And now, a sneak preview of an upcoming story:

Nails on a Chalkboard

Sherlock Holmes was bored. There hasn't been an exciting case in weeks, and the detective himself has spent the last few weeks exhausting every method to keep entertained. The kitchen table was constantly filled with "vital experiments" that were either smelly or just plain disgusting. The wall had another smiley face painted on and shot at, repeatedly.

His flatmate, Dr. John Watson, was almost at his wit's end. He endured the gunshots and the mess on the kitchen table, but he couldn't stand Sherlock sitting on the couch, seemingly concentrated on typing something or reading but actually judging his every move. In the mornings, they had conversations that seemed like Sherlock was trying to keep his brain from rotting by making pointless deductions. At first, this morning was no different.

"Slept on your right side last night?" Sherlock asked John. He was reading a newspaper on the couch, looking for interesting cases.

John poured himself some tea and rubbed his face in his hands tiredly, "How did you know?"

"Your right arm is more limp and weak than usual, probably lost some feeling in the night. You hesitated to pour the tea with that arm for the same reason," Sherlock mumbled in a dull, monotone tone.

"Well done," John said as he served some tea for his flatmate, "you're completely right as always."

This time, however, there was a twist. Sherlock put down the paper and said crossly, "No I'm not, John. I just made that up. Your brain is rotting."

"So's yours," John muttered under his breath.

"Everything is so dull!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. He took his phone out of his pocket and checked it, sighing. "Where are all the clever criminals?"

"On vacation."

"All the clever masterminds taking a vacation at the same time in the middle of the month? That is highly impro-."

"It's a joke, Sherlock. It's just a joke."

"I've had enough of this nonsense!" Sherlock sat up in one swift motion, casting his newspaper aside carelessly. "If a case doesn't come through that front door in the next five minutes, I'm-"

Sherlock's rant was interrupted by three quick knocks at the door. He called out, "Come in."

Ms. Hudson walked in. "Oh, don't mind me," she said quietly as she entered the flat, "I'm just dropping off your…"

"Just put it on the table, thanks," Sherlock instructed in monotone, shuffling his hair in annoyance.

"Alright, I'll leave you to it," the landlady placed a small bag on the coffee table and made her way out the door before noticing the wall, riddled with bullets and two brightly painted smiles. She sighed, opened her mouth to say something, then sighed again. "Sherlock," she said softly, "I know you're bored, but stop taking it out on the wall!"

Ms. Hudson left, calling "Expect this on your rent!" There was a moment of silence as the flatmates sat on the couch. Then, when it seemed appropriate to move again, John got up and picked up the plastic bag. It was slightly heavier than he expected, and he dropped it back on the table with a slight "thump." "What's this?" John asked his friend.

"Entertainment." Sherlock answered simply and motioned for John to hand it to him. When the bag was in his possession, the detective dumped the contents on the floor beside him, creating a mess of paper to spill all over the floor.

"What are these?" John picked up a paper and answered his own question, "Old newspapers?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he began flipping through the mess casually, looking for something. John decided to leave the detective to his work and turned on the television. An emotionless lady was speaking, "...thank you Brian. Back to our main story: a local teacher was found dead in her classroom just moments ago at Bryant Park Senior High School of Science and Technology. Experts say she had died of a heart attack late last night. But her colleagues disagree."

The camera cut to an interview with an older man, probably in his fifties, "It's really a shame. She was a good teacher, and very healthy. You hear about people dying of heart attack all the time, but she's not that type of person. She's fit, she exercises, I just don't understand how this could happen!"

The camera cut back to the newswoman, "The police weren't available to question. Back to you Brian."

In the background, there were quick, soft taps as Sherlock typed into his cellphone. A text.

I'll meet you at the school.

Don't let Anderson mess with the body and evidence.

-SH

Sherlock and John arrived at a prestigious high school campus that was surrounded by bright green trees and a handful of police cars. The buildings were made of brick and covered with ivy, making it look hundreds of years old. Sherlock knew it was only a few decades old by the state of the bricks.

The duo walked into a building that encompassed the few literature and history classrooms. Inside, the air smelled like an old attic and felt stuffy and thick. The hallway was lined with identical wooden doors that were locked. There was one open door, Room 324: the crime scene.

Sherlock took a quick look around from behind the police tape. The room was a typical classroom: the wall was painted in a dirty cream colour, the desks were arranged in a collection of rows, and there were two large chalkboards in the back and front of the room. A larger desk for the teacher was put in the far corner towards the front. Next to the desk was a body of a woman.

She looked in her forties; her caramel hairwas in a messy bun. She was slumped against the chalkboard with her right arm angled awkwardly towards the chalkboard as if she was trying to claw her way up. Where her hand was were uneven, crooked scratches that started towards the middle of the board. Her other arm was clutching her chest in a vicious, frozen claw. "She must be the teacher," John Watson murmured under his breath.

"I got your text," a voice said from behind. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade holding up his cellphone as evidence.

"I suspected you would," Sherlock said with a low sarcastic voice as he scanned the blocked off crime scene.

"And I suspect you think something's not right," Lestrade replied, ignoring the sarcasm.

Sherlock let himself through the police tape and into the room, "Ten minutes."

"Five," Lestrade bargained and followed the detective into the crime scene with John close behind.

Sherlock wasted no time analyzing the room, observing every little detail. He noticed the desk was covered in a mess of papers. The desks towards the front of the room were crooked, as if someone had bumped into them repeatedly. The chalkboard was wiped clean except the long scratches left by the woman's fingernails. He approached the body, lifting the jacket and searching for any personal belongings. When he didn't find any, he asked,"Her belongings?"

"We found this on her chair," the inspector said as he handed over a bright red handbag.

Sherlock dumped the contents of the bag on the floor and examined each piece. There was some makeup, a little pad of paper, a pen, and a wallet. The wallet was made of brown, rough leather. Inside there was little money, but there were two credit cards and a picture of a family. Also inside was a student ID with a picture of a handsome young man with blonde hair and light brown eyes, hidden behind glasses. The name read, "Joseph M. Ingles."

After placing the items back into the purse, Sherlock examined the body. He looked over it, occasionally lifting a hair or a corner of the woman's clothes. When he was done, he motioned for his companion to join him for a second opinion. "What do you think?" he asked as John crouched next to him.

"Um, in her forties, I'd say heart attack," John started, carefully manipulating the body to check his assumptions. "Possibly drug induced. Died somewhere between midnight and four yesterday."

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I want to leave all the impressive details to you," Watson joked lightly.

Sherlock smirked, "Very well. She's forty-three, been working here for at least five years. She was about to go out on a date with her boyfriend, even though she's married, but she had to cancel because of work. She's disorganized, so that probably slowed her down. Someone must have walked in to talk to her as she worked in the middle of the night, probably someone important, possibly her boyfriend. Oh, and she's a nail biter."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade asked incredulously, "A nail biter? How could you have possibly known that?"

"Well, it's obvious." Sherlock pointed at the teacher's fingers, "Her nails are at uneven lengths and the edges are rough. There's evidence of filing, as if she's trying to cover it up, so she must have had this problem for a while now."

"Alright," Lestrade shook his head, "I don't know how that would help us, but good work."

"There's something else," Sherlock said suddenly, ignoring the inspector's sarcasm. He took out his magnifying glass, a small black square that flipped open to reveal a bright, transparent piece of glass. He used it to look at a particular piece of skin on the victim's neck and smirked, "Oh, that's clever."

"What is?" John asked.

The detective ignored the question and stood up. He began walking out of the classroom, "Come on, John. We have work to do."

"Finally," John muttered under his breath as he followed the detective out of the room.

"I've seen this student before," Sherlock said on the taxi. He was holding the wallet in his right hand and using his phone in the other to surf the internet, probably for any data on Joseph Ingles.

"He was part of that whole scandal a while back, right?" John asked his colleague, "The drug scandal?"

"The drug scandal?" The detective sounded surprised, "How long ago was that?"

"About thirteen years," John secretly counted with his fingers, "1997, 1998?"

Sherlock's mouth formed a soft, "Oh."

"What?"

"Joseph Michael Ingles, seventeen. One of the top ten students in his school. Found with drugs in his room and expelled. Three days later, found dead at home from supposed overdose."

"Supposed?"

"He didn't seem like the type to use drugs, much less overdose. No, there was something off about this case that I didn't see."

"How could you tell the 'type' that uses drugs?"

Sherlock paused, thinking over his answer, "Experience."

"What? You dealt with drug cases before?" asked John curiously.

There was no answer, and John didn't dare to ask. There was something dark in the detective's eyes that made him feel a strange mix of fear and deep concern. He changed the subject, "Why her?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock replied, lazily looking out the window.

"You directly contacted Lestrade instead of him contacting you," deduced John, "So, you chose this case before it was even a case to begin with, which means it was somehow interesting from the start."

"It was only a matter of time before Lestrade contacted me." The detective answered, "I was just saving him that time."

John was taken back, "Well, that's kind of you."

"What you must know about me, John," Sherlock said seriously, "is that I'm very kind."

A/N: Thank you for reading!

This is a "sneak preview" of a story I'm working on. Unfortunately, I'm a bit stuck, so do not expect an update very soon. If you want to be notified of an update, subscribe to this story and you will be emailed when I add a chapter.

Any thoughts or suggestions are very welcome. Feel free to submit a review if you have the time.

Thanks again,

LG607