New case for you, if you're interested.-GL
Woman found dead in her flat, case reported by a neighbor. Looks like suicide, but I'd appreciate you coming down to investigate, tell us what you think.-GL
Be there in twenty.-SH
"John?"
"Yeah, Sherlock?" John responds, glancing up to his flatmate, then back down to his newspaper.
"Come; Lestrade has requested are assitance at a new crime scene. Says it looks like suicide, but with those bumbling idiots down in the Yard, I don't quite trust them to get anything right," the detective explains, shrugging into his Belstaff coat. The doctor sighs lightly before stretching out his cramped legs and folding up the newspaper, placing it on the arm of his chair.
"You could request my assitance, you know, but alright; just give me a minute," he replies as he grasps his coat and shoves his arms into the sleeves. Gathering his mobile from the table, he stuffs it into his coat pocket and starts to stride over to Sherlock, whom is tapping his foot impatiently.
"Yeah, yeah, you prat, I know; hurry up," the doctor says, interrupting Sherlock's incoming scolding. Almost immediately after John's statement, the shorter man is in front of the steps, looking back at him. "There, I'm done."
Sherlock smiles in relief as he nods in acknowledgement, rushing towards the steps and taking them two at a time.
"Damn you and your long legs...," the detective hears the blogger mumble, and he can't help but smirk as he pushes the flat door open and walks onto the sidewalk.
"Taxi!" he yells, waving his hand minutely in the chilling air, and by the time John is beside him, a newly furbished taxi is pulling up to the curb. Sherlock beckons John in with a wave of his hand as he stumbles into the vehicle, clamoring to get to the left side of the seat as John shuffles in behind him.
As the soldier finally closes the door, the boffin huffs in annoyance, glimpsing the taxi driver in the rearview mirror before shifting his gaze to the snowy scenery outside. Swiftly, he pulls his phone from his pocket, pulling up the messaging app on autopilot as he presses Lestrade's contact.
Be there in ten, he types out, ending the text with his signature -SH. Within moments, he receives a response, short enough to not annoy him even further.
See you then.-GL
"Alright," Greg sighs, steps creaking as he leads the doctor and detective upstairs. "This morning, around 8:15 AM, the next door neighbor reported Claire Harris dead in her flat. She and Claire had been friends and scheduled an outing this morning at 8. The neighbor, Sam, I believe was her name, had a spare key and unlocked the door. You can...imagine what she walked in on..."
John grimaces, muttering,"...God...," As he continues up the stairs, Sherlock remaining silent in front of him. They finally reach the top of the steps as Greg plows into the flat, pushing open the door.
"Apparently, Sam said Claire's child was coming with them, her son, Hamish, and she couldn't find him anywhere," Lestrade continues, sorrow threatening to spill into what should be an easily said statement.
"A kid?" John breathes, and he suddenly looks a lot like paper; thin, white, expendable.
"Yeah," Greg confirms, turning his head to the detective, whom still decides to remain silent. Sherlock merely examines and counts the scuffs on the ceiling.
As Lestrade leads them to the bedroom, Sherlock continues to follow quietly behind, idly examining most of the rooms before sweeping the whole flat.
Then, they come into the back bedroom, and John externally winces, drawing his arms behind his back in an 'at ease' position. There the woman is, slumped against the end of her bed, a Browning handgun held limply in her hand. Blood is splattered on the wooden bed frame, staining the cherry color a dark brown.
The boffin cants his head, scouring every corner of the room from his position by the door, where Lestrade and John stand beside him. Sherlock's eyes dart down to the victim's hands, then he kneels beside the lax corpse, gloved hands prying at the cold flesh.
First, he takes the hand with the gun and tugs slightly on the firearm, drawing it away from her stiff fingers. Placing the weapon gently on the ground, he then takes the victim's hand in his own, prodding at the palm. He pulls out his magnifying glass, inspecting something before he yanks up Claire's sleeve, peering at the length of her arms and the red rawness covering them.
John and Greg continue standing, staring at him inquisitively as he lifts the victim's eyelids and checks closely for something. Sherlock pats down her body, hand freezing as it hits a lump in her coat pocket. Shoving his hand into the coat, he feels something all too familiar in his palm as he draws it out of the pocket's confines.
A baggie of cocaine.
"God...," Lestrade mumbles, and John suspects that he must be thinking of when Sherlock was...a bit not good. Sherlock knows Greg is thinking about when this was him sprawled on the couch, so close to an overdose, so many times, but he just places the bag on the bed and continues his examination.
Continuing his pat-down, Sherlock feels something else in the victim's jean pocket, and slips a hand inside to feel a folded piece of paper. He pulls his hand out, unfurling the paper as he glances to Lestrade and John, who are staring curiously at it.
He's coming. It must be about the drugs. You have to get my son. My number, call it. My son has my mobile. Call before-
From after the word 'before', all Sherlock can see is the line of the 'e' extending to the edge of the page, spidery, scrawled, and sloppy. But the phone number is intact in the corner, an arrow trailing from the paragraph to indicate its position.
"What is it?" he hears Lestrade ask, and he glimpses John to see his silently questioning gaze on him. Yet, he doesn't answer, just continues staring at the paper, worry admittedly building in his gut.
The boy...
He quickly pulls out his mobile, turns the phone on, then taps the number into the keypad, hitting the dial button. Waiting impatiently for the other end to pick up, he hears the doctor and D.I. frantically asking him why he looks so flustered, who he's calling, but he doesn't respond.
Scouring the room again, waiting, concerned, for the boy to alledgedly pick up, this time he notices, at the very edge of the room, a picture frame propped up against the dresser's mirror. A small boy, no older than 5, is sitting beside Claire, beaming and giggling at the camera. Hamish...
Suddenly, Sherlock sees blood on the young face, pooling in his mouth and dribbling down his neck. His eyes are dead, drowning him like the sea, like murky waves of water rolling over him.
He's reminded of the boy he almost couldn't save, the one Moriarty almost killed, all so he could determine how a painting was fake. His soft voice, counting down...
...10...9...8...7...6...
...the voice was feather-light in his ears...
He can hear it again.