Donovan and the Dominatrix

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Sherlock was standing over the body of a dead man in one of the many portrait rooms in The National Gallery. Blood was on the floor, on the man's jacket, and all over his slit, muscly neck. Nevertheless, Sherlock hadn't even stooped down to examine the body before he began rolling his eyes and deciding that he should have gone to the hospital first.

When the plane landed only an hour earlier, Sherlock found himself remarkably calmer than he had been in the airport at Reykjavik. He seemed to have been able to get a handle on his emotions and cleared his mind of the conclusions that he had so rashly jumped to.

After stepping off the plane and into the organized maze that was London Heathrow Airport, they had been presented with two options: go to the hospital or go to the crime scene. Sherlock chose the latter, since Mycroft was still in surgery at the time, and they weren't admitting anyone in to see him. Although he didn't confess to this, he and Irene both knew that he wouldn't have wanted to go to the crime scene after seeing Mycroft. He most likely wouldn't have wanted to do anything after seeing Mycroft...except maybe go to hibernate in his mind palace.

But now, being here at the crime scene and discovering that the Scotland Yard was suffering from its usual case of chronic idiocy, Sherlock was regretting every effort put into having come here at all.

With a huff of exasperation and a roll of his agitated eyes, he remarked, "It's times like these when the Scotland Yard really outdoes themselves."

John was presently standing next to the detective; his lips pursed. He knew Sherlock's remark was probably not intended as a compliment.

Irene was on the floor, kneeling beside a pool of blood. She was studying the man's face with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. She smirked in amusement as she too deduced what her husband had done only seconds before. She looked at him to see if he understood; his eyes sharpened in recognition. Yes...he knew.

Anderson was present and was wearing his blue coat which covered every inch of body he had (apart from his head). He was looking almost celebratory at Sherlock's praise that they were "outdoing themselves."

John winced as he braced himself for verbal impact.

"In what way?" Anderson asked, his voice the same as always. He never failed to sound like a duck with a sinus infection.

"Always managing to outdo the level of stupidity it is known for," Sherlock huffed, his coat swishing behind him as he abruptly turned to the forensic scientist. "Anderson, you're on forensics, aren't you?"

Anderson looked as though Sherlock was staring through his clothing. He hesitated before meeting the detective's eye, but he knew it meant trouble. Irene cleared her throat rather loudly, and it sounded to everyone in the room that she was prompting him to speak.

"Yes..." Anderson quietly snarled.

"Then why have you failed to notice the presence of fake blood on the man's neck?"

Anderson was quiet for what seemed to be the most mortifying eternity of his career as Sherlock's punching bag.

"F-fake blood?" he stammered as he wrung his hands compulsively.

"Yes, Anderson. Fake blood."

There was silence across the room. Anderson had managed to embarrass himself yet again in front of Sherlock's genius.

"I'm afraid it's quite fake," Irene said. "But so is this..."

Retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket, she thoroughly wiped the dead man's face. What had been a fresh lifeless face moments before turned into the face of a corpse already beginning to rot with death. The white kerchief she had used was now stained with cosmetics, and Irene looked pleased with herself.

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