Prompt: From Chapter 4 of SIGN, this sentence struck me: "...there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman."-Thaddeus Sholto
Use that sentence in any form you wish, like you did the chicken one.

A/N: Just a warning: When I finally finished this, ACD walked into my house and put a big red X through my computer screen. "There's been plenty of fanfiction that's made me turn in my grave," he said as he was leaving, "But nothing's ever made me shoot through the layers of earth like a cork from a bottle before."
OK, here's how it worked--I felt like Holmes should say this, but I couldn't imagine why. So I just put him in a random place, made him say it, and then he kept going and I could do nothing to stop it. And then I realized I didn't really have a plot, and it was very difficult to write a story without a plot. And...well, I would say that I watched way, way too much Doctor Who, except that's impossible (because you can never, ever have too much Doctor Who). Anyway, the point is, sorry for the late update :)
Again, the plot is highly implausible, and for the purposes of this story I'm afraid I had Holmes a bit OOC for a lot of this. But, again, it was fun to write, so I couldn't bear to change any of it :D

On the day when we began our involvement in this curious affair, Sherlock Holmes and I had spent the morning walking around the city, him pointing out differences in the mud through which we walked and tossing out deductions about the people we encountered as we went. We ended with lunch at Marcini's, then made our way back to Baker Street without a care in the world.

We were rather surprised to see Constable Wilson standing in the doorway of our building. He, for his part, looked relieved to see us. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson."

"Hello there, constable," said Holmes cheerfully. "I suppose Lestrade is upstairs?"

"Well, yes, sir, he is--"

"I take it he has some trifling little problem waiting for us, then," Holmes said, squeezing past the constable into the building. "No need to stand there the entire time, constable," he called back as I followed him in. "Feel free to walk up and down the street a little--stretch your legs. After all," he continued to me, as we ascended the stairs. "It does not do to have one's door effectively blocked by constables all day. And in any case, there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman."

He flung open the door to our sitting room, and we both stopped short at the sight that met our eyes.

"I take it back, Watson," said Holmes quietly, after a long silence. "There is nothing more unaesthetic than a bloody, mangled corpse in the middle of one's sitting room."

Lestrade was looking harassed. "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Holmes, I'm glad you've come back--this is a nasty business. Your poor landlady was the one who found the body--It came as rather a shock to her. She's gone to lie down for a bit. I tell you, when Wilson came in saying she'd found a body in your apartments, we were worried it was one of you."

"And what do you know so far, Inspector?" asked Holmes, kneeling by the body.

"His name is Mr. Albert Steele," Lestrade answered, holding out a business card. "We found these on his person. He studied botany, apparently. We assume he was here to consult you on some matter, but beyond that we know absolutely nothing about him."

"I see," said Holmes, who had begun to carefully examine the rest of the room.

I joined the inspector next to the body. "I suppose he was killed by the trauma to the head?"

"Apparently. He was also stabbed several times, but clumsily, as if in a struggle. There was no knife found, so we'll have to assume the killer brought it with him."

"And no one knows anything about the killer?"

"No--apparently he slipped in here as he followed the unfortunate Mr. Steele. He must have been waiting for his chance... but no, Doctor, we don't know anything about him."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, straightening up from behind the sofa. "We know that he is about Watson's height, with broad shoulders, slightly small hands for his size, very old square toed boots, and an injury in his left leg, probably from this incident. We also know that he must be involved in some illegal activity, for why else would he have followed this man specifically to kill him?"

"Good Lord, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade chuckled as he wrote the information down. "I'll never get used to the way you just rattle information off the top of your head, as though it was the easiest thing in the world."

"Only very nearly, Lestrade. He did not take a cab on the way here, but I am inclined to think that with a wounded leg he would not fancy a walk of any sort. He may have hailed a hansom."

"Right. Question the drivers. If you're done here, we'll just be moving the body. I'm going to find the man's poor widow--are you coming?"

Holmes was bent over something on the floor. "No, you go on, Lestrade," he said, waving him away without looking up. "Let us know what you find."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes."

The body was moved, Lestrade went off on his errand, I found Mrs. Hudson and did my best to comfort her after the scene she'd stumbled upon. When all was quieter, I found Holmes in the sitting room, which was steadily filling up with smoke. "It's a bad business, Watson," he said as I entered.

"I was hardly going to suggest otherwise, Holmes."

"Of course, my dear fellow. But this, to me, speaks of something more complex than a commonplace murder. There is something more to this--the man was here seeking help with some problem, but was killed before he could communicate it to us. Well, Watson, he was found dead in our rooms, which rather forces us to become involved. Tomorrow morning, we should go and see what we can find at the dead man's house."

"Lestrade's inquiries about the cab came to nothing," said Holmes bitterly as we rode to the late Mr. Steele's residence. "I suspected it might--all it takes is an unobservant cab driver, and a wounded man can get about the city unnoticed. Still, we shall see what the poor man's family has to say."

"Have you any theories so far?"

"Mere speculation, I'm afraid," he answered, drumming his fingers on his stick. "However, I suspect that money is at the heart of the matter--it always seems to be."

We found the house to be occupied by Albert Steele's aged father, along with his brother, sister, and brother-in-law. "I've been living with our father outside London," Reginald Steele, Albert's brother, told us. "But when we learned of Albert's death, I brought him down, just until we've sorted this business out. Didn't want to leave Molly alone, you know." He gestured towards Albert's widow, who was looking very pale and distant. "Sara lives right nearby with her husband, Tom Adams--they say Albert had been by to see them earlier yesterday, before he... well, before he went off to see you."

"I see." Holmes sat back and steepled his fingers. "May I ask you to bring your bereaved sister-in-law over?"

Molly Steele was lead to a seat near us. "Albert seemed worried for the past two days," she told us haltingly. "I saw him going around making sure all the doors and windows were locked at night."

"He didn't tell you why?"

"He just said it didn't hurt to take precautions. I also saw him running his hands along the walls a lot--I can't imagine why. He kept on telling me not to worry, but I could hardly help it, and now he's been killed--" She broke off, sobbing into her handkerchief.

Holmes leaned forward and touched her shoulder, fixing her with his strange, soothing gaze, and after a moment she calmed, wiping her eyes. "Thank you, Mrs. Steele," he said. "You have been most helpful." She turned to go. "Oh, one more thing--was it just you and your husband in the house?"

"No, we have a butler, Carlton."

"Thank you, Mrs. Steele."

Holmes sat in silence for some time after the distraught woman left, then stood abruptly. "I believe I should like to look around the house," he declared. "Watson, would you mind asking the sister and her husband about the victim?" He strode out of the room, headed towards the first floor.

I made my way to the sitting room, where the rest of the family was gathered. "Is there anything you can tell me about the day your brother died?" I asked gently, as the poor woman was looking frightfully pale.

"We didn't see anything unusual," Tom Adams answered, putting an arm around his wife. "He seemed quite himself."

"Did he tell you he was going to see Holmes?"

"No, he just said he had some extra business to take care of--we didn't ask him what."

I continued speaking with them for a time, but they seemed to have nothing new to tell me, and when Holmes returned I had nothing new to tell him. "Well, no matter, I suppose," he said, as we made our way back to Baker Street. "We can do nothing more for the moment. I am rather intrigued by this problem, however..." He trailed off, lost in thought. "I am going to smoke, Watson," he said finally.

"I expect the sitting room shall be quite uninhabitable, then."

He gave me a quick smile. "Most probably, I'm afraid. I shall let you know when I have reached a conclusion."

Late that night I had been reading in my bedroom when Holmes flung the door open quite unexpectedly. "Come, Watson, back to the house! I'd like to have another look at a couple rooms."

Back to the house we went, only to find the elderly Mr. Steele greeting us with a scowl. "I don't know what more you want from us," he grumbled. "At this hour of the night, too."

"Terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr. Steele," said Holmes politely. "There are just a couple theories we wish to test."

"And why can't you leave us in peace?" the old man snapped, glaring. "My son is dead, and all you buggers can do is ask questions. First it was that bloody inspector, and now you two."

"May I ask where Carlton is?" said Holmes.

"How the devil should I know? That's all it is from you people, isn't it? More questions. The damn inspector was in here questioning, tromping all around with his bloody policemen--I tell you, there's nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman."

He turned the corner into the sitting room and stopped, gawking.

"Yes, we didn't think of a corpse in the middle of the sitting room at first either," said Holmes, shaking his head at the body of Carlton the butler.

Lestrade arrived promptly, with dark circles under his eyes and his jacket on inside out. "This is becoming more mysterious by the minute, Holmes," he grumbled. "What on earth happened this time?"

"It is my belief that Carlton surprised an intruder," said Holmes, who was darting about the room, his keen eyes scanning every surface. "Or I should say intruders, for there was more than one. Our murderer of yesterday was here, along with two others--one we have encountered before; the same man who was in our rooms in Baker Street, the other about my height, older than the other two, smokes hand rolled cigarettes, probably the leader." He stared around the room, as though searching for something.

"Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade pleadingly, "what is the meaning of all this?"

"I can tell you nothing definite yet, Lestrade," my friend answered, still gazing purposefully around.

"Well then, I'm going to question the rest of the house--Lord knows they've had enough of that already, but duty calls..."

"Oh, Inspector?" called Holmes as Lestrade was about to leave.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"One of these men has definetely been here before, Inspector. He knew just where he was going."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Really, Mr. Holmes?"

"Really, Inspector. Now, when you're done questioning the family, I suggest you go home and get some sleep."

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that was the first thing on my mind," said Lestrade wearily, leaving us in the sitting room.

Holmes continued to examine the room, muttering to himself, when Reginald Steele entered, looking decidedly nervous. "There's something I'd like to tell you, Mr. Holmes," he said in a rush.

Holmes raised an eyebrow and gestured to a seat. He didn't take it.

"The day before he died, Albert came around to see me and my father," he explained. "He pulled me aside and told me--that he'd seen something unusual going on between Tom and two other men." He drew a deep breath. "They were arguing, he said--something about money, apparently. And he didn't know what it was about, but something felt wrong to him, so he wanted to know what I thought about it."

"And why did you not tell me this before?" said Holmes coldly.

"I did it for Sara," said Steele softly. "Tom's a part of the family now, and she loves him--I didn't want it to seem like he was trouble. Because I'm sure he didn't mean for Albertff to die, no matter what his part to play in this, Mr. Holmes, I'm sure of it."

"I have seen human nature in many forms, Mr. Steele," said Holmes sternly. "And I can tell you that the depths to which a man shall sink are great indeed. I think we should pay a call on Mr. Adams."

Steele nodded. "You're right, of course," he said. "I've behaved foolishly--I was just so sure that Tom must have some sort of explanation..."

"Quite," said Holmes. "Lead the way, Mr. Steele."

The Adams' residence was quite nearby, as Steele had said. "Sara has been quite distraught, naturally," he told us as we reached the door. "I didn't want her to hear about Carlton just yet--I had to tell Molly; she was in the house, after all, but Sara... I just saw no need, just yet. She's already been sorely tried."

"Understandable, Mr. Steele," I said. "She has just lost her brother."

"And possibly a husband next," said Holmes, with his usual flawless tact.

Steele unlocked the door and pulled it open, leading the way inside. "She's a strong girl, Sara is. Things have just been a little hard for her lately--and now Carlton on top of everything else! I'm starting to think we should have a police guard to accompany us wherever we go. If it weren't such a frightful bother--and there's nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman," he said, before tripping over something in the middle of the floor.

"I do wish everyone would stop saying that," Holmes complained, as we turned over the lifeless body of Mr. Tom Adams. "It should be common knowledge by now that unexpected corpses are far worse."

Lestrade was looking less healthy by the second. "Mr. Holmes, if this continues I shall go mad. I'm not entirely certain I haven't already. Where are all these dead bodies popping up from?"

"That is what we are here to find out, Lestrade," said Holmes, pacing around the room. "I believe I know already, but I have no way of being certain." He stopped, and motioned Reginald Steele over to us. "Tell me," he said, "What exactly did your unfortunate brother say about the men Mr. Adams was arguing with?"

"He didn't really say anything," Steele answered, looking very pale. "He just said they were two men--both dark haired, one of them a bit older..."

"Did he happen to describe the older man's right ear?"

Steele looked at Holmes like he was mad.

"No, I suppose he wouldn't have," my friend said reflectively. "It seems that no one notices people's ears these days. Nevertheless... Lestrade, I think I can shed some light on this matter. If you would care to follow me..." He swept out of the house and headed back towards the Steele residence.

"I was a fool, Watson," he said to me as we walked. "I should have seen that there had to be a family connection--I doubt that Mr. Adams lived very much longer than Carlton did, but if I had seen it right away, perhaps I could have caught them. I was so focused on what it was they wanted, I completely neglected the people themselves!"

"Come now, Holmes. You clearly know more about this affair than anyone else--I doubt anyone could have done more than you."

"Nevertheless, Watson, it was abominably sloppy on my part. But we shall have them, of that I am certain. I expect they'll be back, though not tonight. They wouldn't have dared to linger after killing the butler. It really is a pity that man didn't notice the right ear."

"Holmes, why must every case rest on a description of a man's ear?"

"You would be surprised at how revealing ears can be, Watson. Now--the Steele family's sitting room." He flung open the door and went to the far wall, stopping next to the fireplace. "There should be something here," he said, half to himself. "Some sort of--ahhh..." He pushed gently on a piece of the mantle, and it swung inwards.

"What on earth, Mr. Holmes?" said Lestrade, staring.

Holmes reached in and pulled out a small bundle. "Jewels, Lestrade. Diamonds. Wealth enough for men to kill for, as they evidently have." He opened the mouth of the sack, revealing the stones themselves. "Do you recall the theft of these diamonds, Inspector? Two of the criminals involved were caught at the scene, but one of them escaped, with these stones. His name was Richard Hall, and he lived here, in this house, and died in it as well. And now..."

"Now they've come back for the diamonds," said Lestrade, his eyes wide.

"Precisely. I suppose they bribed Mr. Adams--convinced him that they would give him a share. No doubt there was an argument--perhaps Adams got cold feet, or perhaps he simply wanted more than they were willing to give him. I highly doubt that they planned to kill anyone in the first place, but now that they have, they shall be eager to retrieve the stones as soon as possible. There is still plenty of darkness left, Lestrade. It is entirely possible that they will come tonight."

The Steeleff family had been moved out of the house, with lots of commotion. A police guard was placed on the front door, and four more policemen were stationed about the Adams' house. Holmes, Lestrade, and myself remained in the darkened sitting room. More than once we had to shake Lestrade to keep him awake. "Why doesn't Gregson ever get cases like these?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Hush, Lestrade. This will be a feather in your cap if you can pull it off." Holmes stiffened suddenly. "Not a sound! Now wait..."

We heard a scraping at one of the windows in the corridor, which swung in a moment later. The shadows of two men crept in, soundlessly, and made for the mantle. After a moment one gave an exclamation of satisfaction and pushed open the panel, which was when the room was suddenly illuminated. "If you gentlemen would just step away from there with your hands in the air," said Lestrade.

The thieves looked inclined to flee for a moment, but Lestrade had his gun out, and I had trained my revolver on the pair as well, and they thought better of it, standing angrily next to the mantle instead. The younger of the two was about my height, with square toed boots and broad shoulders, as Holmes had described him, and I took a moment to marvel yet again at the accuracy with which my friend could describe a man from the traces he leaves in a room.

"Here you are, Lestrade," said Holmes, lighting a cigarette. "These men--Roderick Berg and Paul Dickinson--are the two survivng memebers of the little diamond robbery, here to retrieve their ill-gotten gains."

"After just recently being released from prision," growled Lestrade. He stuck his head out the window. "Wilson! Come around here, if you please!"

The two miscreants found the derbies on them with remarkable swiftness. "Of course, I should have expected something like this," Holmes said in an annoyed tone. "Upon being released, of course the first thing they are going to do is attempt to recover the rest of the diamonds. If there had been any evidence agains Hall we would have had him too, but as it was, we never found this last stash of stones."

We watched as they were led away by the police. I saw Holmes examining Berg's right ear with a satisfied expression. "Well, Watson, I only wish I could have been of more assistance to my client, but of course it was rather difficult for him to tell us anything. In any case, we have apprehended two criminals who never deserved to be released from prison, considering the number of people they killed just for these little stones. But we have found an end to this strange, unfortunate affair of the unexpected corpse, and will hopefully cease to be plauged by them every time we make an innocent comment on the aesthetic quailities of policemen."

A/N: One word: FANFICTION. Just bear with me for this one, please please please? #puppy eyes# Just... ignore the flawed bits of the story (plot, characters, etc) and focus on... something else! Like the little lights on your keyboard that light up when you press num lock or caps lock or scroll lock. They're fun to play with--you can make them all go on, or all go off, or light them up in different patterns...