Hi there :) Another case for you all, followed by banter.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I simply own many empty bottles of Jack Daniels and too many books to count.
Seven minutes later, and they were driving along Oval Road.
"Just by Pirate Castle, please," said Sherlock, to the cab driver.
The cab pulled over smoothly, and John paid the driver. They exited, and Sherlock took out his phone to check the time. 13.13.
"I hate being early," Sherlock mused, pocketing his phone when he noticed severe lack of signal. "It's boring."
"It's better than being late," John informed him, peering around for some hint of why they were here.
"Debatable." Sherlock thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and began to walk up the pavement. Without a glance, he crossed the road at a brisk pace, and came to a halt next to a brick wall, overlooking the river. He gazed unblinkingly into the depths.
John leant against the wall. "Why here, precisely?"
"Mycroft and I used to come here often."
"What's the appeal?"
"A two minute walk from here is the Chin Chin Lab," announced Sherlock.
John offered a confused face in return.
"It's a liquid nitrogen ice-cream parlour."
"Those actually exist?"
"They do," replied Sherlock, still staring out over the river. "We were curious. It wasn't boring."
"Sounds..."
"A lot unlike tea?" Sherlock suggested, with a small smirk.
"Entirely too strange for a Tuesday afternoon."
"One day we'll go there," mused Sherlock, turning around to lounge against the wall, "but not today. El Diablo comes."
John hiccuped in order to choke back a laugh as Mycroft Holmes strolled up the road; umbrella swinging freely in his right hand. He wore an immaculate three-piece suit, probably Italian.
"You have twenty seconds to interest me," Sherlock announced to his elder brother.
Mycroft surveyed the enigmatic detective with an expression of displeased affection for a moment, like a puppy who had chewed the corner of an inexpensive cushion. "IC1 male, 6' tall, weighing 196lbs, professional bouncer. No marks on the body."
"None?"
"None," Mycroft confirmed. "Shall we?"
Sherlock accepted the invitation with a slight tilt of his head, and he and John followed Mycroft into his waiting car.
A short while later, they arrived at Scotland Yard.
"Lestrade, your servant," announced Mycroft upon entry to the morgue, to the Detective Inspector, who actually groaned.
"We're fine without him!" Lestrade protested.
"You are already utterly stumped," Mycroft reminded him.
Sherlock ignored both his brother and Lestrade, instead walking over to the body. "John?"
John joined him, and looked down at to the muscle-bound man on the cold slab.
"Cause of death?"
"Fracture of the fourth cervical vertebrae and resultant asphyxiation from severe damage to the spinal cord," said John, after a brief examination.
"A broken neck," summarised Sherlock.
"Yes."
"You seem perplexed, John."
"There's no massive trauma to the head." He snapped on the rubber gloves that Lestrade passed to him, and began a closer examination. "The wounds are all... irregular, and the only fractures are to the nasal bone." He looked closely. "No paint, wood, rust. Just dirt."
"Have fun," Mycroft said, before exiting the room, whistling.
"So, what do you make of it?" Lestrade asked of John, who stood up straight, pondering.
"No object appears to have been used to apply the blow," said John.
"So, the torn scalp and ear?"
"Someone did this with their bare hands," said Sherlock.
"Jesus Christ. You think it's the Black Lotus Tong again?" Lestrade asked.
"No symbols," muttered Sherlock, deep in thought.
"It takes a lot of strength or skill for someone to break a man's neck. Who could physically do this?" John inquired.
"He was a bouncer," said Lestrade. "Maybe he pissed off a clubber."
"Likely. Who?" mused Sherlock.
"We haven't looked through much CCTV yet."
John was still examining the corpse on the table. "Lestrade, Mycroft said that there were no prints on the body."
"None that we can use as evidence. Why?"
"Can you take a fingerprint from an earlobe?"
Lestrade scoffed lightly. "That's CSI stuff, Doctor."
John frowned at the Inspector, and fell silent.
Sherlock looked expectantly at his flatmate. "John? Whenever you feel like continuing...?"
"Lestrade's right – I'm not a professional; I've just watched a lot of CSI and I have an overactive imagination from working with you."
"Your thoughts?" Sherlock repeated, more sternly.
John sighed. "There's a bruise on his left calf."
"Which means...?" Lestrade probed.
"He was kicked, hard enough to make him fall," said Sherlock, "hence his palms."
"His hair is loose in one section," said John.
"Been grabbed roughly. As has his ear."
"A bruise on his hand – it's been stood on, to pin him to the floor."
"Voila; one snapped neck. You're looking for someone with martial arts experience. About 5'8", younger and far slighter than the victim. Fiery temper. Good luck in catching him; I expect the arrest will be very... 'claws-out'." Sherlock almost smiled at the thought. "John, do we need milk?"
"We usually do," replied John, dryly. He straightened up, and removed the latex gloves he had worn.
"Good. I want to cook this evening."
"Ah," said John, less than enthusiastically. "What are we having?"
"Lasagne."
John's expression lightened. "That can't go too badly. Sounds good."
"From scratch."
John's expression returned to a slightly pained grimace. "Have you ever done that before?"
"No," replied Sherlock, crisply. "Why?"
"The white sauce will be interesting, won't it?"
"Quite potentially."
Discussing cuisine at a crime scene... oh yes.