trillianastra | Fic: A Study in Grey 1/? [BBC's Sherlock]

Title: A Study in Grey
Fandom: Sherlock (2010)
Characters: Moriarty, Lestrade.
Spoilers: none
Warnings: there's a dead body.
Summary: After getting invalided out of the army, Jim Moriarty goes to work at MI5. Then what seems to be a dead-end assignment puts him on the path of Sherlock Holmes, who may or may not be a murderer. (Loosely - very loosely - based on A Study in Pink)
A/N: Er. So, this is... greatly, greatly inspired by Neil Gaiman's short story "A Study in Emerald". If you haven't read it, you should. It's awesome, and much better than this. (Also, more Lovecraftian, but I won't spoil you.)
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Jim Moriarty and Lestrade are (originally) created by Arthur Conan-Doyle. These versions are the creations of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

~~~

I was in Afghanistan, for a while. I joined the army as soon as I left university, much to the disappointment of the family. Well, it didn't last long. I got wounded, sent home, discharged.

My family packed me off to the villa in France to recuperate. Now all that's left is a bit of a limp, so I need to use a cane sometimes. It could be worse.

I was back in London for the first time since my discharge. I had a contact in the government who'd offered to get me a job. The job turned out to be with MI5, and I took it. One of the first assignments I was given sent me to an empty house in Brixton where a woman had been found dead.

When I got there, the place was still crawling with police. I ducked under the yellow tape and flashed my ID at the annoyed-looking detective nearby. She scowled and waved me through, and told me that DI Lestrade was inside.

Lestrade met me on the stairs. He looked at my ID, confused, and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Someone thinks this might be a matter of national security, that's why I'm here. What have we got?”

He looked at me, and shrugged. “One body, we've identified her as Jennifer Wilson. No sign of a struggle. It looks like suicide, just like the others.”

“And the note? Someone mentioned a note?”

“Uh, yeah... well, you should probably see for yourself.” He showed me up to the room where Jennifer Wilson's body lay. Scratched into the wooden floor near her left hand were the letters R A C H E. Her right hand lay in a pool of congealed blood, and there was a razorblade nearby.

“Well?” Lestrade said from the door. “Any ideas?”

“Rache... that's German, it means 'revenge'. Or she could have been trying to say 'Rachel'... see if she knew anyone named Rachel.”

“We'll look into it.”

“Good.” I looked around. It felt like something was missing... “where's her case?”

“Excuse me?”

“Her case, her suitcase, where is it? She must have had one, look at these splashes on the back of her calf, now where is it?”

“There wasn't a case, we searched the whole house.”

Oh. “Then the murderer has it. Or...” I got up from where I had been crouching near the body, and crossed to the window. “...no, murderers, there were two of them.”

“What?”

I looked at Lestrade, and sighed. “The footprints on the floor? They were made by two distinct sets of shoes, the sizes are even different! Also, one of them walks with a cane, see these scuff marks here? And here,” I indicated a small bruise on the side of Jennifer's leg, “I'd say that was caused by someone using a cane to stop her getting away, or maybe he stuck it out to trip her over when she tried to run.”

Lestrade ran a hand over his face. “Anything else? Something that might help me catch these two mysterious killers?”

I returned to the body, crouching next to her. It took only a couple of minutes before I found something. “DI Lestrade, look at this...” he came over, and I showed him the underside of her right wrist, which had been sliced open.

“What am I looking at?”

“Judging by the victim's clothing and manicure, she didn't work with her hands – probably the media, but that's not important right now. This incision was made by someone with surgical experience. A doctor, in other words... maybe an army doctor, he could have been wounded, and that would explain the limp as well.”

“Okay,” Lestrade nodded, “what about the second killer? You've not said anything about him yet.”

I shrugged. “He's taller. Either he recently quit smoking or has a nicotine patch addiction, there's a used one by the window, it must have fallen off. He hasn't left many traces, I'm sorry.”

“So I'm looking for a tall ex-smoker and an army doctor with a limp? Oh, wonderful,” he sighed with a touch of sarcasm. “Do you need anything else, or can I let the forensics guys back in?”

“Mm, no, I've got all the information I need. Thank you, Inspector.”

“Uh-huh.” Lestrade called over his shoulder to the forensics team on the landing, “All right, you lot, get back to work.” To me, he added, “I'll let you know if we find anything on that 'Rachel' lead.”

“Thanks.”

I walked out quickly, and headed back to my car. Once I was sitting in the driver's seat I took a deep breath and reached into my pocket, pulling out a business card.

It was just a plain white card, with the words Sherlock Holmes printed on one side. On the other side was a mobile phone number, scribbled hastily in biro.

“Sherlock Holmes...” I tried the name. It was unusual, certainly. And it reminded me of another unusually named Holmes, someone that my office was passingly familiar with: Mycroft Holmes, rumoured to be something essential in the government, and believed to be involved in several less-than-legal activities that MI5 were rather interested in.

Sherlock Holmes might have been completely unconnected to Jennifer Wilson's death. He might be entirely innocent, with the real culprits, the tall man and the limping doctor, out there somewhere.

Or he might be the tall man. Either way, I'm going to have to find him.

Jim Moriarty,
London, 2010.