John limped towards the police tape. He knew the limp was psychosomatic, Sher-He'd told him that, but since he'd fallen, jumped, John's limp had returned. Worse than before. He now knew the battlefield was worldwide, in every city, and the thought caused his stomach to twist.
Lestrade gazed at John, pity clouding his tired eyes. John had lost several pounds, and he took slow shuffling steps as he walked, his eyes on the ground.
"John?" Close, Lestrade could see the new lines etched on John's forehead, and John's grey skin stretched over his too sharp cheekbones. "Did you see the body?"
John's voice cracked a little as he spoke.
"Woman. Early twenties. Phone and purse missing. Evidence of a break in her right arm. She was pronounced missing yesterday?" Lestrade shuddered at his voice. It had an anguished detachment about it.
"John, are you sure you should- I mean, do you think it's a bit-" Lestrade cut off. "You look ill"
Pain flashed through John's eyes.
"It… helps. To keep busy I mean."
Anderson circled the body. She was probably just a whore, who got on the wrong side of a dealer. Stupid girl, he thought softly. A flash of white caught his eye. There was a piece of paper- just there, in her balled fist. He crouched next to the hand, mentally praised himself for finding what looked to be a clue, and pulled at the paper until it wriggled free.
"Get Sherlock. SM" It read. Anderson reeled. Sherlock had been dead for- 6 months now. Who could be possibly looking for him?
