Silently shutting the door, Sherlock glared menacingly at the man until he sank weakly back onto the mattress.
"Look," Charles started to ramble, "I know why you're here. And I swear it was an accident. We didn't mean to give him that much-"
"Shut up," the detective ordered dispassionately. "Now, I want some answers. And let me remind you that I can tell if you're lying. Did you and Steven Stafford attack John Watson earlier today?"
"Yes."
Sherlock allowed himself a moment of triumph before turning to face the man. "Why?"
Charles shifted nervously. "Because you wouldn't investigate."
"Investigate what?"
"Mickey's case."
Ah. They were upset because he wouldn't clear the name of a family member. How very dull. Well, it would be-if they hadn't made it personal.
"You want me to investigate a murder that has already been solved?" Granted, he knew how idiotic the police could be, but this one was so simple that they hadn't needed his help.
"It hasn't been solved! Mickey didn't do it."
Scoffing at that, Sherlock began to plot out his plan of attack, looking for weaknesses on Charles' body like a lion examining a wounded zebra.
The man sensed the danger and started to babble. "Mickey has an alibi! We have a pretty good idea of who did it, but we needed someone credible to prove it! Pete put the file on Detective Inspector Lestrade's desk, but you ignored it. So we had to get your attention. We didn't mean to-"
Charles' words were cut off when Sherlock's gloved hand closed around his neck. He brought their faces dangerously close. "If you wanted me on your side," he snarled, "you shouldn't have touched John."
He watched with satisfaction as the man's face turned an alarming shade of red; he released him before he passed out. As if nothing had happened, Sherlock asked,"Why did you think going after John would get me to help you?"
Charles choked in oxygen, holding his throat. "We-we were going to use him...as a bargaining chip. We were going to give him back-"
Sherlock shrugged his coat off and draped it over the back of a chair by the window. His scarf joined it, along with his black jacket. It wouldn't do to get blood where people could see it.
"I'll make this quick," Sherlock said, his voice cold and clinical. "I have no desire to be on the run from the police for the rest of my life, and I have no time to cover this up properly. So I won't kill you."
The look on the consulting detective's face chilled Charles to the core.
Sherlock looked down, surveying his work. The man was sprawled out on the floor, several limbs broken and bloody. He let out a low moan and twitched. "Before I render you unconscious," Sherlock said conversationally, "I want you to tell me what you used to kill John."
"I can answer that for you."
AN: Hope y'all had a great Thanksgiving! This story is almost at an end. Hope you still like it.
