Dedicated to Ennui Enigma, a silly 221B suggested by a conversation we had this evening
Disclaimer: Don't own - that honour belongs to the BBC, ACD and Mofftiss
"Wait…what? What do you mean, the desk killed him?" John had heard many odd things from his flatmate, but nothing quite this strange. "Are you sure you didn't do yourself some damage when you thumped your head on the desk?"
"John, John, so much of the fine detail of our cases manages to pass you by."
John wanted to smack the superior look off his friends face. Not half an hour ago they had returned to 221B, both totally baffled by the seemingly impossible death of Petros Keminowski. Now the git was sitting in his chair, looking down his aristocratic nose as he sent a text to God knows who, (no doubt telling them how to do their job) while insulting his only friend's intelligence.
"Alright then, tell me what I missed."
"Everything."
Gritting his teeth, John glared.
"Look," Sherlock leaned forward, "thinking about the evidence it was obvious. His chair was pushed away from the desk, there were some papers under the desk, more in his hand, yet he was lying dead on the couch."
"And the desk was to blame, how?"
Sherlock sighed.
"He dropped the papers, bent down to retrieve them and hit his head as he stood up."
"Just as you did."
"Exactly! Then feeling a little unwell, he lay down and simply died."
John grinned. "Brilliant!"