Disclaimer: As much as I like to dream about owning Sherlock and his world, I sadly do not. He belongs to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. This story is for entertainment purposes only. Enjoy!
Also, please please please review because if there is anything I love just as much as I love our boy Sherlock, it is reviews. Reviews are to me what cake is to Mycroft. Your support gives me so many good feels and lovely motivation.
Currently rated T but note that this rating may increase to M based on which direction the story goes.
"Where's John?"
The question came from a one Mister Greg Lestrade, grey-haired, tired-eyed Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard.
Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, rolled his sea-blue eyes and huffed in an exasperated way that sent his dark brunette curls bouncing. "I thought you called me in to solve a murder, not to have banal small talk."
Lestrade arched his eyebrows and the consulting detective gave another dramatic huff. He had known that the absence of John Watson, former army doctor and current blogger, would raise questions among the members of the Yard - after all, this was the first time that John had not shown up to a case in years and, if truth be told, Sherlock currently felt like a piece of him was missing. He finally said through gritted teeth, "I do not see how this is relevant to the case but...if you must know...he is with Mary."
Lestrade's forehead furrowed with confusion. "Mary...who's Mary?"
"His new girlfriend," the consulting detective muttered before pushing past Lestrade towards the crime scene. "What information do you have so far?" he asked over his shoulder as Lestrade jogged to catch up.
"Not much," the D.I. admitted. "I know you haven't had a case in quite some time and Mrs. Hudson was complaining that you have been shooting at her walls again, so I figured I'd just leave this one to your skills...if that is agreeable with you? Gives me some time to catch up on my sleep."
Sherlock nodded curtly. "You've been sleeping on the couch again."
Lestrade's lips formed a thin line and he refrained from answering the question.
By now, they were approaching a large freezer in which there was a briefcase and a figure lying face down with a clear bullet wound in the neck. Sherlock's steps quickened and he grabbed gloves, pulled them on hastily, and leaned over the freezer to analyze the body as he said nonchalantly, "Despite what you may wish to believe, your wife is still unhappy in your marriage. The constant arguing is not going to end, so I do hope you enjoy sleeping on the couch. Have you searched the victim's clothing and briefcase?"
Lestrade bit his lip before stating in exasperation, "I thought you didn't want banal small talk." But the poor D.I. quickly shut his mouth when he witnessed the cold look spreading across Sherlock's face. Clearing his throat, the D.I. changed the subject. "No, nothing has been searched. Again, this case is all yours. Though it's hard not to notice how much this guy looks like you...from the back at least."
Sherlock felt a chill run down his spine as he set his eyes on the corpse. What Lestrade had said was true - the deceased body, male, had the same body-build as the consulting detective, dark brown curls tumbled from its head, and the coat it wore (long, dark, wool tweed) was eerily similar in style to Sherlock's. Lying face down as it was, the body could easily have passed as his own. At this observation, the consulting detective's throat constricted for a brief moment but then he pushed the silly idea aside. There are millions and millions of people in this world. It is only logical that some of us will look similar.
Lestrade continued, "He was shot in the neck, as you can see. Since he has been frozen, there hasn't been much decomposition. Because of that, it's unclear if his death was recent or - "
"It occurred two years ago," Sherlock interrupted, pulling papers out of the side of the frozen briefcase.
Lestrade's mouth fell open. "And how do you know that?"
"Newspaper," and the consulting detective waved an icy newspaper in the air. "Dated from two years ago." Then he was waving another pile of icy papers in the air, "And graded tests, also dated from two years ago."
"Tests?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, pursed his plump lips, and gave Lestrade a defiant look. "Yes...tests...exams...he was an instructor, obviously. Do try to keep up. This is all boringly evident." His focus returned to the corpse. "A science professor, to be exact. A cursory glance at the front page of the exams tells us that they were for an Introduction to Chemistry class at King's College London taught by a Dr. Xavier Smithe."
His long fingers were searching the outer pocket of the briefcase again and he soon pulled out a science journal. As he skimmed it, his eyes glowed. "Ah, and he was very much an intellectual. Wrote an article about two and a half years ago on the process of ratiocination. It was obviously well-received as it was published in one of the world's leading science journals. Surprised I haven't read it yet. Do you mind if I take the journal with me?"
"Be my guest," Lestrade said.
Sherlock was now examining the corpse's digits. "Calluses on the tips of his fingers and down the sides of his thumbs say he practiced piano quite regularly." As the consulting detective uttered this statement, his hands searched the pockets of the man's jacket. He pulled up a folded sheet of paper and, upon perusing its contents, a contented half-smile spread his lips. "And with lovely taste. This is sheet music for Sonata Number One in G Minor. Bach. One of my favourite pieces. Simply exquisite on the violin."
Lestrade chuckled slightly.
When Sherlock gave the D.I. a curious look, Lestrade raised a hand in apology. "I'm sorry, it's just...sounds like you two are twins or something. You're basically wearing the same clothes, you're bragging about his intellect, you're gushing over his taste in music..."
"Mmm..." Sherlock grunted absent-mindedly as he looked over the body again. But then the consulting detective's eyebrows furrowed in consternation.
"Sherlock - what's wrong?" Lestrade said, frowning slightly.
Sherlock stood to his full height. "I have read the newspapers every day since I was a child and yet I do not recall ever reading about a Dr. Xavier Smithe having gone missing." Then the detective was back over the corpse, delicate fingers searching the side pocket of the briefcase again.
The next item that he retrieved from the bag was an address book. With a cry of triumph, his blue eyes began to skim the pages. After mere seconds, he spoke again. "He was a solitary man."
Lestrade gave Sherlock a mild look of admiration. "And how do you know that?"
"His address book contains businesses, organizations, and colleagues. Colleagues whom he viewed as work partners and nothing more. He refers to them by their formal names. For instance, Dr. Malcolm, Dr. Tierre, Dr. Hansen. If they were friends, he would refer to them in a more casual manner. But there is no one here whom he refers to casually. No Mum or Dad or Sue or Bill or what have you. Conclusion: solitary man, with no friends or loved ones. That is why his death didn't have a big media presence. There was no one to miss him, aside from the university and really there are so many professors fighting for positions that his seat would have been filled quickly."
"Sounds just like you, freak." This voice was a woman's.
The two men turned to find that Sally Donovan, police officer for New Scotland Yard, had just entered the room, a smirk on her face.
"Afternoon," Sherlock muttered, letting a bored look graze his face as he turned his attention away from the woman.
"I said, sounds just like you," Sally repeated. "You are a solitary man with no friends or loved ones."
Sherlock was surprised and mildly annoyed to find that Sally's comment stung him in the chest. "I don't have many friends, but I do have John."
Sally smirked. "I don't think you do, though. I don't see John. Where is he then?"
Sherlock's nostrils flared and the stinging in his chest intensified but he told himself to stay focused on the case. He turned back to Lestrade. "We need to make sure that this is, in fact, Dr. Xavier Smithe. Can you find a picture of him while I turn the body over?"
Lestrade nodded and retrieved his smartphone from his pocket. As the D.I. began typing, Sherlock returned to the body. He placed his hands firmly on one side of the torso and heaved. But as the body fell onto its back, the consulting detective staggered with a cry of shock and slight horror - for staring up at him was a very familiar face; it was pale and angular with sharp cheekbones, sea blue eyes, and plump lips.