Chapter Text
The call came when John had just sat down and opened up a newspaper in his chair by the fireplace. Another unsuccessful date today, leaving him lonely on this glum evening in London.
He had known the end was coming the second time he forgot which flowers Serena had liked instead of Ashley's favourites. The roses and carnations were practically the same to him. Couldn't a man get a moment's reprieve? He grumbled to himself as he reached for the mobile his sister had given him, and read the caller ID. He sat back as he answered,
"Ah, Lestrade, is it another case? Sherlock's a bit... busy, right now."
The blonde looked over his chair to the kitchen as he said this, watching his friend hang clumps of different hair types over a science set-up. It sparked to life with a screech whenever it made contact. John shook his head at the sight, listening to the response on the phone.
"Well, it's not much of an unusual one but we did get a call from uh, you know, the other Holmes, that he wants this one cleared up immediately. I thought Sherlock would want to know and get involved."
John raised his eyebrows at the information. It wasn't common for Mycroft to meddle with direct police business so he called out to the other man in the flat, "Sherlock, it's Lestrade. He says Mycroft wants a case wrapped up by the police, and fast. Bit weird right? What d'you think? Oi! Oh, bloody hell."
At the mention of the older Holmes, the younger was rushing toward John and ripping his phone from his hand.
"We're on our way. Do not touch anything, do not investigate and don't let any of Mycroft's men in either. Text me the address. Goodbye." Sherlock promptly hung up. He tossed the phone to the doctor, grabbing his coat and scarf before the shorter man had stood up. John shook his head again, pocketing his phone and following Sherlock out of their shared flat.
"One mention of Mycroft and you're running out the door, I don't see why you aren't just working with him by now. I'm sure it'd pay better too, then I wouldn't need the extra hours!"
At the front door, Sherlock answered him, hand on the door handle and eyes alight in anticipation. "It's not about doing things for Mycroft. He can't handle a problem and I'm there to remind him who the detective is between the two of us." He said this with a smirk, pulling the door open in a flurry of coattails and dark curls. "And the extra hours are good for you, John. I've seen your excitement in the mornings as of late. Another crush so soon? Surely you've got to get over Amy first." The Baker Street detective stepped out into London's damp night with a flick of his wrist, calling an approaching cab.
"It's Ashley! And you're wrong!" John huffed with a flush unrelated to the crisp wind pushing through the street. "God, he's so dramatic."
"Heard that!"
"Good!" John rolled his eyes as he closed the door and got into the taxi Sherlock had called.
Sherlock pulled out his phone to read Lestrade's text to the cabby. The address was a residential area, mostly flats if Sherlock recalled correctly (which he always did.) Petty crimes were the majority of problems in that particular area but Sherlock was unsurprised that a bigger crime finally caught the police radar. Was it a large scale break-in? A kidnapping or, dare he hope, a murder? A small smile tipped the corner of his mouth up.
When they arrived, Lestrade was waiting outside the block of flats for them. He led them up three sets of stairs; the elevator had stopped working, Sherlock noted. Maintenance in a council estate was hardly prompt in London, leaving the detective to decided it had been in that state for a while. The three of them ended up outside an apartment with police tape already set up to turn away others who lived in the block.
"No sign of forced entry as of yet, but we haven't begun a serious investigation as per your and your brother's requests, Sherlock." The DI explained, lifting the tape for Holmes and Watson to enter the apartment.
Why had Mycroft wanted an investigation, only to tell them to wait, which was exactly how Sherlock preferred things? Alarms went off in Sherlock's head. The entry hall and kitchen appeared normal, and as Lestrade led the way the real problem presented itself: the bedroom.
Sherlock scanned the room briefly and already knew what to do with the crime scene he had been called to. Block off the exit. Tell Anderson to stop thinking; God, would he not shut up? Why was Anderson on a Mycroft case anyway? Next, move Lestrade to the window of the bedroom, then make a bit of noise and don't say anything about the wardrobe. That was the most important thing.
John and Sherlock began to inspect the body, and the doctor rattled off the signs of the cause of death.
"Right, so, damage to the skull with a sharp object, overall looks like the poor fellow bled to death. Probably wasn't quick because the wound isn't deep enough for it, but he probably didn't move after the attack. Shock, I'd say. Trauma, shock and then blood loss."
He stood from his place by the victim then turned to see what Sherlock had gathered in the meantime.
The body was situated on the bed, fully clothed in business attire besides the untied shoe falling off the dead man's foot. Mid-twenties probably, fresh out of university going by the certificate proudly framed on the bedroom wall. Business student Jeremy Fishern, graduate of Birbank University of London.
He wasn't expecting any guests, or he'd have rushed to the bathroom upon returning instead of straight to the bed. Certainly, he was a well-kept man who presented his best side to the world. This was evidenced by his pristine attire at the end of a long day shift.
He kept himself refreshed through the day, possibly anxious to impress. Suggestive of being a new employee or intern. The small trim of hairs behind his ears and graduate position solidified this idea. So, Sherlock deduced, the killer was already on the scene. No forced entry tells could be picked up on his way through the apartment.
The detective took note of the angle the weapon had come from. Hailed from above in such a way that the victim would have just been looking up from his shoes, but clumsily aimed, suggesting this wasn't a professional hit and run job.
Running hadn't taken place at all.
Sherlock paced up and down the room. The floor creaked beneath his feet with every step, and he continued to pace in front of the wardrobe as he looked about the room further. A knife, the murder weapon, had been dropped on the floor in a rush of emotion, most likely. A foolish move that helped the detective unravel the "how" of the case. There was no blood trail or particular spatter that suggested the attacker was touched by the spray that came from the attack itself, so, they had retreated suddenly from the attack.
"What's he doing?" Anderson's annoying interjection came from the doorway, and Lestrade hissed in response.
"You know he wants silence so would you please, just?" The Detective Inspector waved his hands in a dismissive gesture to the other man.
Sherlock huffed a breath from his nostrils and stopped his deductions despite himself.
"Yes, if you could just remove yourself from the scene then perhaps the intelligence of the whole building would come back up to an acceptable level, Anderson."
Sherlock had stopped pacing and his glare swung around to the offending man in question to halt his protest. Anderson begrudgingly turned away and stayed silent for the sake of the case. John coughed quietly in an attempt to hide his laughter.
The consulting detective sighed and reconstructed the events again, catching up to where he left off. His pacing began again.
The attacker was short in height, or at least shorter than the victim, based on the advantage taken from the fact his head was bent over and the angle the knife came from.
Suggestive of a woman, or a short man, but statistically more likely a woman in the London and Birbank University area in particular. As well as the fading hint of perfume on this side of the room. It didn't appear as though Mr Fishern kept women's items in his apartment, so no girlfriend or companion to leave the scent behind. So what would a woman that wasn't in a relationship with the victim want a fresh graduate man in a new job, dead for? There was hesitation in the kill, so, possibly, she didn't want him dead at all.
An emotional cause, which sherlock groaned to himself for. Sentiment. Sherlock looked to the award on the wall again. It was unsettlingly crisp and clean in its pristine glass and frame. He turned to John and gave him a look.
"What. What's that look? Did you figure something out?" John prompted him when Sherlock had stared for a moment and it was what he needed to start talking out loud.
"Open and shut really, John. The attacker knew the schedule of the Mr Fishern here, and used it to her advantage in seeking justice in some way," he announced, turning to Lestrade. "You'll probably want to look around outside, I have a feeling she didn't go very far in the shock of her crime."
Lestrade nodded and ordered his team to head out and with him to search the area around the block of flats they were currently in. John turned to Sherlock, amazed but quiet in his awe.
"How do you know the killer is still around?" John questioned when Sherlock began checking everyone had left, noting the single officer stood on guard at the door. Easily distracted by conversation judging by the lingering smell of alcohol on his clothes. Sherlock walked back into the apartment as he replied,
"This wasn't a well-planned murder, John, her aim was shoddy and her uncertainty is so obvious in her singular attack. She probably panicked and tried to escape. The elevators are out of order, she must have heard other residents coming up the stairs at this hour of the evening; there's no other explanation for why she would stay..."
Sherlock frowned. He was sure he was on the right path, the clues led him to his conclusion so easily... Almost too easily. He wasn't liking what that could mean.
"You said 'her'? You think it was a woman?" John asked the taller man and walked up beside him when Sherlock stopped pacing again, finally facing the wardrobe.
It was right, to anyone who wanted to believe what Sherlock deduced. Everything made sense when the evidence came together. And yet, he felt something was off. It was the circumstances around the case and the sight of the crime scene that threw him off, alongside Mycroft's involvement and the spotless outcome of this supposedly haphazard murder.
The lighting of the flat gave a slithering peek into the crooked doors of the solid, oak wardrobe. The shape of clothes pushed aside by a disturbance in the bottom of the space. A disturbance that caught his eye when he first examined the room. The smell of lingering perfume was at it's peak as the consulting detective reached to the doors and opened it, looking down at the shape of a fainted girl in a heap at the bottom of it.
"Yes," he breathed out, "'her'."