#serialkillerau

The night had gone well, been out to the club, brought back a girl and fucked her into his armchair, but now she lay out on the floor, neck twisted in an unnatural way. Now the man remained in his arm chair, smoking a fag with his shirt unbuttoned and pants still unzipped. He didn't feel like dragging the body out, nor did he want his flatmate to come home to a dead, half naked woman on the carpet.

  John Watson was a doctor. The definition of a doctor is someone who heals, in whatever manner they seem is proper. Medically is the most common form of treatment yet what did that do for his state?

 The rather short man stood alone in the apartment, the lights still dimmed since the main source of light came from the setting sun, casting a light glow of orange over the walls and to the high ceilings. The flat was quite the lovely one. Rather big and as the man took in a deep inhale he could nearly smell vanilla most likely from a lit candle from the previous night. Breaking in had not been difficult, though taking care of the residents which accommodated the flat below him had served to be quite the problem, but a silver eagle with a screw-on silencer did the job easily, hardly even splattered blood. John loved a clean kill.

 His target wouldn't be home for a couple of hours, though preparations were needed to be made, setting his bag down on his target's kitchen table, removing a velvet roll and resting the roll on the table before allowing it to unwind, all of his pretty tools, sparkling from their recent sharpening and shining. John's fingers brushed over his favorite tool, a particular scalpel with his initials engraved. A gift from his girlfriend, Mary, such a sweet girl. Sometimes he wondered how lucky he was to wake up, knowing he could lean over and inhale the scent of her blonde locks. For a moment, just a moment, the doctor stood in the kitchen, dreaming momentarily of his gal, the taste of her flesh and the gasping when he treated her rough.

She loved every moment of it.

  John did wander into the bathroom, flashing a smile into the mirror as he passed it to turn the faucet on, plugging it and allowing it to fill to the brim. Though as John moved back across the bathroom, he stopped before the mirror, smoothing back his slick hair, letting out a small content groan as his usually stubborn piece of hair fit perfectly into place.

 The last step was to wait, as still as a large cat in the brush, waiting to pounce on its prey, to tear its prey to bits and to taste the sweet red juices behind a thin layer of skin. John let out another small groan at the imagery that came to his head, eyes shutting and head tilting back, though not once allowing his hand to stray from the arms of the chair he had pulled to sit in as he waited in the dark for little Mr. Richard Brooks to come home, to give him the surprise party of his life.

 Only when John heard the clicking of a key into the lock did he become aware of his surroundings, the excitement making him as high as a bird. The man stood, having played this out in his head one hundred times already, though when it came to the actual moment, he could never decide how he wanted to take things. Indecision wasn't allowed though, not now, not as that skinny little silhouette of an actor appeared in the doorway, watching him shut the door behind him and only when the man flicked on the lights would be find himself face to face with a madman, the long end of a silencer having made its way before his face in the split moment of darkness.

  The first time John saw the notification pop off to the side of his laptop screen he had swore it would be from someone like Lestrade or Sarah. He was used to Sarah of course, getting emails about hour changes and other work related context. She only ever sent personal things to his phone now a days, now that John knew Sherlock often read his emails and read his cheesy poetry and other things to his current girlfriend. John clicked the little letter with a small red one indicating a new message and opened it up to see something strange.

Picture Attachment from Anonymous Source

John simply sat there staring at it, contemplating opening up the message in fear that the picture could be a virus that could potentially rape his laptop. It took a few more minutes before clicking on the small paper clip, waiting a moment for the png to upload. He tapped his fingers on the chair, eyes glancing up to Sherlock who sat across from him, holding his violin and plucking at the strings. They seemed to make eye contact for a moment, lingering, a bit awkward. His eyes shot back down to the key board, being under the intense stare of Sherlock sometimes causing John to become uncomfortable.

  The man moved on his track pad to the open file button and was met with something surprisingly disturbing. The picture had rather horrible lighting but the image was very clear. It was a woman with a white somewhat stained cloth gag in her mouth, her hair looking tangled and greasy. John knew he did not know her, but she was a reality good looking woman and looked to be in her mid thirties most likely. Though what disturbed him most was the look in her eyes, that of pure fear and screaming help, her lips were drawn down in an arch, lips slightly parted. John tried picking apart information from the picture, the ways her arms were drawn behind her, looking as if she was bound and then he had seen the hand. The fingers had been difficult to see, having been in what looked like black gloves, them raking through her hair digging into her scalp. John closed the image to see at the bottom of the image, written in text:

- Love, Gemini

John looked at it with a raised brow and when he felt he had picked all he could he moused over the archive button and clicked. He had taken it as a mistake, a wrong send and a one time accident. John was terribly wrong.

     Life had gone on as usual for the next week or so, Sherlock working on cold cases at home and John went to work at the clinic, testing children's fevers and giving prescriptions to people suffering from headaches and infections. John even took much over time to pay for his newest girlfriend Shannon, a tennis player and secretary. The night John returned home from his date he was peppy, having taken her to dinner and the movies very successfully and was even given a small kiss when he was on her doorstep. It was amazing. The peppiness disappeared though when he checked his emails that night before bed, the anonymous picture attachment message was waiting for him.

   This time John was less slow in opening it, plopping down in his seat, Sherlock no where to be seen, most likely in his bedroom. This time when the picture popped open John nearly felt his warm dinner rising up in his throat in the form of hot bile. The picture was that of the woman from the first email but this time it was completely different. She was laying there on what to be the bed, this picture had much better lighting. Her eyes were rolled back and her hands were holding.. her intestines.. she had been clearly disemboweled  and the shadow of the picture taker was clear on he left side, nothing distinguishable. What was this?

Below the picture, written in text, once again:

- Yours, Gemini.

This wasn't a mistake, a single accident, no this was now serious, murder. Now the only thing John was able to muster put in his shock was one word, one name.