A/N: Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: Annabelle is the only thing I own. I don't claim ownership of anything or anyone else.
As crazy as it may sound to walk all the way back to Lestrade's flat from Scotland Yard, it really isn't very far at all. It provides more than enough time for things to get done.
When I get there, I bypass any tasks I'd said I was going to do, in favor of rushing upstairs (after saying a perfunctory (and pointless) hello to Mrs. Lestrade). Well, I'd PLANNED on rushing upstairs. Before I could conduct more sensitive business, Mrs. Lestrade attempts to comfort me with tea. Apparently Lestrade felt the need to inform the entire world that Sherlock had hit a girl.
Despite my annoyance, I refuse as politely as I can, explaining that I really just need to be alone for a bit. She again offers tea, and I refuse (not as politely this time). Finally, I'm able to escape.
Once I've shut the door, I check my phone. As soon as I pull it out, it starts to ring. Frowning, I glance at the caller ID and then answer: "Why are you calling? You know I prefer to text." It takes a minute or so for him to reply. "Police are here, ma'am. Cameras are set up too." His voice is barely trembling and I know he's afraid of either getting caught in general, or getting caught screwing up. Good. He should always remember who he's dealing with.
I lie down on my bed and set up my laptop. I watch, with a manic grin, as Sherlock gets out of a cab. "Oh, good of Lestrade to call him. Thought for sure Sherlock was a goner." I mutter.
"Where's Annabelle?" Sherlock asked after glancing around the scene. Everyone looked among each other and didn't respond. Another nail in the coffin...how is she orchestrating this without being here? She must be doing it remotely somehow... He stored the thought away in his mind palace and then sought out Lestrade.
As soon as Sherlock approached, Lestrade tried very hard to look at anything but Sherlock. "Jumper," Lestrade said grimly before Sherlock could say anything. "Mmm," the detective responded absently, already absorbed by the body in front of him.
For a fall, the body was remarkably clean. There were no external signs of injury...wait, yes there were. The victim's chest was horrifically deformed. "Died of a pneumothorax," concluded Sherlock after a few minutes.
Lestrade risked a quick, incredulous glance at him before averting his eyes. "How do you know?" He asked, genuinely curious. Sherlock huffed a breath and stood up, now over the body.
"Look at the state of his chest. Severe deformity, likely due to multiple rib fractures. One of the biggest risks of a rib fracture is the possibility of a punctured lung. Based on the chest deformity, at least one of the rib fractures caused a collapsed lung which ended his life. But the lack of other external injuries is very odd. Considering he likely fell at least three stories, he should have more injuries, at least some limb fractures or bruising."
Lestrade frowned at this and took another look at the body. "You're right," he said quietly. Then he saw something. "Sherlock, look at what he's holding." The detective followed Lestrade's gaze and his eyes gleamed with interest. A cell phone, an iPhone to be precise, with no case. It didn't even have a scratch.
"But that's impossible." Donovan interjected.
Sherlock turned to glare at her and said, in a deceptively pleasant tone: "Nothing is impossible, except apparently, your inability to not open your mouth unless asked to."
She sneered at him, but didn't say anything else.
They were all interrupted by John's arrival. He nodded at Donovan and Lestrade, and did his best to not acknowledge Sherlock. When he saw their victim, he muttered an awed "Jesus," under his breath.
"Yeah," Lestrade said quietly. "Bloody awful way to go."
Sherlock just stared when John pushed past him and crouched down to examine the body. "Definitely a pneumothorax," John declared after a few minutes. Lestrade chanced a look at Sherlock and rolled his eyes when the detective smirked at him.
"How the hell did he not get any other scratches on him?" John asked, obviously perplexed.
"Obvious," Sherlock snorted dismissively. Both Greg and John rolled their eyes but otherwise did not respond.
"He didn't really fall from that window," Sherlock huffed in an exasperated tone of voice. "That would be impossible, judging by the lack of other lacerations to his extremities."
"The flat upstairs was completely trashed, Sherlock, there was broken glass, furniture toppled over...hell, there were a few holes in the walls!" Lestrade exclaimed, gesturing to the shattered window upstairs.
"Show me on the body." Retorted the detective.
"What?" The detective inspector just gaped at him.
"Show me the glass, show me the scrapes from where he punched the wall. I need evidence, don't you see!?" He started to pace, frantically running his hands through his hair.
"Calm down," John said, more sharply than he'd intended, but dammit Sherlock was starting to make him lose his temper.
"Don't," snapped Sherlock, glaring at him. He turned his attention quickly back to Lestrade. "I need to see the flat,"
"Alright then," Lestrade frowned a little, but moved to go prep the flat.
"Sherlock..." John took a deep breath and forced himself to make eye contact with the detective.
"Not now John," Sherlock said dismissively. "I'm on a case." He brushed past John and followed Lestrade up to the victim's flat.
John sighed, and, despite his brain telling him how bad an idea this was, followed the detective.
A/N: Not to try to sound like a bitch or anything, but guys? I've had to do a ton of research for this story. I'd really really appreciate reviews so I know how y'all like it. Please review and...
DFTBA darlings, :)