Moonstruck Insanity

Sherlock is bored and lonely. Not a good mix. His dark side emerges to counter these feelings. Can his first encounter with John Watson tame his dangerous side, or will even John fall prey to the sociopath, bordering on psychopath...!
*Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. They belong to the BBC and the wonderful Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss! The plot, however, is mine.

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3. Light is the left hand of darkness and darkness the right hand of light. - Ursula K Le Guin

Sherlock surveyed the scene. The room was a simple office - a desk, made of some cheap tarnished wood, an office chair, an armchair and a water dispenser being the only furniture. However, it was far from tidy. Despite the sparse furnishings, there was a lot of clutter. Books, papers and oddments adorned the desk, a tea stain prominent on the wood that could be seen. The armchair, with a cover of some ghastly beige colour, had no room to park ones behind, even someone as thin as Sherlock. It was full of more papers, a coffee cup balanced precariously on top of the pile. A shredder was stationed next to an overflowing metal rubbish bin at the foot of the desk. And in the middle, the centrepiece of the room, was the reason Sherlock had been called here - the body of a young man, lying curled up in a puddle of his own blood.

"As you can see, he bled to death from his wound," supplied Lestrade, having dismissed Clark a matter of seconds ago.

"Yes, yes. Any idiot could see that. But how?...and why?" Sherlock was hardly aware of the other mans presence as he bent over the body. You could see the cogs whirring as he struggled to fit the pieces together.

A puncture wound in the right hand side of his neck, dried blood clinging to it. Dead approximately 3 hours; died between 8:30 and 9 that morning. . The weapon must have been small, not very sharp, and aimed with precise accuracy. It had pierced the jugular vein in such a way that the victim had died   very quickly.

"We cannot find the weapon, or even distinguish what it might be," Lestrades voice brought him back.

"Wrong. The pattern of blood splatters and the jagged edges of the wound tells us it was a thin, blunt instrument. The specks of black look suspiciously like ink. Conclusion: the weapon was a pen."
Lestrade just shook his head, relaying this new information back to the forensics team via his radio.

"Something isn't right about this, but right now I can't put my finger on it." Sherlock murmured, almost to himself.

"How does a pen kill someone?" Lestrade asked, perplexed.

"No, no. That's not it. What am I missing?" Sherlock mused. "Stop thinking, Lestrade. Your clumsy conclusions are disturbing me."

Lestrade didn't even seem offended by this comment, having been on the receiving end of Sherlock's extravagant insults. He just decided to leave him to it, surreptitiously moving out of the room. The air out here seemed fresher, being in the same room as Sherlock Holmes always felt tense, an almost stormy, atmosphere.

Sherlock moved down the body, cataloging the clothes, position, and anything else he could gain from his inspection. The man was wearing black suit trousers and a red checkered shirt; smart casual, obviously work clothes. His top shirt button was undone; he wasn't wearing a tie. Comfortable in his working environment, then. He had taken the tube to work this morning, the crumpled ticket still in his pocket. However, it had been raining this morning, and the ticket was unreadable, still a little damp as well.

Another check around the office gave Sherlock his blazer, hung up on the back of the door, only seen when Lestrade closed the door behind him. Sherlock found his identity badge for the workplace attached to the top pocket. This gave him the name and occupation of the dead man: Jack Eastwood, public relations attached to The Guardian - a journalist. After roping around in the pockets, he came upon a receipt for Tesco, buying breakfast on the go apparently and another one for pawn brokers on Roman Road. Now that was strange; what would a businessman working in central London  be doing in a pawn shop in the East End? More clues only led to more questions. Another unusual thing was that nowhere, either on the body or in the blazer, could he find a wallet, credit cards, or any money at all. He would have had some with him - after all, he had gone in to Tesco's. So he had a murderer who took the victims money, and a victim who had some shady dealings going on. Why else would he have gone to the East End if not so nobody would recognise him?

Deciding he could deduce no more without further information, he left the room, going back down the stairs to find Lestrade. Really, it was terribly inconvenient, the way that man kept disappearing, even if his voice was so infuriating sometimes. 
Sherlock found him talking to Donovan outside. His lip curled up into a sneer as she hurriedly looked away from him, not wanting to meet his eye. She had turned up her coat colour to hide the bruising his fingers had left around her slender neck. Ignoring her, he turned straight to Lestrade.

"I need background information on Jack Eastwood and all employees in this building."
Lestrade looked slightly taken aback.

"I'm assuming this will help in the investigation?"

"I cannot do much more without this information. Hurry up!" Lestrade said something into the radio attached to his belt, then turned to Sherlock,

"They will have necessary data ready by the time we get back to Scotland Yard."

Sherlock just nodded and headed towards the road. He always refused to ride in a police car. Apparently, it ruined his concentration, or something just as Sherlockian.  Lestrade shook his head as he and Donovan got into the offending car.

The cab ride was short, but Sherlock was still twitching with impatience by the time they arrived. He hurried up the steps and burst through the glass doors. The people working in the lobby looks up as he passed, but soon returned to whatever they were doing. Sherlock was a regular presence in Scotland Yard. Lestrade strode after him, apologising to anyone whom Sherlock disrupted.

Arriving at the records room, Sherlock heads straight for the files laid out on the large table in the middle of the room. There were various workers milling around the table: officers, technicians and other such personnel. They parted to let the detective through. By the time the inspector got there, he was already immersed in the papers, murmuring to himself. Seeing that his help would only be seen as interference by Sherlock, Lestrade instead made himself useful talking to the other people in the room.

"Getting anywhere with suspects?" he questioned one junior officer.

"Well, sir, the problem is..."

The conversation continued, but Lestrade soon realised he was getting nowhere. He turned back to see how Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock poured over the files with relish, feeling the soaring feeling that came with getting stuck into a nice murder. 221 people worked in that building,  nothing unusual about any of them. Mr Eastwood was a bachelor, 24 years of age, living in a flat in a nondescript part of London. He lived a fairly average, boring life; going to work, going out with mates for a pint, and going home again. Nothing that made him stand out from the other 220 employees. So why him? Why did he die? He needed to go his mind palace, as it was too crowded for him to think properly. For this kind of problem he needed quiet.

"Get out." His voice wasn't loud, but carried across the room with unusual clarity. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him.

"I need quiet," he said as way of an explanation.

Some of the more senior officers who had worked with Sherlock before complied with only strange glances. However, others just stood there, flummoxed by this strange, intimidating man. Looking around, Lestrade sighed,

"You heard him. Leave the room. We will regroup soon." His authoritative voice made these younger officers jump to attention, swarming out the room. Lestrade quickly followed, glancing back at the detective sitting, frozen in place, his mind elsewhere.

Sherlock was indeed elsewhere, wandering through the dark passage ways of the dungeon his mind had chosen for its palace. It was his subconscious's way of showing how close his darker side was to emerging. He sorted through the information available, checking for anomalies. He spent a good half hour sinking further into his thoughts. What was important in this mess of data? Left hands institute; pawn-brokers ticket; no money on the corpse; left hands; pawn shop; left handed; left handed; left...Of course! His eyes flew open. This was a left handed institute. The fatal wound had been on the right hand side of his neck, the splatters of ink showed a right handed jab. If he analysed the ink, he was certain that the ink would not match any left handed pen in that building. And all the pens in the building should be left handed. But he would leave that boring formality to the forensics team. Quickly, Sherlock checked the list of employees again. Yes! There was one right handed worker; a part of the manufacturing team, a Mr John Watson...

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