"Young woman, early thirties. Likely cause of death is the gash to her abdomen, found a knife nearby, but no signs of struggle or forced entry into the flat. Not even the slightest disturbance in the blood spatter to indicate a second person."
Sherlock drops and gestures to the body, inviting John to examine the body. He spends a few minutes studying her, moving arms around, rotating the head.
"She's covered in scars and bruises - from very old to quite recent. First thought was systematic abuse, but these seem to span her entire life. She's overweight, like muscle gone soft..." John pauses, studying the back of her head. "Aha, see this scar? Cranial decompression. She's had brain surgery. She was probably an athlete of some sort when she was younger, but was always a bit awful with coordination and spatial perception. Could she have... done it herself? Accidentally?"
Peeling back her lids, John studies the eyes with his torch. He hisses, a sharp intake of air as the light falls to the ground with a clatter. Concerned, Sherlock darts over.
"It's fine, Sherlock. It just... startling, you know? Familiar."
Staring up at them both were eyes so much like Moriarty's as to have unnerved them both - shining like beetles even in death, so dark as to look almost black.
I have indeed committed the cardinal sin of self-insertion in a fanfic. The body is absolutely me, and yes, I can totally see accidentally eviscerating myself with a kitchen knife. John's deductions are accurate, by the way, although I have not had the surgery in question yet - I'm still waiting for it; hopefully this summer. I used to row competitively, but due to myriad health problems I stopped ages ago. And yes, my eyes really are that dark.