Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I'm glad you like the story so far.

This one is a small Sherlock John Lestrade chapter. No Molly here. I need to get some details about the murder out here. It is a light chapter. I think it's appropriate to add a light one after reading so much angst and drama in the previous chapters.

Happy Reading :)


Chapter Eight: I Will See It First

"Where were you, John? I asked you to inform the inspectors and come back upstairs," he said angrily. He had managed to catch his breath and made his way downstairs to the supposed crime scene.

"No you didn't. You wanted me out of the way so you could talk to her," he gestured to the pale girl, who had returned to her mother-in-law.

"Shut up," he scowled at him and continued walking towards Lestrade, "What did you find?"

"A bit of dirt near the window, come here," he led them towards a large window near the door and pointed to a sample of dirt being collected by an officer into an evidence bag. The brown substance was scattered around nine inches of the area, and another patch of nine inches of dirt was present about a foot away from the first area.

"Footsteps!" Sherlock exclaimed and clapped his hands together.

"Sorry?" Lestrade screwed up his face in confusion.

"Here and here," he pointed to both the areas, "These are footsteps. Someone came in from the outside and…" he kneeled down till his nose was barely a millimetre away from the dirt and sniffed loudly, "This is not dirt. It is soil."

"Alright…but we can't get the prints can we…?" Lestrade asked while the detective was busy tapping away on his phone.

"We can, actually. It rained yesterday for approximately six hours, around the time of the murder. If the murderer came in from the window, with dry soil on his shoes, it wouldn't have been raining then and the soil outside in the garden would have been dry as well. But when he would have left, he must have gone from where he came, the window, and when he left, it was raining and he would have walked through wet ground leaving-"

"Footprints!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Footwear outsole impressions!" Sherlock scowled.

"Anderson!" Lestrade bellowed.

"Not him! Let me see the prints first!" Sherlock groaned.

"We have to prepare casts!"

"I'll see the evidence first!"

"Alright, girls. Let's just let Sherlock see it first," John patted Lestrade on the shoulder while Sherlock stomped outside.

John came out minutes later and found Sherlock with his magnifier out examining the shoeprint, "Nine inches, rather small. Height…five nine to six feet…" he got up slowly and walked in the direction of the footprints, "Then slipped on his way out," he pointed towards a faded brown mark on the concrete pavement, "On his face…see how the mark fades as it goes back?"

"So…he slipped when he got out from the resisting ground onto firm ground?" John asked.

"Yes…shows how unaware he was of his surroundings. In fact…Lestrade did an excellent job by getting a few officers to ask around. The culprit might have been seen by someone without him noticing," he grinned devilishly.

"So you'll go and commend Lestrade?" John asked.

"Commend? What for?" Sherlock scrunched his nose.

"Oh, never mind," he waved his hands in exasperation.

"I hope you're not trying to fly, because that is utterly useless and extremely repulsive," Sherlock remarked with disgust etched on his face.

"I am not, you git!" John growled and went back into the house.

"Git…" Sherlock grumbled as he followed him in and found Lestrade.

"Done?"

"Yes. You can now let your ignoramuses loose on the evidence," he drawled.

"Ignoramuses…" Lestrade repeated with difficulty, then turned on John, "Who says that nowadays? What aeon is he from?" he complained.

"The Victorian epoch judging by the deerstalker," John grinned.

"If you two are done comparing your English language skills, which are miserably crude, can we continue the investigation?" Sherlock disputed.

"We weren't comparing our English language, Sherlock. We were sharing a laugh," Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Well don't. It's a crime scene. Very inappropriate. Tell him, John."

"I tell you, if I kill him, it won't be counted as murder, but as a social service! I might get a medal for Christ's sake!" Lestrade bellowed.

"I'm going to examine the body. If the Garda Síochána have a problem with it, you will deal with them," Sherlock drawled and moseyed towards the body. John shrugged his shoulders in defeat and followed him, "John what do you think?"

"I think, that you're being exceptionally rude," John murmured as he leaned down and pressed his gloved hand over the slit of his throat, "Death from loss of blood, I think. The slit doesn't look deep enough to cut through the windpipe."

"Yes…now look at his fingernails and these marks," he pointed to the dead man's hands and the scratches on the floor, leading away from the corpse.

"Do we follow the marks to where they are coming from?" John asked.

"You tell me. Where do you think they are coming from?"

"The…the bedroom?"

"Exactly. Which means?"

"That he was…oh my god! He was alive and very much conscious!" John gasped.

"Precisely. He saw his killer. But who was he…?" he asked himself.

"I'm sorry, he?"

"Yes, 'he' John. It is obvious from the shoeprint that it was a man," Sherlock huffed with disappointment.

"You sound like you expected something else?" John frowned.

"Yes. I expected you to be much more intelligent," he pursed his lips and kneeled down towards the corpse before John could say anything, "He used one of his hands to leave the marks…meaning his other hand was numb or he was holding something."

"It is folded in a fist…he might be holding something…" John exclaimed and gently pried open the fist to find a small piece of paper.

"Give it to me, John," Sherlock thrust his impatient hand in John's face. John narrowed his eyes at his hand, nearly going cross-eyed, when he slapped the paper in his hand. Ignoring his attitude, Sherlock twisted and turned and even tasted the paper, "Government document."

"How do you know?"

"It tastes like a smoky government place. It is a legal document. Most probably Mr. Moriarty's will. Where is the rest of it…" Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Well…we looked through all the rooms…" John said, but Sherlock didn't reply, "Sherlock-oh fine!" Sherlock was lost in his mind palace, meaning whatever John would say, will fall on deaf ears.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, "The basket!"

'What?!" John blurted out, but his friend was already dashing up the stairs to Jeremy's room. John followed him quickly and found Sherlock leaning with his head in the dustbin.

"Burnt! It's all burnt!" Sherlock's voice echoed from inside the basket.

"What is?"

"The will!" he groaned.

"Lestrade will send it for examination and I'm sure we'll get the results, including what was written on it," John consoled, though a bit confused by his friend's unusual, ignorant behaviour.

"Yes, John. But I won't get to see it first, will I?" Sherlock tried sounding as patient as he could, but failed miserably.

"Oh…" John gritted his teeth, when his behaviour made absolute sense.


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