I shuddered. Creative murders were usually intriguing, but this was crossing the line into being frightening. Such a line was not often crossed in my mind, as not much ever fazed me, but this case was certainly different.
Clearing my throat, I turned around. "Right, good job, John. Detectives, look at this while I take care of more important things."
The two investigators moved in to take a closer look at the message, and John and I stepped away from the group. I tore off the plastic blue gloves and threw them onto one of the desks. "So? Shall we take it?"
John followed my example, taking off his gloves slowly, staring at them instead of turning his eyes toward me. Hesitant. "You mean the case?"
"No, I'm obviously talking about cocaine," I said sarcastically.
John looked at me in confusion.
"Of course I mean the case, John!"
He crossed his arms. "Frankly, I'm not so sure I want to."
Muscles relaxed, pupils dilated, open body language. I waved away his lie. "It's obvious that you're enjoying yourself here."
"You don't know that," said John.
"No," I corrected, "you don't know that. Accept that you're having fun; we haven't got all day. Just because it's a murder scene doesn't mean you have to act dark and depressed."
"That's what you usually do, though."
I smirked. "Exactly. And if we're ever going to work as a team, at least one of us needs to be moderately approachable. That's your job."
A small grin crept onto John's face. "Alright," he said quietly, "let's take this case."
I beamed. "Brilliant."
We returned to the detectives, who (predictably enough) had found nothing useful during our time away. Over the next thirty minutes, we collected enough samples and photographs to satisfy the so-called 'professionals,' and the corpse was taken away to a morgue, due for an autopsy later that week.
Before leaving, the female detective approached me uncertainly. "Sherlock... Right?"
I raised my eyebrows. "Whether or not you are right depends on your question, and you haven't asked any questions- besides, obviously, the one inquiring whether or not you're right. Therefore, I cannot know if you are correct or not."
Her face went pink, and she quickly cleared her throat. "Um, okay. Your name is Sherlock, right?"
"I was wondering if you'd like to help us on this case." Avoiding eye contact. Embarrassed, probably because as an adult (though young, probably reasonably new to her job), she feels the need to ask me for assistance. "You've helped a lot here and... We really could use your help on this case."
"I suppose I wouldn't mind that, as long as John continues to help me."
"John?" She looked around, confused, until I pointed the blonde out to her. "Oh, right! Of course, he's welcome to help as well."
I nodded. "Alright, we'll help."
She smiled and handed me a small business card with her name on it: Lilly Withers. There was also a phone number printed beneath her name. "Great, I hope to hear from you soon, Sherlock."
I gave no response, and soon enough, she, along with the problematic cops, her investigator friend, the headmaster, and the corpse of Molly Hooper, was gone. John sat at one of the desks, staring at a wall. I carefully approached him, slipping quietly into the neighboring seat.
YOU ARE READING
Sherlock Holmes is a teen with a curse. Well, not exactly a curse- in fact, some call it a gift. His mind automatically analyzes any item or scene in front of him, unwelcome words popping into his sight and providing him with information he doesn't...