How They Met Alice (BBC Sherlock Fanfiction)

Chapter 19

I'm posting again today because I probably won't be able to post on the weekend, so here ya go :) Please vote and comment! Thank you fun peoples!

(South bank of the River Thames, Alice’s POV: )

Later, as the police and forensics officers worked at the scene, we arrived. Sherlock was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Lestrade was waiting beside the body.

“D’you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?” Lestrade asked.

“Must be. Odd, though...” He held up the pink phone. “...he hasn’t been in touch.” Sherlock replied, sounding disappointed. I stood beside John, just looking over the body, disinterested.

“But we must assume that some poor bugger’s primed to explode, yeah?” Lestrade assumed.

“Yes.” Sherlock said simply, stepping back and taking a long look at the body, which was now laying on its back on a plastic sheet.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade asked. It seemed that man could only speak in questions.

“Seven ...so far.” Sherlock answered.

“Seven?!” Lestrade exclaimed, leaning forward a bit to put an emphasis on his surprise. Sherlock walked closer to the body and squatted down to examine the man’s face closely with his magnifier. He then looked at the ripped pocket on the shirt before working his way downwards until he reached the man’s feet. He pulled off one of the socks and examined the sole of the foot with his magnifier. Standing up and closing the magnifier, he looked across to John and me and jerked his head down towards the body in a mute order to examine it. John looked enquiringly at Lestrade for permission, and the inspector held his hand out in a ‘be my guest’ gesture. John squatted down beside the body and reached out to take hold of the man’s wrist as Sherlock walked a few paces away and got his phone out. I stayed in my spot, just thinking and blocking everything but voices out.

“He’s dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer.” John started. He looked up at Lestrade. “Did he drown?” He asked.

“Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.” Lestrade said, finally not asking a question.

“Yes, I’d agree.” John said. Sherlock looked up thoughtfully behind the doctor. “There’s quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.” John said, pointing to various places, but again, my eyes were focused on the ground.

“Fingertips.” Sherlock mumbled. John stood up.

“In his late thirties, I’d say. Not in the best condition.” John said, still looking down at the body.

“He’s been in the river a long while. The water’s destroyed most of the data.” Sherlock said. I could tell by the way he spoke that he quirked a grin. “But I’ll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting’s a fake.” Sherlock continued. My mouth twitched up into a smile.

“What?” Lestrade asked.

“Again, Lestrade! Speak in statements!” I thought, irritated but knowing there wasn’t much either he or I could do.

“We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates...” Sherlock began.

“Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you – what are you on about?” Lestrade repeated.

“It’s all over the place. Haven’t you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it’s turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.” Sherlock explained.