The Art Of Deduction (A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction)

9. Carl Powers

REVISED & EDITED

"What d’you mean, gay? We’re together." Says Molly.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you." Says Sherlock.

"Two and a half."

"Nuh...Three."

"Sherlock..." John tries to stop him.

"He’s not gay. Why d’you have to spoil--? He’s not." Shouts Molly.

"With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair." Says John.

"You wash your hair. There’s a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear."

"His Underwear?" Asks Elisabeth.

"Visible above the waistline –very visible; very particular brand."

He reaches for the metal dish.

"That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here..."

he shows her the card that Tom left under the dish

"... and I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly stares at him for a moment, then turns and runs out of the room. Sherlock looks startled by her reaction.

"Charming. Well done." Says John.

"Just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?"

"Kinder!? No, no Sherlock. That wasn’t kind." Says Elisabeth.

Looking fed up with the conversation, Sherlock puts down Tom's card and then reaches over and moves one of the trainers on the desk closer to John.

"Go on, then."Says Sherlock.

"Hmm?" Wonders John.

"You know what I do, Off you go."

He sits back and folds his arms expectantly. John makes incoherent negative noises and looks at his watch.

"No."

"Alright, then."

Sherlock turns and looks at Elisabeth, Picks up one of the trainers and holds it out in her direction.

"How about you, Elisabeth? An outside eye, a second opinion. It’s very useful to me."

"Yeah, Fine."She Gives up.

"I dunno – they’re just a pair of shoes. Trainers." She Corrects herself.

"Good."

He looks away and picks up his phone while Elisabeth continues looking at the trainers.

"Umm ... they’re in good nick. I’d say they were pretty new ... except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while."

Sherlock, who had started to look frustrated when Elisabeth said they were new, breathes out a silent sigh of relief that his friend isn’t that stupid.

"Uh, they’re very eighties – probably one of those retro designs."

"You’re on sparkling form. What else?"

"Well, they’re quite big, so a man’s. But there’s traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don’t write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."

"Excellent. What else?"

"Uh ...that's it."

"That’s it?"

Elisabeth Nods.

"How did I do?"

"Well, Elisabeth; Really Well....I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know ..."

He lifts his hand and slowly rotates his wrist to turn his palm upwards, his expression full of sarcasm. With a look of frustration, Elisabeth picks up the trainer and gives it to him. Sherlock looks at it closely as he starts his quick fire deductions.

"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three ... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."

"Twenty years!?" She Asks.

"They're not retro, They're original. Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."

"But there’s still mud on them. They look new." John says.

"Someone’s kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it’s from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?" Asks John.

"Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me."

On the computer in front of him, Two dots are flashing on a map of Britain, one around the borders of East and West Sussex and the other to the south-east of London.

"South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?"

"Something bad."

He looks up at John.

"He loved those shoes, remember. He’d never leave them filthy. Wouldn’t leave them go unless he had to. So: a child with big feet gets..."

He trails off, staring ahead of himself.

"Oh."

John looks across the lab, trying to see what his friend is looking at.

"What?" John Asks.

"Carl Powers."

"Sorry, Who?"

"Carl Powers, John."

"What is it?" Asks Elisabeth.

"Its where I began."