65Valkyrie was laying flat on her bed, flipping through the memories of her last fight the day before, mentally cringing at all the mistakes she had made while her body still stung with the after effects of each one. Fighting dimensional shunters, she decided, was not one of her favourite activities. Faster than they normally looked and able to pop out of thin air just to vanish again after they had caught you in the back with a knife... it was really irritating, like trying to catch smoke in a butterfly net. In fact, it was up there with wrestling vampires and killing gods with blasts of black lightning on her list of 'The worst ideas that Skulduggery has ever had'. Not that she had done the latter in the last 50 years, but still… Oh well, at least her life was never boring anymore.
Sighing in resignation and instantly regretting it when her bruised ribs violently protested the added strain placed on them, she slipped out of her pyjamas, leaving them on the top of her bed for when she got back from what ever god forsaken place Skulduggery was dragging her to this time. Honestly, she should really take him out and show him how to give a girl a good time, he was never going to find another girlfriend like this...
With a wince she pulled on the form fitting black combat clothes that Ghastly had made her all those years ago (something he never let her forget given the fact that he was well over 6 foot tall and she had stopped growing when she was around 15), allowing them to hug her skin with a comforting familiarity that always seemed to make the stiffness in her joints to go away. They had always done that, though the effect was probably due to the influx of adrenalin and endorphins it triggered from all the past experiences she had when wearing these clothes. She was just finishing lacing up her boots when a dull ache began to build up in her left ankle, radiating out quickly out to the rest of her body. Immediately, she froze, mentally reviewing all the injuries she had gained from the fight, trying to remember if she might have received a wound she hadn't noticed at the time. A block of ice seemed to settle in her stomach as she realised that she didn't, not one that would cause this kind of feeling … there was only one thing that actually caused this type of pain anyway and it was still lodged quite firmly in her mind from the first time that she had ever experienced it.
Quickly, she texted Skulduggery to let him know what was happening while working to suppress the panic she could feel clawing at her chest. Still struggling to keep her breathing even she then made herself sit back on her bed as she waited for the pain to reach its peak. There was no use in fighting the pain, that was one of the more prominent parts of her memory, worrying about what would happen next was equally useless, working herself up until she started hyperventilating wasn't going to do anything but waste energy and leave her unbalanced when she arrived in the new dimension... assuming that this new dimension was one that she would be able to survive in anyway... Trying not to think about that, she forced her mind back to the present and began to take a mental inventory of all the items she had on her person at the present moment in time.
There was her necromancy ring on her left ring finger where it belonged, and a small dagger hidden in her belt in such a way that meant that only she could pull it out, thanks to the runes etched into the leather, too many experiences of opponents stealing her weapon had encouraged that invention. Calmly, if more than a little reluctantly, she removed her sanctuary ID from her pocket and placed it on top of her folded clothes, she loathed to part with it, but it would only cause problems where ever she was going so it was better to leave the little plastic card behind. In its place, she slipped the little silver disk that worked as a kind of magic debit card connected to her account that would allow her to access her money where ever she ended up.
Ready, and with the pain reaching a point so that it felt like needles lancing out from her ankle, where she distinctly remembered Aaron Carrow grabbing earlier, she lay back down on the black bedspread, trying to distract herself from her discomforting thoughts and to find a good position. When she arrived, she probably wasn't going to be conscious for a little while due to the energy that the shunting would actually steal from her body, so it might be best if she wasn't in a position where she would choke if she was sick. Travelling across dimensions at the speed of light had never been her strong suit after all, so motion sickness was not completely out of the question.
Leaning back into the soft pillows, she allowed her eyes to fall shut so that she would not have to see the world fade around her, and, instead, she gave one last thought to Skulduggery. He was going to freak when he read the message, if he hadn't already, but at least, if she actually looked on the bright side for once, she wouldn't be there to see his rant this time. She wondered vaguely if Carrow would even be alive when she got back, or if Lord Vile would get to have a little, highly supervised, fun just this once, but, before that thought could develop much further, the pain closed in, and everything faded away.
0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0
"So it really was just a suicide?"
Irritation flashing through him like the keen edge of a knife before it was ruthlessly crushed back down so that, on the outside, Sherlock just turned to sweep dramatically out of the room with an emotionless face. Well, that had been his intention at least, but he reached the door of the room only to find John blocking the exit and giving him one oh his 'play nice' looks so, instead, Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, trying not to roll his eyes at the thought of the obvious question he was about to be faced with.
"Yes Inspector, I believe that is what I just told you. This case was nothing but a suicide, the victim got in too deep with gambling and drugs, decided he would rather shoot himself than face his debts. Dull. Ordinary and a waste of my time. Quite frankly, if your team of idiots could not put together the fact that the ring clearly fell out of his pocket as he fell, they don't deserve their jobs on the force, maybe you should think about hiring some more competent staff in the future."
It looked like Lestrade was about to comment on that parting line, just as he had all the other times he had made the same point, and the detective could almost feel the good doctor sighing behind him like he always did before he launched into one of his lectures about 'being polite to people to avoid hurting their feelings' but, before either of them could reply, they were cut off by the sound of feet running up the stairs in a panicked hurry. As the wooden door was all but flung open with excessive force, all three men turned to face a rather flustered looking Sergeant Donovan.
"Sir, we have a problem."
Sherlock did nothing to restrain his eye roll this time. Really, why did she have to say that, there was clearly a problem, seeing as though she had run all the way from the front door, up three flights of stairs, and to the back of the block of flats, at a full on sprint, judging from her accelerated gasps and dilated pupils. Still, he had found from experience that most people liked to point out the obvious, a pointless endeavour that only served to waste time, but it seemed to relax certain people somehow, it was one of those matters he honestly could not understand. Still, seeing her flustered face he couldn't help adding another jab to wind her up even further. After all, annoying the members of the force, bar Lestrade, was one of his 'more normal hobbies' as John liked to call it.
"Honestly, Anderson forgetting which way round to hold a scalpel again is not what I would call a problem!"
Unsurprisingly, his comment was ignored by the two officers in front of him, though he could feel John's glare cutting into the back of his head even from this distance, honestly, sometimes it was difficult to see the doctor in John behind all the force of the soldier. Still, he was vaguely interested as to what had got the female officer so flustered so, he said nothing for once, and allowed her to finish her explanation, though he was still irritated about the unnecessary dramatics.
"Sir, some civilians just came up to grab one of our men, they said that they found a teenage girl in an alleyway just down the road, they think she was stabbed, and not that long ago too."
The change in the inspector was as immediate as it was obvious. The old police man had always been over protective of other people, a completely unnecessary sentiment in Serlock's eyes and one that could only make his job as a homicide detective all the more difficult, but it was so deeply instilled in the older man's nature that it wouldn't be him without it. This protectiveness, it seemed, was incredibly strong when it came to young girls, as could be seen through the tense set of his jaw and the strange light flickering in his eyes, probably a throw back from some archaic sense of chivalry, or lingering paternal instinct from when his own children were young... probably a combination of the two actually. Still the consulting detective marvelled for a split second at the sheer depth of emotion his colleague was showing towards a complete stranger, not long after, Lestrade was running full pelt out of the building and, having nothing better to do, Shelock followed.
It took about 5 minutes for all of them to reach the place where the girl was being treated by the forensics team, all of whom seemed to be rather out of their depth treating a breathing patient which was rather amusing, what did that say about your life when you could diagnose a cause of death in a manner of minutes, but couldn't stop someone from dying in the first place? However, as they drew closer, his eyes were instantly drawn to the victim, his mind soaking in all he could find out about her from the first cursory glance. Though curiously, the blare of information he normally received when looking at someone was oddly muted with this girl, the clues to her life much less obvious than with the others around him.
Dark hair, fair skin though it bore a light tan that was fading from an extended period away from the sun, looked to be of European origin and, judging from the cut of her clothes, was from some money, whether that was legitimate or not was something he couldn't tell with the limited data. The clothes themselves were black mainly, with a deep red on the sleeves, all of it with the sheen of high quality leather, but it looked to fit her body like it was made for her, so it either was, or she had worn them often enough for the material to mould to her body shape. Probably the first option as there were no signs of wear on the material which was rather strange given the situation they had found her in. Surely there must have been some since of defensive wounds somewhere on the material?
From her face, he would guess that she was around 18/19 but curiously, she wore no make up, unusual given the pressure current society placed on women to make themselves more 'attractive' to the opposite sex. This, coupled with the numerous, though faded, scars all over her visible skin and the practicality of her clothes that covered a large percentage of her skin, suggested that she was a tom boy, more interested in being comfortable than looking good, despite the fact that she was what people like John would call 'classically beautiful'. Again, the multitude of scars and bruising on her collar bones that could be see through the front of her unzipped jacket, would suggest that she was used to fending for her self and fighting, which made the lack of defensive wounds all the more obvious... someone who was used to fights, but didn't defend herself when someone went to stab her, how interesting.
It was around this point that he realised that John was talking to him, cutting into his train of thought and disrupting his focus. Damn it, he was just beginning to pick apart this girl. John really did have the worst timing when he felt like it.
"Sherlock, I don't think that they need us here, after all, the girl is still alive, I don't think they will need any help when she can tell them who it was that gave her that."
Sherlock followed the doctor's waving hand and saw the blood that was soaking through her crimson shirt underneath her jacket, hard to see at first glance due to the colours being practically the same. Probably done on purpose going on what else he had seen of her character. Did that meant that she knew this was going to happen? She knew that she was going to be fighting tonight, that much was obvious, she had dressed for it after all, but why hadn't she fought back? That was the main question that was irritating him about this girl, he really did not like having unanswered questions. Turning back to his friend, Sherlock looked the man up and down, taking in his pale face and the edgy way his eyes were flashing from person to person. There was an injured girl on the floor, not 2 feet in front of him, and John was still stood in the same spot as he had been in when they arrived when he, as a trauma surgeon, was probably the best qualified person in the area to be treating her. That wasn't normal especially not when he considered how much of a bleeding heart his flatmate normally was.
"John, you are the only one here qualified to work with living patients, so why is it that you are still standing with me when there is an injured girl unconscious over there?"
His words seemed to make the man jump, as though pulling him from his own thoughts. Ah, sweet revenge. But that didn't answer his question, so the thought did not stay long in his mind before it was deleted. When he answered, John refused to look him in the eye… so he was lying then.
"No reason, I just don't think I'm needed, the girl is already drowning in doctors, its not like I'm going to make much of a differ… my god, are those burn marks?"
In his attempt to avoid the detective's probing eyes, it seemed as though he had looked directly at the girl just as one of the forensics team rolled up her top to reveal the wound to her stomach. Interested now, Sherlock looked over and studied the wound. Yes, they were burn marks, it looked as though the blade that had been used to do this was red hot at the time… so the attack was premeditated? Probably, seeing as though she arrived prepared for a fight, a challenge maybe, but then, wouldn't she have taken more precautions, brought someone with her for back up? To heat a weapon to the extent where it could cause that much damage and those marks would have taken time, but why were there no defensive marks? It was a question that was honestly driving him insane now.
Without realising it, Sherlock edged closer to the girl, trying to get a better look at the wound. There was no tears, so it was sharp and, from the width of the cut, thin. But from the shape, it wasn't a knife, the wounded edges meant that it was cylindrical, interesting. A fire poker perhaps? But then, someone would have seen a person carrying around that sort of object in the back streets of London, it was far too obvious and would stick in people's memories, not something to take to a place where you planned on killing someone, but then, what else could have made those marks?.. Unless this was only the seconday crime scen and she had been carried out here? But for what purpose? Dropping the girl off so close to where the police were already investigating something was like calling for them to look into this... surely the perpetrator couldn't be that stupid? Or did they want the police involved in this?
Somehow, he found himself next to Lestrade as the ambulance drove away, a little upset at the loss of his puzzle, Sherlock turned back to the police officer, a strange light flickering behind his eyes.
"Seems like a bad area, first a suicide, then a back alley fight, all in one night. You might want to look into this are more Inspector."
That seemed to bring Lestrade up short as he blinked up at the detective for a few seconds before answering.
"How do you know it was a fight? The guys that examined her thought it was a mugging, she had nothing in her pockets, no bag. Unfortunately, she didn't have any ID either…"
He trailed off there when he noticed the incredulous look being directed at him by the consultant.
"She was dressed for a fight. I'm willing to bet that that jacket gave a lot of protection to her upper body and the trousers to the lower. What bothers me is that there was no hole in the shirt, which means that she must have changed it before passing out, but why do that and not bandage the wound? and why have the jacket unzipped when it would reduce the protection around her vital organs? It just doesn't make any sense!"
For a moment, the Inspector seemed to contemplate that idea before shrugging slightly.
"Just give it a rest Sherlock. This isn't your case, it isn't any case. As soon as the girl wakes up, she can tell us what happened and everything is over with, simple as that."
That said he started to walk away, heading back in the general direction of his police car, and Sherlock let him go. No, the girl was not his case, but he got the impression that, soon, she would be.
Edited 16/06/15: Fixed minor spelling errors and reworded certain areas :)
