When Lestrade had phoned Sherlock about this latest case, Sally had been sure that he would've been falling over himself to get to the crime scene. Instead, he showed up almost an hour after the call had been made. Sally wasn't sure that she had ever known him to take so long.
Now, Sally was a police officer. She was not dull, and she was not unobservant, but the moment that Freak ducked under the police tape, even a child could see that something was off.
Well, first was the fact that he was alone. John Watson was nowhere to be seen. The ever-present army doctor was no longer quite so ever-present.
Next, Sherlock seemed anxious. Anxious. Not only was 'anxious' a word that had never before been applied to the detective, but it was amazing to see something other than morbid glee or frustration on his face.
Sherlock was constantly shifting his weight from foot to foot. As she moved to stand next to Lestrade, Sally watched him grasp the tip of his left middle finger, tug his glove a bit loose and then jam it back on, over and over, until he caught her looking and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.
Also, his scarf was missing, and without it, the dark coat collar made his neck look too long.
From where he was leaning against the wall, Anderson sneered at Sherlock. "I see that someone's-"
The vaguely dishevelled detective turned and gave him a stare that Sally couldn't see from this angle, but whatever it was, it made Anderson shut his mouth and pale just a smidge.
Freak started doing his thing, circling the body (which, in this case, was entirely naked save for a pair of men's slippers) with a distinct lack of flair. A whole forty-five seconds passed, and then he turned on his heel and walked down the hallway deeper into the house. Another thirty seconds passed, and he stalked back over to Lestrade.
"House is trashed; burglary gone wrong, killer entered through the window, wore gloves, closed it after himself. Got caught in the act, killed him with the vase-" Here he pointed behind him to a matte powder blue vase on a shelf- "and wiped it clean with the expensive silk robe-"
"Wait, what robe?" Lestrade asked, but Sherlock didn't even look at him, he just kept talking, not pausing to take a breath or moving at all.
"-that the killer removed when the victim fell. Victim had three identical expensive silk robes and a still-wet and warm shower in his room, meaning he had just finished up when he came upon the burglary; killer is between 1.7 and 1.8 metres tall, male, size 12 shoe, bad case of flatfoot according to the footprints in the dirt outside; analyze those footprints for trace evidence, even you should be able to determine a rough location of their origin; before long the killer will want to get rid of some or all of his stolen goods, check pawn shops for bleached silk robes and the gold chain he was obviously wearing when he died. Please may I go home now, I have something very important to attend to."
Sally couldn't help the smirk that quirked her lips as she scoffed. "Really? What could possibly be so important to the great Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock's body went stiff, and he turned all the way to look her dead in the eyes with a formidably serious stare, shoulders squared, and he was so close to her face that she could see the subtle twitch in his lower left eyelid. "John has pneumonia, " He hissed, and then vanished before anyone could say a word.