"Sherlock, you really can't just keep running off and letting your dinner get cold!" John scolded as he followed the detective down the sidewalk, gritting his teeth against the chill and almost skipping steps to keep up.
"I'm not 'running off,' I'm following up on a lead. It seems our bloodless victim had a friend, who may or may not have known something about her whereabouts and situation. Ah..." He stopped in front of a red door, and looked up at the apartment it belonged to. "Here we are."
"What are we going to do if they aren't in?"
"She is." Sherlock straightened his collar and knocked on the door.
"And you know this how…?"
"All the upstairs lights are on. She's been looking for a cheaper flat—quite earnestly, too—obviously she wouldn't go out and waste electricity like that." Sherlock glanced back at him, and rolled his eyes at the anticipated question on John's lips. "Her post-box is full of follow-ups from realtors."
"Ah. Right. Well… if she's in, shouldn't she have come to the door by now?"
The hint of a frown passed over Sherlock's features, and he knocked again, and then listened intently. "That's odd…" He quickly looked around and spotted a newspaper on the side of the step, sitting on his heels to peel back the plastic on it. "December 11th… Two days ago." His eyes narrowed. "Something's off."
"I'll call Lestrade, then—"
"No, don't." Sherlock straightened up and snatched John's mobile from his hands, wheeling about and heading down the alley beside the building.
"Hey—that's mine! Get back here with my phone, you git!"
"Calm down, I just needed a light!"
"You have your OWN MOBILE TOO, remember?!" John growled in frustration as the detective disappeared around the corner.
Selfish arse…
He sighed and stumped down the steps, deciding prudently not to follow Sherlock's example of vaulting over the railing.
Slow and steady wins the race, after all.
"Sherlock? Where are you?" He squinted in the gloomy alleyway, searching for the glow of a mobile or the sound of a footstep. "This isn't funny—it's dark and I can't see shit. Where the hell did you go?"
He could hear the sound of cabs and cars back in the street, but no detective.
Damn it.
Damn it all.
A few steps more brought him all the way around behind the apartment building, and as his eyes slowly began to adjust he could make out a slightly lighter area in front of him.
An open door…?
"Jesus, Sherlock…" He groaned under his breath.
Breaking into anyone's flat had certainly not been on John's agenda for the day. Or the day after, or the one after that.
But it didn't feel quite right to just stand outside and leave Sherlock to go prancing about inside doing who knew what.
"You just better not get me arrested…"
He decided not to shut the door behind him on the way in, so as to leave a clear escape path, just in case.
It was warmer inside, at the very least.
He climbed a set of stairs and found himself in a well-lit living room, which looked normal enough, if a little hodgepodge.
But still no Sherlock.
And nobody else, either, for that matter. Sherlock had been so sure the occupant had been home, but could he have been mistaken…?
John was just about to call for him again when Sherlock appeared in the doorway across the room, stopping in his tracks when he saw him.
He took a moment, apparently trying not to look too enthusiastic. "She's dead."
"Oh Jesus…"
"Murdered."