Missing a Heart
Bloody Idiots
Sherlock was woken up abruptly by the bright sunlight as he turned over in his sleep. He had been sleeping on his right side, the one away from the window, and was blissfully unaware of the brightness of the sun until now. He sighed, noticing that John wasn’t there. He would be downstairs, eating his usual toast with morning tea. Taking the warm sheets with him, he tramped down the stairs.
“There’s been another one,” John announced as Sherlock came into the room.
“When?”
“Just this morning.” John nodded his head toward the telly, which was flicked to the local news. A woman reporter was on the scene, where the police were taping off the area where the crime had occurred in the distance. She looked slightly frightened, most likely because she fit the description of the murder victims. “We could head over once you’re dressed.”
“Give me two minutes.”
With warm scarves around their necks and cloaks billowing in the wind, John and Sherlock headed toward the scene of the crime.
“Oi! I thought I said to keep those two out of here!” Lestrade hissed as the pair walked up, Sherlock with his magnifying glass in hand.
“Too late, and we heard you needed some help.” Sherlock examined the scene, trying to analyze for certain details. “Can you tell your winged monkeys to stop stepping all over everything?”
“Sorry.” Lestrade waved the cops away so Sherlock would be able to see the scene clearly. Once they were gone, Lestrade walked back over to Sherlock. “It’s bad, Sherlock. It’s really, really bad. Usually we have something, anything to go on, but there’s nothing with this one. How can someone be so good as to not leave any trace behind?” He shook his head and rubbed his temples. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I hope you find something.”
“What have you got so far?” John asked once Lestrade had walked off.
“Well as you can tell, there’s no sign of a struggle, so that means the killer lures them out. Probably poses as a hitchhiker. And there isn’t an entrance or exit wound anywhere. No a scratch on her, except for the one on her leg from shaving.” He furrowed his brow. “There’s no plausible way they could have died. No wounds, holes, needles, or bacteria or blood disease. They didn’t ingest anything. So how are they dying?”
“What’s that?” John asked, hearing Lestrade arguing with someone.
“Who the hell are these idiots?” Sherlock asked, turning around to see who was there. Two men, about 27 and 23 years old, and a girl, aged about 19, were standing together in a group trying to convince the chief of police that they were U.S. officials that were sent to examine the body. The excuse was that the victim was from America, when she clearly had the skin tone of a Londoner.
“Listen Officer-” the older one tried to say.
“Shut up and get the hell out of my sight. You’re lucky I’m not throwing all your sorry asses in jail,” Lestrade threatened.
The two boys started to walk away, but the girl stayed where she was. “I’m sorry about them,” she said quietly, looking back to make sure they couldn’t hear. “Wasn’t there an Antonio Fortundio who died on this road?”
“Yes, there was. How come?”
“Um, he was my boyfriend,” she said solemnly. “I just think it’s strange that people are dying here so much. Maybe it’s something with the road?”
“Maybe. I’m sorry for your loss,” Lestrade nodded. “Now, I’m off to help the police finish examine the scene. You keep those two,” he pointed at Sam and Dean, “In check for me, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Thank you.” She ran off to the two brothers, and they started off back down the road.
“Fiance.”
“Excuse me?” John asked, trying to remember what was going on after watching the encounter.
“She was Antonio’s fiance. Did you see the faint tan on her third finger? That’s where a ring was, and quite a nice one too. And the way she looked at the scene. It was like she was trying to picture him there.”
“She’s awfully young to be getting married.”
“She knows something more about this. Come on John, let’s go ask her.”
John scrambled after Sherlock, who was already on the trio’s trail.
“Well thanks for telling me that we’re investigating my dead fiance’s murder scene!” Lana yelled, shoving Dean.
Sam cautiously came closer to her. “Look, we were going to tell you, but there wasn’t a good way to put it-”
“You got that right! What the hell?! What are we gonna do? Throw some freggin’ salt on him when he appears and call it a day?” She took a deep breath, pulling at her hair a little. “Just- Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!”
“How the hell were we supposed to tell you?” Dean countered. “Just a casual ‘Hey Lana, we’ve got a case, oh and by the way it’s about your dead fiance who is killing people who look just like you! Yeah, that would have went well.”
“Well anything would have been better than finding out like this, Dean.”
Sam rolled his eyes, looking at the countryside and trying to drown out their bickering. He lazily skimmed the landscape, which was flat and boring except for a shadowy figure in the distance. As he looked closer, the shadow vanished.
“Excuse me, you’re Antonio’s ex-fiance, correct?” A deep British accent asked from behind them. When they turned around, they were met by two men; one was tall with dark hair and was slender in build, the other was shorter with light hair and a slight limp.
“Listen buddy, Lana’ s been through some shit lately and doesn’t have time to talk-”
“Yes, I am.” Lana glared over at Dean, who was giving her a bewildered look. “Who are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes. This is my partner John Watson.”
John awkwardly waved hello.
“Hey, are you the guy with the blog?” Sam asked, suddenly tuning in to what was going on.
“Yeah, that’s us. Is that how you found this case?” John asked, eyeing the three. They didn’t look like any kind of cops or law enforcement.
“Yep.” Dean popped the ‘p’ out of annoyance.
“Then why are you here?” Sherlock asked.
“They hunt demons and evil spirits,” Lana answered simply.
Dean and Sam both glared at her. “Lana!” They hissed in unison.
Sherlock started to laugh. “You can’t be serious. Demon hunting? That’s completely illogical. Other beings like that can’t exist.”
“Well then you try to explain how these girls are dying. And try to explain why they don’t have their heart when they’re cut open, but lack any kind of wound anywhere,” Sam countered.
“He’s got a point Sherlock. It could be something supernatural.”
Dean stepped up, moving himself in front of Lana. “How about we all get a beer and we’ll explain what we think is up, okay?”
“Alright,” John nodded. “Lead the way.”
“There’s been another one,” John announced as Sherlock came into the room.
“When?”
“Just this morning.” John nodded his head toward the telly, which was flicked to the local news. A woman reporter was on the scene, where the police were taping off the area where the crime had occurred in the distance. She looked slightly frightened, most likely because she fit the description of the murder victims. “We could head over once you’re dressed.”
“Give me two minutes.”
With warm scarves around their necks and cloaks billowing in the wind, John and Sherlock headed toward the scene of the crime.
“Oi! I thought I said to keep those two out of here!” Lestrade hissed as the pair walked up, Sherlock with his magnifying glass in hand.
“Too late, and we heard you needed some help.” Sherlock examined the scene, trying to analyze for certain details. “Can you tell your winged monkeys to stop stepping all over everything?”
“Sorry.” Lestrade waved the cops away so Sherlock would be able to see the scene clearly. Once they were gone, Lestrade walked back over to Sherlock. “It’s bad, Sherlock. It’s really, really bad. Usually we have something, anything to go on, but there’s nothing with this one. How can someone be so good as to not leave any trace behind?” He shook his head and rubbed his temples. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I hope you find something.”
“What have you got so far?” John asked once Lestrade had walked off.
“Well as you can tell, there’s no sign of a struggle, so that means the killer lures them out. Probably poses as a hitchhiker. And there isn’t an entrance or exit wound anywhere. No a scratch on her, except for the one on her leg from shaving.” He furrowed his brow. “There’s no plausible way they could have died. No wounds, holes, needles, or bacteria or blood disease. They didn’t ingest anything. So how are they dying?”
“What’s that?” John asked, hearing Lestrade arguing with someone.
“Who the hell are these idiots?” Sherlock asked, turning around to see who was there. Two men, about 27 and 23 years old, and a girl, aged about 19, were standing together in a group trying to convince the chief of police that they were U.S. officials that were sent to examine the body. The excuse was that the victim was from America, when she clearly had the skin tone of a Londoner.
“Listen Officer-” the older one tried to say.
“Shut up and get the hell out of my sight. You’re lucky I’m not throwing all your sorry asses in jail,” Lestrade threatened.
The two boys started to walk away, but the girl stayed where she was. “I’m sorry about them,” she said quietly, looking back to make sure they couldn’t hear. “Wasn’t there an Antonio Fortundio who died on this road?”
“Yes, there was. How come?”
“Um, he was my boyfriend,” she said solemnly. “I just think it’s strange that people are dying here so much. Maybe it’s something with the road?”
“Maybe. I’m sorry for your loss,” Lestrade nodded. “Now, I’m off to help the police finish examine the scene. You keep those two,” he pointed at Sam and Dean, “In check for me, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Thank you.” She ran off to the two brothers, and they started off back down the road.
“Fiance.”
“Excuse me?” John asked, trying to remember what was going on after watching the encounter.
“She was Antonio’s fiance. Did you see the faint tan on her third finger? That’s where a ring was, and quite a nice one too. And the way she looked at the scene. It was like she was trying to picture him there.”
“She’s awfully young to be getting married.”
“She knows something more about this. Come on John, let’s go ask her.”
John scrambled after Sherlock, who was already on the trio’s trail.
“Well thanks for telling me that we’re investigating my dead fiance’s murder scene!” Lana yelled, shoving Dean.
Sam cautiously came closer to her. “Look, we were going to tell you, but there wasn’t a good way to put it-”
“You got that right! What the hell?! What are we gonna do? Throw some freggin’ salt on him when he appears and call it a day?” She took a deep breath, pulling at her hair a little. “Just- Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!”
“How the hell were we supposed to tell you?” Dean countered. “Just a casual ‘Hey Lana, we’ve got a case, oh and by the way it’s about your dead fiance who is killing people who look just like you! Yeah, that would have went well.”
“Well anything would have been better than finding out like this, Dean.”
Sam rolled his eyes, looking at the countryside and trying to drown out their bickering. He lazily skimmed the landscape, which was flat and boring except for a shadowy figure in the distance. As he looked closer, the shadow vanished.
“Excuse me, you’re Antonio’s ex-fiance, correct?” A deep British accent asked from behind them. When they turned around, they were met by two men; one was tall with dark hair and was slender in build, the other was shorter with light hair and a slight limp.
“Listen buddy, Lana’ s been through some shit lately and doesn’t have time to talk-”
“Yes, I am.” Lana glared over at Dean, who was giving her a bewildered look. “Who are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes. This is my partner John Watson.”
John awkwardly waved hello.
“Hey, are you the guy with the blog?” Sam asked, suddenly tuning in to what was going on.
“Yeah, that’s us. Is that how you found this case?” John asked, eyeing the three. They didn’t look like any kind of cops or law enforcement.
“Yep.” Dean popped the ‘p’ out of annoyance.
“Then why are you here?” Sherlock asked.
“They hunt demons and evil spirits,” Lana answered simply.
Dean and Sam both glared at her. “Lana!” They hissed in unison.
Sherlock started to laugh. “You can’t be serious. Demon hunting? That’s completely illogical. Other beings like that can’t exist.”
“Well then you try to explain how these girls are dying. And try to explain why they don’t have their heart when they’re cut open, but lack any kind of wound anywhere,” Sam countered.
“He’s got a point Sherlock. It could be something supernatural.”
Dean stepped up, moving himself in front of Lana. “How about we all get a beer and we’ll explain what we think is up, okay?”
“Alright,” John nodded. “Lead the way.”