Yeah, so I was bored and this happened. Forgive the crappiness, thanks. Enjoy.
…
Sherlock sighs, leaning his head back and letting his dark curls splay across the edge of his chair. "I'm-,"
"Bored. Yes, I know. What do I have to do with anything?" John glances up from his laptop to his best friend, and then to the gun laying on the table. He reaches out, sliding it closer to himself. Sherlock purses his lips, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
"Entertain me, John."
John just scoffs, not looking up from his typing. "Last time I checked, I wasn't a dancing monkey. Go analyze the wall or something." Sherlock's frown deepens and he presses his calves into the chair, resting his elbows on his knees.
"It's been a whole week since the last case! Why can't someone just go ahead and-,"
"Die?" John's hands freeze over the keyboard and Sherlock stays silent, not wanting to admit that that is, indeed, what he was going to say. John closes his laptop with a heavy sigh and gazes out of the window into the unusually sunny London weather. "Look, Sherlock, I'm positive that Greg will call you soon, okay?" Sherlock lifts his head, an eyebrow raised high.
"Greg?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! Lestrade!" John drags his hand down his annoyed face. Sherlock only nods, though looking severely unconvinced. God, if I weren't here so often, he would have at least 10 more holes in the wall, John thinks to himself.
Sherlock's ringtone pierces the silence, making Sherlock's hand dive into his pocket. "Sherlock Holmes." Though the words are said calmly, John can hear the anticipation in his voice. A long pause on Sherlock's side makes him smile wide. "Brilliant. Perfect. Wonderful. We'll be there soon." Not giving John a chance to grab anything, Sherlock yanks his long, dark coat and shrugs it on, then wrapping the knit blue scarf around his pale, slender neck. John clumsily pushes himself out of the cushioned chair and is thankful that he has left his jacket on. He breaks into an awkward jog to the door, locking and closing it before taking on the stairs. Sherlock waits impatiently, leaning against the slightly worn wallpaper. He practically shakes with the excitement of another case. John rounds the corner and Sherlock makes haste in opening the door and darting into the chilly air. Even though it was the sunniest day London had had in weeks, the hopes of having a nice, warm temperature was almost bitterly amusing.
"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock calls, finally succeeding at getting a cab. The pair piles in the back and Sherlock gives the driver an address. John doesn't quite catch the exact location, but guesses that it's somewhere around Piccadilly. The cabbie nods and swings into the loose traffic. The silence is comfortable, each busying themselves with their own thoughts. Sherlock trying to decide what the murder will be, and John's mind replaying the lyrics of that one commercial that was played 7 times in 20 minutes on the telly.
Moments later, the cab pulls up at a taped off scene, allowing the two men to step out. They walk up and an officer lifts up the tape, letting the two duck under and continue walking to a small apartment building surrounded by police cars and people. Radio chatter and terse conversation fills the air. Lestrade falls in step with the two and Donovan follows. "Hello, John. Freak." Her voice hardens at the last word and John presses his lips together and nods to the woman.
"Sally." The word is said as a simple greeting, a fairly cool-natured one at that.
"What do we have?" Sherlock's voice is directed towards Lestrade, eyes already analyzing the interior of the apartment. The foyer is painted a pleasant blue, a gold mirror hanging on the wall. The group enters a sitting room, which has a long, white couch and brown recliner facing a fireplace. The wallpaper is a burnt yellow hue, giving the space a homey feeling. A bookcase is pressed against the wall, a variety of published works from J.K Rowling to Lemony Snicket taking up the shelves.
"Just through here." Lestrade points to a white wooden door. Sherlock pushes it open and walks over to the dead body on the bed. "Suzanne Hendricks. 29 years old, math teacher at Willington Primary School. She was found by her concerned cousin at 11 am, who heard that she didn't show up to the school."
Sherlock nods, rubbing his thumb on the cream colored dress the corpse wore. "Obviously, she was planning on going to work, having gotten dressed. That means that our intruder got in earlier in the morning, right before she was about to leave. Keys were on the floor in the foyer, kicked into a corner, so that means she was on the way out but was stopped and carried to her room. If you kill someone too close to a door, the noise will escape. So, the killer takes her here and there was a tussle, given by the dirty scuff marks on the carpet and the split lip on the girl. John? Your turn."
John looks up at Sherlock. "Huh? Oh." He bends down and examines the body. "The death looks like it took place around 7:30 in the morning. Looking at the bruises on her wrists, she was probably bound by them. The bruising is only slight, though, so I'm thinking maybe once they were bound, she fought for a bit before either giving up or dying. No wound, other than a few scratches from the fight and I can't see any marks where she was strangled, so most definitely drugs."
Satisfied with the examination, John stands straight. Sherlock nods and holds the hand of Suzanne, inspecting the skin. "The killer obviously wanted her to die quickly. This isn't a vengeance kill. That would have been much more painful and bloody so she had something they wanted very badly and simply needed her gone. Having gotten it, they took the bindings off and left quickly. Right here is an imprint of a work-boot, size 9. This indicates that our killer is a man that doesn't work for any government or office building." He pauses and narrows his eyes. "Look here. On the index finger, there's a stain from the metal of a ring. It looks like that of a silver metal. This looks rather fresh. The killer obviously took it off. The rest of the room is fairly intact, as intact as a single woman's room can be. No drawers hurriedly opened and the jewelry box is undisturbed, so the ring was what he was after. John, I want you to go and question the girl's colleagues. Lestrade, you have Molly run tests on what the drug was." John nods wordlessly and takes his leave, clapping Lestrade on the back. Lestrade turns and follows, going to relay what information he could to Donovan. Sherlock makes one more sweep of the room, making minor, last minute deductions. Dog lover. Rich family. Adopted. Stubbornly independent. Passion for literature. The list went on and finally, Sherlock turns, leaving the room. His form halts and he squints at a dresser pressed up against the window. A corner of blue plastic peeks out from behind an open book full of Edgar Allen Poe's most popular works. A frown tugs at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he bends down to identify the object. A calculator. A calculator with the number 5 on it, to be specific. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he then pulls out his mobile and takes a picture of the thing. The door swings open again and Sherlock quickly rises, pulling his scarf tighter around him and smoothing out his oversized coat. Donovan pops her head in, eyebrow raised.
"You done yet, Wonder Freak?"
Sherlock ignores the ever-common insult and gives an innocent, tight-lipped smile. "Yes, quite." He brushes past the girl and walks to the street, trying to call a cab. A car pulls over and Sherlock jumps in.
"Where to?" The voice of the man in the driver's seat is rough and deep, louder than he probably meant.
"221B Baker Street." Sherlock settles into the leather seat, ignoring the unmistakable smell of liquor and cheap perfume.
….
Sherlock furrows his brow as he looks at the picture he had taken of the calculator. The object seemed too out of place. Satisfied with the decision that the killer had placed the calculator there, Sherlock continues with his thinking. Obviously, it was placed in a spot where only someone who was paying fierce attention could have seen it and even if they did, they could just deduce that the woman was a math teacher and that she needed it.
Knocked out of his thoughts by a text alert, Sherlock picks up his mobile and looks at the screen.
On the way home
-JW
It had been over two hours since John left the crime scene to question the co-workers of Suzanne Hendricks.
When is it
-SH
The reply is almost immediate.
What do you mean?
-JW
Sherlock scoffs at the ignorance of his friend.
The date.
-SH
Sherlock waits, ready to enjoy his daily dose of "Shut up, I'm right."
Tuesday night
-JW
Jerk
-JW
Chuckling, Sherlock sips his tea, rubbing one foot with the other, eyes transfixed on Suzanne Hendrick's file. After a few minutes of studying what classes she took in university, Sherlock hears the heavy thuds of John coming up the stairs. The door opens and John enters, going straight to the kitchen.
"Is she a looker?" Sherlock looks over at his friend with a smirk.
"Shut up." John opens the refrigerator, ignoring the jar of human toes from Sherlock's latest experiment. Seeing no food, he turns, opening his mouth to speak, before having Sherlock interrupt him.
"My wallet is on the counter."
….
Haha, yeah. I have some big plans for this so I'm excited. Thank you for reading. Hope you liked it! Follow, favorite, review, and stuff. Love and Sherlock's glorious curls – alleycat12