Chapter 2

Sherlock and John exited the tube station three blocks from the crime scene. Fresh air and sunshine hit Sherlock's face like a balmy caress.

He knew that the only way he would be able to mingle in society and not stand out like a burke would involve his using a certain degree of disguise. So, for the sake of anonymity, Sherlock wore coloured contacts that gave the world a slight tint of grey, as if he were wearing sunglasses. This muted the startling color of his eyes to a more human blue-green. He had rubbed his skin down with a mix of lotion and potash to dull its poreless perfection. The odd smell had made John wrinkle his nose, but Sherlock didn't find it too bothersome. It served its purpose. Even if he did smell a bit like burnt flowers. There was nothing to do with the hair. If anyone was stupid enough to comment, he'd just say he found a new shampoo.

John grumbled and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "God, this weather. If there's a body, it's going to be rank."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Just pray it hasn't exploded. Not good for finding evidence if it's all covered in bits."

"Thanks for the visual, Sherlock," John sighed.

Smiling, Sherlock slowed his pace. The sun was high and warm on his skin. He'd managed to disgust his flat mate. There was a dead body up ahead. The day was looking up.


"So this is…" John trailed off and consulted the printout Mycroft had left them, "Avalon Gardens? I've never heard of it."

"There are a few pubs with that name, but I didn't know this was here either," Sherlock admitted with reluctance. He had always prided himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of London, but this area was new to him.

From across the street, there wasn't much to see. Red brick, multi-level houses cheek to jowl along a quiet block. A few pitiful trees struggled up through the pavement, their weak branches barely supporting the few little leaves they wore. Sherlock assumed this was the 'gardens' part of the name. Optimistic for such a dreary neighbourhood. Even the midday sunlight was having a hard time finding its way down between the buildings.

They had both expected a typical crime scene upon arrival. Yellow tape, flashing lights, and police officers trampling his crime scene like a herd of elephants. But there was only one car, a non-descript grey sedan parked a few doors down. Someone sat in the driver's seat, calmly turning the pages of a magazine he had propped on the steering wheel. The only give-away that they weren't local was the fact that the car was too new and too clean to fit in properly.

"There's Mycroft's man," Sherlock said, nodding to the car. "I suppose we should get started."

"Do you see any evidence out here?" John asked.

Normally, Sherlock could suss out a crime by observing the surrounding area and finding the most minute of clues from amongst the general rabble of everyday life. And that was before he'd transformed into a demi-god. Now, even with his elevated senses, he could find nothing out of the ordinary. Which, in itself, was extraordinary.

"Not a thing," he replied as he started across the street. It was all too still. Too quiet.

The man in the car climbed out as they approached. He was average in every way. Average height, face, weight, even his grey suit matched the car. Sherlock allowed his senses to stretch out before him like an invisible hand. There was the slight scent of oil from the man's jacket indicating a pistol, but that was expected. Beyond that, nothing of note. Heart rate calm, no smell of fear or anxiety. At least Mycroft had sent a professional.

"Mr. Holmes the younger, I presume?" the man asked, his face blank.

"I am," Sherlock answered. "And this is my friend, Dr. John Watson."

Giving a tight smile, the man turned and started towards the building.

"My instructions are to let you in, and lock up behind you. That is all."

"That's all I need," Sherlock said, but he noticed that John flushed a little at the man's blunt demeanor. In all the years they had been together, Sherlock was always amused at how people's rudeness bothered John. The only one who got a pass in that regard was Sherlock. Of course, stopping Sherlock being rude would be like stopping a train with a fly swatter.

"Can you smell anything?" John asked under his breath. "Because I can't."

Sherlock shook his head. No clues, no smells, nothing.

The agent unlocked the door and went back to his car without a word. Already Sherlock was dismissing him and started focusing on his surroundings. He mentally cataloged the smudges below the door handle, the state of the window casings, even the type of brickwork used. None of it was giving him anything to work with at the moment, but could be useful later. He pulled a pair of surgical gloves from his blazer and absently noted John doing the same.

The front door swung open on silent hinges. Dry, hot air wafted out to greet them. It smelled of neglected woodwork and mouldering wallpaper. The interior of the small house was dark and had a sense of emptiness. More than if the rooms lacked furnishings, though they did. This was the emptiness of long abandonment. A house, but not a home. Dust motes stirred in the light from the open door, the only movement in the stillness.

"The file said that a kid, some trespasser, saw the body from a keyhole. Upstairs, I'd bet," John said, pointing up the narrow flight of stairs before them. "And that the body was, uh, grinning. Scared a few years off him. He panicked, called the cops, who called your brother. Lestrade was the first on the scene, thank God."

"Mmm. Yes, very fortunate."

Detective Inspector Lestrade was one of the few on the police force for whom Sherlock had even the slightest shred of respect. Sherlock always considered Lestrade the best of a bad lot. Guaranteed to damage a crime scene only minimally.

"Now," Sherlock said, "no more talking."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock took a moment to let his senses sharpen. One second. Deep breath. Two seconds. And open—

Too much. It's overwhelming. Stop. No, look. The wood grain doesn't matter. Does it? No. LOOK. There, a scuff. The stairs. Size eight, boys, age 14, off-brand and worn. Streets mainly, no trace of clean earth. Doesn't matter. Only one set of prints leading up and a quick path heading down, tripped over the last few steps and out the door. I can almost hear him screaming. Don't touch or I may. So, whatever is up there didn't come up the stairs. Even Lestrade stayed in the entry. Why would he not look? Why would he call my brother at the first hint of something unusual? Obvious. This is larger than Mycroft is letting on. There are more. More than in the file. Why was I not told sooner? Worry about it later. FOCUS. Go up, don't mar the prints. The handrail is clean. Everything is clean, but dusty, abandoned. The house was built, wallpapered, painted, and deserted. Locked up immediately after completion. Why? Thirteen steps. Unlucky to some. The door is shut still. Mid-century, basic but not cheap design. Doesn't matter. Bad lighting up here. John will have trouble seeing. The keyhole though. There's the light like a beacon. Natural light. Someone has opened the shutters inside the room. Still no smell. There should be a smell. And the boy knelt down and saw… Ah, that's why he screamed.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hushed, "come here and look. Don't touch anything, just tell me what you see."

Clearing his throat, John shot Sherlock a suspicious look and did as he was asked.

He, as predicted, screamed.