Every fiber of his being was set on one thing: solving this crime. His mind was clearer than it had been in quite a while, and every single one of his senses was more focused than was easily possible. It could not be more obvious that John Watson, a doctor and an army man to the core, had not murdered his girlfriend in the night. Especially not over something as trivial as the woman having a glass of wine with another man. Although, maybe this was one of those things. One of those emotional things that Sherlock just didn't understand. That was certainly possible.
There had been many a time when John had killed. He knew that, and so did many others. Not just during the war, either. The first case, just days after the two had met, the man had killed a cabbie to save the consulting detective. And months later, there had been a time when he literally snapped a man's neck to save Lestrade from being the next victim in a line of quite gruesome murders. The count for the times John had offered to risk his own life or take the life of another all for Sherlock was quite extensive (twenty-seven times, to date).
John would never kill like this. Not someone he knew, not someone he cared about, and certainly not so messily. And, Sherlock hoped, not so blatantly. If the doctor was to kill, hopefully he would be smart enough to take notes from crimes they've solved as to keep himself as innocent as possible. Or he could at least make an interesting and challenging case for Sherlock. (Like whoever had really done this, because finding out the real murderer was possibly going to be a fair challenge).
The details were more important than ever, every tiny little piece of evidence had to be properly dealt with. Unfortunately, that meant Sherlock had to cooperate with Anderson and the other idiots to make sure they didn't screw this one up. The first time the detective asked the forensics team to print the sliding glass door, the whole team stopped and stared as if he grew a second head. How ridiculous, all he did was ask them instead of order. If such mundane things surprised them, it was no wonder they couldn't wrap their small minds around complex challenges like the murders he was called in on so often.
Sherlock was roaming the bedroom in silence when he started making the real progress. Sniffing at the blood and peeling back the bed sheets with gloved fingers, he could easily take in every little detail. Freshly washed sheets (washed the day before in anticipation of a visitor). Fairly new pillows (Sarah used the same one every night, the other hand only been used three times). The smell of coconut shampoo and pineapple deodorant more defined on one side of the bed, the other reeked of sandalwood and the ridiculous scent of mint-y men's shampoo. Something was off, though. The blood on the sheets flowed like normal, the thickness was exactly what he expected for the temperature, time and the fact that the girl had anemia. The arterial spray was proper for a single slice across the carotid artery done by a right-handed man. Another thing working in John's favor.
But the smell. There was one damned smell that didn't fit. And it was throwing Sherlock off. A sweet smell with no definite location amongst the bedding or room.
John didn't remember anything. He didn't hear his girlfriend being murdered, and he wasn't harmed. He was dazed and confused and not an ounce of his military or medical training had kicked in.
CHCI3.
"Chloroform!" Sherlock shouted, turning to Anderson. "Check the body for chloroform."
Pacing and steepling his fingers at his lips, Sherlock was making calculations and forming theories. There were seven before the discovery- now there was only three. And the biggest one was the most worrying. Though if that was the proper one, a mistake had been made. A right-handed assassin. Plain foolish letting that one slip!
"Chloroform," Anderson muttered, grunting and scribbling on his notepad as he glared at Sherlock. "Only the freak would think up that."
Not bothering to reply, the detective was far too deep into his mind to pay any attention to the foolish ramblings of an idiot.
"Chloroform," Sherlock repeated, his eyes snapping open. "Anderson! You stay here; I'm off to the Yard. Treat this as if your dear mother was the suspect. If you mess this one up, Donovan might finally be correct about me."
"What does that mean?" How could the man not recall the constant insult his lover threw at the detective?
"I will be the cause of a crime scene. Yours, specifically." Turning on his heel and marching from the room, Sherlock allowed the smallest of smirks flash across his features before he shoved his way into a cab, pushing someone out of his way with a simple shout of 'police!'.
If John had been controlled with chloroform, there could still be traces in his blood stream. The chemical was known to disperse quickly, but if there was such a large amount used that Sherlock could still sniff it out hours later, there had to be some evidence on the doctor still. If John was chloroformed while Sarah was murdered, there was a chance of two people being present at the time of the crime. One would need to keep the doctor sedated the entire time- it was highly likely that he would wake up during the murder if masked with the substance just once.
It wasn't difficult to find out where John was being held; Lestrade was milling around one of the interrogation rooms looking rather nervous. Sherlock pushed past the detective, easily avoiding the arm that shot out to pull him back. He managed to refrain throwing the door open and shouting, but that was possibly due to his surprise that the Chief Inspector was the one interviewing John. He had worked with the man but once before. Hard headed and utterly in charge of everything, CI Raymond was one of the few people who didn't insult Sherlock on a regular basis. Though, that didn't mean for a second that the man was going to listen to him the way Lestrade would.
"I need to speak with you immediately, chief." Sherlock half-hid himself behind the door and focused on only the older gentleman. He couldn't risk looking at his friend. Not only would it bring up strange emotions (guilt, he reasoned, knowing it was likely his fault that the man was in this position), but also it could possibly compromise the investigation.
If Sherlock wasn't allowed to work on this one, there was not a doubt in his mind that John would be convicted of murder. Donovan, Anderson and team were all too stupid to notice the right-handed form of killing, let alone notice the chloroform or the open sliding door that led to the fire escape. They probably wouldn't even DNA test the mysterious wine glass if Sherlock hadn't told them to.
He would have to play nice. How infuriatingly busying.
"What is it, Holmes? Don't think your partner is getting off easy on this one just because he puts up with you." The Chief grunted, closing the door behind him and crossing his arms over his chest. For a short man, he acted as if he was twelve feet tall. Reminding himself to be polite to get what he wanted, Sherlock kept himself from commenting on the man's cheating wife or pregnant teen daughter.
"Check him for chloroform." He said in his nicest tone, even managing to keep any glint of distaste from his voice.
"Chloroform?" CI Raymond frowned, waving a nurse over to join them. "You think he used it on that girl he killed?"
"I think it was used on him while another person killed that girl," Sherlock corrected, wincing at his own use of 'think' instead of demanding that he knew better than anyone else. "He must still have some in his body. If the real suspect used it only one time, the doctor would have woken up not a moment later. When he did wake up, he was on the phone with me. He was disoriented; he didn't know what was happening. Disorientation is related to use of chloroform, as well as delayed reactions. Mr. Watson did not employ any of his medical or military training, thus giving more evidence towards the use of a substance."
"Fine, Holmes. We'll check him out for chloroform, but we're not releasing him until this is figured out. You hear me? You tread lightly here, or you'll be thrown out. If you don't do this right, you'll never be accepted to help the Met again." Holding back an irritated eye roll, Sherlock nodded roughly and turned to Lestrade.
"Come on Sherlock, back to my office. Give me everything you've got." Lestrade sighed, nodding his head away from the hall of interrogation rooms and back out towards the section of offices. Sherlock lead the way, eyes focused in front of him to avoid glaring at any of the eyes staring at him.
If he were paying them attention, he would hear the whispers. He would know that the majority of the department was questioning Sherlock's involvement in the investigation. They were all wondering if he had done it, or had anything to do with it. Had he driven John mad? Killed his flatmate's girlfriend out of jealousy? Was he covering up for the doctor's killer fit of rage?
Bypassing the gossip and going straight to the truth, the consulting detective cornered the detective inspector the moment they made it to his glass office.
"He didn't do it." Sherlock hissed, narrowing his alien eyes and shoving a long finger into Lestrade's chest.
"I know, Sherlock! I was going to ask who you think did do it," Lestrade sighed, sliding his way around the tall, angry man to make his way to his desk. "I want to hear everything you have. I want to help John."
Protesting that his skull would be better to talk to, Sherlock quickly gave in and told him everything. From the sweet smell of the chemicals on the bed (on the pillows, mainly) to the heavy shoeprints in the carpet (barely visible, men's size ten). Every little detail was repeated multiple times, written down and connected both in Sherlock's mind and with a red pen on Lestrade's notepad.
There were no clues, not until they processed the fingerprints and DNA evidence.
For now, there was hardly a case to prove John's innocence. It was easily said that the murder was committed right-handed, but the DI insisted they could twist that around and say that John simply switched hands.
There was very little blood on John, certainly nothing like what would come from the wound the victim received. He could have cleaned himself, yes, but there was absolutely no evidence of that. No dirty washcloths in the bathroom, no traces of blood on the floor and no traces in the sink. Whoever did this was skilled enough to cover their tracks, but stupid enough not to properly convict John.
Surprisingly, Lestrade was keeping on track for the most part, and even offering up some almost-plausible reasons for the situation. He suggested that they allow John to stay behind bars for a day or two, so the real criminal would feel safe. Perhaps they were stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime. It was absolutely possible; people did tend to boast at the most ridiculous of times.
They agreed to keep an officer at the flat, paying constant attention to all entrances just in case the man came back the same way. Another thing they agreed on was that Sherlock's involvement was to stay quiet- even people in the department should know very little about the consulting detective's participation in the investigation.
Noting the prospect of Sherlock being framed as well, Lestrade settled with being the middleman. If Sherlock needed to get information to anyone at the Yard, the DI would be the one to do it. And if they needed him for anything, he would be contacted through him as well. He couldn't even speak with John, if he wanted it to seem like it wasn't planned or that he wasn't covering up for the other man.
It was positively aggravating, but it was for the best.
Alone in a cell (per his own request), Sherlock stared at the bland wall while he organized his thoughts. Having to forfeit himself to his Mind Palace to work properly, it was essential that he worked as quickly and as perfectly as he possible could to capture the true culprit.
The heavy shoe tracks (tennis shoes, size ten, large gait), the glove prints on the sliding door (soft leather, new gloves, large hands), the clean area around the dead body (not a drip on the floor, something had been laid out to catch excess blood). It all added up to one thing. A set-up. Planned to a T. Or nearly so, at the very least. Many small mistakes were made, and they were quickly adding up. Only a smart man could think up such a thing. Someone with a grudge against John, or Sherlock. A hired hit man, of course. Only a hired man could have a good plan only to bugger it up so badly.
So who had a grudge against the two, and had the money to hire a man to successfully break in, murder and escape?
Who else would want to make the doctor look like a murderer? Who else would want to put Sherlock and John look like bad people?
One person.
Jim Moriarty.
A/N - I tried my best to write like Sherlock thinks. Shit is about to go down, though! Moriarty's sloppy henchman didn't trick Sherlock, oops. Rate/favorite/etc please xo.
