Sherlock Holmes- Meet me on Waterloo (A Sherlock Holmes Fan Fiction)

Chapter Two

When I reached the house I was greeted by the usual flashing of inanely bright lights, the yellow tape whipping around in the violent wind and the hum of police cars. “You don't like closed spaces, I’m thinking severe claustrophobia, stressful experiences indoors, maybe time in a cell.” I turned to face Sherlock who had just appeared beside me.

“Did you want an answer to that?” I asked clenching my jaw minutely.

“So all of them then?”

“Or none of them,” I answered nonchalantly.

“Interesting,” He stated still smiling, he continued, “And I suppose I’m not going to get rid of you any time soon.”

“It’s about as likely as you discontinuing your use of nicotine patches.” I rebutted, showing off my knowledge just as he had.

The group of them were waiting for me and Sherlock and we walked up to where they stood. “I'm not letting another freak show onto my crime scene!” 

“Do shut up Anderson.” Sherlock called over my shoulder, annoyance playing in the smooth tones of his voice. “Oh great you’re here.” The other man shouted in outrage. His voice was condescending and petty. “It isn't your crime scene anyway, its mine.” My uncle added in his harsh west London accent from behind me, striding past me and pulling up the tape to allow us through. “And I would watch what you call my niece.” He added dangerously.

“Oh… she’s your-”

“Yeah I am, now do me a favour and take this.” I rather unceremoniously shoved my coat into his arms. “Alright, so what are we dealing with?”

“Suicide.”

“I presumed someone would come to that conclusion, was it you Anderson?”

“It was actually,” he defended.

We stepped past another line of tape and then we were inside the house, a large hallway opened up into a lounge, but it was an impossible feat to manoeuvre that far as a body hung limply from the banister on the landing above. “Rope?” Sherlock asked.

“Basic high tension rope that you can buy from B&Q and there weren’t any fingerprints on the rope.” My uncle told us. I sighed and looked up.

“She isn't the owner of this house,” I said, “There should be another body somewhere.” At this everyone looked at me but I shrugged it off. The walls where light, and filled with pictures of places that I presumed the owner had travelled to; you didn’t have a house this nice in this particular area without money. “Are you sure Evan?” My uncle asked.

“Positive.” I whispered as I climbed the stairs, while Sherlock stood with the others as the body was lowered so that he could begin his inspection. “There is a filmy residue on the palms.” He called up. I looked at the floor, scanning for something that would give anything away; I could hear him muttering other things from down stairs but quickly became fully enveloped in my own findings. There were small smudges from a hard shoe polish on the final stair to the landing, most likely synthetic leather. “Hey Sherlock?” I called, almost negligently.

“You called?”

“Shoes?”

“Beige, size five, sheepskin Ugg boots, worn through on the left foot, on the inside of the heel, probably caused by an ingrown toenail or other injury further up the foot.”

“Someone else was here,” I told him, “Size eleven, probably five foot nine, leather shoes, either dark brown or, black.”

“Male?”

“Yep.” I answered, standing up straight and peering over the banister.

“Her name is Millie Hartley, twenty eight, five-four, Irish, moved here last year and started working for-.” The inspector I called a relative, read off a clipboard. I sighed and looked to Sherlock, who began, “She’s a natural blonde lived somewhere with a high level of soot, Birmingham most likely. Clothes are too big and has burnt hands in places, maybe from work in a kitchen, shoes are, as I said, worn, and she’s about twenty-nine years old.”

“Ta” I said and with his description in mind I strode further up, avoiding an analyst or two in the process, then I found the bedroom.