Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

Brotherly warning - a little too late (Sherlock's POV)

(Sherlock's POV)

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Sherlock sat in the back of a cab, tapping his knee as he thought and impatiently waiting to arrive at his destination.

It would have been faster to take the tube at this rate, he thought bitterly, tapping his fingers against the door now in a more frantic rhythm before whipping out his phone and checking to see if he'd received a text from John. Or Mycroft.

John and Everly had gone to Vauxhall to meet Mr Leigh Kavon whereas Sherlock was heading to Westminster to the address given for Mr Kevin Harris.

He couldn't help but think that the whole investigative process had taken ages and scoffed at Mycroft's ignorance and not sharing what information he had. Sherlock wondered if they could have arrested the murderer by now if he'd been allowed to know what was happening. It wasn't as if Mycroft was close to cracking the case, in fact, he was far from it.

The cabbie turned onto Herrick Street and pulled up outside a small house numbered with a brass 4.

Sherlock clambered out and paid before approaching the front door and knocking briskly twice.

There were flowers in the window boxes; well watered - the soil was damp and there hadn't been rain for two days, so someone had watered them that morning. Far too responsible for a man struggling for money, so he lives with his mother. The flowers, purple hydrangeas, matched the drapes in the front windows, so it's all colour coordinated. Definitely the sign of a woman's touch but not many of the younger generation kept flowers, especially in London, so that backs up the point that he lives with his mother and not girlfriend.

Sherlock smiled as the door opened.

"Mr Harris?" Sherlock inquired even though it was obvious this was Harris.

Harris nodded, "Yes, who are you?" He asked nervously.

Sherlock produced one of Lestrades' police badges, "Can I have a word?" and without waiting for a response, walked past Harris and into the house.

Definitely lives with his mother, Sherlock deduced, the wall paper is patterned and old fashioned, the carpets light and well kept, even the corners have been cleaned. No man takes time to meticulously clean corners. Harris is well dressed, casual shirt and jeans, so doesn't care for patterns and fancy things, this house doesn't reflect him as a person.

Sherlock found the front room and stood by the fire place aware that Mr Harris had followed him into the room carefully.

"What's this about?" Harris asked, nervously perching on the arm of the settee.

"Murder, Mr Harris." Sherlock said sharply then studied the other man's face.

Harris looked pale and appalled before spluttering, "Murder?"

"Yes, that's what I said." Sherlock complained. Why did people have to repeat what he said? Were they deaf or just not listening? It irritated him.

"I don't understand." Harris admitted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You've applied for loans at several banks and been denied them, yes?"

Harris sat for a moment then nodded, "Yes, I need the mon-,"

Sherlock quickly cut him off, "Yes, yes. I know you need the money to put a deposit on a house of your own. You're sick of living here with your mother, everything's too old fashioned for you, like the wall paper for instance. There're patches where you've tried to peel it away from the wall in an attempt to get her to redecorate. You've got flakes of it still under your nails." Sherlock gestured to Harris's hands. "Also there is the added embarrassment that you live with your mother and I presume that makes it quite difficult to find a compatible female."