The Yellow Skittle Sociopaths

Chapter 10

At Luigi's, Sherlock stops in the doorway to gaze around.... literally like a kid in a candy store. When he looks over at me, I catch a fleeting glimpse of what I associate to be his please-please-please-let's-go-look-so-I-can-be-better-than-you face. Kinda like the please-please-please-let-me-have-a-bag-of-jelly-beans face. The police had cleared out long ago, though the caution tape stretched everywhere.

"First we're going to investigate the crime scene, and see what we can pull from there."

"Of course." I answer shortly, resting my hand against the back of a nearby chair. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, however, I had no intention of going back in the kitchen. I already had everything I needed from there. Sherlock locks his hands behind his back and looks at me expectantly.

"Well? What did you pull?"

"Pull?" I ask. I wasn't playing stupid; I seriously didn't know. He massages the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated.

"Yes, pull!" He says, his tone agitated. "You were here last night! You had the file from the office and everything! What did you get last night?!"

I smirk. "Why would I tell you?"

"Because I'm the only one with a hunch as to who the killer is. Well, a proper one.... considering you most likely have one as well."

"Of course I do." I say indifferently.

"All right, bloody out with it then." He leans up against a table and gestures for me to continue.

I lean forward, interlacing my delicate fingers before me. "A producer."

Sherlock sits back, pulling himself up onto the table. "A producer? Why didn't I see it before? Because it's totally, one-hundred percent wrong! W-R-O-N-G; wrong." He acts as though he is blown away, but continues mocking.

"What a bloody prat. Of course it isn't just the producer," I think to myself. "Naturally, someone either put him up to it or they had a good reason to be bribed with...."

I raise my eyebrows. "And your thought?"

Sherlock merely shakes his head. "I need proof before I convict."

"Bloody prat."

"Oh no," I say, moving closer and placing my hand on Sherlock's table. "It wasn't just the producer." I suddenly place all my weight on the table, and it flips, seating Sherlock on the ground. I whisk myself up the stairs to the manager's office without so much as a backward glance.

"No need to get so harsh...." Sherlock says as he rubs his lower back and races up the stairs after me, two steps at a time.

I burst through the frosted door and found that everything had either been removed or switched around. The main furniture was there, like the desk, but every file, book, and scrap of paper had been removed. "Well crap."

Sherlock pulls a miniature finger print swab kit from his coat and tosses it to me, grabbing a pair of gloves from his other pocket along with a couple evidence bags. "Dust for prints."

I sigh grudgingly and begin the process, scouring walls and the door. Each sample is put in a plastic bag and he stores them in his pocket.

I continue this process for some time, placing the tools wherever I think might be a logical place.

"Why am I always the one stuck doing this?" I mumble, positive he can't hear me, because the last time I had seen Sherlock he was several paces behind me.

"I heard that," a deep voice whispers in my ear. Thank goodness for him, I usually have nerves of steel.

Usually.