First Sherlock story! So, naturally, I have a question. Can I write them? Or not. It took ages just to get Sherlock-y dialogue in, I'm not sure if he's as good as some stories that I've read.
Written for Plot Bunnies HQ Monthly Challenge Number 3: 3 in 1.Go and check it out! There are only about three/four of us at the moment, so come and join in! It's fun!
Challenge words in bold.
Small Intestines
"Um… Sherlock?" John said hesitantly, picking up the Tupperware tub that was full of what looked like beetroot (at least, John hoped it was beetroot) and carrying it through to the living room, instinctively keeping his gag reflex down, along with his lunch. "Hello? Sherlock?"
There was no reply from the 'Only Consulting Detective In The World', and so John satisfied himself with placing the Tupperware tub on the coffee table, that was already piled with paper, general mess, a bottle of what was either cyanide or Tesco Value Wine and a book about pigs.
"The Dagger of Cardiff." Sherlock said, and John looked around quickly, trying to catch a glimpse of his flatmate. "The killer murdered Mrs Hooverson with a blunt object, and judging by the circumference of the wound and the amount of blood on the rug, it was either a chair or a frying pan."
"Sh-" John began, but Sherlock appeared from the window crevice and held up his hand.
"If you take away the simple fact that Mrs Hooverson had her driving licence retracted three months before her murder, and had no other methods of transport, judging by the lack of Underground or Bus Cards in her purse, and that there are only three furniture shops in a one-mile radius of her flat, then it was a chair." Sherlock looked up suddenly. "There was a lot of firewood in her cupboard for Christmas, and it was shaped in the right way for it to be the remains of an old chair."
"Sh-" John tried again, but couldn't get anything else in as Sherlock continued.
"It was a chair." Sherlock said simply, like it should be obvious. "Found the receipt in her records, one of the perks of dealing with a victim with OCD. Brought the Friday before she was murdered, at 11:23 am exactly. A 'Oakwood Beach' Chair, in purple."
John sighed. "Sherlock, skip all that." He insisted. "Why is there a Tupperware tub of beetroot on the kitchen table?"
"Why was there." Sherlock corrected. "Oh, it's not beetroot John. Molly popped around earlier with some beautiful specimens, I meant to put them in the fridge."
He screwed up his face, and then shrugged. "If you could just put them in the fridge John, before Mrs Hudson find them."
"Sherlock, what's in the Tupperware Tub?" John asked. "Don't just stand there like… like a tree! Tell me Sherlock!"
Sherlock picked up his violin, and looked at John, slightly shocked. "I thought you knew." He said simply. "A man dropped dead of a heart attack this morning John. In the Tupperware tub is his small intestines."
John gagged, and ran to the small bathroom that he shared with his sociopath friend and flatmate. "This is your fault!" He yelled, after he'd finished vomiting.
"I agree, this is totally your fault!" Sherlock called back, before holding his violin to his chin and drawing the bow across the strings. Maybe Handel. No, Mozart. That always helped John when he was in one of these moods.