"Shut up, shut up, shut up! Don't you want this case solved?"
No one had been talking. Not that it mattered. Not that it ever mattered, when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He could almost hear them, bobbling on the edge of destruction, so tempted to interrupt, thinking so loudly in their dim little heads-
"Really, Sherlock, we know how they died, we just want to get a second opinion on the matter."
And there it was. Lestrade, no less. Sherlock only just refrained from shooting the DI.
John laid a hand on his shoulder, almost as if he understood the torment of having ones thoughts scattered to the four winds. "Come on, Sherlock. Tell us what's wrong."
Deep breath. Calm. Calm. Sherlock turned to face a growing crowd of police officers, inspectors, morticians – the finest Scotland Yard could offer. And a commentary of the state of our criminal justice system. "Two bodies on the floor; the first, a young woman in her twenties, drug addict by the track marks. Clearly there was an attempt to extract information. Cuts on the inner forearm indicate primary levels of torture, contusions to the face-"
"The cuts could be from self-harm, you know."
Sherlock closed his eyes. Calm. "Who let Anderson into this building? More importantly, who let him within ten feet of me?"
"I'm just saying, torture seems a bit dramatic."
"Yes, and the ensuing death struggle was fairly pedestrian, I suppose! Tell me, were the facial contusions also a result of self-harm? Dear diary, I'm very upset, I think I'm going to punch myself in the face."
Lestrade put his face in his hands. "Boys…"
"I will continue, Lestrade, but know that if Anderson opens his mouth again I will heartily and forcefully duct tape it closed. Now, the other body on the floor-" Sherlock stepped over the young woman and indicated a ragged looking man in his late thirties. "Definitely a dealer." There were a couple loud tsks at this presumption, but he decided to skip explaining how he just knew the man was a dealer and continue outlining the scenario. "He wanted something from her, but she managed to escape his grasp and grab a hold of the gun-"
"All very obvious," commented Donovan loudly.
"-grab a hold of the gun, and in the ensuing struggle, they were both shot." Sherlock ran a hand through his dark curls, willing himself not to murder the universe today. "The question is, what was he looking for and how do we find it?"
"Assuming that there was torture," said Lestrade doubtfully, "what makes you think he was searching for anything?"
Sherlock stared. Could they really not see? They had two eyes each, perfectly functioning eyes, and yet they all stared at him blankly. "Are you- look around! The shelves aren't dusted often, you can see the marks where things were moved and taken."
"Exactly. Taken. A robbery, maybe."
"A search. Just because the room isn't completely turned upside-down with papers flying everywhere, doesn't mean there wasn't something here to be found."
"If there was, we would have found it," insisted Lestrade. "We searched the place ourselves, which could account for the dust marks-"
"Only if you are all extremely poor at your jobs, which I have no-" John's grip on Sherlock's shoulder tightened. He stopped partway through his sentence, trusting John to act, as usual, as a poor man's moral compass.
"-and we found some old cereal boxes, magazines and a large dog, but nothing anyone would die for," finished Lestrade irritably. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, this is clearly just a case of either domestic abuse or a failed robbery, nothing more."
They were beginning to start the process of dismantling the crime scene, the dreadful instance where they would touch all the evidence. "Wait… wait…"
"Sherlock, maybe it's time to head home, hm?" John sort of patted his back, as if to congratulate him for a job well done, but the job wasn't done and Sherlock knew the police wouldn't do it well at all.
Then it hit him. "The dog!" he cried, startling everyone in the room. "You said there was a dog. Tell me, where was it found?"
Lestrade looked to Donovan. "Locked away in a side room, poor thing."
"Bring it here," demanded Sherlock fervently. They tried to argue with him, but he talked over them. "Bring it here, bring it soon, bring it now."
The police waited for Lestrade, who just nodded in a defeated sort of way. "Bring it in."
The dog was retrieved from outside the house and brought to the edge of the crime scene. The scruffy mutt – which was, indeed, quite large - seemed instantly more alert, and keen to press beyond the confines of its leash. "Let the hound loose!" cried Sherlock, stepping to one side.
"Through a crime scene?" exclaimed Anderson incredulously.
"Do it," commanded Lestrade.
The dog was unleashed. With a howl it bounded over the bodies of the two addicts until it came to a patch of wall that seemed utterly unremarkable. With a snuffling sort of noise it pawed at the wallpaper, first gently, then with a large shove.
The police watched, dumbfounded, as a small panel flopped open, revealing what must have been at least three kilos of white powder.
The dog was quickly put on a leash as Sherlock pulled out one of the bags. He was conscious of everyone watching him – particularly John – as he tore open one of the bags and dipped in a hand, rubbing the powder between his fingers. Putting aside all thoughts of what his colleagues may be thinking as they watched Sherlock handling drugs, he quickly tasted the barest touch of the powder.
A powerful craving hit him, curling around his stomach and up the back of his head. He carefully placed the bag on a dingy coffee table before him. "Cocaine," he announced, looking at his hands. There was quite a lot of the drug on him, something he would have to rectify very, very soon. "The dog acted as a sniffer dog, leading our addled addict back to her hoard of stolen goods the days she was too intoxicated to find it herself. I'd say the theft of that much cocaine is good grounds for murder, hmm?"
The cocaine was removed and put into the custody of the police as evidence. Bodies were bagged, evidence tagged, photos taken, and the routine of police procedure set in once all the hard work had been done. Sherlock tried not to smile too broadly.
"I just wish you wouldn't antagonize them so much," said John worriedly as they exited the building. "They are armed, you know."
"Please, John, they can't shoot me. They need me too much."
Up ahead, Anderson wrestled with the gigantic dog. John and Sherlock traded a quick glance and looked away, biting their lips so they wouldn't laugh outright.
"Come on," said John. "We should get that cocaine off you before-"
That was when several things happened.
Anderson, either by design or simply by fault of a weak grip, lost his hold on the hound.
The dog smelled the drug it was trained to seek.
The largest concentration of this drug was on one Sherlock Holmes.
John threw himself out of the way as the huge canine bounded towards his partner, who was a step too slow to save himself.
Sherlock was momentarily stunned.
When he regained his senses – and his breath – he found he was lying flat on his back on the cold concrete, an impossible weight on his chest. His face was being licked with long strokes by the most enormous tongue he had ever had the misfortune of seeing up close. Worst of all, he was completely pinned by the massive animal's paws and could not move.
He turned his face to the side. "John!" he cried. "Get this animal off me!"
"S-sorry," said John, who was doubled over in laughter (the traitor). "Sorry!"
As John attempted to wrestle the amorous hound off of his friend, who was now a brilliant shade of crimson, Lestrade called out, "Boys, get your cameraphones! We've got another one for the scrapbook!"
- Author's Note: I obviously own none of this, it is the property of wiser and more talented people than I. Reviews welcome. I'm quite new, so any advice (like, hey, why the gigantic dog, you psycho) at all is appreciated. Thanks for reading! -