Molly grasped the top of the white sheet and looked to Sherlock for the go-ahead. Steeling himself, he nodded. The cover was pulled down to the chest of the cadaver.
Sherlock kept his eyes on the blinding white cloth. That jumper- it was definitely John's. Slowly, his eyes traveled up to the face.
It was John.
"Th-" He had to stop to collect himself before continuing. "That's him. That… that's John."
Two Hours Earlier
Sherlock kicked his feet up on Lestrade's desk and waited for the detective-inspector to return. There had been no cases lately, and he was itching to put his mind to use. He had already exhausted John-mentally and physically- to remain entertained, but now he needed a mind puzzle.
When Lestrade opened his door and found Sherlock Holmes reclining in his chair, he nearly walked back out. Usually he liked talking to Sherlock, but right now he had a lot on his plate.
"Lestrade."
Too late; the consulting detective had spotted him.
"Sherlock," he acknowledged, stepping into his office. "What do you want?"
"A case, obviously," said he. "What do you have for me?"
There was one case, but they had it under control. He tried to change the subject. "Where's John?"
Sherlock waved the question away. "You must have something for me. I know how incompetent your staff is."
Frowning, trying to ignore the insult, Greg sat on the corner of his desk and held the folder out of sight. "Nothing that you'd be interested in. Hey- isn't John's birthday coming up?"
Again, Sherlock dismissed the inquiry. "Let me see the file in your hand, Lestrade. I haven't anything to do."
Sighing, DI Lestrade handed over the file and watched Sherlock flip through the papers.
"Boring," he sighed, tossing it over his shoulder. Lestrade groaned as the papers escaped the paperclips and scattered every which way. Sherlock stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. He left, grumbling about the lack of serial killers in London. As he left the building, he failed to notice that a young man lifted a phone to his ear and spoke urgently, stress wrinkling his brow. Greg gathered the papers up and straightened them as best he could before sitting at his desk.
The death of Frederick Garrison seemed a simple enough case. Two feuding families, a smoking gun-all they needed was to put the evidence in order for the court. And yet- and yet there seemed to be something missing. He went over the file again and again, hoping to put his worries to rest.
Sherlock left New Scotland Yard and hailed a taxi. Maybe there was an incomplete science experiment at home. Or maybe he'd jump John again.
At home, Sherlock found that his blogger was out and he had nothing to do.
Flopping onto the sofa, Sherlock glared at the yellow smiley face across the room. Where was his gun when he needed it? Too far away, he decided.
He'd just wait for John to get home.