Don't Underestimate

Chapter 4: Cold Blooded

There was silence. Dead silence. All that could be heard was the deep, icy breathing of the mystery caller. The awkward conversation caused a shiver to run down Sherlock’s spine as the phone pressed against his ear let out a low beep, meaning that the caller had hung up. Sherlock stared into space, his surroundings suddenly becoming alien, while he tried to encode what had just happened. John, who was standing behind him in his best attempts to listen in, seemed slightly concerned but eager to know any discoveries, “Who was that? What did they want?”

Abruptly, Sherlock snapped out of his own world and back into reality. It took him a brief moment to figure out that John asked him a question, his response was, “Oh, nothing.”

John was shocked that Sherlock's answer was so simple compared to what he usually came up with however, he didn’t want to press questions towards the high functioning sociopath. So instead, he went with the flow and followed him down the stairs, where they waited on the busy road outside of 221B for their cab, with hail drumming down from the sky. Sherlock, stuck out his arm, which made a passing vehicle grind to a halt.

“Trafalgar Square,” Sherlock instructed the driver then jumped into the back. He pulled out his phone to try refresh his memory about the case, but his thoughts were clouded by the mystery caller rather than what he needed to solve. John’s eyes kept darting from Sherlock to the transparent cab window, revealing the gloomy outside world, and he could tell there was something bothering his colleague. While he continued to watch their surroundings change outside of the window, he spoke quietly, “Sherlock, I know there is something on your mind, what it is? And don’t say it is the case because I know it’s not.”

Lifting his head up from the bright, small phone screen, Sherlock squinted at John. The expression on his face was unreadable and the look his eyes gave pierced through John, then he turned back to what he had been doing previously. John rolled his eyes and let out a disapproving sigh.

Screech after screech, beep after beep, the duo put two and two together and worked out that they were caught up in rush hour traffic. To make matters worse, it was right in the middle of London, a few miles away from the crime scene they needed to investigate. It was evident that Sherlock was growing impatient because he was tapping the back of his phone with an annoyed look written across his pale face.

And out of nowhere, Sherlock opened the cab door, dived out of the dull cab and into the busy streets of London. Realisation hit John in a matter of three seconds and he swiftly followed, remembering to pay the confused driver on his way out.

John sprinted down an overcrowded pathway in Sherlock's direction, avoiding to push anyone out of the way. As he drew closer and closer, he slowed down until he was in with Sherlock and tried to catch his breath.

"What the heck! Why did you do that?" His words were hard to spit out between pants but as his breathing slurred, it started to become significantly easier, "You scared the living daylight out of me."

“We are running out of time,” Sherlock explained, at the pace of his usual walking speed.

“What do you mean?”

“We are working against time."

To those three words, John became completely oblivious.

But Sherlock realised this in the way John's facial expression changed and said in the most reassuring tone that he could do, "I'll explain everything once we are finished at the crime scene." John took no notice though because he was too distracted in calming himself down from their exit out of the car.

Before they knew it, they had reached their destination. It was almost impossible to miss the location because it was surrounded by flashing, blue lights that came from neon, yellow-coloured vehicles, as if it were a beacon to the crime case. Civil Servants were entering in and out of the building wearing matching uniforms while there were a few amongst lot in sky-blue overalls with purple latex gloves to accompany them. The area was covered in a blanket of people, all discussing their theories and sharing their intellect with each other.

However, one man, who must have been in his early fifties, wasn't wandering around aimlessly like everyone else. Instead, he was checking the time on his left wrist every ten seconds, as if he was waiting for someone to give him instructions.

Sherlock and John submerged themselves under the crime tape that was there to supposedly to keep the public away, but most people were too distracted to notice movement around it, and came up on the other side.

A tall figure greeted them as they got closer. The grey-haired man was wearing a trench coat, similar to Sherlock's but without the collar turned up. It was none other than, Inspector Detective Lestrade, who let out a big sigh of relief, "Sherlock, what took you so long? Actually... forget about that. We are dealing with a client that's in their mid-thirties. We don't know the cause of death yet, however, we thought you could tell us." His voice was low and husky as the pair trekked behind closely to the abandoned building (some of the windows were smashed and the bricks had white flakes of paint sprinkled over them).

Once the decaying wooden door was opened, they were greeted by the aroma of the ancient, cooped up room. The main attraction of this neglected room was the cold corpse that lay in the centre. The body was lifeless, cold and clearly had been preserved for a while now.

Sherlock strolled right up to the dead body and started to examine and deduct the owner's whole life story, while John circled the four walls, scavenging for clues. However Lestrade, he just stayed at the entrance, playing on his phone. The Private Consulting Detective thrived for cases like this, but something wasn't right about this one, and he couldn't pin point what it was. He had built up a lot of theories that did not make sense when he thought more about them.

"Age: thirty-two. Occupation: security guard, you can tell from the badge on his right arm," Sherlock paused for a brief moment, crouching down to examine the body further, "He was going home from his night guard duties. He was having an affair for around three months, with a marriage that he had been in for a year and a half." He spoke with yet another quick witted pace, to use a metal note. He stared at the body for a few seconds before turning around to leave however, Lestrade stood in his way.

"Graham, move!" Sherlock snapped, shoving him out of the way.

"It's Greg. How did he die then?" Lestrade asked with a baffled tone.

Sherlock groaned, "Ugh, isn't it obvious? He just finished his 2 o'clock night shift and was about to go home, and that's when everything went downhill. He was blackmailed, the reason why there is a little scrap note in his left trouser pocket and it rained that night, which explains why the ink has become distorted because whoever blackmailed him used a Parker fountain pen. The client is thirty-two years old, you can find out what his name was and break the news to his family. Now, if you excuse me, I have the rest of the case to solve because this is only a small segment of it. I better check on Mary now, she should be finished by now."

Sliding to his left, Lestrade let Sherlock and John out of the musty room, shutting the door behind him, which made a cloud of dust follow closely behind them.

The duo were in the taxi, heading back to 221B Baker Street, John was concerned about Mary's well-being but Sherlock's mind was on something else... something not finishing in time. His phone pinged; he thought it was Mary, sending him the solved skip codes. But once he opened it, the small, satisfied smirk on his face evaporated. It wasn't who he thought it was...