John sat quiet with Sherlock at his side for the entire ride to the crime scene. The only noise in the cab was the blower on their feet. His mind was in complete and utter turmoil, chaos and disarray caused by a little simple kiss and a few words.
"I'm alright, as long as you're at my side."
John's heart caught in his throat, and he looked over at the dark, curly haired detective. His eyes were on his phone, he was text messaging someone. He blinked a few times and sighed. He could barely think. He ended up paying the cabby too much money once they'd arrived at their destination. Sherlock, of course, noticed. Then he tripped on his way out of the taxi. He was just a bloody mess…
Lestrade lead them over to the crime scene, his white gloves in hand. Sherlock looked over at the ex-army doctor with an amused expression. 'Blast you and your handsome face,' John thought. He gave the detective an awkward smile as he walked. He didn't really know what Sherlock found amusing; perhaps it was that John couldn't get a sentence out straight, or that he couldn't not watch Sherlock.
"So, we found her this morning," Lestrade chided in after a while. Sherlock chuckled to himself. "Obviously, otherwise you would have called me last night. Come now, skip the obvious details. You know how bored I was last night." Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock continued. "I was meaning to ask you… Why didn't you call my cellular? You called Mrs. Hudson's land line instead. I thought that was odd." John looked over at the DI, his mind obviously on the same page as Sherlock's. He seemed just as curious. Lestrade turned around, raising the crime scene tape for the two men to sneak under. "You didn't answer your cellular. I actually had called. I figured you were busy, so a few minutes later I called the home phone." After saying all that, he looked to John. The doctor began to blush a deep crimson and he looked to his loafers. Lestrade chuckled, his suspicions having been confirmed. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right, well," he began. "Sorry, I didn't hear my phone ring. It was in the living room. Must have slipped my mind…"
The consulting detective couldn't even bare so much as a look in John's direction. "Okay, no worries," Lestrade said after a minute or so. Apparently that was good enough for him. Sherlock stepped under the tape, but much to John's dismay, waited for him as well. Lestrade's voice broke the little look they were sharing. "Anderson's over there, be careful. He's been a real hop in the ass today, I feel like he's going through menopause." The three men chuckled, knowing all too well Greg wasn't joking.
John followed Sherlock to the body. She was on her back, eyes closed. She wore a red cardigan and dark blue jeans. A dark beige coat covered mostly everything on her, as it was buttoned up. It looked to be her size. "Expensive clothing," John said, noticing the designer tags. "Mm…" Sherlock gave a little hum in agreement. They both knelt down next to her, almost simultaneously, and Sherlock watched as John made his usual assessments. "She hasn't been dead for twelve hours. Rigor mortis hasn't had a chance to set in. She didn't die from drowning, that's for sure. Her throat isn't closed up from salt water. It did rain last night, yeah?" Sherlock smiled a little, appreciating the doctor's keen eye. "No, no she didn't die from being drowned," he agreed. "It rained for a couple of hours last night. You were too busy blogging to notice, I guess." He took out his tweezers, lifted the shoulder of her shirt to find a bullet wound.
"How'd you notice that? She's got a coat on." John asked, wide-eyed. He looked at the wound. It was a high-caliber bullet, most likely. "Observation," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. He took a folding magnifying glass from his shirt pocket and inspected the area further. "Point blank range. Not a lot of powder, though. Odd." John decided now was the best time to put his two cents in. "I'd venture to guess she passed out from the shot and then died of blood loss." Sherlock nodded, obviously in agreement. He looked to Lestrade and said, "Someone dropped her off here, there's no blood around. During the night, it rained. Her body may have been a good ten meters higher, but she washed down here. Look, you can see the marks in the sand."
It got quiet for a moment and you could hear pictures being snapped for evidence. Sherlock sighed, reaching into her coat pocket and taking out a wallet. "Arianna Williams," he said, the name rolling off his tongue as he flipped through her credit cards and store memberships. "She's loaded," John observed. "Wow."
John groaned with ache as he got up. He looked around. "Cigarettes," he said, noticing a pack of Benson & Hedges near the stone of the bridge. They weren't twelve meters from the body. Sherlock glanced at him as he walked over to them. "I think those were our victims. Good eye, John." Lestrade bagged the cigg pack, looking down at them thoughtfully. "Well… What can you tell me as of right now, Sherlock?"
The consulting detective got up, tossing his magnifying glass into his pocket. "It's all quite clear, actually. The bullet wound to the chest is what killed her. Though, I can't find anything on her that would be cause for murder. Perhaps it was over money." He huffed out a breath, looking to John. "Until we've found her residence and I can see more, I'm afraid that's all I can tell you, Lestrade." He put a finger to his lips. "But, well, another odd thing, she doesn't look like a smoker. Of course, she could have just started. I do think that pack may have been on her person and just happened to fall out when she washed down." By now, he was talking more to himself than John and the DI.
Lestrade called over the ME's, giving them the 'go ahead' to move her body and bring her down to the morgue. "Thanks, Sherlock," Greg said, his eyes sincere. "Tomorrow you can go have a look at her, she'll be in Molly's care. She's on duty tomorrow, I think." Sherlock nodded his head a little. "No problem. You know I can't resist a good murder..." A smirk was playing on his lips, and he waited for the DI and his blogger to follow him.
Anderson stopped them before they could reach the crime scene tape. "Don't you smoke?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe he's finally gone and done it. Murderer." Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed passed him. "Sodd off, I'm not a murderer." With a lopsided grin, he turned back to Anderson. "Though, if I was going to kill anyone, it'd probably be you." John looked over his shoulder at the idiot they all called Anderson. "He stopped smoking a long time ago, buzz off."