Watch Me Play.

|JumpTo|19122010|Play|

|JumpTo|19122010|Play|

Timothy Charles Deighton and Angela Rose Deighton have been found shot dead at their home in London in the early hours of this morning, the 19th December. It appears that quite the struggle took place here and the house has been turned upside down. The bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Deighton were discovered by a friend of the family, Grace Jameson, who immediately informed the police. The 25 year old daughter of the couple, who still lived in the family home, Evelyn Freya Elizabeth Deighton is nowhere to be found. The police have got their best people on the case-

“Well they have now,” Sherlock says as the doorbell rings out around the flat, cutting off the news reporter.

“Are you going to get that?” John asks, shutting his newspaper and raising an eyebrow. “Sherlock. Doorbell.”

Sherlock shows no sign of having heard either John or the doorbell and instead presses his hands together, long fingers touching at the tips. He sits there, as if in prayer leaving John to heave himself to his feet, calling,

“I’m the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, too brilliant to get off my backside to answer the door,” as he goes.

Sherlock hears Lestrade before he sees him- the inspector’s slightly gravelly voice and the heavy footfall of his worn shoes against the wood of the stairs. Although his steps are heavy, they are significantly lighter than Johns, a sign of a man who is always on the go, one step at a time, never placing anymore than the ball of his foot on each ledge.

“You know why I’m here Sherlock, let’s not waste time with pleasantries,” he says in greeting. To anybody else, it could be seen as blunt, rude even, but Sherlock is thankful. Small talk has never been his forte and never will be- he knows Lestrade is there for a reason and the reason will not be unveiled if they waste their time with pathetic hedging devices.

“You don’t need me Lestrade,” he says, looking straight at the older man, “you don’t need my help.”

“Sherlock, the daughter-”

“Is missing. So file a missing persons report, that isn’t my problem. Why are you here?”

“They were shot dead, Sherlock!” Lestrade says, his voice strong as if he is scolding a small child, “shot dead, in their home and their daughter is missing. These are two of the most famous musicians of our day and they were just shot. We don’t know who did it, we don’t know why and for all we know, it could have been the daughter.”

“What a stupid assumption,” Sherlock spits, rising to his feet and looking at Lestrade as if he has just said something personally offensive.

“It’s actually a perfectly sound assumption,” Lestrade retaliates, “the parents are dead, the only other occupant of the household is Evelyn and she’s fled the scene! Her parents might have been hiding something from her, something she wanted or-”

“It is an assumption, and therefore not sound in the slightest,” Sherlock says, his bored and slightly monotonous tone back in place, “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not going to work.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” John pipes up from his armchair where he has been surveying the two men in slight disbelief, “and I’m still here, you know.”

Sherlock turns to look at him then and begins to talk before Lestrade can even begin to process John’s words.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is trying to perform reverse psychology on me,” he explains slowly, “even though he knows it won’t work. He wants to pique my interest in the case.” He turns back towards Lestrade now, stepping forward into his personal space, eyes flicking across his face as if speed reading a book.