Welcome to Baker Street

26. A trip to the crime scene

Their cab pulls over next to a lavish house in one of the richest neighbourhoods in the city. They hop off and walk straight into the luxurious entrance where Lestrade is waiting for Sherlock.

"What's this strange and inexplicable case, to quote you?" Holmes taunts the D.I. who rolls his eyes at his rude tone and smiles humourlessly.

"Hello to you, too, Sherlock. I'm fine, thank you for asking."

"Whatever. Can we skip the small talk and just get on with it, please?"

Lestrade walks down a hall, leading the group.

"These are the facts: sixty-year-old Michael Chadley was murdered in his study a few hours ago. The maid found him lying in a pool of blood. The crime scene has been well-preserved and forensics have still to sweep the place for fingerprints."

They reach an immense living room and pass by a marble fireplace. Sherlock steals an admiring glance at it as the corners of his lips lift in a crooked smile.

"Are you planning to light up this one, too?" he addresses Giulia, and she simpers at him.

"Maybe. If you keep being so icy."

He snorts, and Lestrade glowers at him like a teacher who just spotted a pupil laughing during his lesson, then goes on, "There's not much else to add: no enemies, no threats, no suspects. This case is very recent, though; my men are still gathering information."

"Which means you're groping around in the dark, getting nowhere." Sherlock haughtily reads between the lines.

"Yes, dear me." Greg rubs a hand over his tired face.

"No, inspector. I'd rather say, Lucky you, you have me." Holmes grins and enters a round study where a body is lying in an unnatural pose over a wooden desk.

Giulia stops on the threshold and raises her hand to her mouth in a grimace of horror, hesitating to step forward.

"Either come in or stay out: it's your choice," Sherlock instructs without even looking in her direction. She nods briefly and stares at him while he paces around the room.

"First time on a crime scene?" a deep voice says behind her, causing her to jump.

She turns around to face a smiling policeman. "Is it so obvious?"

"Don't worry. I know it might be upsetting, especially when you are not used to it." He beams at her with an understanding look.

"No, not really," she swallows, and he nods sympathetically.

"The maid has just made us some tea. Fancy a cuppa?" he passes her a tray, and she gratefully accepts a piping hot cup of tea.

In the meantime, Sherlock has examined every detail in the office, inspecting the corpse.

"What's your analysis so far?" Lestrade interrupts his stream of thoughts.

"I've barely been here for four minutes," he protests without looking away from the body.

"Yeah, but I know that you've already formed a hypothesis. Come out with it."

"Let's see: the victim was standing behind his desk when he was stabbed. No, sorry, not stabbed. It wasn't a dagger or a knife; the edges of the wound are jagged and rough. A blade doesn't cut like that. Where is it, by the way?"

"Where is what?"

"The murder weapon," Sherlock replies matter-of-factly.

"It isn't here." The inspector shakes his head, earning a theatrical eye-roll from Sherlock.