"Jesus, Sherlock. Look at her."
Sherlock was surveying the scene, his eyes glowing almost manically as he paced, muttering to himself.
Sherlock had been bored. That much John knew. The worst John had ever seen him; it had been almost a month without a case. Receiving the call to tell him that a young girl had been murdered had been so much of a relief that John worried he was becoming as bad as Sherlock himself. But he couldn't let that bother him for the moment – right now his mind was consumed by the horror of the scene; the "young girl" had turned out to be only sixteen. So young and baby faced. So covered in blood.
"And there's no clue as to why someone might have done it?" asked John.
"None at all" Lestrade stood shrugging from the doorway of the girl's bedroom. "Not exactly the type to have enemies though is she?"
"Everyone has enemies Lestrade, it's just that not everybody is aware of them." Sherlock piped up, not even looking up from his examination of the body. The other two just rolled their eyes, but John was certain he heard a muttered "freak" from one of the rooms nearby.
As had been happening a lot lately, John found himself just pause for a moment, and watch Sherlock work. The crease between his eyebrows, the strength of his gaze, the way the dim light and the shadows clung to his cheekbones as he bowed his head.
At a knowing smirk from Lestrade, John snapped out of it, shaking his head. He was always determined to banish such confusing lapses of self-control from his mind. As he did, something caught his eye.
"Sherlock?" He said walking slowly towards the desk in the corner of the room.
"Her laptop, it's – well it's still switched on. She must have been using it when she was attacked."
Sherlock glanced up at John and his eyes flicked from the laptop to the girl. "Yes, she spent a lot of time at her desk, but not working – look at her elbows, she's been putting a lot of pressure on them, possibly leaning on a desk. And while she only has a little acne, the girl was a teenager after all, it's more prominent around the cheekbones, she's clearly been resting her face in her hands a lot. Not the sort of thing a person does when they're actually getting any work done. Her short sightedness at her age would probably be a result of over-exposure to a screen possibly television or computer. I'm led to believe the latter going off her fingers."
Lestrade just shook his head and walked away, probably to go and talk to someone who spoke a more recognisable language.
"Her fingers." John said, working to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He should be used to it by now. It wasn't really a question, but Sherlock didn't need much prodding.
"Yes John, her fingers! Look at them. Anyone can tell just by looking about the room that she's a writer, and that's on top of homework and such things, but look at her fingers! She doesn't have a writer's bump. No coarse skin or ink smudges. She's clearly fond of typing her work. Presumably because she's a fast typer - probably gets a lot of practice. In short, John, you need to go and look at her computer."
John didn't even have an answer ready, he just walked up to her laptop and opened the browser. First stop: internet history.
"Anything could be useful. Social networking, E-mails. Look for sites she visits regularly. Google search history. If this girl spent so much time in front of her computer, it's safe to assume that anything that might be important enough to get her killed can be found on there." Sherlock rested on the back of the chair John was sat on, watching over his shoulder. It was far too distracting.
"Here. Wow. She visits this website a lot. Most visited. Several times a day. 'suppose we should look there then. I've never heard of it actually. Tumblr. Weird."