Everyone always writes sick!Sherlock just as smart, so I decided I wanted him to be terrible at deductions when he was under the weather. The result: this!
Thanks as always to MoonClaimed for fixing this up.
I own nothing.
Sherlock squinted at the scene in front of him - and sneezed. Normally deducing was second nature to him, but with a cold it became a bit of a challenge to focus adequately. Not that he'd ever admit the fact to anyone. If he did, Lestrade wouldn't call him to consult. Normally it wasn't much of an issue anyway, but every now and again it really affected him, and, as luck would have it, today was one of those days. He sniffled. Lestrade had called him to the scene claiming it to be a strange case, though Sherlock couldn't for the life of him see what was so different about it. A dead body was a dead body, in his opinion. There was nothing extraordinary about the victim as far as he could tell.
"So?" Lestrade prompted after a few moments of silence. "What do you make of it?"
"I make of it a waste of time," Sherlock answered, sounding bored. "Certainly not an eight. I'm disappointed in you, John."
"Sherlock," John protested. "The victim is-"
"Dead as a doorknob, yes, thank you for your expert opinion. For future reference, a serial killing only starts at a seven unless there is something astonishing about it, which, in this case, there is not."
"Seriously? Because I would think that-"
"Would you, now? Because I'm only staring at a seven. Certainly not a cause for me to put on trousers."
"So you know who did it, then?" Lestrade asked, unsurprised by both the detective's cockiness and the pair's banter.
"Of course." Sherlock blinked hard, fighting away the sudden wave of vertigo that had just coursed through him. "It's him," he announced after it cleared away, motioning through the window at a man getting into his car.
"Him?" Lestrade questioned. "But he's the one who called it in. He's been a mess the whole time."
"The perfect cover." Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped on it a few times. "Well?" he asked, noticing the detective inspector was still staring at him. "You'd best get a move on. He's getting away."
"And you're certain?" Normally Lestrade wouldn't question the consulting detective, but there was something… off about him. John seemed to have noticed as well, going by the look he was giving his partner.
"Am I ever not certain? Now go!" Sherlock shooed him away.
Lestrade stared at him a minute longer before yelling out to Sally to arrest the man Sherlock had pointed out. "So, how did you know it was him?" Lestrade asked once he had received confirmation of the man's arrest.
"It's obvious: he's the fiancé," he stated plainly.
John and Lestrade shared a glance before John gave the genius a quizzical look. "The fiancé?" he asked after a moment, disbelieving.
Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "What do I always say, John? It's always the spouse. First the poor rating of the case and now this… Really, I am very disappointed in you today."
"But Sherlock…" John protested. "The victim is a dog."
Sherlock blinked and looked down at the corpse. He stared at the canine for a long moment before saying, "I don't see your point," and then promptly passing out.
John, staring at his downed partner, sighed heavily at what his life had become.
"Well," Lestrade said after a beat, "good luck with that. I have a distraught ex-pet owner to go un-arrest."