No Shit, Sherlock

Murder At the Theater

The play is utterly boring. Enola and I make quiet jokes to each other while our friends actually watch the play. She leans over to me and whispers, "Wanna hide in the bathroom?"

"Absolutely."

We excuse ourselves, though the men didn't seem to notice or care. As we walk down the stairs, I notice a door is open, one that is normally closed. Enola sees it as well, and we share a look before walking through it.

When we begin walking down the hall, I realize that there are several doors. This must be where they store their costumes and have their offices. The hallway begins to curve, and I notice the actors' voices are getting louder.

"We're close to the stage," I whisper.

The hallway ends abruptly and opens up to what I assume is backstage. A man notices us, "What are you two doing? You can't be back here."

"Sorry, we were looking for the bathroom."

He sighs, "Go back down the hall until you get back to the entrance. It should be to the right of the entry doors."

We nod quickly and run down the hall, our laughter echoing slightly. I slap my hand over my mouth to muffle it, but Enola laughs louder. The two of us walk back into the main lobby and shut the door behind us. One look at each other has us in fits of laughter again.

"What were you two doing?"

Sherlock stands in front of us, his arms are crossed, and he has a stern look on his face. Enola clears her throat, "We were looking for the bathroom."

"Get back to your seats."

We walk ahead of him, still giggling to ourselves. I can hear him sigh as he falls into step behind us. When we get back to our table, Tewkesbury smirks, "I figured he'd find you two."

"We weren't doing anything bad," Enola says.

I pay attention to the play now, resting my head on my hand as I stare boredly. Sherlock sits next to me, looking at his pocket watch. The man on stage trips, and everyone laughs loudly. Something above us catches my eye. I stare up in confusion.

Something suddenly drops from above, landing on a man sitting at the table next to us. Loud screams of terror fill the room now as everyone begins to run. Sherlock and I share a look before quickly making our way over to the man.

Our friends follow us, and Timothée gasps, "Oh my God."

There's a heavy sand bag resting on the floor. The man that had been sitting there had blood pouring from his head, while his neck was twisted at an odd angle.

Timothée covers his mouth in shock, "Is... is he dead?"

"Yes."

Timothée stares at Sherlock in horror. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Stay unemotional," Tewkesbury says, pulling Timothée away from the body.

The two boys sit at a table further away. Timothée has his head resting against the table while Tewkesbury rubs his back. John walks around the man, "I know him. He's a detective."

"A detective?" Sherlock asks.

I look above us again. Movement catches my eye. "Someone's still up there."

I take off running downstairs. There should be another staircase leading up there, I just have to find it. Policemen walk in, I recognize Lestrade and yell.

"Secure the exits! The killer is still here!"

The men disperse, so I continue looking for the staircase. My eyes finally spot it, and I waste no time running up. My foot slips as I walk across the narrow walkway. I curse to myself and continue moving.