'Boredom.' BANG! 'Boredom.' BANG! 'Boredom.'

Before Sherlock was able to release a final shot, John caught his wrist 'Stop shooting at the damn wall!'

The tall, dark-haired man was lying on the couch, wearing his PJs. He was situated in his apartment, 221B Baker Street. The room was very messy: papers were lying spread out over the floor and there was even something that looked like a cut-off finger, but John didn't dare ask what it was there for. Besides, he'd seen stranger things: a head in the fridge and a skull Sherlock liked to talk to.

'But I'm bored!'

John sighed. 'It happens to the best of us.'

'Well, I'm better than the best! I'm the world's only consulting detective!'

John rolled his eyes. 'True. Isn't there a case, then? A murder to solve? I remember an article in the newspaper yesterday. Apparently a man has been shot.'

'Oh, it was his wife, obviously,' said Sherlock impatiently.

'How d'you–?'

'Never mind that, I want a case!'

'What about that missing parrot?'

'I don't give a damn about parrots. Besides, he flew away himself. He wasn't stolen, as his owner suggested. In fact, it was she who released it. Her husband was the only one who actually cared about the animal.'

'Oh.' John was quiet for a moment. 'Maybe you could visit the police, see if they're working on an interesting case.'

'Visit the police?' asked Sherlock incredulously. 'They'll think I need them!'

'Don't you, then?'

'Of course not! They need me! I'm the consulting detective!'

'You do need them to find a case.'

'No, I don't. I'm doing perfectly fine on my own, thanks.'

'What? By shooting at the wall?'

Sherlock glared at him, but didn't respond.
Suddenly, Lestrade came bursting into the room. Sherlock immediately sat up. 'What's happened?'

'Murder.'

John swore he could hear Sherlock mutter, 'Finally!' under his breath.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock's PJs. 'What?' asked Sherlock. 'Wearing these doesn't minimize my brain capacity. Anyway, who was murdered?'

'Mr Steve Smith. He was found in his apartment, lying on his bed. Dead. But the strange thing is, there's no signs of how he was killed. No wounds, no poison in his veins, nothing.'

'Then how d'you know it's murder?' John asked. 'It could've just been a heart attack…'

'Because the murderer left a note.'

Sherlock sat up straighter, lacing his fingers together. 'A note,' he whispered. 'But why…?'

'D'you want to see the body?'

'Oh God, yes.'

...

The three of them went to a white, tall flat in the middle of London. Police cars were parked outside. 'Are they still investigating?' asked Sherlock.

'I don't think so. They went through the apartment twice, but couldn't find anything so I suggested we ask you to come over.'

'Bet they weren't pleased about that.'

'No, they weren't.' Lestrade chuckled, then led them inside. The walls were as white as the outside of the flat, and there were a lot of paintings of beautiful landscapes. John looked at them, but Sherlock swiped past him and pushed a button next to the closed doors of an elevator. After a few seconds the door slid open, revealing a small room. The three of them stepped inside. Lestrade pushed a button and the elevator began to move upwards.

When the elevator stopped moving, the door opened to reveal a small room. There was a kitchen, a couch, a dining table and a bed, with a man lying on it. Next to the bed there was a bedside table. Other than that, there wasn't much furniture, which struck John as strange. 'Was he robbed?' he asked.

'Aaargh!' sighed Sherlock. 'John, use your eyes and your mind! See what's in that corner?'

'A suitcase?'

'Exactly. The man just hadn't finished packing yet.' Sherlock moved through the room, taking everything in. His eye suddenly fell onto a bin and he threw the contents onto the floor.

'Sherlock,' said Lestrange, looking shocked. 'What the–?'

But Sherlock didn't listen. He shuffled through the bin's contents until he smiled and stood up again. 'The man left his wife and went to live here,' he stated.

'How on earth d'you know that?' asked John before he could help himself.

Sherlock turned to him, half-irritated, half-amused. 'On the bottom of the bin, there was a picture of a woman his age and it was torn apart.'

'But how d'you know he left her? Couldn't she have left him?'

'No, it was definitely him. Look, the corners of his wife's photograph are slightly worn off. That's because it used to be in this frame.' He walked over to the bedside table and showed John and Lestrade a frame containing a picture of a much younger woman than the man's former wife. 'He replaced it when he got another girlfriend.'

'But he could've got another girlfriend after his wife left him, couldn't he?'

'Yes. Except this girl already was his girlfriend before he left his wife. As you can see, the man hasn't unpacked yet, which means he hasn't been in this apartment for a long time. Yet the picture of his wife has been out of its frame for a long time: it's all covered in dust.'

'I understand,' said John.

'But what does this have to do with the murder?' asked Lestrade.

'Oh, it might be nothing,' said Sherlock brightly. 'I was merely observing and deducing.' He approached the bed, looking down at the man's corpse.

So that was the first chapter (: I know it's a bit short, but whatever. Tell me what you think about it!