“Fine!” Sherlock yelled. The dark haired man straightening abruptly from where he’d been crouching next to the body of a young man. Back arched in frustration, long pale fingers knotted in his wavy dark hair. He scanned the room around him with a flicker of anger. The walls were a dark red, covered in the attractive wall paper of a travel company house. There was no carpet, only shining, perfectly polished hard wood floor, the light brown of the wood standing out against the almost black wood that made up the bed. The coverlet was blinding white and with the wall lamp shining on it, it did seem to glow. All and all, the effect was pleasing and intimate with an air of warmth and just enough sultry colors to make the room a perfect place for an affair. However, the scene was far from pleasant.
He’d been here for 10 minutes, checking everything he could think of. Still he had no theories. Finally he’d reached his breaking point and now stood staring angrily at the body at his feet as if it was the cause of all his problems. In a way it was Sherlock admitted, but that thought was pushing the boundaries of socially acceptable, which he readily admitted he’d never understood nor cared about. The body was of a young man, blond, blue eyed, fit, and by his clothing, financially well off. The white dress shirt was perfectly tailored, and unbuttoned to the second, showing just a hint of well muscled chest. A silver chain hung loosely around his neck. The pants were jeans, expensive with an embroidered design on the left cuff. The shoes shone, Italian black leather, at least 300 dollars. The man had died with his mouth and eyes opened in what looked to be surprise, there was no obvious signs of pain. One thing annoyed Sherlock; there was no name to be found on the body and no leads with which he could produce one.
“What?” Lestrade asked, alarmed at the sudden outburst. Sherlock shook his head.
“This one is good. It’s almost like he knew I was coming, there is nothing here that I can use.” Sherlock said in a growl, his face twisted into a mask of frustration and a hint of anger.
“Well what can you tell us?” Lestrade inquired, hoping to jog the mind of his most useful detective.
“Next to nothing.” The man answered, eyes not straying from the corpse’s face.
“This man is young, probably late twenties to early thirties. He’s well off, but not important. His build says that he’s social, attractive and very well liked and would like to keep it that way. Judging by the showy and revealing style of clothing, he was going to or coming back from a club when he was killed. And by the look on his face, his demise was unexpected.”
“Who ever expects to die?” John pointed out.
“A valid point but those who are important enough to have enemies have a certain level of acquaintance with the thought and are not caught completely unaware by threats. Now the blatant, opened shock on his face, says two things; this man was a) not important enough to be killed, or b) killed by someone very unexpected. I’m not quite sure which one.”
“Anything else? Name, cause of death.” Lestrade asked looking up hopefully.
“This killer is experienced and very cunning. There are no traces on the body to tell me who he was, where he worked, or how he was killed. It’s the perfect crime.” Sherlock said, a touch of awe creeping into his voice as he observed the scene again. Lestrade sighed.
“John, perhaps you can be of assistance.” John walked obediently forward and set about his autopsy. Five minutes later he began to talk.
“No bodily harm, injuries, no signs of a struggle or fight. Skin is cold, clammy, pupil’s dilated, mouth dry, throat swollen slightly. Chest muscles tight. A puncture wound in the neck, looks to be made by a syringe. That must be the cause. This man was injected with something. Only tests will show what that was but it caused the gradual failure of all major body systems but did not leave a trace on the surface.” John stood up, wide eyed. He turned to Sherlock.
“What kind of person are we looking at here?”
“A genius.” Sherlock said a smirk gracing his lips.