The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Five

I've updated and revised the first four chapters, so you'll want to read those before this one. Happy New Year, my fellow Sherlockians! Also, I'll be posting a new chapter every Saturday.

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An icy gust of wind shot down the damp, debris-riddled alley. While the weather had thankfully warmed up enough to melt the snow they'd received on Christmas, it was still bloody cold. John hunkered down in his coat, hands shoved deep inside his pockets.

The chill remained.

Dark eyelashes rested against wrinkled cheeks. Chapped lips were parted as if in surprise, the elderly woman's face tilted up toward the steel grey sky. Short, curly hair fluttered in the breeze.

John released a heavy sigh.

A dead body on New Year's Eve.

God. He didn't envy Lestrade having to inform the family. The woman looked like she could have been someone's grandmother, or one of Mrs. Hudson's friends.

Happy New Year, indeed.

Sherlock crouched beside the body, unaware or uncaring that the hem of his Belstaff coat dipped into a puddle behind him.

"Cause of death?" John asked.

After scribbling something on his notepad, Lestrade looked up, his mouth a grim line. "Somebody bashed in the back of her head."

Right. Well, at least it sounded like it had been a quick death then. "Who found her?"

Lestrade nodded at a door with purple peeling paint. "The janitor for Club 33. Young bloke. Says he nearly tripped over her on his way out to the rubbish bin early this morning."

Two black plastic bags lay on the ground by the woman's feet.

"We'd have been here sooner, but the emergency dispatcher had difficulty understanding the kid's terrified gibbering. A hell of a wake-up call, yeah?"

Poor kid. Stumbling across a dead body was horrifying at any time of day. "I'd rather wake up to a hot cuppa, thank you."

A snort sounded, proving Sherlock was still following the conversation despite his laser-like focus on the body. "No, you wouldn't. A corpse is much better."

Now, that was completely mad, not to mention borderline treasonous. "A corpse is not better than a hot cup of tea."

"Then why did you abandon yours to follow me here?"

The protest died on John's lips. They'd both dropped everything the moment Lestrade had called. A growl emanated from John's stomach. He'd left his breakfast behind too. Beans and toast tended not to travel well.

Sergeant Donovan approached, her posture taut with irritation, which was no more than her usual manner. "Mr. Evans said he didn't check to see if the woman was alive before running for the phone. Also, the security cameras on the walls of the building are all fake. The owner didn't want to pay for real ones."

"Right, well that's helpful," Lestrade muttered, brown eyes cutting to Sherlock. "Got anything?"

"Don't I always?"

The toe of Donovan's shoe beat an agitated rhythm against the pavement. "Instead of feeding your ego and wasting our time, why not tell us something useful?"

"Certainly." Removing his magnifying glass from his coat pocket, Sherlock continued his perusal of the body. "Your application for advancement at Scotland Yard will be denied. Perhaps you should consider directing traffic instead. It's really more your area."