Chapter Text
By the time the seventh and final swing of the hammer came around John's entire body was trembling, his lungs pulling in air raggedly and his pulse a wild thing fluttering against his rib cage. Chest heaving, eyes wide like he was in a darkroom, all he did for several seconds was stare down at the blood patterns and the limp body of his wife. Hammer hanging loosely in his grip, he bent down. Her face was no longer recognizable; merely a pulp of tissue and blood and bone. After another moment of blankly watching the immobile body beside him, he came to his senses and look at his watch. He had a half hour until Harry was supposed to show up for dinner and a dead body in his basement and he was covered in blood. Moving quickly now, he began yanking off his clothes.
Sherlock sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, fingers stapled against his chin, eyes staring intently at the two pills sitting on the coffee table three feet away. They stared back; white and oval shaped and a steadfast promise. His right hand moved the slightest bit, inching to move forward and grab- the sound of his cell phone made him spring up from the couch and bypass the pills, grabbing the mobile beside them. It had been a game of case or pills, and the case had pulled through this time. Not so much the last time.
He clicked open the line, putting it on speaker so he could put away the pills at the same time before Mrs. Hudson saw and had a fit. “What have you got?”
“Looks like a possible break-in-”
“Dull.” Sherlock dismissed, snapping the lid back down on the ibuprofen bottle.
“Will you let me finish?” Lestrade insisted.
Sherlock paused in the living room, tucking the small bottle into his slack's pocket. “I'm waiting.”
“Wife was found murdered in the basement. Husband's unconscious, we've got him heading to hospital now. Think you can come and take a look?”
A brief smile of victory lightened Sherlock's face as he grabbed his coat, shrugging into it. “Happy to.”
Sherlock arrived on the scene in at a suburban cream colored house just outside London. Donavon greeted him with a mild “Hey freak” but it was half-hearted and Sherlock barely paid it any mind as he brushed past her, ducking under the police tape. The front door was open, and a team of forensics were moving around. The foyer was perfectly in place; the husband's jacket strewn over the back of a chair, fireplace going, and- ah, there it was – a small drop of blood toward the entrance to the basement.
Sherlock crouched down beside it, just as Anderson was about to walk on it, and the consulting detective put out a hand to halt him from stepping any further. “Do try not to ruin every shred of evidence you can.” Sherlock murmured, taking out his magnifying lens.
Anderson scoffed. “What are you doing here, freak?”
“Lestrade called me. Seems once you again you can't do your job right.”
“We don't need your help.”
“That's not what Lestrade seems to think.” snapping the lens shut, Sherlock stood up. Without a glance in Anderson's direction he took the steps down to the below ground floor. At the bottom of the staircase he found Lestrade, and a woman's body.
“Sarah Watson.” the DI stated. “Her husband's Dr. John Watson; he works at a clinic in London. He was just discharged from the military last year, Wounded in action. They married before he left to go into service fourteen years ago.”
Sherlock bent down on one knee beside the body of Sarah Watson.
“John's sister is the one that found them. Said she was coming over to have dinner. I questioned her briefly, but she's pretty shaken up, I couldn't get a whole lot from her.”
Standing back up, Sherlock surveyed the room.
“So?” Lestrade prompted. “Break in gone awry?”
“A break in? At seven in the evening while the occupants are clearly home? Please, use what little intelligence you have and observe.”
Lestrade gave him a tired look.“Okay. So it's a murder, and they were after the wife and not the husband.”
“Murder, yes.” Sherlock agreed slowly, eyeing the open toolbox. He went over to it, rifling a bit through the contents. “The husband was injured as well? Head injury?”
“Yeah, knocked unconscious. He was barely coherent when they were taking him out on the stretcher.”
“I need to question him.” Sherlock muttered.
“I'm going to question him. When he's coherent enough. I can tell you what he says.”
Sherlock looked over at the DI. Silently, he left the crime scene.