Summary: One of the Yards most bizarre cases, where Sherlock regrets leaving the flat for something clearly less than a seven.
It was a dreary Monday morning at 221B Baker Street.
A tall angular figure was perched on the cold window ledge, watching the raindrops tediously as they cascaded across the misted glass, a sigh of frustration escaping his lips.
Nursing a warm cup of tea, Sherlock peered down at the milky concoction with a frown etched into his brow. He watched the liquid as it swirled within the confines of the white ceramic before averting his gaze back to the dismal downpour which continued to saturate London mercilessly.
Glaring bitterly at the solemn, swollen clouds that hung bleakly in the grey sky, the consulting detective decided that he would do anything for a case; he needed an excuse to leave the confines of the flat, regardless of the awful weather.
It seemed as though the criminals of London had decided to take a vacation during the absence of sunshine, and there were only so many hours in the day in which Sherlock could tolerate wondering the rooms of his mind palace.
The brunette had checked his inbox repeatedly, anticipating the arrival of a case.
There had of course, been nothing.
No cases, no clients, nor had there been any persistent pestering from Mycroft.
Not even any junk mail.
Data... He needed data.
The experiments around the flat had seemed to multiply overnight, and John had been at his wits end much quicker than Holmes had anticipated. Beakers and vials had covered almost every available surface, the array of chemicals within the confines of the small flat producing a very powerful aroma.
John had complained several times that the smell was responsible for giving him a pounding headache, and eventually he'd ended up marching around the flat and thrusting open all of the windows, declaring that pollution was a much better alternative to the vile chemical smell which continued to linger unwelcomingly in his sinuses.
Like always, John had tolerated the detective's antics to a certain degree in hope that the experiments would keep his flatmate occupied, temporarily curbing his destructive behaviour.
The doctor's patience had dwindled soon after the detective had managed to burn a hole through the kitchen table with a particularly pungent solution of acid.
Sherlock had soon found himself confronted by a highly irritated looking John, who had proceeded to linger in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest. Doctor Watson had disappeared and now the detective was faced with the stern Soldier, who proceeded to demand in a firm voice, "No more experiments, otherwise I'll put a matching hole through the centre of your head. Understood?"
Unfortunately for Sherlock, he'd already cleared Lestrade's filing cabinet during the last case drought; all solved, no loose ends, and absolutely nothing of interest. There hadn't even been any intriguing corpses at St Barts.
Within the past week he'd had composed more music than he'd produced over the course of the entire year. Playing the violin was just enough to keep him briefly occupied, however no instrument could ever match the stimulation which a case could provide for his brain.
Eventually, the sociopath attempted to move onto literature once he'd grown tired of gazing blankly at composition sheets, although this too was soon short lived.
After a mere seven minutes into the random title which he'd selected from his bookcase, the hardback had ended up being hurled across the sitting room with a loud thud.
There he was, the great Sherlock Holmes, reduced to sitting at the window like a desperate canine waiting for its master to return, watching as if he were simply waiting for a crime to occur outside his very front door.
Sherlock strolled barefoot across the flat and deposited the empty cup onto the coffee table, the distant yet audible hum of the shower gracing his ears.
Suddenly, the familiar sound of a text alert caught his attention, and Sherlock promptly retrieved the illuminated device from the chaotic clutter of his desk.
'Body found in a fireplace. Could do with your help on this one. Coming? GL.'
'YES-' The detective quickly erased the message, not wanting to sound desperate. Replacing his thrilled response with a more appropriate alternative, a delighted smile tugged at his lips as he promptly replied.
'Text me the address. SH.'
"John!"
Sherlock dashed across the lounge and quickly headed for his room with an enthusiastic spring in his step, fumbling with the stubborn knot in the cord of his silk dressing gown. As he passed the bathroom he pounded on the door with his fist in passing.
"John!"
"What is it?" A muffled voice replied, barely audible over the noisy hum of the shower and the sound of cascading water.
"A case," Sherlock replied loudly, flinging his pyjamas across the room in a hurry and almost tripping on his trousers in the process. Delving into the depths of his wardrobe he retrieved a clean shirt, threading his arms through the long sleeves and speedily buttoning the garment with his dainty fingers.
"What?"
"A case John," the detective repeated loudly, pacing back and forth across the cluttered expanse of his room in a hasty attempt to locate his shoes. "A case! A body- finally! With any luck it will be at least a seven... Have you seen my shoes?!"
"Just hold on a minute," John insisted, "the corpse isn't going to run away. Calm down before you break something-"
There was a smash, followed by a string of elaborate curses.
There was an audible click as the doctor unbolted the lock; a short while later he emerged from the steamy confines of the bathroom in his dressing gown, leaving the mist and peering down the hallway towards the source of the racket, his damp, dishevelled hair ruffled in various directions.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"It didn't sound like nothing," John replied as he strolled carefully down the hallway in his slippers, being careful not to trip on the corner of the rug as he frequently did, much to his flatmates amusement.
"Everything's fine, absolutely fine," Sherlock insisted as he left his room, stumbling down the hallway as he slipped into his shoes, "might need to pick up some stain remover on the way home."
"I'm not going to ask," the doctor called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs to his room, rubbing vigorously at his hair with the towel that was hung around his shoulders.
"Yes, probably for the best," the detective replied, checking his mobile impatiently for an address from Lestrade.
'Address. SH'
'A please would be nice. GL'
'Do you want my help or not? SH'
'Obviously, but knowing you, you'll come anyway. This one is at least a nine. GL'
'ADDRESS. SH'
"John!"
"Alright, just give me a minute- unless you want me parading around the crime scene in my underwear..."
A lengthy cab ride later, the duo were stood in the centre of a damp residential car park of a private estate, the downpour having eased since leaving the flat.
John watched his colleague survey the scene with keen interest, his sharp eyes lingering on each and every detail like hawk; the detective had practically sprung from the cab upon arrival, having spent most of the journey fidgeting impatiently in his seat like a caged lion, pestering Lestrade with numerous texts in an impatient demand for details.
It had been several days since the consulting detective had last left the flat, and the doctor couldn't deny that it was good to see him working again, doing what he did best when he wasn't busy destroying the flat.
Solving cases.
Sherlock was an addict.
He needed this.
The stimulation.
The fix.
The thrill of the chase.
Without it, it would only be a matter of time before he reverted back to old habits, decorating his limbs with ghastly track marks.
"Five properties," Holmes noted, "all with gated access and private parking. There's a camera across the street but the placement is useless. The angle doesn't extend far, only to the gate. Won't be able to see any of the houses..."
The tall sociopath strolled along the wet pathway in several long strides, leaving John to follow close behind him.
The property in question was the third of five grand looking houses, semi detached and surrounded by a low fence, the familiar luminous crime scene tape obstructing the open gateway. After descending half way up the path, Sherlock paused, studying the exterior of the house with an attentive gaze.
The cracked path was afflicted with several weeds and the unkempt grass was slightly overgrown- obviously not attended to regularly. Craning his neck, he could see that unlike the other properties the windows had been neglected for some time, unclean and all shut, traces of dirt visible on the filthy white frames.
"Glad you could make it," a cheerful voice sounded from the open doorway, the familiar figure of Greg Lestrade. "I think you'll like this one."
"This house has been unoccupied for a while. It's rather neglected compared to the other residents," Sherlock stated indolently. "Obvious really. The garden is unkempt and the windows haven't been cleaned for a while. "
"Maybe they're just not very domestic," John suggested, "like you."
"It's private property John," Sherlock retorted swiftly, "and the rent is expensive. Anyone who can afford to live in an area like this will have a reputation to sustain among the neighbours. Wealth wouldn't be much of an issue, so it's unlikely that they wouldn't have a gardener or a window cleaner."
"The property has been empty for three years," Greg informed, stepping aside and allowing them to pass. "When the previous tenants moved out, the landlord decided to renovate the property."
"Where?" Holmes asked, referring to the body. Eyeing the interior of the house with intrigue, his gaze lingered on every available surface and crevice.
"Lounge," Greg replied as he walked through the hallway, footsteps echoing audibly throughout the empty building. "The workmen arrived this morning to put in a new fireplace. When they pulled out the old one, they found a body. Well, what's left of it anyway..."
When Sherlock and John reached the room in question, they were greeted by a disgruntled looking Sally and a sour faced Anderson.
The rest of the forensics team were busy working around the fireplace, taking numerous photographs and studying what looked like the remains of a skeleton.
"What is he doing here?" Donovan asked as she confronted Lestrade. Folding her arms across her chest, she was clearly unimpressed.
"Because we need him," Greg replied, glancing at the remains that were being extracted from the fireplace. "We have nothing. No finger prints, no witnesses, no weapon- this body could have been here for years, and nobody noticed. Anything that might have been useful got thrown out before the decorators came in. If anyone's got a chance of solving this, it's him."
The sitting room was void of any furniture like the rest of the house, nothing but the bare walls, filthy floor boards, and remnants of the old fireplace, pieces of blackened coal and fragments of old brick.
"I need to see the body," Sherlock declared, "or at least what's left of it."
"Usually I'd give you three minutes, but since it's a tough one I'll stretch it to five," Greg said optimistically, hardly surprised when the consulting detective simply continued to survey the scene with a pair of alluring blue eyes, almost as if he hadn't heard him.
"Generous of you," the sociopath retorted finally.
He observed the crime scene attentively paying little attention to where he was walking, almost knocking over several busy and now disgruntled forensics, who had been taking various swabs. "Since you appear to be in a generous mood, perhaps you wouldn't mind evicting your colleagues from the crime scene."
"A please wouldn't go a miss," Lestrade replied, and promptly began to usher the forensics team from the room, regardless of Holmes apparent lack of appreciation. "Alright, everyone out! You know the drill. Come back in five minutes."
An irritated Anderson lingered in the doorway like a shadow, displaying an expression that closely resembled that of someone who had just sucked on a lemon. "If you contaminate anything, you'll be joining him," he said, gesturing to the remains of the corpse before making a swift exit, closing the door loudly behind him.
"He's really starting to grow on me," John declared dryly as he averted his gaze to his eccentric flatmate, who currently felt compelled to prod and examine everything with a pair of gloved hands.
Despite his faith in the detective's accurate deductions, John couldn't help but feel that this was going to be one of those cases.
The ones that Sherlock didn't like to acknowledge.
The unsolved ones.
The lounge like the rest of the house was bare and void of any furnishings. With the exception of the forensics equipment and some abandoned items courtesy of the surprised builders, nothing else remained.
"Nothing," John uttered to Lestrade, noting Sherlock's inappropriate enthusiasm as he began to examine the victims remains. "There's nothing. Nothing here except a pile of bloody bones and he's got a face like its Christmas."
"There's always something John," Holmes interjected, holding the lengthy left femur bone and proceeding to turn it over in his hands.
"Well, let us know when you've found this 'something'," John replied as an icy shiver riveted down the back of his neck, placing his hands into the pockets of his jeans in a quest for some warmth. "As fun as this is, it would be nice to get back to a house that's got some proper central heating."
Sherlock tried to gain as much as he could from the vacant living room, although there was nothing that could even be considered as remotely useful. The wallpaper had been stripped recently- four days ago to be precise. The walls were completely bare but he could still smell the lingering stripping solution in the atmosphere, courtesy of the closed windows.
Placing the femur aside, he got to his feet and stepped forwards.
Peeling the latex glove from his right hand, he extended the limb and proceeded to guide his fingers across the broad surface, his suspicions confirmed by the unmistakable tacky substance beneath his fingertips.
"The walls were stripped a few days ago. Four, perhaps five at a push. The wallpapers gone but there's still some residue from the adhesive which wasn't removed properly."
"How-"
"The smell of the solution," Holmes replied, his tone suggesting that the answer had been clearly obvious.
"I can't smell anything," Greg stated positively, and Watson nodded in agreement. Together they began to sniff curiously, unable to detect anything other than the scent of stale air from the lack of ventilation throughout the building.
"You both look like a couple of rejected sniffer dogs" the detective said, crouching low beside the fireplace and crumbling the brick dust between his fingertips.
"Oh my god."
"What is it?" Greg asked, feeling an ounce of concern arise once he caught sight of the doctor's sombre expression.
"This is more serious than I thought," John expressed in a serious tone.
"What is?"
"Case withdrawal. He's even trying to use a sense of humour. God help us all."
Much to Sherlock's irritation, Greg and John were unable to contain their amusement and proceeded to erupt into a fit of laughter.
"Once you've both quite finished, need I remind you that there's a corpse that's just been salvaged from the fireplace?"
"How could we forget," Watson replied, pulling on a pair of gloves as he approached the body with a sudden new found air of professionalism, erasing the smirk from his lips with respect. He crouched opposite his flatmate, the remains of the body occupying the existing space between them. The pieces were arranged in a formation that was as orderly as possible given the circumstances, however it was difficult to deduce anything about the former individual when several of the bones were positioned incorrectly, not corresponding to the usual structure of the human anatomy.
Sherlock glanced at the doctor momentarily before averting his attention back to the body.
"Well?"
"He definitely doesn't have a pulse," John replied dryly. He gazed over to Lestrade, who simply nodded in response, silently granting him permission to touch the evidence.
"Sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."
"I'm a doctor Sherlock, not an archaeologist," he informed the sociopath bluntly. "Most of my patients have a lot more flesh than this. The last bone I saw was from an x-ray."
"I'm not expecting you to determine the cause of death John," Sherlock began, hoping to encourage the doctor to regard to corpse from another perspective. "You're a good doctor, although I don't expect you to be psychic."
"Did you just praise me?"
"Yes, don't sound so surprised," the sociopath replied. "I'm capable of being considerate on occasion."
"I don't think I heard you the first time. Can I have that in writing?"
"John," the detective pressed impatiently.
John eyed the skeletal pieces with a scrutinizing gaze.
"No obvious trauma to the skull or any of the other bones. There's not enough left to determine anything else. Sorry Sherlock, but you're on your own with this one. I can't help you this time."
"There must be something! Anything!"
"Dental records?" John suggested, glancing at the skulls mouthful of exposed teeth.
"It could take days," Lestrade replied, "and there's no guarantee that we'll find anything-"
The consulting detective raised his gloved hand in a hushing motion, quickly silencing the inspector.
Glaring in frustration at the victim's remains, Sherlock concluded that until the forensic results were back, the body was clearly going to be of no use.
Peeling off his remaining glove, he began to pace back and forth across the sitting room deep in concentration, trying to ignore the way that his footsteps echoed nosily behind him.
"None of the previous tenants reported missing?"
"No missing tenants, relatives, friends, neighbours- no one. Not even the local milkman."
Sherlock approached the fireplace gingerly, careful not to disturb any potential evidence. His attention was fixated on the rotten carpet underlay beneath his feet.
"Did you find anything with the Luminol?"
"Luminol?"
"Is there an echo in here? Yes, the Luminol! Did you find any blood traces?"
Lestrade opened the door of the sitting room a fraction, before hollering, "Anderson!"
Soon enough the forensic investigator appeared, regarding the consulting detective with a resentful glare.
"Did you get anything with the Luminol?" Greg inquired.
"Barely," Anderson replied "Only the bottom of the old fireplace."
"What about the old carpet?" John asked. "Can we find it?"
"They took the carpet up weeks ago," Lestrade said, "it will be in landfill by now."
"Are you absolutely sure that you checked every inch of this room?!"
"Yes!" Anderson snapped in response. John couldn't help but notice that the man looked as though he were only moments away from assaulting his flatmate. "We checked the entire house from top to bottom. There is nothing else here-"
"Shut up!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly.
On the floor was a filthy looking metal sheet, and the lanky brunette approached it with keen enthusiasm, running his fingertips along its rusted surface.
"The fireplace! It was fake, correct?"
"How did you know that-" Lestrade began, although he was quickly interrupted.
"The metal was used to exclude the draft," Holmes explained, averting his gaze to the exposed chimney . "The original fireplace has been sealed for years. It was replaced with a fake that was more aesthetic…."
The detective became quiet, suddenly intrigued by the exposed chimney flue.
"What is it Sherlock?" Lestrade asked eagerly, sensing that the man was on the verge of a breakthrough.
"I need overalls, gloves, a mask, and a torch!"
"But-"
"Now!"
Lestrade promptly disappeared into the hallway to see to the detective's demands, and John was left standing beside the body in complete disbelief.
Of all the crime scenes that Sherlock had attended, not once had he ever worn a pair of white overalls.
He wasn't the type of man that followed protocol, with the exception of a pair of gloves on occasion. In normal circumstances he was happy enough to parade around in his coat and trousers, confident that he wasn't in any danger of contaminating any potential evidence.
The Doctor couldn't help but wonder what on earth had gotten into him.
The inspector returned momentarily with a new pair of overalls in hand, accompanied by a mask, a large torch, and a pair of thin shoe coverings.
"John?"
"Yes Sherlock?"
"Put these on."
Five minutes later John Watson found himself clambering into the remains of a filthy fireplace, wishing he hadn't bothered showering before Sherlock had dragged him out of the flat.
As always John had tried to argue, but his attempts had of course been futile.
Apparently he was just the right size.
How bloody convenient.
After several attempts John clumsily managed to raise his arm to chest height, scraping his elbow against the grainy brick. He fumbled for the torch switch, squinting as the bright light began to blind him in the face.
For several moments he stood in the narrow confines of fireplace, wondering what he was meant to be looking for. At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Craning his neck to glance upwards towards the closed chimney cap, John cursed as he managed to bang his head.
"Well?"
"Well what?" John replied, his voice echoing between the four walls.
"Do you see anything?"
"Bricks."
"Obviously." Sherlock pressed impatiently, peering as far as he could see into the open chimney. "What else?"
"More bricks."
"Oh for goodness sake-"
"Well what am I looking for exactly?"
"If you're not going to be helpful-"
"Hold on a second."
Squinting through the awful lighting, it was then that he saw it.
Amidst his bickering with his annoying flatmate, John had almost missed the most crucial piece of evidence which was literally right in front of him.
"Scratch marks."
"Brilliant!"
Much to his relief, John clambered out of the fireplace, being careful not to bang his head upon exit.
To his left, Sherlock was cheerfully admiring the corpse, looking thoroughly impressed with himself.
"Care to explain?" Lestrade pressed, frustrated as always when the detective kept him out of the loop.
"Our victim here is actually an attempted burglar."
"How did he end up in the fireplace?" John asked, in the process of removing his overalls.
"Isn't it obvious?!"
The room of blank faces apparently said otherwise.
"He underestimated the size of the chimney," the detective deduced, "and got stuck. Unfortunately for our friend here, he didn't know that the fireplace was sealed off. The property must have been empty when he arrived, because clearly no one heard his pleas for help."
"How longs he been here?" Lestrade asked curiously, earning himself a mere shrug from the detective.
"It's difficult to say until we get any results from the forensics. John, likely cause of death?"
"Could have been asphyxiation. If there's not enough room for the lungs to expand and the diaphragm can't move, he would have died from lack of oxygen."
John eyed the corpse once more before concluding, "And if he wasn't lucky enough to be asphyxiated, he probably died from dehydration."
"Nasty way to go," Lestrade added. "Still, what do you think? I'd say this one was clearly a nine."
"Don't flatter yourself Lestrade. It was obviously a three."
"A three?! Now wait a minute-"
"Case closed!"