“Sherlock,” John said ten minutes after he arrived at Baker Street. “You don’t have to take this case, you know. If it’s too much–“
“I’m taking the case.” Sherlock said.
“Sherlock, if it’s too much for you I’m sure–” Mary, who had come along with John, started.
“What?” Sherlock asked. ”You think I would let them investigate?”
“Sherlock,” John said, “it’s Scotland Yard, I’m sure they could handle it.”
“John, I’m sure that after years of solving crimes you know that they cannot handle a case like this.” Sherlock said, his voice cold.
John opened his mouth to attempt to defend Lestrade and everyone else at the scene, but Lestrade walked up before he could get any words out.
“Sherlock,” He said. “We believe we can handle the case, but if you have any information you know already…” He trailed off, apparently remembering who the victim was. He suddenly gave Sherlock a sympathy look, and spoke again. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”
“I’ll take the case.” Sherlock said, his straight-faced expression not changing and his voice remaining cold.
“Are you sure? I’m sure we could–“
“I will take the case, Lestrade.”
“Alright,” Lestrade sighed. “Come to my office tomorrow, tell me everything you know. Don’t hold back anything. We’ll catch this bastard, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked to the front door of his flat. A coroner was coming through the door with a gurney.
“Give me five minutes,” Sherlock told Lestrade. “I want to do some more investigating before he’s taken.”
Lestrade nodded and walked over to the coroner, speaking with him. Sherlock turned and headed towards the bedroom when John spoke. “Do you want me to…?”
“No,” Sherlock said. “I’d rather do this myself.”
“Okay.” John said. Mary locked her arm with his. She was big now, only two weeks until her due date.
~ ~ ~ ~
John and Mary insisted that they spent the night at 221b. In the morning, Mary went out to café with Janine and John accompanied Sherlock to Scotland Yard. When they got to Lestrade’s office, he was waiting for them with a pen and a large notepad in front of him. He was actually going to take notes.
John and Sherlock sat in two desks that were sat in front of Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade picked up his pen and hovered the tip of it over the top line of the note pad.
“Anytime you’re ready, Sherlock.” Lestrade said.
Within seconds, Sherlock was speaking at top speed. “The apartment lock was picked, as well as the door to my flat. I was only gone for twenty minutes, so they were fast, really fast. Gunshot to the heart from behind, gun must have had a silencer. Mycroft was facing away from the shooter, but was flipped over onto his back shortly after because ‘I.O.U’ was carved into his chest above the bullet wound. There were no signs of struggle, so the bullet killed Mycroft within seconds. Of course it would have. There was a letter in a drawer,” Sherlock took a breath and began speaking at top speed again. “Whoever it was, was a female. She is either a close friend or family member of Jim Moriarty, judging by how she wrote about him.” He took the note out of his pocket and handed it to Lestrade who stopped taking notes and opened the letter. “Neat handwriting, she probably writes a lot, she’s had a lot of practice.”
“Wait,” Lestrade interrupted. “Jim Moriarty? This has to do with the video clip that was on everyone’s telly?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Obviously.”
“So he’s not alive?” John asked.
“Obviously not.” Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes.
“Obviously?” John questioned.
“Yes, obviously.” Sherlock said. “I sat there and watched him blow his brains out. It’s impossible to survive that.”
“You jumped off a building and survived.” John argued. “I saw it.”
“Yes, but you didn’t see all of my fall. You didn’t see me before it or towards the end of it.”
“Are you really not going to tell me how you did that?”
“No, that takes all the fun out of it. Besides, it is not of importance at this time.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” DI Lestrade said. “But we are here for a reason. Sherlock, why don’t you tell us why you believe Moriarty is dead?”
“For one thing, I saw him shoot himself. There was a trail of blood and even a bit of the back of his head floated down it. Bit graphic, I know, but since you want details.” Sherlock explained.
“Anything else?” Lestrade questioned.
“The suit he was wearing,” Sherlock said. “He had tea with me while wearing it before the fall. He was smart, he had a plan; he knew what he wanted to happen after his suicide if I were to stay alive and fool his men. Now, I thought I had dismantled his network, but there must still be someone out there. I don’t know how long it will take to find them, but I will find them Detective Inspector.”
~ ~ ~ ~
“Sherlock, John.” Mary said when they had arrived at 221b.
“Hello, Mary.” John kissed her on the cheek and continued to walk into the flat, sitting down in his chair.
“Sherlock,” Mary said as Sherlock stopped in front of her. “How are you doing?”
Sherlock didn’t say anything; he just walked past her and sat in his chair. “How’s Janine?” He asked, wanting to get the subject off of his brother.
“Well,” Mary said. “Still pissed off at you.”
“Of course.” Sherlock gave Mary a little smirk. “And she still doesn’t know that you used her as well?”
“I didn’t just use her to get to Magnusson, Sherlock,” Mary smiled. “She’s a nice girl, a great friend.” Sherlock gave her a look and she rolled her eyes. “At least I didn’t date her and propose to her to break into her boss’s office.”
‘Shag-a-lot Holmes’” John let out a laugh at Janine’s revenge on Sherlock when she made up stories about him and published them in the papers. Mary laughed as well and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“’Seven Times A Night In Baker Street’” Mary said another article title.
“’He made me wear the hat’”
Sherlock picked up a rolled up newspaper, which was on the floor next to his chair and threw it at John.
~ ~ ~ ~
John and Mary went back to their flat that night. Sherlock decided to call his parents, who had already been informed about Mycroft’s death. His mother and father cried, and Sherlock let a tear slide as well. He informed his parents that he was on the case and that he would find the bloody bastard who had done this. His mother told him to be careful, and his father told him to phone them more often. They would be coming to spend next week in London for Mycroft’s funeral.
After Sherlock had hung up the phone, he lay on the sofa. His fingers were steepled in front of his mouth as he thought. He traveled through his mind palace, running up and down stairs, through hallways. Eventually, after he had made sure everything was all right in his mind palace, he grew bored and created a mental map of the crime scene. He checked for any clues he may have missed, but found none and fell asleep on the sofa within minutes.
I'm liking this idea so far, so I think I will continue with it. The Woman Who Counted and Rosalie are still the stories I will be focusing on though. This is just another one for fun.
Thank you all so much for your support! You are all fantastic.
Vote, comment, and follow for more! :D xxx
–OH