Sentiment || Sherlock Holmes

The Great Game Part 3

Sherlock, John, and Evelyn at solemnly in 221B, watching the news. The explosion had ripped through a whole block of flats in the old woman's building, killing twelve people. The authorities were calling the incident another gas leak.

"He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once he put himself in the firing line." Sherlock mused.

"What'd you mean?" John asked.

"Normally he's just the organizer. No direct contact." Eve explained.

"What, like the Connie Prince murder, he arranged that?" John puzzled out. "So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up like booking a holiday?"

"Novel." Sherlock breathed.

"Why is he playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?"

A hint of a smirk played on Sherlock's lips. "I think he wants to be distracted."

Evelyn took a deep breath and pinched her nose, trying to keep her irritation at bay. John mirrored similar behavior, rolling his eyes.

"I hope you'll be very happy together." John said sarcastically, getting up from his chair.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, confused.

Eve threw up her hands in frustration. "People are dying, Sherlock! Actual people with lives and families and friends!"

"Do you care about that at all?" John added.

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope." John replied.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"You find that easy do you?"

"Yes, very." Sherlock snapped. "Is that news to you?"

"No." Evelyn said in a small, sad voice.

"I've disappointed you." Sherlock said to both of them.

"That's good." John said facetiously. "Good deduction there."

"Don't make people into heroes, John." Sherlock quipped, fingers steepled in front of his face. "Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

Eve opened her mouth the protest his final comment when the pink phone dinged.

Sherlock spoke softly. "Excellent."

The two pips were accompanied by a picture of the Thames. "South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo." Sherlock deduced within seconds. "You check the papers, I'll look online."

Evelyn rose tiredly while John simply stood where he was, his vexation clear from his tense posture.

"Ah, you're angry with me so you won't help." Sherlock said with a tone of superiority. "Not much cop, this caring lark." He mocked, scrolling through the search results on his mobile.

John sat next Eve on the couch and reluctantly assisted her in browsing the headlines.

"Ah, 'Man found on the tracks.' Andrew West." Evelyn read aloud. Sherlock ignored her.

One call to Lestrade later, the trio found themselves at a crime scene in Battersea. The dead body of a man lay on the pebbly river bank. He wore only his pants and a shirt, both of which were cheaply made and a bit too large on him, likely some sort of standardized uniform. Eve concluded that the man was a security guard based on the calluses on his feet and protruding veins in his leg, coupled with the flabbiness of his backside. All three observations pointed to a job with lots of walking and sitting.