The transformation was spectacular, the remnants of what she had been twisted into, sloughed off. She was remade into something better, confident and sure, the spark of her intelligence glittered like Stygian diamonds. She touched his face, guided him back up before she captured those lips. As she did it, she slid him backwards till the backs of his knees touched the bed. In that instant she deftly undressed him further, in the blink of an eye he was naked, and she was no longer there. He turned around to see her on the bed. The obsidian sheets made her skin paler as she knelt there, looking up at him. The thought that passed through his mind was unusual, “If sirens were living breathing entities then I have one on my bed.”

He watched her, sensual and oozing confidence, stretch up towards him. Fingers ghosted along his heated skin as her lips touched his chest, letting her feel that pounding heart. She pulled him down roughly, claim his quick mouth. He was suddenly falling forward, catching himself before he landed. Her teeth nipped at swollen lips as he hovered over, barely touching. The promise she offered there, the sweet rapture of the flesh, the one pleasure that others partook of regularly but he denied himself, it was an offer he could not refuse. What she needed, what she craved was written in her suffering and paid for in blood. He broke away from her talented mouth, his brain demanding to record every unique aspect of her. Her cries as he touched each imperfection, those small lines to the perfect circle and beyond, urged him on. Each mark gave him more information, one of kind things to store in his super computer of a mind. He could see her near her limit, she was not one to sit idle, but enjoyed his complete attention. Sliding up her body in a serpentine movement she was caught surprised as those long fingers sunk into her. Hips jumped at the sensations, each nerve on fire. The euphoria that hypersensitivity brought on from his earlier work made a smile curl up his lips.

Sharp sudden pain flared along his upper back, she had dug her nails in. He could feel her fighting the sensations, a losing battle. Dexterous fingers stroked along delicate flesh, rubbing along a single point as her breath hitched. His touch became less teasing, harder till he dragged a nail along her. She fell apart beneath him, coming undone in mere moments. He could feel furrows in his back where she had dug too deep. The pain did not matter, he only wondered how the blood would drip along his back, what patterns it would make.

When her eyes sharpened once more he noted the fire still burning in them, still wanting more. She rose up and ghosted along his lips before biting down on the lower cupids bow. Fingers slid out finally and trailed down one leg before digging in. She nearly jumped beneath him, and a dark glimmer shone as he lifted that leg up. Those ever changing eyes locked on hers, not allowing her to look away. The eyes are the windows to the soul, if it were true he saw something unique in her, one of a kind determination setting her apart and a hunger to rival his own. With one leg over his shoulder the other followed swiftly till she was nearly bent in half. Her pupils enlarged, the iris darkening to near black, urging him to move, the waiting was making her wild.

For a brief moment a stab of nervousness ran through him, but the dragging of nails along pale flesh brought him back to his senses. He thrust, harsh and quick. The sound that came from her was more animal than human. He had never felt such heat, such tight intensity. More crimson dripped along his back, marked by her. Gazes locked he slid out before working back in. Even bent in half she writhed, all manner of noises coming from her parted swollen lips. The sight made him lose control and drove into her again and again. The sharp angle allowed him to brush where she wanted it the most, but she did not anticipate what he would do. On one arm he snaked an arm between them before touching her clit. Her hands convulsed around his back as he rubbed the bundle of nerves. Her orgasm took her by surprise, bucking against him as much as she could, screaming out. He thrust harder, heightening her pleasure even more, the screams growing even louder. When she came again he could not stop himself, white hot pleasure cutting him like a knife.

As their breathing began to even out, he stayed there, unable to move. Sweat glistened along their bodies. As he slowly lowered her legs she kissed him, tenderly. A slow exploration she held for moments before settling down amongst the dark pillows. He watched those eyes once more, still burning bright fight to stay open. Just as they were drifting shut he wrapped long arms around her and pulled the duvet around them. He watched her sleep, ever collecting data on the enigma before him, realizing that neither had spoken a word in the midst of their passion.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Light streamed through a window as eyelids opened. A moment of disorientation greeted her, but the previous days escapades came rushing back. Muscles ached in a satisfying burn, feeling the bruises and scratches that occurred. Stretching as she sat up the black comforter slid off, baring scars and breasts. She immediately saw him, sitting in the corner in some dark wood chair. The intense gaze felt physical. He was clothed, but had on the purple shirt where the buttons were missing it gaped, showing off that wonderful chest. She crawled towards the edge, sitting back on her knees, comfortable with her body after so long.

“There is one question that you have not answered.” He steepled his fingers together, leaning forward.

“Why do you continue to chase him, even though you resigned that you could never outsmart him?” She was as still as a stalking leopard.

“You have no money, but still you came here somehow, even after being at his mercy.” He hadn't even given her a chance to explain. “At your previous demeanor you were starting to self-destruct, it can be deducted that you wanted him to finish the job, or die trying to get to him.” His voice was even.

“Correct.” He held his breath for a moment, waiting for the “but.” It never came. However, he did not know what to say to that. “What would you have done if someone outsmarted you?” She paused, anger written across her features. “If someone toyed with your genius -- chewing it up before spitting it back out?”

“I would have destroyed him in my revenge.” She let those intelligent eyes fade to emptiness before sliding shut.

“I’m not as strong as you Sherlock. I let him win.” She took a deep breath as every muscle trembled as he watched. Her eyes opened suddenly as if forgetting they had closed, and as quickly as it had risen the rage and self-doubt were gone.

“However, now you have given me back my edge.” She lifted a hand up and flexed her fingers as if they had been broken beyond repair and suddenly was fully functional.

“John has returned with clothes for you.” She had seen his eyes flicker to his phone. As he stands up he hands her a robe that had been on the back of the chair. Before she could get it tied, the door opened.

“Sherlock, are you sure-” John's eyes snapped to Teresa. She had part of the robe gaping, showing the sickle shape scar between her breasts. “I am so sorry.” He turned to leave.

“What’s to be sorry about, you are a doctor, it’s not like you have never seen a naked woman before?” There was a bit of sass in her voice. He still waited till she had tied the sash before looking at her, ever a gentleman.

"The clothes will fit fine John, I assure you.” His voice did not waver nor did he look at her. She took the clothes gingerly, looked to Sherlock when he did not move.

“Sher-.” John did not finish.

“No need for me to leave, I’ve seen it all.” John looked ready to say something else.

“I think you can handle seeing me naked.” She unlaced the robe and let it fall. He wanted to avert his eyes, but curiosity got the better of him. He saw the marks, tried his best to understand what they were while being appalled at what he saw. He also noticed a difference in her, a confidence. Sureness was there, no hesitation, and no longer ashamed of her scars. She tossed aside the long sleeved portion, opting for the tank top in a brilliant crimson. She looked in a partially covered mirror as she turned, seeing something she had thought gone forever. Her lips curled in a rare smile.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Sherlock stood up, eyes flickering to her for an instant before turning to John.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Piles of papers towered around the living room. Extensive files on each victim were full of data, but something crucial was missing. A knife appeared in the wall, next to the bullet riddled yellow smiley face.

“Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson is going to add that to our rent…. Again…” John opened another case file.

“Wasn’t me.” He didn’t bother to look up from the file.

“Habit.” She pulled the pocket knife out and paced.

“There’s one thing we haven’t considered.” John suddenly got up. “Motive.” He touched a file. “Why is he doing this Sherlock? Why torture them, why never in the same way?”

“You are quite correct John. The variables in his methods are astounding, except for one. He always slices their fingertips.” Sherlock brought his hands together and settled crouched on the abused chair.

“There has to be a connection.” John murmured.

“-We are missing something, but what.” It was rare to see Sherlock stumped.

“There was never any pattern to the killings; the victim’s never had anything linked.” She twirled the blade around and around, a deadly but beautiful grace to it.

“There has to be something!” Sherlock was on his chair, crouched there as if ready to spring up if needed. His hands were together as he stared off into the photos that had accumulated. If he only could predict his next move.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Days flew by and the world seemed forgotten to the two consulting detectives. John had never seen Sherlock so focused. He began to notice they seemed to anticipate what the other would do, through the silence they could communicate efficiently as well as any silent pack or pard.

The press still had no clue about this mass murderer. Silently Lestrade contacted each and every department with ties to previous murders in the U.S. It was a lengthy process and would take time, of which they had little. Two more bodies had been found, one more decomposed then all the others combined. It had been the first victim on British soil, one that had been missed completely.

Still nothing fit. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the deaths. A construction worker, secretary, stock broker, bar tender, and nothing in common. However, all deaths occurred on London soil. The killer seemed to taunt them.

With each body Sherlock became more and more agitated. It was rare he came upon a puzzle that eluded him for so long. As if it was meant to be, Teresa became calmer, drawn inward. You could nearly see the determination in her to catch her captor. However, even with their superior intellects, neither could have foreseen the consequences of their actions.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sherlock and John climbed up the stairs up to 221B Baker Street. John was covered in mud and very unhappy. One false step had put him face first into a clay filled substance while chasing a lead. He nearly walked straight into Sherlock, not realizing his friend had stopped. Though he was not brilliant at deductions he could see the way Sherlock held himself, rigid in surprise.

“What-“John was unable to finish the sentence as he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a knife handle.

“Call Lestrade…” His voice was calm, but the glints in his eyes were pure anger. A note was attached to the very knife that had been thrown repeatedly into the wall by Teresa in her annoyance. The writing was hers, but obviously forced. The slant of the letters told him much. It was not the words that angered him so, but the blood. A perfect set of prints were pushed into the paper. Distinct scar ridges bisected each one. He knew in his bones the blood would be hers.

“He’s on the way, he says--- Sherlock wait!!” Even with his better than average reflexes he could not stop his friend from entering the flat. With a sigh he followed, curiosity getting the better of him. He looks to the door and sees the note, only reading the first sentence.

Find her if you can, consulting detective. John, who almost never gets angry, was suddenly full of roaring seething hatred. He had ruined so many lives and he would not stand for it to happen again. He would not tolerate his best friend hurt if the psychopath got away. John made a promise to himself that he would find the person responsible, if Sherlock didn’t first.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sherlock went deep into his mind palace; which had grown enough that it could be called its’ own planet. A web hung above him as he studied each tenuous strand to find the common link. Each factor he could think of failed to hold the strands together. Places, jobs, relatives, vacations... he tried them all to no avail! Then he started to understand. He was looking at the wrong person. He factored something he had not considered. It completed the web more fully then he had hoped. He knew how to find the murderer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Where are we going Sherlock?” John asked for the 100th time. Sherlock was so quiet, eyes fixed on something John couldn’t see. He had not spoken, only shoved the good Doctor out of the door into the waiting taxi. The behavior worried John to no end making him wonder if news had reached his friend.

The taxi slowed and stopped after what seemed like hours. They were just outside of London where the houses thinned and boxed up back yards became rolling hills. Again, Sherlock said nothing. He strangely paid the driver and began to walk. John did not know what was going on till a house on a hill came into view. Sherlock went off of the path, creeping along. John nearly grabbed him to make him explain what was going on, but he knew it was futile. The Consulting Detective was beyond anyone at that moment like a bloodhound on the scent.

John glanced at his watch and found it to be just after 3AM. When he looked to the house he found it odd that a light was on, not upstairs or in the kitchen, but the illuminated room seemed to be in the basement. Sherlock stopped besides a large bush and twisted his head so an ear was facing the building. John was suddenly glad he grabbed his gun in the haste to get out of the door.

The nights’ noises seemed muted. Crickets were barely making any noises, but he could hear the sounds of barn animals sleeping, a strange snoring noise of sheep dreaming of greener pastures. A twitch if Sherlocks’ hand caused John to strain and listen more closely. This time when the hand twisted he had heard it. Before he could take off for the house, Sherlock put his hand up as if to say stop. Instead of the front door they headed towards the rear. John followed, alert to the threat that was in the house. They could not see into the hazy windows, but there was an unmistakable smell. The aroma of sweet and salty copper. The scent of blood. Sherlock nearly cursed when there was no back door until the detective spotted something better. Nearly completely hidden by a large flowering bush was the metal door to the basement. Sherlock’s eyes hardened as he calculated the amount of noise the doors would produce when opened by accounting for rust, disuse, as well as the racket the bush would make. He had decided that the front way would be far less of a risk when John pushed passed and opened them. A tiny squeak was all that the doors made, supporting the theory that the owner used it more than the rust stains had predicted. Cool air flowed from the dark steps along with the tang of blood.

John had his gun drawn automatically as he descended into the hellish darkness. Sherlock followed seconds later, noticing a pin prick of light filtering in. The moons light and stars shine did not seem to penetrate into the gloom. John continued forward, feeling along the wall. He could hear small noises. He could hear someone fighting, struggling against something that crinkled. The light Sherlock had noticed was brighter as the two moved before John stopped. A doorway to the right was where the light had come from. A crack in the wood gave only a small glimpse into the room. John’s mind and heart stilled as he did what he had been trained to do. The door opened and he cleared the room, checking the corners and every available space for another human. There was nothing living in the space. From the ceiling butchered animal hung along with unusual instruments covered in blood.

Movement forced him from the horrific scene. He had to clear the next room, leaving Sherlock where he stood. The next room proved to hold more than dead animals. Blood spatter in multiple patterns graced the ceiling, floor, and walls. In the middle of it all was Teresa. Her arms were chained above her head, holding her up. A metal half mask covered her mouth. Behind the cold steel lips was a gag, keeping her from crying out. The crinkling John had heard was from the cling film keeping her legs shut. They were tied down, insuring she could not kick out. However, her eyes were left open. Crimson covered her in tiny pin point dots to hand like smears. Her naked body had turned into the finger painting a child would make, but no child painted in blood.

She saw them, but did not struggle. John could see the fight in her eyes; she was not giving in this time. Sherlock came from behind and with a flick of her eyes he knew where the killer was. A gently hand on Johns arm brought his attention to the lock on the mask as well as the stairs leading up stairs. With a nod the soldier crept up the wooden steps, disappearing into the murk.

Sherlock immediately went to work on the lock. Up close he could see the wounds. Her back was little more than meat and bone. Long deep furrows caught his attention, once again in groups of five. If he hadn’t of seen them he might have deduced that they had come at the hand of a cat’o’nine tails complete with silver barbs. However, patterns emerged revealing a difference story. There were no hesitation marks. Their killer had flown into a rage. Each stroke painted the room with spatters of blood. Skin bisected again and again before none remained. Muscle and bone was then exposed till the sadist grew tired. Those wounds had been obvious, but beneath the copper pennies was burnt flesh. He had burned her before stripping the flesh off. Something about the brand had been too personal, throwing him over the edge. Dexterous hands found the lock and began to work on it. The key would make it easier, however he deduced the killer had it on him. He looked into her eyes for a moment. The single look conveyed more than a thousand words could ever have. He had been worried. The Great Sherlock Holmes had made a new friend, one that could match him wit for word, someone that understood the price of brilliance.

His fingers were steady as he went to work to remove the mask. As he twisted pins sounds of movement echoed in the ceiling. They could map out the movements, the sadistic predator becoming prey. The soldier’s quiet steps as he followed the killer. The man was unaware until a creaky floor board gave away his presence. Then the chase was on. Room by room John stalked his target, knowing full well he was at a disadvantage. They could almost see when John trapped him. They were in the living room, the scratch of furniture and the crash of a vase told them the killer was desperate if resorting to obstacles thrown hastily in John’s way. Sherlock went back to work on the lock, the paper clip and needle working together to try and fool the pins. He had nearly gotten it when a gunshot reverberated throughout the house.

Even the crickets stopped as the killer breathed his last twisted breath. Sherlock continued on the lock when John emerged. It had taken him time to make his way back to them; both knew Lestrade had been called. A gleaming silver key was waved before Sherlock’s shifting eyes. It opened the lock with a click. The half mask fell away with a reverberating thud on the concrete floor. Sherlock tried the other locks and found them to use the same strange key. John shifted restlessly, unsure of what to say.

“You have questions.” She finally spoke, the words even sounded like they hurt.

“How did you know Sherlock? Who was he? Why did he do it?” John wanted to ask these and many other questions, but did not need to.

“Why don’t you explain it.” He murmured while removing the chains binding her hands. Her eyes half closed while regaining her balance.

“No good deed goes unpunished.” She began. “Seven years ago I was called in on a case of a missing person, Emmitt Downs. Little did I know how significant this case would be. The young man’s father had a lot of money and some influence, but the case went unsolved for months. They believed him dead; there never were any ransom demands. It was as if he dropped off the face of the earth. Those stupid officers, the answer was staring them in the face. I told them to look into the cocktail napkin, but I was new and no one listened!” She wobbled on her feet in anger. “I spent weeks tracking down where it had come from, on my own time. A speck of dried honey led me to the killer. I went on my own, heard a stray scream which allowed me access to the house without a warrant.”

John was wondering what all of this had to do with their killer. He looked to Sherlock who nodded to himself as she spoke, John could almost see him listening to one tiny detail that he had gotten wrong, the words “it’s always something” hovered around the edge.. “I found him in the basement, blood gushing from his mouth. The sick and twisted man who captured him I killed with my bare hands in self-defense. I can still see the knife coming at my throat. I may have saved Emmitt, but his tongue had been cut out for screaming. He was covered in old and new wounds, claw marks everywhere and his fingertips were sliced clean off.”

She rubbed along her scarred fingers absentmindedly. “The man had several illegal animals, including a very large and vicious Bobcat. He would torment them and let them loose on his victims. Emmitt had been the latest in a long line of murders. Once the case was wrapped up I was transferred. It was only a few months before the new bodies were found. Not even I could figure out who did it and I began to be bounced around and wherever I went the bodies began to turn up, always one just before I got there. I thought I was following the killer. Turns out the killer was following me.” Sherlock had understood the marks, gouges by some kind of cats paw. Flecks of fur had been difficult to spot, but amongst the blood and thicker things they were there. He also saw the table where small distinguishable patterns of where bloodied fur had brushed wood.

Her shoulders dipped slightly in frustration. “The victims did have something in common. They all committed some sort of sin in the killers’ eye. Cheating husbands, petty stealing, bullying, and other such things.” She took a shaky breath. “He tortured his victims with items tied to them, a corkscrew for a man who drank too much, a sander used on body parts for cutting corners while building, branded with a horseshoe for riding things other than horses….” John’s eyes widened a little bit at the last, but kept silent. “He captured, but could not kill me. I saved him so he tried to save me. He tried to convert me to reveal what he had been shown. He took pictures to illustrate the misdeeds, remind me of what I and others had done. However, I had failed his test and had to be put down. The Bobcat that was used on him was dead, but he got ahold of its carcass. He used those claws as a personal touch.”

“Then how did you know to come here?” John finally spoke.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock smirked.

“The last victim in the U.S held an unusual brand that did not fit. It was the logo of a company right here in London in the early 1800s.” Her face began to grow paler, what adrenaline fueled her began to dissipate. “I came here to get my revenge or die trying and thanks to both of you I have…” Sherlocks coat was suddenly around her as she lost her battle with standing. His arms held her gingerly as aggravating the wounds he knew to be a bad idea.

“Would you be so kind as to direct Anderson away from this crime scene and let Lestrade through.” Only Sherlock had noticed the police had come to the rescue, complete with a bumbling idiot and a so called Sergeant. When John nearly refused, wanting to bandage and get Teresa to safety, a thread of anger in his friends’ eyes made him pull his offered hand away as if stung. Lestrade chose that moment to walk in and even John picked up on the millions of thoughts running through their silver foxes mind.

“Let the medics through we’ve got wounded!” The shout echoed in the concrete room.

“No!” The protest was feeble at best.

“You need medical attention.” John once again stepped closer to try and help.

“Not by them!” Pain was laced with twist of bitter cut through Sherlock, knowing exactly what she meant.

“John, you’re a doctor, you can treat her.” John contemplated the words, unsure for an instant why until the truth hit him. He knew why she didn’t seek professional help the first time, why she didn’t (and could have) stir up a fuss about her case, and why she shied away from the anonymous medics coming towards them. John felt brilliant for a moment, having figured it out.

“Yes, I will treat her; I trust you can manage to get the supplies necessary to the flat?” It was a question, but not to Sherlock.

“You two are going to explain everything after we get her out of here.” Lestrades’ stern voice was meant to make them believe there would be consequences. “I even called you a cab.”

“Su-“ Sherlock was quieted by a hand on his shirt.

“Detective Inspector.” Teresa lifted her head a bit to see him. “I can tell you-“ She was cut off.
“Go, heal, I won’t question you like this.” He paused. “Give me a list of what you need and I’ll get it to you.”

“Lets’ get her back to the flat before she passes out.” Sherlocks’ coat felt damp where his hand was at her side. Sherlock nodded.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Winter had taken a break and the sun was shining bright for February. John stood in the kitchen, cup of tea in left hand, mouth agape as he stared at the contents in the fridge.

“SHERLOCK!” Why is there half a head in the fridge!!!!!” Closing the offending door he grumbled beneath his breath.

“It’s an experiment!” Instead of Sherlock, Teresa answered from the couch.

“About what?!?!” John had almost given up trying to understand the organs in jars, skulls that seemed to multiply, and the petri dishes hidden in drawers.

“I’m trying to determine if burst blood vessels---“ She was interrupted by the door opening.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Lestrade was surprised when he showed up behind him.

“What’s happened this time?” His interest had been piqued, too long since an actual hands on case.

“We’ve had a group murder.” Lestrade paused for effect. “A weird one, we think it might be linked to the one two weeks ago.” A vicious triple murder that left a small child covered in its’ families blood.

“Where?” Teresa stood up, wincing only a little bit.

“Greenwich.” Lestrade looked at the three. “Will all of you come?” Eyes went to the one sitting on the couch.

“Me? Are you sure you want me to come?” She sounded a little skeptical.

“Oh? Didn’t I tell you? You’re working for us now as a consultant and your visa has already been processed.” Lestrade had never seen Sherlock and John so surprised.

“Well, are you coming?” Lestrade didn’t wait for questions but took a pdf from Sherlocks’ computer and left without another word.

~End~