Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Sherlock. I wouldn't even know what to do with them anyways. Peace.
The air was thick and muggy, a state of shock weighing heavily on those who surrounded the limp body. Blood seeped through the thick wool jacket from the two one centimeter holes in the chest cavities of the recently deceased. Crime tape had already blocked the area, a crescendo of sirens from more police units closing in.
Lestrade paced back and forth, agonizing internally briefly before regaining a mock composure. Muttering out the same words he has said before countless times quietly, he waved a hand in the woman's direction. "Donovan, call Sherlock. Don't tell him anything."
Upon arriving at the scene, the Inspector pulled the Private Investigator aside, gripping onto his coat so he wouldn't rush to the cadaver. Spewing out incoherent low mumbles he repeated, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry we couldn't get to him in time. We couldn't save him." Sherlock curiously stared at the broken record of an Inspector, picking out only a few words before putting them together, eyes widening in fright before he ripped away from the other males grip.
Stopping short to glance at the bright yellow evidence markers he couldn't find himself to move further despite being excited about the call previously. The noirette already known what was waiting for him in the chalk outline and he was far from prepared. Taking in a sharp breath his long fingers re-adjusted the scarf around his neck, and then smoothed over the front of his coat before buttoning the garment, and checking his cuffs to delay the inevitable. Having stood over the cold body, the Private Inspector hid his developing sadness. Hesitantly running his shaky fingers through dirty blond locks to get a better view of the wound on the other's forehead he said, "Developing bruise; there was an act of defense causing multiple hits before the gunshot wounds. Ring imprint on upper right cheek right below the eye. Our killer was left handed, a skilled fighter, most likely boxing, South Paw. Entrance GSWs are small; the rounds were fired from a personal handgun." Speaking into his recorder he cleared his throat before bringing the device closer to his mouth. Eyes devoid of any emotion there was a long pause before words came from his lips. His voice was uneven and hesitant "John Watson: deceased male, upper thirties, living with Sherlock Holmes. Approximate time of death 12:22. Homicide."