Goodness knows how long it's been since I last published. This is a story I have been meaning to develop for three years or more and I will be
looking to make it a proper multi-chapter fic. I hope you enjoy it and that I'm not too rusty haha.
A crow on a sunny day; that was the image conjured by the sweeping figure of the Consulting detective as he approached the crime scene. The dark coat rustled behind the man like large wings and the detective's dark curls shone blue-black as crow's feathers. The beak like nose and dark eyes had been reserved for the other Holmes brother, yet Sherlock's eyed shone with a bird of prey's cool interest as he leant over the corpse.
"So? What happened to the poor man?" Lestrade questioned, his tone somewhere between mocking and wonder at what his unofficial colleague would be able to reveal.
Sherlock stood bent over the corpse, perilously close to falling onto the blood stained body, sniffing, probing – observing. Finally he spoke.
"Military man judging from his hair and placement of defensive wounds. Medical training though, so – Army Doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq. On his way to his Psychologist. He has an brother whom he doesn't get on with, possibly because he likes his wife, but more likely because he disapproves of the drinking that caused a split between him and his wife."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows, impressed, but all he said was "I guess now you're going to tell me off for calling you in on a murder with such an obvious cause of death; we need help though Sherlock, the motive..." Lestrade never got to finish his reasons for needing the detective however as he was interrupted. " Nonsense Lestrade, surely Anderson didn't believe this farce of a stab wound? Clearly he was stabbed post mortem and fresh blood smeared in the wound. Oh he did? Well, clearly you all need some help then." With that, the large, crow-like man swept off with much the same Grecian drama with which he'd arrived.
That night Sherlock stood by the window of 221b, plucking at the strings of his violin. Around him lay sketches of a man, lying in a pool of blood, a surrounded in stark detail, by every inch of this morning's crime scene. One drawing stood out however, it was a detailed portrait of the victim's face. Unlike most corpses, his expression registered neither shock, nor that peaceful sleep which often embraced the dead. Instead his features were shuttered, creased as though he was in the middle of a night terror. There was something more intimate about this drawing it conveyed the artist's question about John Watson's last moments.
John Watson, the motive for murdering this man puzzled Sherlock Holmes as much as it had Lestrade. John Watson, "John Watson", the name mumbled softly as Sherlock absent-mindedly tapped the violin bow against his lips. The man had not been without enemies – a concept in which there invariably was a fatal flaw – so much as that he had not had enough contact with anyone over the last five years, to create any enemies. Having studied at St Bartholomew's Hospital he had various jobs as GP and doctor in the E.R before enlisting to the army. Besides being a brilliant and effective surgeon on the battlefield, saving countless lives, he seemed to have had few personal interactions, let alone altercations. Who was this man? What was it that he was missing. Filled with a tranquil energy, Sherlock once more began to pace the floor, playing his instrument as he went.
There was a mystery here and by God he would find the answer.
Sherlock smiled, the game is on.
Thank you for reading, please review if the fancy strikes.