I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

Eyes behind masks

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter One

John had only noticed them briefly at the first crime scene, too involved in the bloody murder itself to pay attention to the artifacts and toys that surrounded what was once a happy, young girl's life. Someone had crept in through the window and slit her throat silently in the night, and then the torture had started.

Whomever had done it hadn't wanted to see the girl suffer and scream like so many other sadists; he had merely wanted to cut upon her flesh, skinning her body and cutting out her eyes, sewing gold pieces, extremely valuable gold pieces, behind the lids where pale green orbs had once looked out. Lestrade had only called him to the first crime scene to see if he recognized anything from one of Sherlock's old cases. He hadn't, but he had volunteered to help. Normally New Scotland Yard would have turned down such an offer; they already had far more experts than they could use, but once upon a time John Watson had worked beside a man named Sherlock Holmes, and that still meant something. To Lestrade, at least, if all of the other officers on the case thought it odd they simply kept quiet. They remembered what had happened, knew just how difficult Lestrade became when reminded of the consulting detective's suicide.

"Can you make anything of it," Lestrade asked quietly, kneeling down beside John as the doctor examined the body.

"Whoever did this was ruthless, but they never intended to inflict pain. She was dead in an instant, no time to call out or even realize what was going on."

"Some mercy left in the world," Lestrade swore, staring down at the little girl's corpse.

"Dressed in clothes after death, after he skinned her. He took the skin, probably as a trophy, and the eyes. Those were removed whole. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, a medical student or practitioner of some sort. This was no amateur job, and definitely not the first time they've practiced on a human body. No hesitation cuts, everything done with a well skilled hand. I'm almost jealous, even I was never this good," John sighed, standing up suddenly and backing away from the body.

He had done it again, he thought to himself as he shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. He was slipping into that logical, dickish sort of speaking and thinking at crime scenes that he had always lectured Sherlock about. Whoever had done this had been both a monster and a master, and here he was, envious of the skill. He was sliding into Sherlock's role too easily, he would have to watch out. Would have to take a few steps back and remind himself that he was human. Remind himself just what being human was.

"Taxidermist do you think," Anderson piped up from the other side of the room, "Would explain a few things."

"No," John sighed, biting his tongue to keep an insult in his mouth, "A taxidermist would never bother learning how to skin a human corpse. They're more about reconstruction than deconstruction. This person works with human flesh on a regular basis. Still warm bodies, too. He stopped when she began to cool."

"How can you tell that then," Anderson sneered, "Familiar with killing from your time with the freak?"

"Anderson!" Lestrade snapped.

"You're a fool Anderson," John sighed, "Look at the body. He stopped cutting when she stopped bleeding. He doesn't know how to work with cold bodies. Not well, at least. Or he doesn't enjoy it."

Lestrade sighed as he looked down at the little girl. Sarah Andrews, no more than six, and she would never get a day older. She had wanted a puppy for her birthday her mother had moaned. Lestrade had had to assure her that a puppy wouldn't have saved her. He had kept quiet at what the murderer might have done to a dog if he was capable of doing that to a little girl.

"Those are odd dolls," John mentioned on a whim, looking at five porcelain dolls wearing little red eye masks, staring at the bed. Staring at the body.

Lestrade just shrugged. He had no custody of his daughters, and no clue what sort of dolls girls favored these days anyway. Probably from some sort of television show he figured, and then he dismissed them altogether.

Because, quite honestly, who ever looks at a little girl's dolls?

John just sighed, and turned toward the door. He may have worked with Sherlock Holmes, once upon a time, but he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man who would have spotted the one key piece of evidence in an instant, and solved the case. He would have saved countless children, and walked away without a care in the world because all the world was to him, had been to him; a puzzle. And once the puzzle had been solved everything else that had surrounded it was useless.

"Thanks for this, John," Lestrade smiled weakly, "You helped, you really did."

"Yeah, but not enough," John glared at the dolls, as if it was their fault that he couldn't spot what that curly haired madman could have.

"Better than nothing," Lestrade led the blonde man from the room and out onto the street to catch him a cab.

Lestrade had seen that look in eyes before. That soul searching, dull, lifeless look. While he trusted the doctor to get himself home in one piece, he would bet money that there would be no sleep had that night. Not when the short man was trying to prove himself to be better than the human race, better than a genius, and always coming up two steps short.

"Take care of yourself John," Lestrade said, watching a cab approach, "You're no good to anyone if you can't even manage that."

"Of course," John replied automatically, "Thanks Lestrade. For this, for everything."

Lestrade just shook his head and watched the cab drive away. Thanking him for a murder to investigate was doubtless a bad sign, but it was a better sign than locking himself away and working himself to death when he did manage to get out. At least he had moved away from Baker street, away from any memories of the past. Of course, Lestrade thought to himself as he headed back inside, maybe running away from Baker street was an even worse sign than staying there.

To be continued.

AN: So I haven't writing a multiple chapter story in quite a while, so hand in there with me. I may update every day until the end, or miss a week here and there as life dictates. But I will finish this story, even if I have to wrangle it into place with Mycroft's silly little umbrella.