I'm so sorry for the delay. Real life got in the way. Anyway, this chapter came out too long so I cut it in half. The next part will be up in a few days (it will. I promise. It's already written and everything).

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I try to reply to everyone, but if I somehow missed your comment know that I read and appreciate every single one of them, and that you probably made me very happy.

Anyway, I really hope you like this, and don't forget to review =)

I don't own Sherlock.


3. Age 25, Part 1

Sherlock stumbled upon the crime scene by accident. It happened under a large bridge that Sherlock called "Home" (although, even after two years he could not say it without a hint of irony). Sherlock was walking through the area when he saw a police perimeter. He approached it to get a closer look.

A man was hanging from one of the lower rafters. His tongue was swollen and hanging from his mouth in a way that was almost comical, and his skin was discoloured. He was muscular, and Sherlock could deduce from his disproportionately large leg muscles that he probably played football. His right shoe was more worn out than his left. Sherlock spotted an upturned chair lying behind him and a little to the right. It was not the first murder he had ever seen, but seeing as it was very cleverly disguised as a suicide, it certainly was the most interesting. Sherlock ducked under the perimeter and went to take a closer look. His eyes were wide with wonder as he inspected every inch of the body with his eyes. There were no needle marks and no signs of coercion. How did they do it, then? He was really enjoying this. His eyes felt sharper and his heart was pounding in his chest. He felt something that he hadn't felt in years: the excitement of doing something truly intriguing. Suddenly, he heard a shout behind him and found himself in handcuffs.

-o-

Ten minutes later

"What were you thinking?" The detective who was speaking to him was a smoker, married with children, and probably in charge of the investigation. His badge declared his name to be D.I. Greg Lestrade. Sherlock said nothing. He was sitting on a crate near the perimeter, his feet dangling off the edge and his hands handcuffed behind his back. Apparently, waltzing into crime scenes without a permit was illegal.

"When we handcuffed you, you said it was a murder. How did you know?" Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes and gave him a glare that could melt steel. "Come on, tell me."

"Let me go," Sherlock hissed. He felt extremely undignified tied up like this.

"I can't."

"Then I won't tell you," Lestrade bit his lip. Sherlock knew it would take more than this to break him, and so he tried something else,

"Everyone thinks this is a suicide," he said insinuatingly," Think about the reputation you'll get for solving a murder that no one else was clever enough to notice," Lestrade's expression didn't change. Apparently, Sherlock had stumbled upon the only detective in Scotland Yard who did not constantly think about their reputation. He decided to change tactics:

"Think about the victim's poor family who will never get closure. Think about the murderer who will go unpunished." He took one glance at the detective's face and knew that he'd won. He heard a click as the handcuffs were removed.

"Talk," It was almost pitiful, how desperate the detective sounded.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sarcastically. He could tell that the other man hadn't smoked in a while, so he took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and made a long show of lighting one. Watching Lestrade twitch was immensely satisfying.

"The victim is quite clearly a footballer, and one who uses his right foot a lot more often than his left," he started, "Now, a man committing suicide probably wouldn't spend too much time worrying about what leg he was going to use to kick the chair, so our victim would have probably used his right leg, because that's what he would be used to."

"How could you possibly know that he didn't?" The other man asked. He honestly tried to look angry at Sherlock, but his interest showed through his frown. He was intrigued by what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock smiled. Hardly anyone ever took him seriously. This was a fun change.

"Have you ever tried kicking a chair you were standing on?" He asked, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "Think about it. Where would the chair go if you kicked it with your right leg?" Lestrade gave Sherlock a confused look.

"Where would it go?" He repeated Sherlock's question, "What do you mean? It would go backwards, obviously..." He stopped to think and his eyes suddenly lit up, "Backwards and to the left!" Then the excitement on his face turned to horror.

"Oh god, stop!" He called out to his subordinates and ran back to the perimeter, "Don't touch anything! Don't move anything!" Sherlock was left on the crate with a small smile on his face. He felt great. He couldn't wait for Lestrade to come back so they could continue the investigation. The detective had to let him get a closer look at the body. There had to be more clues, and Sherlock would find them. He watched as Lestrade observed the body from all sides. Finally he returned, looking sombre. Apparently, he wasn't as excited about murders disguised as suicides as Sherlock was.

"You're right," He said grimly, "The chair fell to the wrong side. It doesn't add up."

"Well, now that you believe me we can think about the real investigation," Sherlock started. Pieces were coming together in his mind. He didn't even notice the huge grin that spread across his face. He jumped to his feet and started to pace in front of Lestrade.

"The murderer must have used some sort of drug to sedate the victim. Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to hang him without his body showing signs of coercion…" Sherlock felt as if he was on fire. This was way better than cocaine. He practically skipped to the edge of the perimeter and stared at the corpse.

"This is not a random crime. Someone wanted this man out of the way without alerting suspicion-"

"Obviously, he would have had enemies," The detective interrupted. Sherlock felt like a jet aeroplane that suddenly hit a mountain.

"What?" How could this dim-witted man know something that Sherlock failed to pick up?

"Well, this is Aaron Mathews. He played football for England. There's a whole list of people who would benefit from his death. Why do you think they called the whole Homicide Department to investigate an apparent suicide?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, sounding sulkier than he hoped he would, "Well, obviously I had no way of knowing he was famous…" He stared at the detective as if he cheated by having general knowledge, "Then we should obviously check for poison-"

"Wait, we?" Lestrade interrupted, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Because it's quite possible that he was dead, or almost dead, before he was hanged-"

"Who's we?"

"We should also check for sedatives, and then when the results come back, check who would be able to acquire the substan-"

"HEY!" Sherlock stopped again. If glares could kill, Lestrade would have been reduced to a soggy mush. "Thank you for your insights, but that's all they are. I can't let you join the investigation or anything." Sherlock's heart sank and he tried not to let it show. The detective thanked him for his help and left. An hour later the body was removed, the police was gone, and Sherlock was smoking his third consecutive cigarette while high.


Did you like it? Part two will be up by the end of the week.

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