The witness was twenty-two-year old Rhys Miller, an employee at some local bar who went to university.
"I just saw two guys beating on another bloke, and stepped in to break it up. I'm a-"
"Bouncer at a local bar, yes, I know. Get on with it," Sherlock said impatiently.
"How did you-?" he started. Sherlock cut him off again.
"I noticed. Now, continue." He had no patience to explain himself today-not while there was a criminal that sorely needed his attention.
The man pulled himself together and said, "Well, I went to stop them and then the short one shot the other. I kind of lost it and went to help, but the other one ran. I mean, shot out of a gun. Nearly knocked me over!"
Waving a hand, Sherlock said, "Yes, but what did he look like? Was he tall, short? Brown hair, blond?"
Rhys hesitated. "He was taller than me, by at least three inches. Five-ten, maybe? And he was built like a runner. He was a bit older than I am, I think."
Lestrade was suddenly by the consulting detective's side. "Could you describe him to a sketch artist?" he asked politely. Miller nodded, and Lestrade directed him to Sally. "How are we going to find him, Sherlock? The other one?"
"Let me see the other body," he demanded. The DI nodded.
"It's at the morgue. Miss Hooper is taking a look at him now. We can give you a ride," he offered. Sherlock turned him down.
"I have no interest in riding in the back of a police car until absolutely necessary," Sherlock muttered. Lestrade looked at him strangely as he walked off.
"Sherlock-you don't mean that you're going to-Sherlock!"
Without a word, the consulting detective walked out into the street and hailed a taxi.
During the drive, he tried not to think about what life would be like without his blogger. The flat would be too quiet-John wouldn't be there to complain about his experiments or the lack of food in the fridge. No one to bounce ideas off of or share adventure with. No one to follow or complain to when he got bored.
Stop. Stop it, he snarled to himself. Focus on finding who took John from you; we'll figure it out from there.
Molly was waiting for him in the morgue, finishing with the corpse. She was respectfully silent as Sherlock took his turn. The body didn't tell him much, just that he worked a high position in a company and drove a nice car. It was the contents of his pockets that he was truly interested in. Spare change, keys, and a wallet.
Steven Stafford, age twenty-eight. His cards and receipts told him that Steven was a rich man. And he lived nowhere near the place he had been killed. And you don't look like a hired assassin. So what were you doing here?
There was only one thing to do-go to Steven's address.