Chapter 2
Disclaimer: Unfortunately: I don't own Sherlock, John or anyone you recognise.
Authors note: I'd just like to give a HUGE thank you to those who reviewed, you were all really nice :) This is the second chapter, and I've got my fingers crossed that you like it just as much as the first.
By the time Sherlock and John arrived at 32 Cumberland Street, the narrow road was crowded. Police cars covered every inch of the curb; and forensics were walking in and out of the open door which lead to their new crime scene. Sherlock frowned when he saw Anderson talking to Lestrade. He started to stride over and beckoned for John to follow him.
"Sherlock! It's about time!" Lestrade shouted over "What took you so long?"
"My flatmate dresses at the pace of a teenage girl," Sherlock replied, and ignored John's offended look at him. He glanced at Anderson darkly.
"Anderson," He grunted.
"Sherlock. Not going to accuse me of cheating on my wife today?"
"Be careful what you wish for. You're wearing a forensic suit, but your shirt collar isn't covered and is showing a very obvious ketchup stain. It would have come out in the wash, so it's not been there long. It's also creased, proving that you're wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Lestrade, what time did Anderson arrive here and when did you call him?"
"About twenty minutes ago; and just before I called you."
"Ah! So it took you just over ten minutes to get yourself here; which is unusual, since you live on the other side of London…but then again, Sally doesn't live far from here, so that explains why your journey wasn't long."
"Maybe I was staying with a friend," The forensic defended himself.
"Oh Anderson…we all know you don't have many friends."
They left Lestrade and Anderson outside and went to inspect the body. The flat was filled with police and forensics, but space was made for the two men when they walked through the door. The flat wasn't huge, but it wasn't cramped either. Paintings hung on the pale blue walls, and the furniture sat on wooden floors. Two shiny white doors, leading to the kitchen and bathroom, were at one side, and a door leading to bedroom was on the other. A bookcase covered an entire wall, filled with old classics and art books. A piano leaned against the wall adjacent to it and a TV stood beside a modern coffee table; facing a leather sofa, on which the corpse of a young man was lay.
John thought the room was nice, despite the dead body, but he knew his talented friend had seen so much more, just with one glance.
Sherlock knelt down beside the couch and inspected the man's corpse. Just like Lestrade said, there were no wounds on his body. The man was wearing a grey and black, stripy t-shirt and dark denim jeans. He wore no shoes, and polka dot socks covered his large feet. His hair was brunette, and flopped over his closed eyes.
"Early twenties, left handed. Had a habit of biting his fingernails. He dreamt of being an artist but was studying cooking. Probably because his parents wanted him to take over the family business."
He looked over at John who stared at him blankly. The detective sighed and elaborated.
"He looks no older than twenty-five. The mug on the coffee table has it's handle pointing on its left side, so he's left handed. His hands have smudges of graphite on them and the painting on the wall is obviously hand made by him. The books on the bookcase also prove my point - art books. There is a tiny food stain on his t-shirt, which suggests he was cooking at university yesterday."
"What if he cooked at home" Anderson asked smugly, walking into the room with Lestrade.
"Look around you imbecile! Pizza boxes. Empty pizza boxes. They had a take away last night. I suggest you keep your mouth shut next time Anderson."
Lestrade and John both looked over to the embarrassed man, shaking their heads.
"Take a glance at the bookcase again," Sherlock instructed, pointing directly at a picture frame which stood next to some books.
"He's with his parents, outside a restaurant- a.k.a – the family business."
John strolled over to the frame to get a closer look. His eyes flickered to the set of books beside it and pulled one out.
"You're right," He said smiling, holding the book up in the air "Food studies text book, dog-eared and battered within an inch of its life. Often used."
Sherlock nodded and started to pace the room.
"But how was he killed?" John asked "He has no wounds,"
"Keep up John, you're better than this. If he wasn't killed from the outside then he was-"
"Killed from the inside," The doctor finished his sentence for him. "Drugged?"
"Possibly," answered Sherlock.
"What if it was suicide?" Lestrade spoke up.
"That's likely, he could have-" John was interrupted by his irritating flatmate, who was now knelt beside the body once more, and looking at a receipt.
"No," He stated stubbornly.
"Why not? John asked.
"This is a receipt for an engagement ring, John."
Sherlock stood and started searching the flat. Normally someone would protest, but everyone knew he had good reason for his ransacking. It didn't take him long to locate a small navy box hidden inside the piano. He opened it and held it out to John. The ring was beautiful. It had a silver band, and was decorated with a single diamond.
"What is this? Nine carats?"
"Nine carats exactly John, your knowledge on diamonds impresses me."
"But this must of cost him-."
"Nine hundred and ninety nine pounds according to the receipt," Sherlock interrupted. He closed the box and walked over to Lestrade, "I don't think it's likely that a man would plan to propose to his girlfriend and spend such an extravagant amount of money on a ring, if he was planning to kill himself. Do you?"
Lestrade looked to the floor, embarrassed. After searching the flat for identification, a wallet was found in a coat pocket. Sherlock stood in the living room, palms pressed together and held against his lips. John leaned against a wall beside Lestrade. The body had been taken away to St Barts and police were starting to leave.
"Toby Harvard. Twenty three years old. Studied at Richmond University," Lestrade read from the cards in the wallet.
John's phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and smiled at the name on the screen. He turned his head to Sherlock, who was motionless and deep in thought.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"Where are we going now?"
"I need to go to St Barts."
"Do you want me to come?"
"I suspect you have other plans?" Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's hand, still holding his phone.
"Thanks, I'll see you later," John waved at Lestrade and left the flat. He couldn't have moved faster.
Molly was walking down the corridor when she heard a familiar deep voice behind her.
"Hello again."
She jumped in surprise and turned to see Sherlock walking towards her.
"Oh, hi Sherlock, how can I help you?"
Sherlock hesitated before speaking.
"You...assume I want something?"
"Of course, you only speak to me when you want something," Molly answered matter-of-factly.
Sherlock was stunned. She was smiling, but he could see the sadness deep in her eyes. Those eyes. He'd never noticed how much they sparkled before, as cliché as it sounded. A feeling inside Sherlock stunned him; guilt? He felt like hugging the fragile girl before him. He shook his head slightly, trying to shake off his ridiculous thoughts, and continued as if nothing had happened.
"Well, actually, I need information on Toby Harvard. I believe he's on your list?"
"The man found this morning? I was about to get to him now."
"Excellent," Sherlock said smiling, and started down the corridor, beckoning for Molly to follow.
"Poison?"
Sherlock sat back in his chair and thought things through. Molly was zipping up the bag which contained the body of Toby Harvard.
"So he was poisoned, oh this is interesting."
"Yes, arsenic strangely. Do you want a coffee Sherlock?" Molly asked.
He didn't answer.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?" He looked up from the floor.
"Do you want a coffee?"
"Oh yes please," he replied, "In fact, I'll come with you, and then I need to find John."
He stood from his chair and grabbed his coat. Molly was stunned, though she couldn't decide what to be stunned over; the fact that he wanted coffee with her, or the fact that he'd said please.