John wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He almost wanted to give up. His best friend was missing and drugged and all he was getting were rubbish clues. John was an idiot. Clues like these would've taken Sherlock just a few minutes to solve. Not to say that less than an hour was a bad amount of time to solve a case, but it was when you needed to solve when you had a time period to solve between.
There were dozens of hills in London! How could he know which one Moriarty meant? John sat on the curb, rubbing his eyes as he thought. What did Jack and Jill do? They went for water. Now where would water be? Everywhere. But more specifically, something about a well. There are no wells in London. So what about a… A pub? No, he was just at a German pub. There wouldn't be a pub again.
John pulled out his phone and went to Google, quickly putting in 'Wells hill London'. He was greeted with a health food store in Notting Hill called Well Well Well, but that wouldn't be it. There was also Well Hill, a small village, in Kent, but that would be too far away.
Maybe there was no well. Maybe he had just made up the whole well thing. Hell, Moriarty hadn't even mentioned the word 'water' in his clue. Damn, this brought John back to the beginning. Sherlock would have figured it out by now. Sherlock would probably be disgusted by John.
John had two hours left now. He was stuck. Maybe the hill was relating to Tower Hill. It was the closest hill-related thing he could think of. He would have to try that. Maybe, just maybe, there will be something.
He hailed a cab and got in, and the cab took off. John spent the short time in the cab praying. He prayed that there would be a clue at Tower Hill. He prayed that he would find Sherlock. He prayed that everything would be alright. He prayed that tomorrow, everything would be back to normal and that there would be a jug of milk at home.
The cab dropped him at the corner five minutes later, at 16:51. He looked around, and at the end of the street was an area blocked off with police tape. He couldn't help but beam. As drastic as the situation was going to be, he felt proud. He had actually found something quickly. Surrounding the crime scene was police cars, dozens of policemen, and ambulances. John jogged up to the nearest policeman, peering over his shoulder at the crime scene. In the middle of the taped off area were two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The boy's head was cracked open, a pool of blood around it. There was also a bullet hole in his heart. A matching bullet hole was in the girl's head.
"Doctor John Watson. I'm Sherlock Holmes's colleague. What happened?" John greeted the cop.
"From the looks of it, he fell and they were shot." The cop replied.
"Mind if I take a closer look?" John asked. A few calls were made to Lestrade to guarantee that John was safe, and then John was allowed closer.
He had to think like Sherlock. This should be easy. The girl was left handed, judging by the ink smudges on her hand. The hole in her head was on the left temple. This could mean suicide. He moved over to the boy. He was slightly behind the girl. This could've meant that the girl and boy were walking together when the girl stopped, pushed him, and then shot him. This could've also meant that he fell backwards and the girl was startled and shot him.
No. None of that was the answer. There wasn't a gun near them. If she had shot him and herself, she would still be holding the gun, or at least the gun would've been near her. He picked up her hand and sniffed it. It had the same metally scent most hands had after handling a gun, but this still doesn't explain the lack of gun. He looked up at one of the policemen.
"Was there a gun here?" He asked.
"Not that we're aware of, sir," the man replied.
John checked the time. 17:20. An hour and a twenty minutes left.
John mulled it over. He stared at the two dead teenagers, observing. They had the same size and shaped nose, eyes, mouth, and jaw, along with the same color hair. Siblings, no doubt. The boy looked about one or two years younger than the girl – maybe fourteen years old. His cheek was slightly red and purple and swollen, and her eyes were red and puffy, possibly from crying. That's it!
They had been in a fight. She hadn't meant to do much, just hurt him. She punched him in the face, he fall back and cracked open his skull. As soon as that was done, someone with a gun just so happened to come along. The girl was crying at this point – she had just killed her brother. The person gave her the gun, coaxing her to make sure he was really dead. She made sure. He was shot in the heart by her. The person then pointed out all the bad things the girl had just done. Grief-stricken, she had pulled the trigger on herself. The technical killer took the gun and ran. The killers fingerprints had been on the gun, and he hadn't wanted to have been captured. A silencer had been on the gun, too, making it so 'Jill' had murdered without a sound. That had to be it. If it wasn't, well, he was going to be in some serious shit.
*Sent by John Watson at 17:30* [Picture message sent]
*Sent by John Watson at 17:31* [Picture message sent]
*Sent by John Watson at 17:32* Looks like Jill had a bit of help killing her brother. Very smart of their killer, taking the gun. Fingerprints can say so much these days.
*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 17:35* Took you less time than I expected! I'm impressed. No, actually, I'm not.
*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 17:36* I would let you talk to your precious Sherlock, but he has sort of blacked out. Shame, isn't it?
*Sent by John Watson at 17:38* Next clue, please?
*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 17:40* Trolls and London.
