i can be your angle or yuor devil

I’m not entirely sure when Soul Eater takes place, so this isn’t that far fetched. Who am I kidding I just wanted to make this happen.


Author's note

Really hope this isn’t abysmal!

4. whoopsie daisies corpses

As I flick off the lights in my room, I hear heavy footsteps jogging up the stairs to our flat. I quickly go down to join Sherlock as well as Greg, when he leans heavily into the room. He seems more unsettled than he usually is when he comes to bring Sherlock a new case. Something must be rather off about it. Well, more than normal, at least. Sherlock is already tugging on his coat by the time Greg gathers a breath to speak.

"Text me the details on the way to the morgue, Lestrade. John? This will probably go on your little blog based on the way Detective Inspector Lestrade is making a valiant effort to splinter our doorway. Come along!"

After the long legged git had pranced down the stairs, I yank on my shoes and send my friend a questioning glance. He had stretched his features into an expression of grim horrified disgust. This really doesn't bode well for the remains of the poor victim. I exit and Greg shuts the door behind himself. He gets into his patrol car and I into the cab that Sherlock had magically summoned out of nowhere.

My friend directed the cabbie to follow after the police car, and he materialized his phone into his hand as the vehicle started moving. I watched as he read through the texts Greg sent him, quick as a flash, then stared into space until his mobile went to sleep. I turned and watched out the window for lack of anything else to do. I had only just gotten dressed when the Detective Inspector had barged into the flat!

We arrived and Sherlock suddenly exploded into motion, throwing some notes at me and storming out to the morgue. I thanked the cabbie and paid, quickly following after the brilliant man. He was like an icebreaker on a frozen sea; everyone parted around him as he came through and zeroed in on Lestrade, who was attempting to act unaffected by whatever awaited us. Sherlock and I soon found ourselves standing in front of two bodies.

The first was of a man, probably middle twenties, well dressed, clean-shaven, obviously a business type. The only thing off about the poor sod was the deep gash slicing across the fron of his neck. It was so deep that I could see a flash of bloody bone through the gore. Blood stained the front of his once clean shirt and was caked under his nails. He has apparently tried to fight off whatever had killed him. While my friend had already glanced over the young corpse and was inspecting the other, I found myself unable to join him. My mind kept balking at the idea. I know I caught a glimpse of the cadaver, but my brain keeps skimming over the memory.


I looked up to see my flatmate intently staring at my face, probably seeing what was passing through my head. He had modulated his voice in such a way that I couldn't help myself but to walk over and join him at the second body. With a final deep breath, I turned my gaze downwards and observed the cadaver.

This one was also a young man, but definitely worse off financially than the other was. He appeared older, had a scraggly beard, and was smudged with dirt. His clothing was threadbare and ragged. His open maw exposed his rotting teeth, but even the swollen gums were easier to look at than the rest of his body. His clothes were entirely saturated in blood up to his collarbones and down to his knees. He had bloody scratches on his arms and a knife held in a dead man's grip. Evidently he was the one to kill the other. But a knife wasn't what killed him.

Below where his rib cage, about at the level of his belly button, there was a gap between the top half and bottom half of his body. I can see the metal of the table all the way through. This man had been cut entirely in half. It was completely clean. The skin, fat, muscle, organs, and bone had smoothly parted from their other halfs and stayed in their places. It was like a crosssection from a medical textbook. Here was the spinal cord, the abdominal muscles, the intestines...

I stagger back a half a step. Poor Officer Nobody who discovered him needs a pint or two to recover from this find. I'm going to need one, or at least a good cuppa. I haven't even eaten breakfast yet, which I'm increasingly grateful for. I think I might be a bit sick. I step back up to Sherlock's side and face him, an unspoken signal to begin dazzling everyone in the vicinity.

"Obviously, this man grabbed the other and dragged him into the alley where they were both found, most likely from the lesser-used street directly down rather that off a busy street and around the corner. He had one hand around his mouth and the other around his middle, based on the angle of the scratch marks. The other man had gotten one arm free and was trying to pry the hand off his mouth when he released his other arm, pulled the knife out of his belt, based on the cuts on the inside of it and on his jeans, and slit the businessman's throat. He must have been exceedingly enthusiastic about it for all that it was his first time doing it, as you can see the rough edges even if it cut all the way to bone."

He narrowed his eyes and stalked around the table. My brilliant friend leaned over, pulling his magnifying glass from his coat pocket. Opening it, he leaned closer and stared intently at the very edge of the skin. He whirled back around the table and gave the other side the same treatment. Sliding the glass shut, he straightened and once more addressed the room.

"The man was cut through with a giant blade. It had enough weight behind it that it could go right through, as I'm sure you can tell that there are no signs of snags on the bones. It also was incredibly sharp as it sliced the whole way, unlike other weapons which tear. You can tell that it was long because the edges of skin curve in here and furl outward on the other side in the exact same way, so there was only one pass. If the man were standing, the cut is perfectly parallel with the ground, so either the attacker is an extremely strong child or midget who swung a sword massive enough and with enough strength to cut a man in half, or more likely, an adult was crouched down and attacked."

Sherlock pivoted on his heel with his hands buried in his pockets. He quickly locates Greg on the far side of the room and addresses him with an air of superiority.

"I assume that you want to find whoever is responsible for cutting him in half. Without having been to the crime scene I can only give you details based on what I can gather from the body. You're going to look for a man, most likely, especially one who has an affinity for fantasy. He is going to be extremely strong, and probably has at least one health club membership. He's going to have enough money and dedication to obtain large swords and other bladed weapons, extremely well-kept and made. He extensively trains with these weapons and knows how to use them. There can't be too many people to fit that description, Lestrade, it should be rather easy to catch a bird as brightly colored as that. And now, John, we're going to see the scene of the massacre. Come on!"

In typical Sherlockian fashion, he dramatically swept from the room, leaving me to apologize and hurry after. I soon found myself sitting in another cab, contemplating whether or not it would be worth it to eat something with the way this case looks like it's going to turn. My friend on the other hand was nearly bouncing in excitement, eyes flickering back and forth, watching something only he could see. I am glad that this came up so fast after the last case we took, because it didn't give Sherlock time to fall into another depressive rut, but I would've liked a day's rest, at least.

The cab pulled into a stop and this time Sherlock actually paid himself before sliding out to the street. The alley was taped off and crawling with personnel. He seemed less angry with the collective group than normal, so Anderson must not have been on forensics this time. He ushered me under the tape and swiftly made his way over to the intersection between the two alleys, where he picked up a new frantic energy. I stood back and watched as he almost put his nose on the pavement and crawled back and forth, examining the ground. He sat back on his heels at the edge of a large blood stain and stared down at it. While I watched, his eyes widened and widened again before narrowing to focus like a laser directing a missile.

Sherlock gracefully rose to his feet before yanking me off the crime scene and into another cab.

"Baker Street."

I sit in silence for a bit.

"So you've figured it out, then?"

"I've often told you that once you eliminate the impossible, the improbable remainder is true? Well, I'm confirming my hypothesis."

And with that vague answer, he refused to respond to any other attempts of mine to initiate conversation. A good deal is still left unknown in my mind, but the solution will present itself soon if Sherlock's actions are anything to go by.


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