The first time Sherlock barged into John's room was three months after their first meeting: it was early in the morning and Lestrade called from Scotland Yard - ordering him to get his "pretentious arse" over there - so the detective rushed up the stairs, two steps at a time, and in a couple of seconds the bedroom door flung open, smashing against the wall. John heard him, so he wasn't caught off guard, but he didn't look at Sherlock at first, he just went on with his usual morning routine. "You're awake", Sherlock said, while the doctor neatly folded the sheets and the duvet of his bed, smiling: "I know, I'm sorry to disappoint you. By the way, if you're going to do that again", John pointed at the door, "you'll have to face the consequences of a soldier with PTSD and a gun. Just saying. Shall we?". With a boyish smile and a pat on Sherlock's shoulder, John went for the door and left a speechless detective in the middle of his room.
Right now, standing in the middle of the one he shared with Mary, Sherlock remembered where John used to sleep and smiled: when they lived together the doctor's room was simple and bare but still cozy and warm - probably because of the sun exposure –, and most of all it screamed his name.
But this room. Well, this one has nothing to do with John Watson.
It's not the furniture, which is quite elegant and sober actually, and it's not even the color - pastel tones of light blue and grey -, it's just that nothing, nothing, here belongs to John Watson: this room belongs to Mary and John was just borrowing space.
For some reason the dead body lying on the bed next to him isn't Sherlock's main concern; he slowly walks around the room, bigger than average, with wood-floor and light-grey painted walls, a king-sized bed, an antique wardrobe opposite with a sky-blue carpet in the middle: at his left a dresser with a matching mirror above, at his right a Victorian sash window facing the street.
The detective's gloved hands touch every available surface, checking every object inside and out: Mary was a very tidy and organized woman, Sherlock already noticed the first time she met her, looking at the way she held John's hand.
He opens the first drawer of the dresser and smiles: her knickers lined up in a precise order - color, material, shape -, as well as socks and stockings; a small part of the drawer is taken up by little boxes full of make-up, organized by shades and nuances.
Sherlock runs his fingertips along the back of the drawer, when he finally finds the key taped to it, the one that opens the white jewel box placed right under the mirror: once again, everything has its order and the jewelry is divided by type and value.
The detective then turns to look at the bedside table, where a misplaced lipstick catches his attention: he kneels beside the bed and brushes his thumb over Mary's lower lip.
Clean.
He stands up and finally looks down at the lifeless body in front of him.
Single stab wound, clean and precise. Remnants of the note's paper around it. White shirt, bare and crossed legs. Forced into place, probably not during post-mortem.
Sherlock takes her hands in his, looking for signs of fight, then lifts Mary's head and holds it in his hands, fingers searching for wounds.
Nothing. No fight, no bumps, no blood. Drugged.
Before inspecting the body, Sherlock suddenly remembers that this time he is the forensics team, he'll do the report, he's responsible for John's mental health: he grabs the camera, snapping as many photos as humanly possible, and once he's done, once his brain tells him that 765 photos of the room and 234 of the body are enough, he slowly moves Mary, who's showing signs of an early rigor mortis: while shifting her legs something inside his brain clicks and he remembers.
Yoga. Lotus position.
The detective drags his hands up and down Mary's body looking for pinpricks or bruises: nothing. He starts to sweat, impatience and resignation painted on his face, and for a second he shows a hint of respect for Anderson's job, quickly gone once he realizes that the pressure he's feeling is because of who's lying in front of him, not the job itself.
Anderson is still an imbecile after all.
Sherlock decides to take a moment, sliding down the mask and taking a deep breath, when a sharp scent hits him: he widens his eyes with anticipation and follows it like a sniffer dog, smelling clothes, curtains, the carpet, opening drawers and shutters until there's only one thing left. He bends over the body, leaning with both hands at the side of it, until his nose is inches away from Mary's neck.
Fruity but strong. Sweet. Earthy. Skin is moisturized and not dry. Cream not perfume.
So close to the body, Sherlock finally sees what's been hiding under the pillow.
An iPod? Dead batteries. John told me he heard muffled but loud music from outside the room. She was wearing earphones. It must have moved once he…
Sherlock swallows and runs his fingers over the creased fabric of the pillow, before striding out of the room and bumping into Lestrade, who's pacing right outside of it.
- Oi! I told you to wait for my permission!
- I'm done here, call forensics, but not Anderson. Call Molly.
The consulting detective undresses as fast as he can, throwing the coveralls at Lestrade and trying to divert the DI's attention from his hands.
- You can't be done with this! There are samples to collect, and-
- Do we know each other? Do you know who I am?
Sherlock stops, staring angrily at Lestrade, who presses his lips together and raises his arms, surrendering.
- Alright, alright. Molly Hooper, then.
- Yes. And I need to go.
- Why?
Sherlock just glares at him and runs down the stairs, following his intuitions. The kitchen is obviously clean, almost immaculate; the sound of the water slowly dripping from the tap fills the room and his eyes immediately focus on two washed mugs placed on the dish rack beside the sink. The detective then walks up to the laundry room and straight to the pile of clothes in the basket, with a worn-out sweatshirt on top of it that he quickly brings up to his nose, inhaling.
Strawberry shampoo. Chamomile tea. Pungent smells. She was wearing this before she died.
He runs his hand over the fabric until it meets something gluey and sticky: he rubs his index finger over his thumb and then licks it.
…honey?
- Are you still here?
Lestrade's voice makes him jump a little.
- No, I'm clearly a hologram. Is this the "sneak-up-on-the-only-person-who-knows-what-he's-doing" day?
- Christ, Sherlock, can you behave for once? Not for me, I don't care, we can go on forever if you like, just… do it for John. I know you care and I know you understand the gravity of the situation, so please, even if I ask stupid questions just…
Lestrade waves his hands in the air.
- …let go. And what exactly are you doing here, by the way?
- What do you think I'm do-…. I'll explain later. I have to go.
- Right, yes. Fine.
He walks to the door and then turns to Lestrade, who's already climbing the stairs back to the first floor again.
- I just…uhm…thank you? For that.
Sherlock nods toward the bedroom and Lestrade smiles.
- Yeah mate, don't mention it. It was the least I could do.
With a smirk and a flourish of his coat he walks away, trotting down the stairs leading to the street, while Lestrade chuckles to himself.
- And the caped crusader flies away again.
You do remember that english isn't my first language, right? And that - once again - this is not beta'd? So sorry for any mistakes or typos, the grammar nazi inside of me is crying.