“This case isn’t an eight, Lestrade, it’s barely a six,” Sherlock snapped, as imperious as ever despite the fact that he was carrying a bag of literal shit. “And the missing are white supremacists, which knocks it down to a two, because honestly, who cares?”
“Well, I don’t wanna take a chance on them poppin’ up again,” Sheriff Lestrade said.
“You got me - and John - out of bed for this? Our bed, in case you didn’t -”
“I swear to God I have one or both of you comin’ out of the closet to me every time I talk to you. You keep waiting for me to act shocked and it ain’t ever going to happen. Now I’ll let you get back to it if you can promise me they ain’t coming back.”
“How much of their ammo did you confiscate?”
John looked up to the sun starting to set behind the edges of the mountains. The compound of old shacks and trailers was in ruins, and the hard-beaten ground was a mess of tracks - human, animal, machine. Sherlock hadn’t spent much time in the wreckage at all - he’d followed tracks to the surrounding woods, and started gathering up droppings.
“Test the scat,” Sherlock said. “Not much left of five Nazi bodies to find once 30-50 feral hogs hit the buffet.”