𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐄𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 || 𝐁𝐁𝐂 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤

12: Framed

Sherlock hailed a cab and soon we were speeding off to 17 Trevor road. The journey was mostly silent, with Sherlock making the occasional observation to our taxi driver, much to his ire.

When we arrived at the house, we found it to be swarming with police. Police tape blocked off the entrance, preventing further entry. Sherlock jogged up to the door and I found myself having to also jog to keep up with him. 

I ducked under the tape and went into the house. The police were currently taking pictures of the body and the crime scene. Sherlock was already there walking around the body, avoiding the blood.

I narrowed my eyes and analysed the room. There is a lot of blood. I went over to the body and examined the wound. "A clean stab in the stomach and a cut to the throat. He was stabbed in the stomach first, then his throat was slashed. Unnecessary for a presumably cold-blooded killer. The throat wound must have been to silence his screams or put him out of his misery faster, but I'm leaning more towards the former. He died of blood loss. Cuts are too clean, too perfect, we are dealing with a professional." I said aloud, making my deductions.

But why was he then stabbed in the stomach? Unless Patrick Walter was framed. Yes! He was framed. Blood around the room is way too much from the cuts. It's superficial, designed to startle. He was stabbed in the front, so he saw his killer. No defensive wounds, so he was caught off guard. Blood smears from the door into the room. He was dragged in. He didn't die in this room.

I glanced over at Sherlock, who was making his own deductions.

"This man, mid-thirties died of blood loss from the wound on his neck. He was stabbed shortly after his death in the stomach. The blood around the body and in the room, two pints at least, too much from those wounds. The blood smears from the door to the body suggest he was dragged in. He didn't die here. Conclusion; David Walter was framed. But by who?"

Sherlock glanced over at me. "What did you get Alex?" He asked.

I shrugged. "Same thing and you, except that he was stabbed in the front, so he saw his murderer. But if he saw his murderer with the knife, then why didn't he run away? Because he knew his murderer well. He is also holding something in his left hand."

I bent down to retrieve the scrap of material from the corpse. It was from a blazer jacket. It had two blue buttons attached to it. Curiouser and curiouser I thought to myself. Silently, I handed over the scrap of material to Sherlock, letting him deduce what he could from it.

He took out his mini magnifying glass and inspected it closer. He sniffed it and repeatedly turned it over. I found it rather fascinating watching him deduce, but I found myself looking at him uneasily, wondering what else he could deduce from me.

"Alex, Alex!" I heard Sherlock shouting. "Hmm," I said, looking up at him. He was looking at me strangely. "What do you make of the material?" He said as he handed the scrap over to me. I analysed it briefly. Female blazer sleeve. A faint smell of perfume, professional dresser. Too easy. I rattled off my deductions and went outside for some air. Sherlock was soon beside me.

"Dude... I want to be alone for 5 seconds." I looked skywards, cursing my bad luck for getting me into this position. 

Walking around as if I didn't have to worry about Moriarty finding out that I'm still alive. How angry would he be? Would he kill me for tricking him?

Sherlock looked at me with a small grin. " We don't need to prove that Patrick Walter was not there at the scene of the murder. Our murderer was clumsy. She left her fingerprints on the blunt instrument. Amateur."

"Boring." I sighed, slightly put out.

"What are you doing?" I asked as Sherlock took out his phone and began typing furiously.

"Something that does not concern you" he muttered, typing away. I put a hand to my heart in mock distress. "You hurt my feelings, Sherlock!" I tutted when I didn't get a reply. I walked over to where Lestrade was talking to a police officer. I tapped him on the shoulder and handed him the murder weapon.

"Check the fingerprints on the weapon and run them by the people that David Walter is close to. You hardly needed Sherlock for this one Lestrade. Let David Walters go." Lestrade nodded and gave the order for his release.

Lestrade put the weapon into a clear plastic bag. "So what's the deal with you and Sherlock? Are you two together?" he asked curiously.

"What. No!" I scoffed at such a cliche assumption.

"Then why are you hanging out with him. He is usually very...." he trailed off.

"Insulting, pompous, rude?" I offered. He smiled weakly. "Yeah"

"To be honest I have no idea what the hell is going on." With that, I walked over to the main road and hailed a cab, intending to go back to Baker Street.

Suddenly a tall guy with a mop of black hair brushed past me and hopped into the cab.

"Sherlock, Manners!" I grumbled, sitting next to him.

"221B Baker Street please," I said to the cab driver, sitting back and pulling out my phone.

"Actually can you drop us off at St Bart's Hospital" said Sherlock, finally looking up from his phone to the cabbie.

"Why couldn't you get your own cab Sherlock?" I said, opening the car door and stepping out into the chilly breeze.

"What are you going to do at Baker Street? Nothing remotely interesting interesting I suppose." I bit back a withering reply.

"Come with me, it'll be fun." He said.

I considered this. After all, Sherlock was right. I was only planning on checking my client list, nothing much.

"Fine," I said reluctantly. Sherlock flashed me a small grin and resumed his texting. I climbed back into the cab.

"Why are we going St Barts anyway?" I asked.

"I have a few experiments to conduct at the lab, and I can't tolerate boredom," Sherlock said.

"Ooh can I play with the chemicals?" I asked excitedly, already plotting a scheme. Sherlock looked at me weirdly, probably seeing the crazy glint in my eyes.

"Are you sure you would even know what to do with them?" probed Sherlock. I felt mildly insulted.

"You really are full of it aren't you. Yeah not everyone is as clever as  you, but your ego needs to calm down." Sherlock looked surprised by my outburst. He opened his mouth to speak, but I wasn't in the mood for his verbal diarrhoea.

"Be quiet, I don't want to hear your crap right now," I said, holding up a hand.

Sherlock stared at me for a little while, but I chose to ignore him and look out of the window.

Mercifully, Sherlock Holmes did not talk to me throughout the rest of the journey.

I took out my phone and checked my notifications.

The only text I'd received was some spam.

Some whack job kept sending me a picture of a Joker playing card. It had been going on for some months now, but I just dismissed it as some prankster wanting a reaction. After all, no one knew this number except for the Holmes brothers. I looked at it for a moment, then decided to delete it. 

Heath Ledger was the best Joker, I mused to myself.