Next Chapter! I am trying to keep quite ahead to make sure that you don't end up waiting forever!
Disclaimer - I already told you that only Rosie is mine... oh well, you'll get it soon enough!
"Nathan Ives, shot through the roof of 'is mouth, the others reckon it's just a suicide" Said the cockney voice that belonged to D.I. Lestrade. "His neighbour found him this morning."
"You don't think its suicide though, do you?"
"Well, I'm not quite sure to be honest, there's just something off about it…" Lestrade lead Sherlock into the terraced house then into a small baby-blue living room. There was a small armchair by the window next to an old box television and a mantelpiece that had a small framed photo of the victim and an older man in a uniform.
The room was occupied by a couple of faceless people in blue plastic boiler suits and a white mask that covered their nose and mouth. One of them was holding a camera snapping pictures of the lifeless figure that was sprawled across the blood-dyed rug. The victim's face was contorted, as if he was stressed by his current predicament. He was wearing a dark grey hooded jumper, light grey jogging bottoms and mud covered trainers. In his limp hand was a black handgun.
"He's been there for around thirteen hours." A female voice said. Sherlock turned to see the woman standing in the doorway.
"Ah, Sergeant Donovan, what a pleasure to see you here" Sherlock said in a sarcastic tone.
"I must admit I'm surprised you're here, neighbours say he was suicidal."
"Well actually we're still unsure that its suicide" Lestrade interrupted.
Sherlock turned towards the victim "Lestrade, when did the alert come through?"
"About, two hours ago? Why?"
"Two hours ago? Why not before?" Sherlock muttered to himself. He stepped towards the gun and crouched beside the victim. Pulling out a compact magnifier and examined the victim's mouth where the bullet had passed through. "Lestrade, have you filed for ballistics report?"
"No. Why, don't you think it was the gun in his hand?"
"I know it definitely wasn't his gun."
"And how, exactly, would you be sure of that?" Donovan piped.
"Thirteen hours ago!" Sherlock cried as he stood up with a flourish.
Lestrade and Donovan stared vacantly at the ecstatic man.
Sherlock groaned "what time was it thirteen hours ago?"
"Um, around eight o'clock last night?" Lestrade replied. Sherlock looked at them both hoping they would connect the dots that were as clear as day in his mind.
"What has that got to with anything?" Donovan asked with an accusing tone.
"Seriously, isn't it obvious?" Sherlock got no reply from his audience.
"I can't believe you lot sometimes…" Sherlock remarked. "Thirteen hours ago! Eight o'clock on a Friday night? No one in this area would be asleep at that time! But no one reported the gun crime until this morning so that must mean no one heard it. And it's obvious that this was the place he was killed so the gun he used had to have a suppressor of some kind to quieten the shot, however there is none and also the gun he holding? Often used in the police force. Look at the picture on the mantelpiece, him and his father in a police uniform, so the gun must be his father's – guns used in the police force aren't designed to fit a suppressor therefore someone else shot him and made it look like suicide. And people will believe it because he was suicidal. How clever! But clearly not intelligent enough to realise that no one would hear the shot so actually our killer is a bit of an idiot now isn't he? "
"Alright, so we're looking for a murderer. What do we do?" Donovan asked.
Lestrade was still stunned before realising the question that had been asked. "Um, right yeah. Why don't you ask the neighbours if they saw anyone around the time of the murder."
Donovan nodded and left swiftly. Lestrade looked at the motionless figure before turning to Sherlock. "So how can we find out who it is?"
"Well we know that the victim knew his killer since there is no sign of a struggle. Maybe a friend who took him by surprise?" Sherlock answered.
"That's one hell of a friend. Just walks up to him and shoots 'im in the mouth?"
"Indeed." Sherlock stared down at the body. "I'll need his shoes."
"Wait what?"
"They're covered in fresh mud, might tell us where he was before he came home yesterday. Can you have them sent to Barts?"
"Oh, of course, that makes more sense, I'll send them to you once we got everything sorted."
Sherlock left in a hurry hailed a nearby cab. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital." The Cabbie nodded and drove on. Sherlock sat in the back seat staring out of the window.
"Actually could we make a short stop on the way?"