The Booted Burglar

John didn't notice how thin the soles of his boots had become. It was one of the proofs he was falling back into civilian life. In war, you can't afford to be unaware of anything, since it might get you killed.

Currently, he was only aware of two things: Sherlock and danger. Which worked well, considering how often the two were linked.

His boots only drew attention when something among the trash bags through which they were searching seeped in between the seams of his shoe. It took a moment before he realized the squelching sound of his steps matched the warm, thick liquid soaking into his sock. That was when he froze.

"Sherlock."

"Not now, John!" the tall, thin man cried, continuing to dig among the piles of rubbish.

"Sherlock."

"A man's life depends on proving he didn't steal the item!"

"Sherlock!"

Eyes wide and annoyed, he finally spun to face the doctor. "What?"

"I think I found something," the stockier man sighed, unconsciously tugging at the sleeve of his jumper.

"Why didn't you say so?" In a bound of greatcoat and bright scarf, Sherlock came to stand beside his friend, quickly zeroing in on the puddle of blood in which John's left foot rested. Dragging several layers of plastic away, the detective found himself looking down at a gnarled old man dressed in ragged tatters of clothes, whose head appeared to have been bashed in in some kind of frenzy.

Sherlock leaned down, studying the details."He was tortured."

"Why do you say that?" John asked, still unmoving.

"His fingers, John! They're all broken. The people who found him must have known he was the last one with the item and were trying to get the location out of him." Sherlock sounded more annoyed than ever.

"And the head wounds?"

The detective began frantically searching through the man's pockets. "One of those involved lost patience, probably the one with the limp, and hit him too hard. And when he saw the man was dead, he tried to slow down anyone who came looking by making it impossible to recognize the old man from his face."

"But-"

Sherlock didn't even glance up from scanning the ground near the man."No time, John. He wouldn't let it out of his sight, so he must have hidden it on his person, but then why didn't his attackers find it?"

Shifting his weight, the doctor's attention was forced back to his boot. A thought hit him. "I need to buy new shoes."

"What?"

"New shoes."

Sherlock turned incredulously curious eyes on John, then a brilliant smile emerged. "That's it!"

"What's it?"

"A historically employed hiding spot! I assumed he must have had a somewhat high level of intelligence based on his disappearance and subsequent avoidance of police, but it may have simply been a set of instincts. Based on his clothing and the layers he has managed to accumulate, I would surmise he's been homeless for an extended portion of his life. That suggests his intelligence could easily have been that of the average man, meaning I should not have ruled out common human stupidity from the equation."

John's brow furrowed as he tried to understand what the detective meant. Then Sherlock reached for the man's worn shoes, tugging them off the body and shaking them.

A sparkling necklace dropped out to shine against the dull, trash smeared pavement.

While Sherlock celebrated his personal genius, John sighed. It would take at least two hours to finish explaining the case to Lestrade, and another twenty minutes for Donovan to attempt to interrogate them, before he would be able to return to the flat, throw out his boots and socks, and shower.

That also meant he'd have to go shoe shopping tomorrow in his slippers.

Bollocks.