moose_mcmoose | Swings and Roundabouts

Title: Swings and Roundabouts (Part 1/4 (for now))
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Inspector Lestrade,
Word Count: 1400
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer/Notes: They aint my babies. Just pissing about with them and making them do silly things.
Summary: Sherlock and John contend with a killer who leaves little trace, unaware that there is method to the madness.

He tries to open his eyes but the heat is unbearable. It burns and it sears and all he can do is shut it away.

He wants to get his breath back but it sticks in his throat like syrup. It makes him cough and splutter, and all he can feel is restriction and pain everytime he heaves another gulp.

His fingers tingle as they lie splayed across the floorboards, and they twitch with every surge of heat that comes his way.

He doesn't know where he is, all he can feel is heat, and heaviness, and dirt.

It feels like Hell.
_____________________________________________________________

It starts with a swing. An old, wooden, rope swing hanging off a precariously balanced branch of a twisted old tree.

An old, wooden, rope swing with death upon it.

A long, thick plait of blue twine stretches from a gnarled finger of wood down to a flimsy looking seat, which has been crudely chipped from another tree nearby.

A pale, limp body of a delicate looking woman is draped across the swing seat, the legs still swaying with the incoming breeze, the dull, straw-like, flow of hair reaching down to brush the leaf strewn, foot worn patch of woodland. The face is calm and clean, save a few spatters of leafy debris that have been blown from the ground beneath, the skin like finely cast porcelain. But the seamless shimmer of white was disturbed by the mottled black and purple that blossomed across the corpse's neck.

"Man." Sherlock's flat toned statement cuts through the tense silence. He points to the differences in colouration around the neck. "You can see the darker colours represent where more force was applied, the fingertips. Gaps between thumb and fingers are reasonalby wide, so we are dealing with a man, or a woman of great strength with large hands. But most females killed in such a manner are killed by men. Also, this female is taller than average, 5'9 I'd say. Look at the angle of where the hands lay." Sherlock squints hard, brushing a rogue strand of hair away from his view. "Slightly elevated, so he'd be holding her from above. I'd estimate our murderer is around 6'0, 6'1 maybe."

"A six foot male. That's really helpful Sherlock." Lestrade folds his arms and huffs.

"I'm not finished yet."

"Well hurry up about it. I've got Anderson moaning over the radio at me. He's not happy that I let you look at this before he did."

"You shouldn't let him look at all. He won't find anything of use that I can't find."

Lestrade shakes his head gently. "Just hurry up and don't touch anything."

"Right handed, judging by the swelling on the left hand side of her chest."

"Her chest?"

"Broken rib, no, two broken ribs." Sherlock turns and raises an eyebrow. "Anderson would never have spotted that would he?" Smiling smugly, he turns back to the body, "Yes, her chest. Either a knee or a fist, and he wouldn't hit across his own body would he? So right handed he must be. Are you keeping up Inspector?"

Lestrade glared, distinctly unimpressed. "I asked you here for help, not for you to invade my crime scene and be a smarmy bastard."

"But that's what he does best." John strolls up to Lestrade's side, his chirpy air deflating as soon as he clapped his eyes on the dead body.

"Nice of you to join us John." Sherlock grunts with a hint of disdain.

John clears his throat. "Yeah...um...sorry. I got...um... caught up somewhere."

"Oh yeah? Another dinner date you sly old dog?" Lestrade gives a knowning nudge to John's shoulder.

"No, no. Nothing like that. Just some work business."

"Oh 'work business', of course. Right." Lestrade winks. "Well you haven't missed much, just Sherlock telling us that the killer is an average, right handed male."

Sherlock growls, pulling at his hair in frustration. "This killer is rather meticulous. He hasn't left me much to go on. I'd like to see you or your precious Anderson do better!"

"Hey, hey, I was just getting John up to speed."

"Well, add this to your little summary. The clothes are not her own. The skirt is meant to be tailored, but it's too loose around the waist. If she stood up it would fall down so the killer has her clothes or has disposed of them elsewhere. The blouse is too tight around the breast area, notice the slight bulge in the material between the third and fourth buttons. Her shoes are missing, as is her bracelet." Sherlock holds up a limp left hand. "See the slight line of white around her wrist. She had a bracelet, something she wore all the time judging by the varaition in skin tone. So where has that gone? Has the killer kept that as a trophy? Or has it fallen somewhere in between him killing her and dumping her here?"

"So she wasn't killed here?" John furrowed his brows.

"No. People struggle when they are strangled. Look at the debris around here. No disturbances, no leaves or chips of grass where she may have kicked in retaliation. Her clothes are spotless, her feet clean. If she had tustled here she would have something on her clothing and her feet would be dirty from the grass and mud."

"What if she was drugged?"

"No signs of any needle marks to suggest that. Plus it rained this morning, and she's been dead, what? Seven hours or so by my guess, and she's not wet. The only damp patch being her back where it touches the swing. If she was killed here and left, she'd be wet, but her hair is dry and hasn't been washed in days, judging by the greasy condition of her roots. No, no. She was killed elsewhere and brought here. Where she was killed? I don't know. Somewhere indoors but I can't give you anything specific at the moment."

Sherlock stood with urgency. "We need to find out where those clothes came from and who bought them."

"Anything else before I let Anderson on the prowl?" Lestrade tapped his foot impatiently.

"She's from the East London area."

John and Lestrade can only look at each other, telepathically deciding who will cross the breach and dare to ask. Seems like it was John's turn.

"And how exactly would you know that?"

Sherlock replies with a puzzled look. "Isn't it obvious? Her skin. Her skin is flawless, frequently washed, more than twice a day. The water of some Eastern parts of London have higher deposists of fluorine than most. Smell her if you don't believe me."

Lestrade crinkled his nose. "I'd rather not."

"Her skin has a distinct tinge of fluorine in it's odour. Such a thing is not usually present with people who use water with normal level of fluorine, so she must have lived in a place with abnormally high levels. Most people would filter the water, she obviously didn't feel the need to."

"Amazing." John splutters.

"I told you months ago to stop doing that John."

"Sorry." John stuffs his hands in his pockets sheepishly, before wandering around to the knotted, decrepit looking tree. He surveys the ground and rolls a hand over the bark, before squinting into the middle distance.

"What is it?" Sherlock eyes John warily. He detects, like a well trained bloodhound, that something has occured to John.

"I dunno....but I'm sure I recognise this place."

"Recognise how?"

"As in I recognise it. Just feels oddly familair."
_____________________________________________________

The heat isn't dying, if anything it's getting stronger. It's coming in fast, muscular waves, a constant attack on his skin and senses.

And he wishes he was unconscious so he couldn't feel any of this, but he is receiving no such luxury.