Annnndddd I'm back! Hello there :D
Ira: And WHAT do you think you're doing, posting yet another fic when you've got so many loose threads dangling?
Erm... well...
Ira: You suck.
I know TTvTT
BUTBUTBUT- I saw this picture: goo(DOT)gl/YWmvK And I wondered, what would happen if they were to see their tags on Tumblr? And thus, the plot bunnies attacked. This will likely be a 3-shot, and I'm already almost done with part 2! So yay. And, part of my resolutions will be to update fics regularly. Since I'm on winter break (FINALLY!) I will, hopefully, have more time to write. So keep an eye out for more sneaky updates! :D
Now on with the story~
Ira: Moxie here does not own BBC's Sherlock, nor does she own the inspirational image. She just has some sort of messed up affinity for plot-bunnies.
Pale, slim fingers gingerly peeled an eyelid back, and took in the dilated pupil before quickly shutting it once more. "16, visiting from America on a school trip, recently broke up with her boyfriend of, oh, roughly 2 and half months- not very long but they'd been childhood friends. He broke up with her, of course, and she went on this trip to forget about him. The rest of the class is sightseeing, visiting Big Ben, but she stayed here at the hotel because of a headache, or so she claimed." The curly haired figure lightly trailed his fingers down her stomach, picking up and inspecting her limp wrists; taking in the bleached-blonde hair, somewhat shadowed-eyes and worn teal shirt and jeans. He picked himself up from the carpeted floor and took in the hotel room whilst his blogger checked the girl's vital signs.
"She's boarding with another girl, the one her boyfriend left her for but she doesn't know that, they're keeping their new relationship secret. There's no real motive for the roommate to kill her, so clearly it was something, or someone else." With a sigh evident in his tone, the infamous Sherlock Holmes drawled, turning around on his heel, watching the room blur by until coming to a pause infront of Lestrade. "In other words, completely and utterly dull. Why did you call me out here? This hardly classifies as a 1, and I don't bother for anything less then 6." Anderson made as if to argue, but Lestrade raised a weary finger in is direction before addressing Sherlock. "I won't even ask how on Earth you could've possibly figured that out, but that's not what I called you down here for. Actually, I wasn't calling for you at all." What seemed almost like a surprised pout flickered across Holmes' face for a nanosecond, before he rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Yes, yes, I know- you want John's opinion."
The retired army doctor jerked his head up from examining the body. "What- my opinion?" Incredulity seeped from his words, while Sherlock impatiently tapped his foot, wearing his signature "Oh-sweet-merciful-Lord, why-must-there-be-so-many-idiots-in-this-world?" expression. "Obviously. They don't care about some foolish American's love life, they want to know how she died." He stepped back over towards the body and slide down so he was sitting across from Watson on the floor. "So, Doctor, what's your impression?" John blinked, baffled, before shaking his head slightly as if to get over the surprise of being called upon, and then fluttering his hands over the poor girls neck, stomach, wrists. "Well… she hasn't been sleeping recently… I'd say for about a week or so? Not just staying up late, but literally, not sleeping." He nodded slightly at the defined bags beneath her closed eyes.
John disregarded the stares of the police and the eccentric man in front of him as he continued with his diagnosis. "She's been drinking a lot of caffeine the past few days, I'd reckon, so the lack of sleep is probably by choice. She's quite healthy, fit- must play some kind of sport, judging from her legs-" "Foot ball." Sherlock quietly interjected, bringing his friend's gaze and attention back to him. Anderson, unable to keep quiet any longer, burst out "Now how could you possibly know that?" rolling his eyes down at the consulting detective. "There's a gym bag in the corner of the room with some obscure team name on it, a scent of mud and grass on it and imprints on the fabric from where the soles of the cleats poked into it. That could be a few different sports, but there's a football charm on her anklet- hence, football." Sherlock nodded slightly at the circular, black-and-white charm dangling innocently from the girl's limp leg, all the while keeping eye contact with Doctor Watson. Watson's eyes were amused, and it was obvious he was trying not to give a slight smile, even more so when Anderson grumbled and awkwardly left the room, embarrassed.
Glancing back down at the body, he started back up again with his studies. "Yes, football player, excellent health and physical condition. All organs healthy, and well…" John paused once more, brows burrowing together. "To be honest, there's nothing's wrong with her." "Except she's dead." Sherlock noted idly, eyes glazed. "Yes, of course… it's rather like…" "Rather like what?" Lestrade, patience growing thin, barked. "Well, rather like all of her organs just sort of… stopped. Taking into account her dilated pupils, I'd say she was either scared to death, or incomprehensibly excited about something." A full silence blanketed the room for a moment, before Sherlock abruptly leaped up onto his heels and began walking around the room, holding a knuckle to thin lips in thought. Lestrade remained leaning against the door, John still crouched by the body as they both watched him walk.
"How was the girl found?" He eventually asked, not even looking at the Police Inspector. The man blinked, thrown off by the question. "Lying on her stomach on the bed, her laptop open in front of her. Sherlock spun around quickly, jacket whirling dramatically behind him. "Why didn't you mention that before?" he snarled, exasperated rage apparent on his features, with something almost… well, almost like a satisfied expression hidden underneath. "How on Earth is some girl's laptop important?" Sherlock shut his eyes close, as he suddenly looked tempted to bang his head against a brick wall. John quickly rose from his position next to the girl and moved a bit closer to his flat mate, "Why don't you tell us then, Sherlock?" he asked in soothing tones. The taller of the 2 men released an aggravated sigh, but his delight in being asked was evident. John shook his head mentally, sighing. "He's like some kind of 6 year old, always eager to show off."
His gray eyes flew open and he resumed his pacing of the room, talking a mile a minute at the 2 men who stood, watching from the doorway. "It's highly unlikely that Ms. Jodie here-" "Jodie?" Lestrade interjected. Sherlock gave another strangled sigh and pointed at the cursive "J" on a backpack by the desk. "As I was saying, Jodie didn't have headache at all- on the contrary, she was at top mental speed for not sleeping in a week. This wasn't because of her boyfriend, though, no she wouldn't sacrifice her sleeping habits for a break-up. Something was happening, something exciting, online. Something so exciting that she couldn't tear herself away from her laptop for a week straight. Lestrade, get Anderson to bring the laptop up here, I'm going to need it." Reluctantly, the man turned and made his way down the hallway in search of the computer.
"That was brilliant." John quietly mentioned, causing Sherlock to turn around and take in the jumper clad man, a faint awe easily discernible in his eyes. "I was wondering when you'd mention that," Sherlock muttered, sweeping his eyes over his friend's shoulder at the "J" embroidered bag he'd mentioned. He was only vaguely aware of his friend's head shaking in fond exasperation as he grabbed the bag that had somehow survived the hunt for evidence, and rifled through it's contents. "Ah, you see, she had every intent of going with the rest of the group sightseeing, but at the last minute she faked a claim of a headache and stayed back here. Something happened, something made her stay, something exciting…" "Something on the internet?" John piped up, trying to keep up with the speedy mutters of his colleague. "It might necessarily have been on the internet, John, maybe someone called or texted her while she so happened to be on the internet-" "And how would that've worked?" Something in Watson's tone made Sherlock pause from his ramblings and turn, to see the stocky man staring at the girl's phone, plugged into the wall in the spot as far from the bed as one could get. "…ah." Sherlock muttered.