even the suit has teeth. (
willfixitforyou) wrote in
entrancelogs2012-07-05 06:44 pm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
Step inside my story and see it's told in blood.
Who: Jim Moriarty- actually not anymore. Evelyn Carnahan- or what's left of her. Anyone else who feels like spotting a murder scene.
Where: The library.
When: July 5th, morning.
Rating: M for murder.
Summary: Since finding out Sherlock survived his Fall, Jim's been thinking he has to make good on what he said he'd do. Burn his heart. Here's a first.
The Story:
He thinks he's played nice for much too long, really. Richard Brook, such a kind, bumbling fellow, but now isn't the time for that, no no no no. Jim's had his mind set on evening the score, and his mind works with quick and vicious precision. On the hospital rooftop, it had just been a bluff - an arbitrary number of nonexistent gunmen, or if there had been gunmen, they had not been his - this did not excuse him from making good on his word.
Conveniently, he'd already taken careful note of dear Miss Carnahan's schedule. It was a matter of course, she was Sherlock's friend, she was a potential game piece, and now was the time for her to play her part as a liability for the first time. No matter if he didn't like getting his hands dirty. There was no-one to delegate this manner of work to, here.
The library, which she visited nearly every morning, was big enough for him to easily stay out of sight as she came in and settled down to study. Within a matter of minutes she was engrossed in her reading to the point of forgetting her surroundings, never hearing him approach her from behind.
And just like that it was over for her, really. Holding her head in place, pulled back by her hair to have easy access to her throat with his blade, and once that was done, a matter of barely more than a second, she was already no longer able to scream. A messy affair, blood on his hand, his arm, his shoes from the puddle quickly forming on the floor as he watched her first and last attempts of struggling with dispassionate indifference. Once that was over with, once she had gone still and the blood only quietly soaked the pages of her book, he dropped her to the floor and set to work - to the actual work, the point he was to make. Really, Sherlock, forcing his hand like this...
A few minutes later, anyone walking into or through the library will find the results of his work, but not him, naturally. Just Evie's body, opened up from the stomach with the heart not horribly cleanly removed. And blood, of course. Don't say I didn't warn you about the blood.
((ooc: feel free to thread amongst yourselves. Jim is nowhere to be found, Evie is very dead, but play with this scene as you'd like!))
no subject
It was worth a shot anyway. He had no leads otherwise.
The library had a very distinct smell to it today, though. Along with the deliciously aged aroma of old tomes, it smelled metallic and thick—like a crime scene. It wasn’t difficult to track down where the strongest point was in the large room. He’d walked there on instinct, knowing at least one particular spot where a certain resident enjoyed the ambiance.
The amount of blood made survival unlikely.
The book on the table, a translation, The Book of the Dead by E. A. Wallis Budge, made the owner of said blood rather obvious. He had her DNA on file; he could know for a fact given the time the tests took to run. He’d seen enough to be sure, however. The only real mysteries were who had killed her, for what purpose, who had removed the body, and to where? There was a blood trail, at least, which he could follow. Feet and splashes—the body was still fresh enough for some blood to still drip or the wound so severe it had yet to properly coagulate. The trail lessened to nothing after only a few yards but the gait, the shoe size, the direction of travel, all the details he could still find let him know the likely scenario.
Oh, but that wasn’t kind. And surely, as it was the least desired outcome, it was what had happened.
Evelyn wouldn’t want him to be bothered but her body might contain vital clues to tracking down her murderer. Surely that’s an acceptable reason to bother the mysterious Philip. Without much more in hesitation, he took off up the stairs to Philip’s room, knocking urgently at the door.
no subject
Not only has his crime scene been disturbed, no, somebody even had the gall to mess with the victim's body. Wash it clean of all the blood. Put fresh clothes on i-- on her. Place her on a new sheet.
He did the same for himself. A quick shower. A change of clothes. It didn't seem to help the iron smell, or so he thought.
It didn't help anything.
Philip sits by her side once again when Sherlock knocks. Well. When he hears a knock, expecting it to be Dean.
He hurries to the door this time. Opens it. And is less than pleased with the one standing behind it.
"What."
It's barely a question. Philip might as well shout at him to go away.
no subject
"Evelyn's body. Do you still have it?"
He needs to see it. There might be some clue.
no subject
"How did..."
It's one thing to read about the detective's deductions while growing up, but another to witness them in person. It doesn't occur to Philip that it might be as simple as that. For now it sounds like information. Delivered by the least wanted person in the most terrible way possible.
Philip can't even attempt to lie, even if he wanted to.
"What happened to her?"
Without thinking about it he takes a step aside, blocking the easy way in further. As if the message wasn't clear enough already.
no subject
"She was murdered, Philip, as I'm sure you are aware. I can only tell so much from the blood splatter but I imagine her throat was cut open. Doesn't exactly account for the larger pool, though. I need to see the body."
no subject
He presses one hand against the wall. Believable doesn't make it any better, doesn't make Sherlock any more welcome, in fact his presence couldn't be any less wanted. The things he likes to uncover out of boredom are still too clear in Philip's mind, the question whether he's only here for his entertainment now sits too readily at the tip of Philip's tongue.
And still the merit of Sherlock's meddling doesn't escape Philip. Neither does the selfishness of his urge to slam the door in the detective's face. Unfortunately. Philip's arm sinks and he steps aside, nodding for the man to go in.
"Somebody took her heart out," he adds in a low voice, looking down at the floor.
Sounds better than ripped or tore at any rate. Would sound even better if it was something Philip could claim not to have
causedseen before.no subject
He paused, not really prepared for that and the motivation for the action making it very not good as he processed the meaning. The culpret was becoming very, very clear.
He stumbled over his words, becoming awkward as he hovored slightly before making a desisive move towards the bed and the body.
"... I'm sorry," he said very quickly and rather quietly before he sees the state his evidence is in and almost regrets offering any condolences.
Washed. Clean. Evidence completly erased. Having moistened the body it's hard to even figure what came first: the slice on her throat or the garish wound in her chest.
no subject
Or so Clarence put it.
Philip nods at the condolences. Keeps his head down. Stays a few steps away without looking.
It's necessary, he convinces himself of that much. But he didn't clean her up to watch her acting the puzzle piece.
(He did... clean her up. It's a thought that occurs to him now with a twinge of guilt in his stomach. Not a sentiment he will acknowledge for too long. Certainly not an apology he is going to make.)
no subject
"Not much I'm going to get from her. Not much I need, however. Thank you."
He was almost ready to simply walk right back out but paused.
"How well did you know her friends? If I asked you about a man she might have known--Irish, 5'8", dark hair--would you know who I was speaking of?"
no subject
And that's what she is to him. A piece of unhelpful evidence.
But for Evie's sake Philip too does his best not to let those sentiments show and focuses on the questions instead. The second question; that particular friend, not one of the others she may or may not have mentioned.
"I've never met him," he says, trying to picture the person in question.
No such luck.
"But she mentioned... she mentioned an Irishman, erm..."
Short name. Not especially memorable. What was it agai--
"Brook."
A very nice man, according to Evie. Philip dreads where this is going.
no subject
"Richard Brook is her killer, Philip. Avoid him at all costs. I'll deal with this."
He took a few more steps towards the door then paused, turning back towards him. "I guess you should know that this is my fault. I didn't kill her but... I am the reason she is dead."
no subject
He's seen worse, after all. Hell. Part of him is worse.
'I say we find the guy and buy him dinner! I say I buy him dinner. I mean, c'mon, why do we only ever hang around the people you like? How's that for fair living?'
But truthfully it's the second statement that really gets Philip's attention. So much despair. So much anger. And nobody to blame for it. Well. Until now.
"How?"
no subject
He doesn't bother defending himself. For his previous deception of Philip, he really rather deserves his anger.
no subject
The first item on the list is, rather involuntarily, incredulous laughter that escapes him. Accompanied by his head shaking it won't quite stop and has him pressing a palm to his forehead.
It's a cruel remake of his own history, of Clarence torturing Daniel for his friendship with Philip alone. Of killing him, ripping his heart out. For the briefest of moments he almost feels sympathy for Sherlock, but the sentiment is fleeting.
The virus spared Evie all that and now... now it turns out that all of Philip's relief was in vain, because somebody else's monster got to her first. The cruelty of those odds is almost too much to bear.
The laughter slowly ebbs away and Philip looks at Sherlock.
"So I--"
He catches himself. Swallows and wipes away a tear.
"I suppose you've got a plan to avenge your friend?"
The unstable grin through grit teeth, the sarcasm on that particular word, he couldn't make it clearer. That he doesn't for one second believe Evelyn meant enough- meant anything to Sherlock. That she died for nothing.
no subject
"I don't have a plan yet but when it's time, I will. I still need to know why he's doing this."
no subject
A frown that wants to say Philip thought it was because Evelyn was such a good friend. That wants to say Philip doubts there is a reason beyond wanting to watch Sherlock suffer.
"...Did he give you her heart yet?"
That didn't actually want to say this.
no subject
He doesn't really want to think of what Moriarty would want with a human heart.
no subject
To the middle part. Because he's seen it. Because it's where his question came from. It's what Clarence would do, assuming he would choose to curb his appetite. A gift to remind Philip of his work.
He isn't even sure why he mentions it, really. But maybe that sympathy hasn't quite washed off yet, maybe some of it still remains in the hopes of treating Sherlock as a friend rather than an enemy or a nuisance in this situation.
Maybe Philip really needs to take any opportunity he can to convince himself that Evelyn meant more to Sherlock than he lets on.
But the detective is not making that task especially easy.
"Just a bad memory," Philip repeats bitterly, in a tone suggesting that the time before somebody overstays his welcome is rapidly approaching an end.
no subject
He really didn't have any more words to spare so he just nodded and let himself out. He really wasn't the comforting sort anyhow. And even were he, he was probably the last person who could or should comfort Philip.
no subject
And then?
Then he tries to feel something. Draws a blank instead. He thought clarity about what happened would help, but it leaves him with no idea what to do. He thought being angry at Sherlock would come easy, but the situation is too familiar and Evie... Evie never cared about the price she might have to pay for staying close to somebody.
A kindness wasted on Sherlock. That much bitterness Philip can muster.
He can be angry at Moriarty, but without a face or even a voice that anger is somewhat lacking in direction. And Sherlock is, unfortunately, right about advising him to stand back. In any sane setting he would not for a second question leaving the task up to the police. And here the detective is as close to that as Philip will get.
So now?
Now Philip walks back to the bed, adjusts what little Sherlock changed about the scene and sits down, covering Evelyn's hand with his own. Stay with her. Be there when she comes back. Tell her everything is going to be fine.
And the difficult things will come later.