Chapter 3

Now the thought of Sherlock predicting the future stumbled across John's thoughts as they made their way into a crime scene. Passing the crowd gathered beside the caution tape and siren lights that lite their way. They didn't run into anyone just yet that they knew, and John wasn't the only one between the two of them hoping Anderson wasn't put in charge of this operation.

A tall duplex building, bricked with red and white, signs of the other residences gathering near the entrance where they were being questioned by fellow officers of Scotland Yard. Sherlock had looked over each of them, only paying a small amount of attention to the ones looking less upset. As, he strolled to the front door with his excitement now dormant under his stolid outer-appearance. He shifted his shoulders and jacket as they both finally ran into a face they recognized.

Donavan stood guard to the building, "Oh? Who says we need you here?" She half sneered. A hand on her hip with a demanding stance. She narrowed her deep eyes at the two of them, frowning when landing on Sherlock's calm expression.

"Must be painful," Sherlock sighed and completely disregarded her, "I wager he's still married by the rushed attire. Strange isn't it, he's having a hard time choosing."

She almost snarled and moved aside so they could have a look. John noted her eyes downcast after Sherlocks back was turned. He had been mentioning the fact that she frequently sees Anderson and spends nights at his house when his wife is away. They were having an affair of sorts, going on for a while now. Maybe she felt upset that he hadn't divorced yet, must be a sore subject between the two. Sherlock obviously knew just how fresh the wound and didn't hesitate to pour verbal salt in.

"Bringing in the freak, just warning you now." She spoke in her talkie.

Nevertheless, Donovan followed behind them as they bounded up the steel stairs to the first floor and then they stopped in front of the table where few people occupied in blue plastic suits. John followed the protocol quickly and slipped one on. Sherlock grabbed gloves and ignored Donovan behind them as she complained of the mud they were tracking inside.

They moved on quickly, continuing to the second floor where the commotion of most people stood around. And when Sherlock stood at the top of the stair, a confrontation both parties dreaded arose.

"Anderson! Good evening." Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, seeing the man he spoke of drinking out of a plastic cup outside the door of the crime scene. The man looked up from his cup with disgust and rolled his eyes before turning and waving them to, "Just get in and out. Don't speak to me if you can manage."

Sherlock turned on his heel and backed into the room, his eyes landing back on Donavan as she got to the top of the stairs, he pointed to his ring finger and gave a reprimand frown. She retaliated with a scowl, but he had disappeared behind the door.

John saw the ring on Anderson's finger as Sherlock had been pointing out to her, and felt a little pity for the two of them. They were doing something horrible, but Sherlock was really rubbing them the wrong way. He always did however, whatever first impression they laid on Sherlock must have been a tremendous record breaking event to earn so much of his distaste.

He filed into the room to see the damage.

He's never really been accustomed to seeing people dead with the living poking around and gawking about. Today's victim stuck John in a strange way, seeing as he was sprawled upon his own couch in his own living quarters. He had a moment of irresolution before stepping fully inside the crime scene, now near the center of the main room in the small home. Small and very sterile space along with symmetrical wall hangings and bookshelves full of huge hard covers and various binders. John recognized a few just by a glance from many years of studying at medical school. They were standard medical anatomy journals meant for studies at the mandatory freshman classes. So, our Joe here was in the medical career? Somehow that didn't make things better. John looked him over as he strode nearer the shelves to his right.

At his angle, the visage of the victims face showed younger than thirty, clean cut, strong cheek bones and arched nose, his dark brown hair flat upon his face and wet with something smelling sweet and alcoholic, and he wore a black suit that curved over his skinny arms that lay dangled over the cushions. His eyes closed and a very surreal expression over his lips.

Sherlock stood in his vision suddenly, leaning over the poor man and inspecting the liquid substance that wet his head and torso. Sherlock's small micro fine glass came out and he was looking at his shoes now.

A few forensic officers speckled around the small area, keeping distance or maybe rather not noticing Sherlock's intrusion on the scene. They had gathered at the kitchen table, looking over papers and miscellaneous items in bags.

"You're with him?" Came a deep voice behind him. John turned a little startled at the man in a blue sterile suit to match his, standing with ridged shoulders and tan face, his eyes matched his dark hair. "With the consultant?"

"Yeah, that one there," he looked back to see Sherlock lying on the carpet in front of the victim with his hands under the leather couch. John crossed his arms and stood back.

"The victim's name is Andrew Cole, we have a forced entry here behind you," he motioned at the door kicked in and a muddy footprint on the mahogany, "that's all I've been told. Hey, is he okay?" The man asked.

Sherlock was now lying face down, un-moving from the carpet. He looked almost as dead as the man sprawled on the couch. John sighed, "Uh, I suspect so." He shifted his feet and narrowed his eyes at the mud caked on his shoes he could clearly see through the plastic booties.

"I don't mean to be rude, uhm. We got a call from Sally," The man looked pained but said what was on his mind anyhow, "Donavan, that is. She said the, uh. Freak? Was here? That can't be you?"

John smirked, "Oh, no. That's just her under classified nickname she's given him. Sherlock, the one on the floor there." He nodded in his direction.

"Ah, I wondered about that. Oh, Sherlock Holmes? I've heard some people speak of him. You must be John Watson," he suddenly had a brilliant smile. John returned it, shaking his hand briefly, "Yes, that would be me. Trusty sidekick of his—of sorts." He regretted calling himself a sidekick.

"Pleasure to meet you Doctor, I'm Daniel—this being my first forensic mission on this side of London."

They laid eyes back on the main attraction of the room and surprisingly it wasn't the dead gentleman sprawled on the furniture. Sherlock had sprung up from the carpet to see a glass of ice water that sat on the end table near him. He stood there looking at it, cocking is head with curiosity before springing it back to look at the cluster of forensics at the table.

"Hey, you with the clipboard." He almost growled, pointing at one of them, "yes, you with the insomnia and two cats. No—don't look at me like that it's your heavy eyes and scratches. . .Yes I see you over there sniffling, your obviously allergic to his pathetic excuse for a replacement social interactions," he narrowed his eyes, "animals are no better than humans, trust me." He waved the now exposed man over and John prayed he went along with whatever Sherlock said or wanted because if not John was sure, very sure, Sherlock had more to say about him. He would if given the chance.

The blond forensic with the clipboard downcast his eyes and mumbled something before walking over to Sherlock's side. "Yes?"

"This glass of water," he started, however seeing the man just lean over to look closely at it Sherlock stopped and now had the attention of the entire room, "Ehem? You should be writing this down, get your nose off it."

Now he got a glare from the man as he backed up and grasped his pen with pressure to the paper clipped to the board, he motioned for him to continue with a nod, "What about the ice water then?"

"It's got ice."

"Yes. Yes it does, must I write that down—"

"You had better start preoccupying your time less with porn and stale candies left from Halloween-wrapper sticking from your pocket-before drowning your nights as a newly born alcoholic-you've clearly come back from rehab." He leaned in close, "you've relapsed due to some lonely pathetic depression. Oh, wait you live with your mother. No, Sir I advise you get your life on track and have a good night's sleep while returning to your nasty habits instead of, larding around here wasting my time."

"Oh, bloody hell . . ." John muttered from his corner.

The rest room fell terribly silent. Oh so quiet with Sherlock practically steaming and the blond boy on the tipping point of anger or angst. John watched as he just walked out of the room, muttering before a, "Piss off!" Now leaving Sherlock and the other forensics watching after him.

Sherlock seemed to shrug it off, now making his way into the kitchen to observe more, pushing past the others and they started their conversations back up timidly. Probably about him as the subject now.

"Wow." Daniel said beside him.

"Well." John cleared his throat, "You wouldn't believe it now, but Sherlock Holmes is mostly a placid man, if not for the occasional murder or lack of tobacco." He frowned, "Now I doubt that little incident won't be brought up later by the captain."

"I've heard he's brilliant, not at all a brut."

John looked at him with a raised eyebrow, "No, he just doesn't get boundaries; don't get me wrong he can be a pain in the rear," he laughed, "But brilliant, yes. He always seems to catch these type of people . . . Yes, God awfully brilliant."

Daniel nodded but had his eyes squinted. "Wow, always catching em?"

John came down from complimenting him, hardly hearing Daniels question as he crossed his arms and stood back, waiting for his chance at pulling Sherlock's ear. This looked bad for him as well! Everyone knew they were friends, why couldn't he get Sherlock's temperament under control by now? "I'm going to speak with him, I suppose I will be seeing you again?" He tight smiled and Daniel returned it. Then John walked his way to Sherlock once he was making his way back to the body.

"John. Have you seen the possible head trauma on our victim?" He crowded close to him and they now stood over Andrew, "Now, I believe this was cause of death, take a look."

John kept a stern gaze on his friend as his only response. So, Sherlock looked annoyed and added, "Not everyone works with me, now you see as to why."

"That was very rude what you did."

Sherlock shook his head and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, "I did him a favor. A relapsed alcoholic shouldn't be exposed to—"

"No. Not good Sherlock, not good. You recall me telling Lestrade I would keep you under control," he narrowed his eyes and attempted to stay stern and intimidating, "what am I to say now? These people will talk." He lowered his voice.

"Let them talk. We have a dead body here John," he flicked his eyes to the poor man to emphasize strongly a subject change. John frowned further and uncrossed his arms to avert his attention. Of course Sherlock was right, there was a huge sign if head trauma, indicating something smashed over his head. Pieces of glass scattered around the area pointed to it being the container for the sweet alcohol, "Wine?" He asked out loud, now fully smelling the contents.

"Bought by our murderer. No doubt." Sherlock's voice came in his ear, creating a wave if heat wash over John and push him involuntarily over a step, he masked it as if looking at the victim's jacket, "Yes, killed from the hit, but how do you know the murderer bought it?"

"You haven't seen this man's kitchen. He would never buy alcohol. Therefore his murderer brought it in."

"Victim's name is Andrew Cole and Sherlock," he stood up straighter, "there's clear signs of a break in, you think the guy who barged in was carrying the wine? For what? Specifically to beat him over the head with it?" John furrowed his brow.

Sherlock mimicked the look for a second before turning smug, "No, he was invited in."

"Sherlock." John sighed, "I know your methods and how you are often, uh, correct on these things. That being said, have you seen the busted door?" He pointed to it, advertising the muddy prints. Sherlock didn't even look he just narrowed his eyes as if not taking the time to explain before looking back over to that glass of water. John almost asked but a voice overcame his.

"What are you two doing in here?" Anderson's accusation came from the doorway, "keep away from our team would you?" They looked over at him with annoyance, Sherlock put on a disgusted face, looking as if about to counter, but John sighed, "Look, we're not here much longer I'm sure," he side glanced Sherlock's cold shoulder, "do you know if Lestrade will be in soon?"

Anderson glared at him, his whole face drooping down with his frown, "He's on the first floor. Looking over forensic reports. Now you can leave. Go. Now." He disappeared again quickly.

Sherlock crossed his arms and held an annoyed glance, wincing as John motioned for him to follow back out of the room, "Anything else we need to see here?"

"No."

"Anyone you missed to humiliate?" He added, seeing Sherlock crack a smirk before walking along after him. Only to pass him on the stairs. They were at the stand on the first floor and John was taking off his sterile plastic suit and booties as Sherlock talked up a storm to Lestrade a few feet from him. He kept his ears tuned in but didn't hear much of what he didn't know, except the part with the ice water. Sherlock was saying it was something to keep in mind and he assured the chief of its significance to the whole case. He even showed him a picture he had taken on his phone, this made John laugh out loud at his persistence. Glass of ice water seemed something to over look. But, hat was his friends way of doing everything, seeing the small things. Ah yes he says, 'To a great mind, nothing is little,' John almost believed that.

Once he mentioned the fact that the victim had invited his murderer in, Sherlock glanced and looked John over beside him, then decided he was done speaking and was walking back down the stairs. Lestrade boomed after them, "But the door was busted in!"

John stopped with his friend at the bottom of the stairs, avoiding another forensic officer on his way up. Sherlock yelled back, hesitating only briefly, "The footprint is all wrong really look at it!"

Now they were outside the duplex.

John was having trouble keeping up.

"Uh, so did we just solve that one Sherlock?" He asked as he snugged into his own jacket and watching his friend slip his gloves on. He was looking at something on his phone, now tapping the keyboard. His nose buried in it and off the pavement they were feverishly striding down the street, right of the duplex, the police cars, and flashy sirens. John's feet took long strides to keep up with Sherlock's pace. His friend was clearly in a hurry and he was feeling weird talking to the back of his coat.

"We?" You didn't have to see to know he had a teasing smirk.

John huffed and pulled his coat tighter against the wind, "You, did you solve it already? What did I tell you about keeping these things to yourself?" He avoided the cracks of the sidewalk and skipped a small bit to keep up further.

"To not do it." Sherlock flatted out with annoyance. He turned a street corner and his jacket fluttered behind him.

"Well then, spill it. You cannot assume people know what you do, Sherlock we've been over this. Where are you off to?" John saw his stride grow, he now put his phone in his pocket, and John questioned his destination, "Slow down—What could you need in there?"

Sherlock had ducked into a small convenient store the size of a small room, hardly bigger than the apartment Andrew Cole died in. John hurried inside after him, hearing the bell ring when the glass door swung open.

What were they doing here?

Sherlock was seem up at the counter and leaned over to make the woman in charge on the opposite side very uncomfortable. The teenage girl backed up with a fluster, "Oh! Can I help you, uh, sir?"

"You sell wine, yes?" He demanded, narrowing his look on the girl, flicking his eyes to her blond hair for a moment. Whatever reason he wasn't sure? Her face pinked and she nodded, "of course, in—in the back . . ." She breathed in sharply as he softened his look and let out a very smooth, "I'm looking for someone who bought some wine here, uh, I think he was here earlier today. . .Know who I'm speaking of?"

Now John was trying hard to get that voice out of his mind, let alone the tinge of jealousy that pinged in his stomach, seeing the girl melting. Sherlock shook her head, "No, I erm, I wasn't working earlier. Wasn't my shift." She smiled.

He smiled back, "Oh, yes I see now. That's too bad." He then turned on his heel and his smile dropped instantly. He walked with new purpose to the back of the store where she had pointed. John scurried after him to the back of the small store, "Andrew Cole was killed by wine from here? How can you be sure?"

"Take a look at this," he pushed his arm up so John could see the screen of his phone over his shoulder. A picture on the screen was of the coffee table that was beside the couch at the crime scene. He had taken a picture facing directly down at the table surface where the glass of water and a ringed water circle were the only things seen. The water ring was oval and held a weird indent through the center, as if the sweat of whatever had been there seeped down between some sorts of crack in the bottle.

"The bottle was set down beside the glass? Before it was used as a weapon?" John didn't get another look before Sherlock proceeded to open the fridges to look closely at each bottle. John spoke again, "Sherlock, why this store?"

"Be a good sidekick Watson, check that side." He pointed without looking in his direction to the other end, where numerous amounts of other bottles full of wine and rum and all sorts stood on the shelf. John felt a little hurt by that, but knew better than to think much of it. Sherlock had heard his conversation with Daniel earlier, of course he had. He took in a breath and set to helping. "How am I to tell what wine bottle from a sweat ring on a table?"

Sherlock took a small moment before responding, "I know this bottles ring, and specifically I know it's only sold at certain stores. Nothing fancy it's the opposite, so common, no one sells it."

"Except when in small corner stores." John nodded.

"It was once offered to me at a college party, I recall the strange ring it left when spending countless hours near the table they sat on."

"Everything is so convenient with you, huh? Wait—" John looked over at him as he continued to sort through them, "You went to parties?"

"No time for flashbacks John! It's a clear bottle, skinny near the cap."

In the end, about ten minutes up to their elbows in bottles. John could now probably tell what brand he held blindfolded by how many he had picked up and read. Sherlock had found five or six with similar bottoms, holding them in the air in triumph.

The cashier lady had poked her head over to ask John what they were doing, only to not listen to him when he spoke. She bypassed his answer to ask if they were a couple. It must have looked so due to all the wine and Sherlock's new excitement.

Sherlock came over to them as John told her no. He regretted it due to the girls sudden interest in his flat mate and how that made him feel. Quite lousy. That and as he headed out and Sherlock was paying for the bottles, she flirted with him timidly and of course he didn't seem to notice. At all. In fact looked to not notice her in the least bit.

"Why the long face John? We are most definitely heading in the right direction." His reprimand voice came as a break through John's thoughts as they walked out of the small shop and the bell rang behind them, he added, "Text Lestrade tell him to check the security tapes on that store, find out who worked this morning."

John flipped his phone open and watched as Sherlock stood near the end of the street and hailed a cab, "Shouldn't we just run over there and tell one of em? It's not too far, what do we need a cab for?" He text-ed him nonetheless. Sherlock didn't answer; he just clung to his bottles of wine and kept a firm line with his lips before the car pulled up.

They bustled in as John hit send.

Hi guys-Sorry for any grammatical errors on my part, my Ipad has been screwy. NEVERTHELESS- I must thank-

(Fan) For the lovely review-First one Thank you!

These reviews help me continue to write, let's me know your reading and i do love feedback. Don't forget- Love you guys~~

Next chapter coming soon.