Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

Yellow night to remember

"Where are we going now?" I moaned childishly as the cab pulled away from the roadside and into the flow of late dinner time traffic. Sherlock sat across from me texting, his coat collar turned up. It had amused me how much John hated Sherlock turning his collar up the way he did. When I'd asked why, John replied simply, "He thinks he looks cool."

When Sherlock didn't answer immediately I gave up communicating with him and sat gazing out of the window at the standstill traffic and pedestrians walking along on the pavements. Street lamps slowly flickered on along the roads and shops were turning on their window lights, illuminating their displays and the dull paths.

I'd phoned Sherlock this morning informing him of the discovery concerning the banks in each of the photographs. It hadn't taken him long to get a cab to my house and for all of us to venture off, leaving my dad stood at the door stunned and oblivious as to what was actually going on.

To be honest, I think even Sherlock didn't know what we were doing. Nothing was making sense to him; i could see it in the way he looked around, like he wasn't seeing anything at all. Usually his eyes sparked as he took in the evidence, observing the world and learning its deep secrets. But for the past two days, I'd seen none of that, he almost seemed . . . puzzled. Maybe even confused.

I didn't say anything though; fearful of what he might say in retaliation. The last thing I wanted to do was upset him in someway. So instead I, like John, left him to his lonely and complex thoughts until he spoke to us.

We'd taken the taxi here and there, to the point where the driver thought we were joking about and just wasting his time. Eventually, when it did seem like we were just wondering around London for the sake of it, John had insisted that we should go to all the places where the bodies had been found and just try to find anything that could help.

Although that sounded easy, since no locations had been recorded in the reports, we were having to locate the banks and then look around to find the right spot.

It was creepy wandering aimlessly around a chilly wasteland with a deserted three story car park crumbling just meters away from us.

"Great place." John mumbled, kicking up some stones, scuffing his shoes and disturbing some duct that dispersed into the air.

"It was your idea." I said wrapping my thin jacket closer around myself. It was stupid the way the weather just changed. It was brilliant sunshine this morning. Then the sky had darkened and the wind had picked up. Now it was looking like it would be a cold night, a navy sky looming above us and a frost breeze brushing and nipping at our skin until we shivered. I wished that I'd worn a thicker coat and a scarf.

Sherlock was ahead of us, scanning everything, looking everywhere. I didn't particularly know what we were looking for so didn't offer him any help which I thought he probably appreciated. It meant that I wasn't bothering him or interrupting his thoughts.

The body had been cleared away from the site days ago, surely - I thought - all the evidence had been taken with it.

"Sherlock?" I shouted when the chill became unbearable. He reappeared, shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to look at me. "What are we, - you looking for exactly?" I questioned while stamping my feet and wishing warmth into my toes.

"Nothing." He said, briskly walking back towards me and John. "This whole place has been swept."

" 'Cause it has." John said, "The police will have taken all the evidence away with the body."

"No, John." Sherlock snapped. "The police only clean, they are incompetent, they miss vital evidence because they dismiss it as irrelevant. There is always something they manage to leave behind. Something important." He mused, looking around. "But there's nothing here. It's all been swept away." He paused to kneel down and picked up some gravel, watching as it sifted through his gloved fingers.