A/N: Hey guys, have to say I'm amazed that I have followers and reviews already on my first ever story here! Thank you so much, I really really beyond appreciate it and love reading your comments. Any constructive criticism is welcome, this chapter was hard for me as I don't read a lot of crime fiction and I hope I did Sherlock's deductive skills at least a modicum of justice. Thank you for reading and sticking by me so far!
A bang downstairs and a gravelly voice uttering 'morning' could be heard before somebody started on the stairs, not waiting for Mrs Hudson's reply. A man with a young body and old hair appeared on the landing with eyes that shot straight to Sherlock, John had the distinct impression the guy wasn't even aware of his presence.
"We're stumped Sherlock, will you come?" The tone held a note of desperation.
"What is it?" He replied, turning back to the window disinterestedly.
"Girl in an alleyway-" the other began but was quickly cut off.
"No. No!" Sherlock half-shouted. "Interesting cases, interesting cases Lestrade!" his hands were out of his pockets again, gesticulating wildly. "A girl in an alleyway? Dull. 3 out of 10 at most, surely even the half-wits you employ can handle that?"
"Yes alright, but-"
"Locked doors Lestrade! Give me locked doors, not 'girl in alleyway'" as he said the last part he put on a ridiculous mocking voice and John smothered a smile.
"I know. I know!" The other mans patience, John was to presume, had run its course and he had tired of being cut off. "It's the girl though Sherlock. There's something off about the way she's positioned, something weird. It looks wrong."
Something Lestrade had said had caught Sherlock's interest, John could tell. It was only there for half a second but he caught a half smile flash across his face, wrinkling the pale skin.
If John was entirely honest with himself he would admit the pink in his eyes had probably grown and was alive with interest as he watched the exchange. He had deduced Sherlock was some kind of, police helper, fairly quickly and the amount of trust this Lestrade bloke evidently placed in him was a little exciting. John banished the stab of bitterness that accompanied that thought. It was not Sherlock's fault he himself had become relegated to uselessness.
Mrs Hudson had climbed the stairs whilst the men were talking and she now bustled around the tiny kitchen. John suspected her cleaning was in part to eavesdrop on the conversation and smiled, for all his appearance of disdain and aloofness this Sherlock seemed to make strong friends.
"Not in the police car, I'll follow in a cab," he was saying and John definitely saw it that time. The gleam of excitement. He was confused by it, unsure of how he could see the emotion. The younger man's eyes hadn't changed so how, or where did the knowledge of Sherlock's badly contained glee come from? He barely had time to wonder before the police officer was speaking again.
"Thank you" Lestrade said exhaustedly, turning back down the stairs.
He was barely out of sight before Sherlock couldn't contain himself. The man actually jumped for joy, John noticed in wonderment, before bouncing over to Mrs Hudson and placing an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. John felt a glimmer of satisfaction at correctly identifying Sherlock's mood.
"Look at you all excited," Mrs Hudson's tone was more fond than admonishing as she stroked his arm. "It's not right."
Sherlock scoffed and turned away before grabbing a thick, dark belstaff and scarf from beside the door.
"Who cares about right Mrs Hudson? Don't wait up, the game is on!" With that he swirled and started down the stairs. John had sat amused throughout this demonstration but as he saw the other man departing his smile faded and he could not help but hope his jealously wasn't reflected.
Sherlock reappeared tying his scarf.
"Well?" He said impatiently. John looked around him.
"Well what?" he asked defensively. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.
"Well, are you coming or not?" John struggled to his feet, heart thrumming and purple painting itself across his vision.
"God, yes."
They were in a taxi. Where they were going was a matter John was unsure of.
"You don't work for the police." It was more of a statement than a question as John turned to look at Sherlock's cheekbone.
"No" he smiled.
"And you're not a private eye." John continued.
"No."
"So..." He let the word trail away to silence, chapped lips pursed.
"I'm a consulting detective" the deep baritone rumbled. "Only one in the world, I invented the job."
"Which is?" John prompted again impatiently.
"You can see for yourself," Sherlock smirked, "we're here." With a smooth opening of the door he jumped out of the taxi, coat flapping behind him.
"Drama queen." John muttered shoving a few notes at the driver and awkwardly clambering out, leaning on his cane for support.
He made his way over to a wide alleyway swimming with police, forensics and Sherlock. Meeting so many new people at once could be overwhelming for most humans. The influx of emotions, the sudden, intimate knowledge of strangers lives and temperaments. John was studious in his examination of the ground as he made his way over to Sherlock.
"Has the freak got a pet?" His head shot up, the ugly words had unfortunately come out of a pretty mouth but surprise had drawn John's gaze straight to the eyes. He was unsurprised to see the turquoise of malice sparkling in her irises. The fact that it was mixed with browns and greens however, was more unexpected. The dots of red that accompanied the turquoise made it immediately obvious that both colours were directed at Sherlock alone. John would later discover that he was half-right when he met her again and both colours had faded but not vanished.
"Lovely to see you too Sergeant Donovan" Sherlock said coldly, lifting up the tape for John to pass onto the crime scene with him. Donovan gave a sarcastic smile before rolling her eyes and turning away from the two men.
The scene was bizarrely placid. John could see straight away what Lestrade had meant about the body. A young woman, no older than twenty-five, lay broken in death on the floor with pieces of chaos surrounding her.
It was surrealism in an alleyway, John supposed. The girls tanned neck was open and the blood had seeped down to her torso in falls, but it was the way she was positioned that caught attention. Propped up against the wall, her legs were not splayed in front of her, but rather straight as though she was sat resting, her arms neatly folded in her lap. Her eyes were open and as in the past, John could not stop himself from being drawn by the blackness. He had not realised he was staring until Sherlock cleared his throat, reappearing at his shoulder from where he'd previously been examining the auburn-haired body.
John blinked slowly. If not for the blood covering her chest and hands the girl would be sitting, resting and perhaps most disturbingly, smiling. The corners of her lips half turned upward as if she was enjoying non-existent sun. Although not particularly gory there was something about the scene that seemed incredibly, off. John was unsettled, the girl had not died in that position.
"John?" Sherlock rumbled studying him, "would you like to have a look?"
He cleared his throat and glanced at the silver and gold flecked eyes of the Inspector. He rolled his eyes and gestured in a way John chose to take as 'go for it' and he moved to kneel next to the body, laying his cane beside him on the ground.
"So." Sherlock prompted a minute late as John awkwardly clambered back to his feet.
"Umm, yeah" he said, "dead about two hours ago, I'd say. Obviously from the wound to her throat, some sort of sharp, jagged edge. Took her less than a minute to bleed out." He looked around for confirmation and received it in Sherlock's grin and Lestrade's nod.
"Good John, very good. Except you missed nearly everything important." Sherlock said briskly and John frowned, opening his mouth but before he could speak he was cut off.
"The woman is between the ages of twenty three and twenty five and worked in administration. Lately she's been stalked by someone who does photography who she went on a date with three, no, four weeks ago but didn't see again. She started to realise she was being followed about two weeks ago and was on the way home from work when the killer decided to strike. You're looking for a man in their late twenties whose career is a photographer." Sherlock paced as he talked and both Lestrade and John stared open-mouthed as he rattled these 'facts' off more quickly than John could process.
"How could you possibly know all that?" He asked dumbfounded, "there's no way you could see-"
"I could see?" Sherlock scoffed, "as always it is you lot who do not see, do not observe."
"Yes, alright Sherlock" Lestrade interrupted again, rubbing a weary hand across his face. "If you would be so kind as to enlighten us as to how you came to these conclusions, maybe I can continue with my investigation." The tone was clipped and white spots of exhaustion were growing in the Inspector's eyes.
"Good Lord, what is it like to be inside those tiny brains of yours? It must be so relaxing" Sherlock looked at the other two men in fascination, when he was met with blank, unimpressed stares he rolled his eyes. "Oh alright then." He opened his hand to reveal the girls phone that he had clearly pinched off the body when no one was looking.
"Recent texts of two guys about dates, mentions her dating profile - easy to find. Says she works in administration, obvious from her clothing anyway but it is so nice to be proven right - trace this phone number - she went on a date with this guy four weeks ago and he's been stalking her ever since." Sherlock gestured towards the girl: "look at the way she's positioned. John said about two hours, so the sun would have just been going down and she's placed so the light would be hitting her exactly at that time. Her hands are blood-stained, she held them to her throat as she was dying, so she was positioned like this afterwards for the display. If he just wanted her to look neat in death he would have focussed solely on her body and this would be it, but look at the alleyway around her."
John did and saw the usual paraphernalia, broken glass, cigarette butts, old newspaper scraps, but beyond that he thought he was starting to see what Sherlock was talking about.
"It's been designed hasn't it" He looked up questioningly. "The guy placed the rubbish the way he thought would best compliment his photograph?"
"Good, John!" Sherlock beamed. "So, photographer."
"Right." Lestrade clapped his gloved hands. Taking the phone from Sherlock he gave it to a passing Sergeant. "Get a trace on this number. Now." He turned back to the Consulting Detective, "now tell us about the stalking."
Sherlock knelt beside the body again. "Signs of agitation, bitten nails and skin, hair worn slightly thinner on one side. Could be nerves or a condition but it's not, this is recent. Longer term there would be scars around the fingertips from prolonged biting, hair would be noticeably thinner rather than slightly worn, and it's stuck under her nails which if biting was a common habit wouldn't be long enough for that to happen."
He picked up the girls left foot, running his hand along the sole of the shoe. "It's slight, but the left sole is more worn down than the right, the texture is slightly swirled and on the left only, suggesting she frequently spun round on one foot to look behind her. Clearly these are work clothes, and shoes, so this usually happened on her way home, this also explains why she was found on a route different to the one she would normally take back to her place. Conclusion? She was being followed."
John was open-mouthed. He was beyond speechless, he was amazed, he was astounded, he was...mildly aroused, he realised with a start.
"That was unbelievable." He breathed.
Sherlock spun round.
"What?" He stalked closer so he was almost nose to nose with John who couldn't help himself, he found himself captured by Sherlock's eyes again instantly. They were different to earlier, a less distracted part of his bran informed him. The gray was more prominent, there were still no splotches, no definitive colours as there were in others, but they had undeniably changed. John cleared his throat again.
"That, that was unbelievable" he said sincerely, "really amazing Sherlock." Neither man noticed Lestrade looking back and fore between them slightly incredulously.
"Sir." The Sergeant from before reappeared. "We've got a trace on the phone, 158 Lockmore Avenue." Before Lestrade could reply Sherlock moved.
"That's not too far." With a swirl of his coat he had turned and was running. "Come on, John!"
And John was behind him, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, both of them ignoring the call of the Detective Inspector they left standing in the middle of a crime scene.
