Mycroft walks back across the asphalt to where Sherlock, John, and I are waiting. He puts his hand protectively on his brother's shoulder and crouches so he can talk face to face with him. "Sherlock you can't cross the police line but a detective is going to come and tell you all about the case. Listen carefully and see if you can deduce anything from what he tells you." Sherlock nods slowly looking innocently up at Mycroft through dark thick lashes. "Why can't I see the crime scene?" he asks. "Because it's scary and you are too young." Mycroft replies. "Nine years old it not too young plus I have Redbeard so I won't get scared," Sherlock retorts. Mycroft shakes his head and ruffles his brother's jet black hair. "I'm sure the police will let you help them when you get a bit older for now just wait here." With that remark Mycroft strides towards the police tape and ducks underneath it getting lost in the crowd. One look at the mishevious gleam in Sherlock's eye has John shaking his head and saying, "Don't follow him Sherlock." This warning from the person Sherlock trusts most in this world causes him to hesitiate. He rocks back and forth on his feet looking ready to sprint forwards at any moment. He hands John my leash and stares at him with a quiet intensity as if willing him to understand. "John I need to see," he whispers. He hesitates a second more before following his older brother's steps. A blur of motion surrounds Sherlock; amongst the people hurrying about and the flashing of the police cars no one notices a small boy hurrying towards the thickest point of the crowd. I watch Sherlock gasp and stop dead in his tracks and I know he's seen it. The body. Sherlock freezes. His spine turns to ice and everything fades around him until all he can hear is the beating of his own heart. All he can see is the person before him; lifeless eyes gazing at a stale blue sky, a hole in his chest with blood oozing from it. Now people notice him. Mycroft shouts and grabs his brother's hand in order to drag him away. Sherlock slips from his grasp and remains transfixed. As if in a trance he takes a step closer a police man holds and arm out to block him. Sherlock stops and stares up at him before saying. "He wasn't killed by the bullet he was poisoned. Look at the tint of the skin and the saliva in the corners of his mouth. The bullet is a red herring designed to cover up the true means of murder." With this he collapses on the asphalt like a marionette with all its strings cut.
