Hello again readers, slightly late (Sorry :/) but never mind. Hopefully you'll like this one, it was pretty difficult to write but I think the end result was worth it. Enjoy :D

Disclaimer: D:

Chapter 9:

Number seven Chapel Street was clearly the home of someone with money. The roman style pillars that held up the small porch told you that much. It was in a row of four others that were all of a similar style; red brick, at least three stories with neat little window boxes on the ground floor. Oscar Thomson had lived there for the best part of ten years; he owned a small business which he operated from London. He was alone at his time of death, and was discovered by the cleaner who arrived after he should have gone to work. "John, what's your opinion?" the detective gestured at the body in the expensive looking bath. The doctor rolled his eyes and sighed slightly, Sherlock never actually needed his input, and he just enjoyed the growing impatience on Anderson's face. The doctor glanced up and down the corpse, "The victim is young and healthy and there is no record of heart condition so basically he fell asleep in the bath and drowned." he leaned into his partner, "But you already thought of all that," he said in a low tone, "But I think you just like trying to predict what I'm going to say." he glanced up at the brown haired man with a slight scowl. "Ah, but you know how much I like being right." Sherlock replied quietly with a smirk which quickly vanished as Lestrade entered the room. "Got anything?" he enquired, "It clearly wasn't suicide as there would have been more sign of a struggling. Once the water entered the lungs, survival instincts kick in which would have caused water to splash out."
"Right, anything else?" the DI enquired, "Obviously, but nothing substantial. Haven't got all the evidence. Where are the others?" the policeman stood slightly dumbfounded for a second before recovering, "What do you mean others? I never mentioned-" the brown haired man cut him off, "No you didn't, but you wouldn't called me down here if it was just a man in a bath. So where are the others?" Lestrade collected himself, having know Sherlock for the greater part of five years had taught him to, as they say, 'roll with the punches'. "The nearest one is 32 Tavistock Street, just this side of Waterloo Bridge."

The words had hardly passed the DI's lips when the genius practically launched himself from the house hailing a cab as he went. John was close behind as ever, just making it to the taxi before it sped away. The doctor looked across to his partner; he always looked so alive during a case. It was almost like it lit a flame that radiated throughout his whole being. He mentally noted that even though the case lull was bad for mental health, the young genius had gained some weight that filled out his angular structure. Not too much to change his appearance drastically, but enough to make him appear more healthy.
In a short while the cab pulled up at their destination. John was dragged out his slight daze by the swirling coat rapidly exiting the taxi; he paid (again) and followed the detective into the building.
Detective Dimmock was covering this incident and called them through to the location of the body. The corpse had been identified as Una Ramazanov a Russian migrant who moved to this country with her family twenty years ago. She was average height for a woman with dark hair and clear blue eyes. There was one major anomaly in this picture; the woman whom was now laid dead on the sofa of 32 Tavistock Street doesn't actually live here. The actual proprietor of the house is Alisha Banks who upon her return from working nights at the office block down the road discovered Miss Ramazanov on her couch.
After leaving John to deal with the more than slightly perturbed witness, Sherlock began his assessment of the body. "Hmm... Could be, John!" the detective called his faithful companion over, "What is there something wrong?" giving his partner a quizzical look, "No just, give me a time of death." he stated simply. With a huff the doctor knelt next to the sofa and began inspecting the body, "Time of death around two hours ago, so about 7:30 this morning." he turned to face the detective who had adopted his signature though position, eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin. "Hm, oh yes. Seven thirty. Good." he opened his eyes a crack to acknowledge the doctor, closing them once more at the end of his sentence. "Wait good? What's good?" the doctor hated having to ask, therefore inviting the comments about his inferior intellect. Not that he was anywhere near the same league as Sherlock when it came to solving cases and general intellect, but he didn't exactly like being reminded of it. His train of thought was cut off by a sudden comment "Seven thirty." Sherlock stated again. John rolled his eyes, 'Did he always have to be this difficult?' he thought to himself. "Yes, got that. What about it?" now it was the detectives turn to roll his eyes, "It's exactly the same as the other one." the detective watched the realisation spread across the other mans features, "Oh, so there's a connection." Sherlock rolled his eyes once more, "Obviously."
At this point Dimmock decided to come over to sew what the great detective had uncovered. He still wasn't entirely happy with the young genius' involvement with police work but had come to bear his presence at the reassurance of Lestrade. "Right then lads what have we got?"
"Insufficient data," the brown haired man said almost to himself, "Insufi... What do you mean? Surely it's all here in front of you. You're supposed to be the genius!" the policeman wasn't exactly used to Sherlock and his cryptic statements and bleary though he was being kept in the dark about something. To be honest he probably was.
With an impatient sigh Sherlock mapped out what was before him and the immediate deductions that could be drawn, which seemed to pacify the Yarder, but John knew that there was something his partner wasn't letting on about and had a pretty good idea what it was.

Sherlock text Lestrade enquiring about a possible third incident he had a hunch about. Within minutes they were back in a cab winding their way back across London to 7 Clifford Street just south of Hyde Park. Upon arrival there was a smattering of Bobbies but nothing major. The pair made their way in easily with a badge Sherlock had swiped from Lestrade.
Isaac Matthews was thirty four and lead an active lifestyle, as well as an active drinking problem, that much was obvious from when you walked in the door. He was fairly well off but not so much that his problem hadn't left him with any debt. The corpse was in the kitchen slumped against the cabinet island in the centre surrounded by bottles and cans of every alcohol a person could name (apart from maybe Sherlock) which seemed the obvious cause of death. Well obvious until John took another tentative look (the whole thing has unsettled him at the thought of his sister). There was no vomit to be seen on the body, although there was an overpowering smell coming from the sink above his head. And upon further inspection there appeared to be none I the victims mouth, which would have suggested he passed out and chocked on it. He stood back, features heavy with thought until he caught the detective beaming proudly at him from the corner of the room. Thinking of reprimanding his partner for being indecent at a possible crime scene, he went over swiftly to see why the he'll was so funny. "What are you doing?" he whispered urgently, "This is a crime scene and you're stood there grinning like an idiot at a dead body!" the smile went down a notch to one the one that John loved, "I wasn't smiling at the corpse, that would be ridiculous!" he stated as if it were obvious, "I was merely enjoying your thought process from afar when I realised you had got it right. I'm being happy for you John." the doctor guessed that came out more condescending than it was meant to, but when you removed the tone, it was probably the biggest compliment that Sherlock Holmes was capable of giving.
"Oh, ok then. Thanks I suppose..." john replied slightly befuddled. "So if the drink didn't kill him then what did?" he said aloud regaining himself a little. Of course he didn't receive an answer as such but a small acknowledged grunt left the man beside him.

They didn't spend much longer at the scene after Anderson and the official forensics team arrived. But apparently Sherlock had collected the necessary data along with a few inconspicuous samples to analyse at a later date. The detective bustled his partner out the door after briefly answering some of Lestrades questions and deflecting others. It was gone two o'clock when they finally entered the flat having taken a supposedly brief detour to the morgue which ended up being more like a couple of hours. John was exhausted, it hadn't really been that strenuous compared to other cases, but he presumed that during the gap he had been allowed to relax too much. As ever the great detective was not to be weighed down by such bodily complaints and was currently furiously pacing the living room giving an occasional glance to the large annotated map of central London which had been hastily stuck to the wall with assorted kitchen utensils. There were pins at the address of each corpse and attached files about the scene and respective victim. Just as John had made tea and settled himself, Sherlock interrupted him; "Could you get my violin?" he stated rather than asked without even a pause in his pace. The doctor was about to retort when he was once again cut off, "It's in the bedroom." he added. The shorter man huffed in annoyance but began to rise from his chair all the same.
He ascended the stairs making sure to make his footfalls heavy in a rather juvenile attempt to throw his partners concentration. He knew it was childish, 'But I'm dealing with a child." he added in his mind. Their room was still a mess from that morning with neither having time to make the bed, Sherlock's violin was propped carefully against the back of the desk chair in the corner of the room. Spying it, the doctor made his way over grabbing the bow from the foot of the bed as he went. Halfway across the room something caught his peripheral vision. There on the wall, just above the headboard was a yellow smiley face.
John's blood ran cold; his eyes scanned the room in panic waiting for an attacker that would never come. "Sherlock!" he bellowed knowing that the detective would sense the tone and come to investigate. Sure enough the taller man came swiftly bounding up the stairs, "What's wrong?" he said quickly eyes wide with panic. "It appears we've had a visitor."