4. Greg is betting
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The yellow crime scene delimitation tape was crossed from side to side of the narrow alley. The intermittent blue lights of the emergency vehicles periodically pierced the night's darkness revealing in flashes the efforts of the police officers walking about, collecting evidence, cataloguing and registering the scene details.
One man surveyed the overall coordination of the professionals. Assuring they worked like a well trained orchestra at the Opera House. The man stood tall and calm, in his trench coat and short grey hair, hiding the storm brewing inside. Periodically he moved silently his lips as if missing a cigar. A welcome distraction to the tense team on site. An eerily silent well oiled team. The only noises around were muffled comments between team members, the clanks of the examination bags of the forensic team, the heavy footsteps of the paramedics wrapping up their intervention.
A cab approached the yellow tape and the Detective Inspector in charge of the scene, its motor drenching the silence on site with mechanic nervousness.
'Lestrade', greeted the first man exiting the cab, in a formal educated voice, ignoring the shorter man still inside, paying the fare with routine gestures.
'Sherlock... John. Glad you two could come but...'
DI Greg Lestrade was brushed aside by the taller man who was confidently pulling up the police tape and making his way in. The DI looked over inquiringly at the shorter man exiting the cab. John Watson returned a polite smile and an honest shoulder shrug. Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he wasn't immediately entranced by a mystery, to the point of shutting off everyone else's presence there.
'Just... let him do his thing, Greg. He won't listen to anyone till he's done, anyway', reminded John, politely.
Greg bit his lip. But there was no stopping Sherlock Holmes now.
'This isolated location suggests an illicit business. The blood spatter pattern on the wall is a clear indication of the victim's height and posture. The arterial splatter is angled, from a victim who is almost six foot tall, standing relaxed with his arms don along his body. So, a surprise attack. Going by the particular shape of the droplets, the blow was angled from bellow, but not too low, closer to the horizontal. The attacker is, therefore, about fix foot four. A tall man, right-handed, using a sharp blade instrument with a long line, possibly a knife, most probably a sword.'
Sherlock was full-on maniac monologuing towards Greg and John, still standing by the police tape. 'A sword, in London. Not a usual weapon this days. Strongly indicates premeditation, no one walks around London with a sword. Pity, really.' Greg frowned, Sherlock didn't seem to notice.
'The swordsman arrives at the alley. Could be a female but a man is more likely judging by height, weapon of choice and angle of the blow. He hides behind a trash bin. He's wearing sport shoes and fidgeting as he stands crouched down there. The victim arrives and stands near the entrance to the alley. Fear, hesitance. The victim is uncomfortable with the location, loses his chance to walk away. Maybe he's approached immediately by the swordsman, more likely he's stunned by the sight of him in the shadows. The swordsman comes closer. They stand and face each other for a minute. They talk, then. Threats, probably. Maybe the killer is after money, maybe it's blackmail. It ends badly, with a blow to the neck. The victim falls down on the floor, bleeding fast, the swordsman runs towards the entrance of the alley, these are his sport shoes prints again. He stops. Why does he stop? Calling for help? No. Hiding his weapon, then. Where? Here! He's stupid, he just drops the red bladed sword on the nearest garden, under these shrubs. Then he...'
Sherlock was briskly interrupted by a paramedic, bumping into him, with his back turned to the detective, walking backwards, carrying something heavy. Sherlock looks down at the man's hands. He's carrying a gurney with a man heavy bandaged around neck and shoulders. John is on the other side, with the two paramedics, holding up an IV bag and jolting fast precise medical instructions at the team.
'Sorry, Sherlock!' he adds to his friend, with an apologetic grimace.
Apologetic? He's leaving with a bleeding six foot tall man. The victim. He's not dead. John is helping the paramedics. Greg lifts the yellow tape for them to pass.
The sword was on the bushes. The swordsman stopped. He called the police himself. He didn't mean to kill the victim. Inference? It was a stupid show of swordsmanship, the sword being the object illegally traded in a dark alley. It wasn't murder. It was a back alley purchase of a collector's sword gone stupidly wrong.
'Lestrade!' Sherlock was indignant now.
The DI tried to appease the consulting detective with broad gestures. 'You didn't let me talk, Sherlock!'
'He's not even dead!' Sherlock protested, pointing at the man being pushed into the ambulance.
At earshot, John gave him a "bit not good" warning look. Greg just smirked secretly.
Then he lost his smirk.
What were the guys at the Yard going to say? Did Sherlock solve, or not, the crime scene in under three minutes? Well, he did solve it, just solved the wrong crime, it wasn't a murder at all. But he described every event accurately.
Greg still wondered. Did he, or did he not, win the bet with the forensic guys? They were going to give him a hard time over this one...
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Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.
