#vamplock

Newspapers could be found piled up in the centre of the living room at Baker Street on the little table when a recent and interesting crime was slowly encroaching the attention of everyone in London, a serious crime, either because it was ticklish and involved ravening murderers or because it had to be solved having a race against time. It was almost unfathomable the way facts could be twisted among the lines of the sensationalism of the London press and in order to approach as much as possible to the real story, the notes of every newspaper had to be read, hence the coincidences in all of them could be found. 

However, in this specific case, there was little to be told, most of journalists agreed that the atrocity of the crime had been vast, and at the same time invisible, they could not decide, allegedly the case was so eerie, they were all perplexed and their tiny detective skills were useless now, they could not find a rational explanation to the thread that had led to that situation. John, on the other hand, trusted Sherlock would be able to make the pieces fall into places and solve that puzzle, no matter how much tangled it was. 

"So?"

John knew Sherlock's eyes shone every time he had a clue, even if his face remained emotionless, and that triumph expression was now drawn in his pupils, defeating his cold and apathetic look.

"I haven't figured it out yet" he muttered. "I will, soon". 

 Sherlock had given in his habit of smoking and nicotine patches turned out being an effective displacement to fight anxiety, product of the uncertainty that the lack of knowledge brings with it, as if it was a thunder that surprises an individual lost in the middle of the darkness, yet over the last days, Sherlock had increased the amount of patches from three to seven but his anxiety or desire for an adictive substance, that was not cocaine or morphine, would not recede.

He had adopted his usual but always weird position that indicated he was wandering through his mind palace and John noticed he was having trouble focusing, so he decided to give him some time alone, after all, he had things to do and the feeling of a crime such as this one was dismal... or enthralling, it depended on the individual, or rather if his last name was Watson or Holmes.   

It was a mental clinic in the north of London, in the area where the patients under serious conditions were treated, whose mental health was completely damaged. That wing in the hospital served as shelter for people that suffered from schizophrenia and were no longer able to discern real life from their hallucinations, real people from their persecutors; dissociative identity disorder and some with several and more complicated illnesses such as zoophagous people and even there was a case of cannibalism that was under control, according to the expert of the hospital. 

In words of the nurses, one of the patients, who had not been so long there and whose diagnose had recently improved, had to be putted down once more using tranquilisers over the last week, due to a sudden and unexpected aggressive period as well as uneasiness, both making a mortal combination, almost impossible to control. At night, a tranquiliser would be injected after dinner, hence he could sleep, the patient would show some resistance because he argued there was some kind of presence waiting for him to fall asleep though. It was planned some brain radiographs would be taken to find out if it was schizophrenia the new inhabitant of his brain, the one that produced the deliriums. 

That evening he had persisted with his ideas; he said the shadow he would always see under the moonlight that came through the little hole, that was supposed to be a window, had told him it would be his last night. The nurses tried to make him stay calm, tried to shut his fears and provided him the medicine, as they would do now every night. The next morning once they unlocked the door, they found out lying on the floor a distorted face: puffy closed eyes, broken nose, twisted lips, disfigured cheekbones as though he had received a thrashing, the spine was also broken, and he had suffered from an acute anaemia, there was not a single drop of blood in his body. The view left everyone flabbergasted, no one was able to find an explanation to such a violent death for a man, and the way the facts had occurred was also an enigma that could not be solved.

Lestrade was also surprised, and he also lacked a proper explanation of the facts, he was limited by his abilities in the criminology science, so he had called Sherlock at first time in the morning, hoping that his knowledge and abilities would be of use, and he could actually explain what had happened in that case with such a turbulent and dark environment, he knew it was Sherlock's speacialty and at any second, he would be begging for him to come to the crime scene. 

A couple of hours later, the detective moved around the room with cold but light hues as if it was a place he knew well. There was no trace of intruders, no one who was an outsider had been there, except for the detective himself, of course, who carefully walked from one spot to another and was now examining the corpse, there was no trace of murder, yet those injuries had to be produced by someone else, the victim could not have done that to himself, and in addition, no one had heard anything, not a single noise coming from either the room or another part of the hospital. It had been a quiet night for the patients, allegedly, everyone had deeply slept, regardless the fact the screams of the victim must have uttered, due to that massacre, should have been heard all around the place, and someone should have gone to give a look, to help. 

"Any theory?"  Lestrade was shocked, and that picture had left a knot in his stomach that would not disappear before some time, at least some days.

"Two" Sherlock snickered, he didn't think he had to force himself to hide his fun, he hadn't had such a good mood since a long time ago, and this case was both interesting and dreadful, features he loved when it came to a case. Sometimes detective inspector Lestrade could not stand Sherlock Holmes' behaviour, and his blood would freeze.

"Which are?" he asked in an attempt to rush things; hence he could send Sherlock home and stop seeing that damn sociopathic smile.

"Either he was killed under the effects of a strong drug or poison, or someone in this place murdered him and had some allies. We'll wait for the forensic examination results". 

The detective went back to Baker Street under the moonlight, the coldness was slapping his curls and immaculate face, but he didn't feel cold. 

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