Sherlock threw the sheets of paper into the air and watched as they gracefully floated to the floor around him. He sighed and allowed himself to collapse on the floor. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling for almost 10 minutes before his mobile rang. The genius tried to ignore it but the buzzing was getting on his nerves. The genius lifted his head in a feeble search for the device. His eyes landed on the vibrating object which was sat on his desk.
He groaned and moved to get up but the ringing stopped suddenly so the man allowed himself to crash to the floor again. He wasn't moving all the way over there just to check a missed call. He closed his eyes in an attempt to sooth the throbbing headache that was assaulting his brain. He had collected the evidence from Mycroft but it seemed that the last piece of the puzzle was missing. The sheets had given him information but only things he had already figured out. The thin man groaned and threw his arms up to cover his eyes.
Sherlock knew that without the evidence, which he was sure was somewhere, the case couldn't be taken to court. All that was required was either a piece of paper which had the suspect's bank statement on it or for the suspect to just admit to murdering the woman from his local pub. At the rate this search as going, getting his confession seemed somewhat easier.
The detective stayed completely still as his headache worsened. He had been reading through these boring sheets of statements for the last 4 hours. It has to be here somewhere, the sociopath encouraged himself.
The genius had began to push himself to his feet when his phone started chirping again. He glanced over at it lazily before stumbling over to the device.
"Holmes." He muttered distantly while pulling some paper around the floor with his toe.
"Sherlock?! Thank God! We've been trying to get a hold of you for the last two hours." Lestrade said on the other end.
The sociopath's eyes drifted over to the clock. It had been almost 2 hours since he threw the paper everywhere, "I may have slipped off into my mind palace." He uttered almost silently.
"Well, it doesn't matter now. Quick! Do you have any questions for the suspect?" Greg asked quickly.
"Of course I do!" The genius began to put his shoes on. "One minute. You've got him?" Sherlock asked while hurrying towards the door and pulling his Belstaff over his thin shoulders.
"Yes!" Lestrade replied proudly, "It was-"
Greg was cut off as Sherlock leapt down the stairs and hung up on the DI. The policeman sighed and slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He rubbed his eyes and leant back heavily on his chair. There was a noise and Greg looked up to the door of his office. Sally stood with her arms folded tightly to her chest. She leant against the door frame with a scowl on her lips.
"Why are you calling the Freak in? We've got who we wanted." Donovan sneered.
Lestrade sighed, "Yes but after all he has done for us he should at least be allowed to ask his own questions."
The policewoman waved her hand vaguely and turned to stride out of the office. Lestrade watched his subordinate go. He shook his head and waited for the consulting detective to arrive.
The detective marched up the steps outside Scotland Yard. He dodged the policemen and women who were wondering slowly, in the sociopath's opinion, towards the elevator.
He jabbed the button which would send him up to Lestrade's office and the elevator glided up seconds later.
As soon as the doors had opened, Sherlock was striding out into the department that Lestrade was in charge of. The police officers, who sat at their desks, looked up as the sociopath flew pass with his coat billowing behind man had to stop himself running as he made his way to the office reserved especially for Lestrade.
"Where is he?" Sherlock tried to disguise the fact that he was panting. He really needed to eat more.
"In the hold cell." Greg answered as he followed the genius out of the room quickly. Sherlock was already storming off towards the cells.
Within minutes, they were down at the row of cells. Sherlock took a step forward further down the corridor.
"Which one?" The consulting detective whispered.
"Yours." The officer chuckled slightly as the ebony haired man scowled at him. The morons had named the cell Sherlock's after he was repeatedly arrested, for different reasons, but always put in the cell furthest away from whatever poor soul was keeping watch.
The detective huffed and strode towards his cell while muttering under his breath.
He arrived at the cell and slipped the hatch across so he could see the man. He looked terrible. His hair was matted with what looked like mud and his face had a fair scattering of bruises. The man had a grey blanket wrapped around his dripping shoulders.
"What happened to him?" Sherlock asked slightly concerned about the man's appearance.
"Apparently, he was being un cooperative and then walked into a pole before jumping into the Thames."
"Apparently?" The genius asked sceptically.
"That's what John says happened." The detective scowled at the mention of this ex-soldier. "Why was he involved with this case?!" The sociopath demanded to know.
"I don't know. I think he was here then heard about it so went out looking for him." The police officer tried to justify the man's actions.
"and you've got a confession out of him?"
On the word confession the man in the cell began to cry out, "It was me. I did it. I murdered her. It was me!"
Sherlock slid the hatch across quickly and the man inside went silent apart from the sound of violent sobbing.
"How did he find him? Even I couldn't find him!"Sherlock bellowed. The taller man's voice echoed around the cold tiled walls.
"I don't know! He was furious when he arrived though. He had a cut on his face and be wouldn't let anyone else look to clean it."
"He's a doctor. We all know they make bad patients." Sherlock mumbled as he got lost deep in thought.
"What?!" Greg's eyes widened slightly. "He never told me that he was a doctor!"
"He was angry...Although, most people are when they have adrenaline pumping through their veins." The consulting detective muttered.
"No, Sherlock. You don't understand. I think he knew the victim." Lestrade explained to the detective.
The sociopath frowned. Surely not?
"Lestrade. How much about our latest cases does this 'John Watson know?" The genius asked with a raised eyebrow.
The police officer opened his mouth to speak but the words froze in his mouth as he processed what he had done. His eyes widened even further and he paled. A look of sudden realisation crossed his face. What if John Watson isn't who he says he is?