John's mood of cheerfulness evaporated as soon as they entered the room. It wasn't due to the graphic violence of the scene, either – if it hadn't been for the man lying there in the middle of the room, eyes open even in death, the place would have looked completely normal. No weapons, no stains, not a trace.
It reminded him uncomfortably of the case he'd first helped with, with the serial cabby.
"What is this?" John muttered under his breath, frowning.
"His name is Ronnie Adair," Lestrade explained as John bent over the body. "Decent reputation with a habit of playing cards every night, no immediate family, and an ex-fiancée who could be a suspect if it wasn't for the fact she's over in France with an aunt. He seems to have been friends with everyone and had no enemies. The door was locked from the inside – he was only discovered this morning. His housekeeper became concerned that he was ill when he didn't come down for breakfast."
John was almost completely ignoring him at this point. He saw the dead man, the clear lack of a pulse – there were no visible wounds, so likely he had been shot, judging by the swiftness of his death.
Sitting back on his heels, he tried to look at it as Sherlock might (would, likely, when and if he returned to London, but he wouldn't let himself be distracted by that). The victim had on a suit, implying he had likely spent the night at his club, while his hands betrayed the stains of a habitual smoker. Beyond that John found himself at a loss, so he glanced about the room. A bookshelf, a window, a desk with some damp papers scattered haphazardly across a corner of it, along with some money on the desk which had evidently been knocked over by a careless hand. The window was shut.
John walked over and glanced down a full story to the pavement below. No trellis, nothing for anyone to hold onto – and besides which, there was no evidence that anyone else had been in the flat at all. It had rained the day before, and there were no wet marks on the sill.
"Where's the bullet?" John asked Lestrade, frowning.
The silver-haired DI shook his head. "There wasn't one."
John frowned. "Wasn't Adair shot?"
In answer, Lestrade bent and rolled over the body to expose the man's back.
The bullet hole John had been expecting to see was conspicuously absent.