Wild swing

This is getting twisted. Your turn, Vi. ;-D

Round 1 here.
Round 2 here.
Round 3 here.
Round 4 here.
Round 5 here.

6. Shoot

"Not long."

"Security say the cameras have been glitching throughout the building. This room went out for eight minutes starting at one-forty-three a.m.," Lestrade offered.

John rose, wincing at phantom pain, and looked about. Donovan was directing the numbering and photographing of evidence. It was a big job. He'd not seen so many severed body parts since Afghanistan.

It was then it struck him. "There are more limbs than two bodies can provide."

Lestrade could see Anderson was about to shoot his mouth off again, and stopped him with another hard stare. He reached for his phone. They needed backup.

Overhand spike

Not just a rabbit hole. A freaking warren. (And I'm running out of tennis terminology for the subject lines. It's a first-world problem, I know.)

Round 1 here.
Round 2 here.
Round 3 here.
Round 4 here.
Round 5 here.
Round 6 here.
Round 7 here.


8. Missing

“The rest of him is here somewhere.”

“You’re sure it’s a him, then?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock’s look said it all, but he expounded anyway. “One glance at the feet would tell you that. Think, Lestrade.”

He was right, of course. There were five shod feet scattered around the room, and only two were small enough to be the woman’s.

Lestrade bit back his sharp answer, saying instead, “There’s a foot missing.”

“That’s better.” Sherlock stood and scanned the room, taking in everything in that snapshot way John envied. “They were brought in through there.” He dashed for the far doorway.

Backhand smash

D'you think LJ went down in an attempt to stop this fic? ;-) Well, it's up again now and I see my partner in wrongness has posted.

We are sick, sick puppies.

Round 1 here.
Round 2 here.
Round 3 here.
Round 4 here.
Round 5 here.
Round 6 here.
Round 7 here.
Round 8 here.
Round 9 here.

10. Light

“Not exactly a light touch, this killer,” muttered John.

Lestrade’s footsteps pounded up behind and stopped abruptly. “Oh my God.” He shouted over one shoulder, “Donovan! Have security get some lights on in here!” He turned back in time to catch Sherlock in mid-step. “Do. Not. Touch. Anything.”

Even in the layers of shadow, Lestrade saw Sherlock’s pale eyes roll, but he heeded the DI for once and stayed put.

Sherlock scanned the scene as best he could. Besides the suspended tongues and the discarded jumpsuit, he could make out part of a torso that might still have its head.


Back to you, Vi.