Sherlock paused to let John catch his breath, the early morning mist dissipating as the two hiked through the forest, boots crunching on the dead leaves and pine needles. They were nearly at their destination, a clearing in the forest filled with a particular flower which made the location famous for its power to attract the rare butterfly; the selfsame one whose scales found on the dead Entomologist had pointed them here.
"Oh Sherlock," John gasped as the stepped into the clearing and found themselves surrounded by colors and the silent fluttering of wings, "It's beautiful! Brilliant!"
Sherlock smiled absentmindedly at John's delight, his attention focused elsewhere. A dull blue scrap of canvas hanging from a branch twenty feet outside the clearing. "Looks like our victim was here after all," Sherlock murmured, "He must have crash-landed his survey balloon."