Painting Murders - (A Sherlock fanfic)

He'd long hung up on his caller and had pulled on his coat against the mild chill in the air. It was only by the briefcase that I'd been able to identify him as the right man.

I held up the wallet like a peace offering, "Is this yours? I think you might have dropped it."

He registered what I was holding out to him before suddenly sparking to life: frantically patting down his pockets.

Finally he realised that the wallet was his.

"Oh Lord," He exhaled, "Thank you so much! I hadn't even realised that it was gone!"

Obviously, I thought. I smiled as I listened to him explain his carelessness.

He checked the wallets contents which made my heart pound icily for a second, but he closed it over again and pocketed it quickly.

"Thank you again." He breathed before jogging away in order to hail a cab.

"You're welcome." I mumbled to myself as I turned and drifted back into the crowd.

I found a solitary corner and backed myself against the wall, watching carefully for my next target.

I pressed my earphone back into my ear and hummed tunelessly to the music playing as I waited; fingers drumming rhythmically against my thigh.

It didn't take long to single out one man from the crowds. Of an average height; he carried his coat over his arm and walked stiffly like his joints ached with every step.

His face was set solidly; though his eyes betrayed no pain.

I almost wanted to admire the way he held himself, busy with his own life, just one man making he way through the vast crowds.

I hauled myself to my feet, not particularly please with what I was about to do. I didn't get a high, or a buzz, of adrenalin when I stole - it was more a necessity then a hobby.

After trailing him for a few minutes I decided to make my move, breaking into a small jog - increasing speed until I knocked into him. Under the careful concealment of confusion, I plucked the wallet out of his pocked where I'd spied it earlier.

However I had neither accounted for my momentum nor the uneven pavement.

I began to fall, bracing myself for impact with the pavement.

Maybe if I fell on my shoulder . . . I jolted violently as my free-fall was paused.

Disorientated, I pulled out my earphone in an attempt to regain some of my senses only to find the man had caught hold of my arm.

"You might want to watch where you're going." He suggested casually, the words accompanied by a small smile.

Senses returned, I blinked, managing to stutter: "I'm so sorry!"

He shrugged off my apology and smiled properly, his face creasing.

"It's fine, it just isn't the best of ideas to go running around in crowds." He did well to hide the fact he was slightly pissed off with me for knocking into him.

I averted my eyes, disgraced with myself; the wallet in my hand becoming heavy with guilt and panic.

Everyone else would have let me fall but not him. I bit down on my lip: was it too late to say that I was somehow, mistakenly, in possession of his wallet?

I looked up, ready to improvise an excuse. But he was gone.

I searched long and hard for him before trudging home, dragging my feet heavily and unable to forget about the dead-weight wallet that resided in my pocket.