A Letter To: Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Not the Only Professional

 "How'd the Freak get here already?" Donovan sounded a little surprised.

John looked just as surprised. "I...have no idea. I haven't even texted him," Sherlock glanced up from where he was already examining the body.

"Murder, John. Do you honestly think I need a text to bring me here?" He rolled his eyes and John swore he heard him mutter "Idiot" under his breath.

"What've you got so far?" Lestrade was close behind John and he stood with his arms crossed, gazing down at the body.

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The victim was a man in his mid-forties, short but fairly muscled. His eyes, which in this light appeared brown, were wide open. His mouth was frozen in a silent scream. The cause of his death was almost immediately apparent: a single gunshot wound to the head.

"Poor sod," murmured John, while Sherlock fairly laughed in glee. Annabelle, who was leaning against the door, looked almost bored. John broke off from the group and went over to her. "You alright? You seem to be taking this pretty well considering there's a man lying dead right in front of you." He gestured to the body.

Annabelle nodded. "I'm sort of used to death," she shrugged. "My mother's a police officer, and when I was younger I was constantly around her office. She even took me to a few crime scenes. And my father...he committed suicide, of course. Mom's not one to hide things, so she showed me all the pictures..." She bit her lip a little. For the second time that day, John opened his mouth, intending to say "I'm sorry", when he was seized by the arm and pulled away from the door.

"John, I need you," said Sherlock dismissively.

"Oh, now you need me?"

"Obviously," replied Sherlock, squatting to examine the gunshot wound.

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"Something's not right..." Sherlock muttered. "This is too clean, far too clean a shot for anyone, even an expert marksman to make." He sat back on his heels and ran his eyes over the body.

Suddenly he sprang up from the floor and over to John."What?"

Sherlock was inches away from him, studying his face. "He looks like you," Sherlock said in a quiet, horrified voice.

John laughed a little. "Him?" He looked at the body. "He looks nothing like me, Sherlock! His hair's the entirely wrong color for one, and I'm definitely not that short."

Sherlock almost smiled but stopped himself. "Minor details John. Look at his face. Don't just look. Observe."

John made his way over to the man and examined his face. "Is my nose really that big?"

Sherlock sighed. "You're missing the point, John. This is meant to be a substitute for you." He sounded almost frantic.

"What?" John lead Sherlock a bit away from the crowd.

"Look, Sherlock." He said quietly. "I know you're really paranoid about this 'Moriarty's not dead' thing, but this? This is the kind of behavior that would get you kicked out of this place." But Sherlock wasn't listening. He was still staring at the body.

"John, do you remember our first case?"

John nodded. "Of course. The cabbie."

Sherlock pointed. "And that's where we sat the night you lost your cane, right before we chased the cab. He's sitting right where you were."

"Amazing," blurted John before he could stop himself. "I can't believe you remember that." He shook his head. "But still, it's...it's not me, Sherlock. As ridiculous as you'll think it is, I honestly think that this is all just coincidence."

And he wished he hadn't said that. Sherlock's face darkened. "There are no coincidences," he said coldly. "Never."

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"...based upon the neatness of the entrance and exit wounds, it's obvious that this was intended to mirror a military style firing squad."

"Hang on," sneered Anderson. "There's only one gunshot wound. How could it've been a squad?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "Yet again, Anderson, I am astounded by your observation skills. There was indeed only one gunshot wound. You'll note however, I said mirror. Now kindly shut your mouth and don't speak again. Leave it to the professional." He smirked.

Annabelle laughed quietly from her spot by the door, and Sherlock frowned at her. "Oh come on. 'Professional'. At least give Detective Inspector Lestrade a little credit," she said with a smile. Only Sherlock noticed that it didn't reach her eyes.

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I hope you'll get used to the idea of not being the only "professional" in the room soon, Sherlock. Because you're not, and as long as I'm here, you never will be.

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"Okay then," said Lestrade, breaking the awkward silence. "Anderson, collect a sample from our unlucky victim here."

"And please," growled Sherlock. "Try not to contaminate anything more than you already have."

Anderson smiled bitterly. "If you think I do such a fucking bad job, why don't you get the sample yourself?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Fine," he replied coolly. He approached the body and made quite a show out of collecting some dried blood that was left caked around the wound. He was bent low to the floor, when suddenly he saw something under the table.

"Find some interesting gum down there, Sherlock?" John's voice startled him so badly he almost smacked his head on the bottom of the table.

"No, it was nothing." Sherlock dismissed quickly. He immediately filed a note to himself in his mind palace: this required further investigation. Preferably, with no one else around.

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Meanwhile, seeing Sherlock's investigation, Annabelle smiled slowly. This time, it reached her eyes too.

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A/N: Please please review! They're like a good serial killer for Sherlock, :)