It was nearly five in the morning, and dawn was peeking over the rooftops to begin a new day. John, however, was oblivious to this fact as he bent over a set of 4 by 6 inch photos, studing them as astutely as he was able.
Not a bullet – position of the body implies he was struck from behind, though... by what? Locked room... The papers on the table, something about the papers...
John scowled at the photos, then rubbed at his eyes with one hand. He really needed to get some sleep, but the answer felt so provokingly near.
Lestrade had slipped him these as he left the scene, leaving it to Anderson's more specifically-trained analysis. "Look them over," Lestrade had muttered, barely audible, under his breath. He had shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and added nonchalantly in a much more normal tone, "Thank you for coming to help out."
"No problem," John replied neutrally, then added in a low voice, "Am I cleared to have these?"
Lestrade had given him a look and turned away.
Which meant that John had them somewhat illegally, and wanted them out of his flat as soon as possible.
And an answer to the mystery. Right.
John finally noticed the light filtering through the window and sighed. He stood, gathered up the photos and headed toward his room.
He would come back to it after he had gotten some sleep.