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"The body was staged."
"Hm?" John said out of the corner of his mouth.
Beside him, Sherlock sighed heavily. "The body was staged." He pointed to the corpse that was a mere 15 feet away. "They think she fell from that seventh floor window because of the head trauma, cracked ribs, broken neck. But look at the seventh story window they are examining, John and the likely trajectory of the fall? There are trees in the way. She would have landed in the branches not on the pavement. There's not even so much as a twig or leaf on the body. Then there's the body itself. Look at the story it tells, John!" Sherlock's voice was becoming excited and slightly high-pitched. "Look at her face. She's wearing make-up, her hair is styled. She clearly cares about her appearance. But look at her clothes. They are not designer, not new, they're not even clean; they're soiled and I can smell them from here. These clothes do not belong to that victim."
John raised an eyebrow. "Someone stole that girl's clothes? And replaced them with some from a dumpster? Why?"
"She's a model," Sherlock answered right away.
"How can you tell?"
"Her height, she's around 5'10. She's anorexic, as I am sure you can tell by her extremely thin frame, brittle nails, and her thinning hair. Her make-up wasn't bought at a Tesco, it's high-end. Besides all that isn't what is important. What is missing from this crime scene?"
John looked a little closer. Everything seemed normal enough, before it clicked. "Blood. There's no blood."
"Exactly." Sherlock grinned from ear to ear. "The victim was killed, then moved here and staged."
John smiled. "Brilliant." He paused. "Do you think they know all that?"
Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. Anderson is on forensics."
"I am going to pretend not to know how you know that." John chuckled.
"Are you talking to me?" A short, elderly lady who smelled like cats and wore knitted clothing hunched over next to him asked.
"Ah, no," he laughed, but stopped when he saw Sherlock's angry glare. Sherlock had to step away from John to make room for the woman. "I was just talking to myself."
"They say only crazy people do that." The lady responded as she prodded John with her cane.
Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him away from the crowd hanging around the crime scene. John was forced to make apologizes to passersby and tried his best to yell after Sherlock to stop. When they had reached the kerb they were lucky enough to find an idle cab and hopped in. John gave the cab driver their home address before Sherlock started his rant.
"She was standing right in me!" Sherlock pounded his fists against his legs. "What kind of person stands in someone else? I was clearly there! I was two seconds from solving that crime and then she had to waddle over with her cane and disrupt my thinking! Argh!" He punched the back of the seat.
"To be fair, she couldn't see you," John said. "No one can except for me." He grasped Sherlock's hand briefly.
Sherlock sighed. "I am a human, not of flesh and blood like you. I am not a ghost since I have aged along with you. Not a faerie, a sprite, or elf. I've done numerous tests and experiments. Solved so many crimes—"
"Anonymously," John chimed in. "Be a bit odd if the Yard knew it was you."
"Yet I can't solve the mystery of who I am. How ironic."
"We'll figure it out someday, Sherlock." John said hopefully. "Maybe Mycroft—"
"My best wish for my fat brother is for him to choke on a chicken bone when no one around him knows CPR, and he would die." Sherlock's head shot up and he grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "Remind me to send him a fat juicy chicken for Christmas, will you?"
John rolled his eyes as the cab halted to a screeching stop in front of their flat. He opened the door for Sherlock to get out. He leaned forward and asked the cab driver, "How much do I owe you?"
The driver waved his hands. "No, no charge! Please go! Get out of my cab!"
John laughed his way up the steps to the door of the flat as the cab sped away. "Traveling with you does have its perks. I never have to pay a fare."
Sherlock ignored this statement as he barged into the flat and up the stairs. John heard the key twist in the lock and the door open and slam shut. Yes, of course with no one around Sherlock wouldn't wait up for him.
When he made it into 221B Sherlock had already changed into his blue dressing gown and was pacing the length of the flat, his palms steepled under his chin.
John went and a brewed a pot of tea for the two of them, setting Sherlock's cup by his chemistry equipment. John put on the telly, watched some trash reality show on a low volume so Sherlock could think properly and sipped on his tea occasionally. It was a normal Sunday afternoon really.
"Biscuits boys!"
John jumped as Mrs. Hudson let herself into their flat with a tray of biscuits and other assorted treats.
"I went to the market and bought too many sweets and thought I would share." She sent the tray down on the coffee table, and oohed as she straightened up, holding her hip. "I do hope Sherlock likes coconut macaroon."
John looked over to see Sherlock examining the tray, sniffing and wafting at the contents. He finally met John's eyes and nodded, continuing his pacing.
"He likes them, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you, you really shouldn't have."
She waved it off and picked up a few things off the floor as began to leave. "Is Sherlock going to play his violin today?"
"Um," John faltered. "I don't know Mrs. Hudson, why?"
"There was this old war tune I used to listen to as a girl. Only I can't remember the name. It went like… Daa… Da da da… Da da da… See not very helpful I know," she shrugged. "But I thought— I dunno. Maybe I'm just too sentimental." Mrs. Hudson smiled and left.
John shrugged, ate some biscuits and watched some telly. He got a garbled drunk text from his sister. He was about to respond when he heard the most beautiful sound in the world, Sherlock playing his violin. John sat back on the couch, closed his eyes and listened. It was very romantic and classy.
Suddenly he furrowed his brow. "Wait, you're playing that song aren't you? That one that Mrs. Hudson didn't know the title of? That tune that she hummed it's barely there but…" He grinned widely. "What is this?"
"Moonlight Serenade," Sherlock's baritone purred, "Glenn Miller."
John relaxed once again. He felt like he was being soothed and protected by Sherlock's music. He was almost asleep when the music abruptly stopped by the wail of the violin bow crossing the strings in agony. "Wha--? Sherlock what--?"
"I know who did it, John!" Sherlock cried. "I know who did it and why!" He threw his violin on the ground without caution and jumped over furniture to get to John's mobile and tossed it over the other side of the room. "Phone the anonymous tip to Lestrade! I just solved him another case!"
Oh yes, John thought as turned on the app that changed his voice and dialed the Met's number. Just another ordinary day. "Hello, I have a tip about that girl who supposedly jumped from her flat. May I speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade please?"