Deductions: A Johnlock Fanfic

Chapter Four

Hey my ducklings! Sorry it has been so long since an update. And who knows when the next one will be ... Thank you for sticking with me this far, and hopefully I will get my act together and update sooner.

Also! If you've got a minute, could you please check out my new project Hell's Hope Academy. It's not a Johnlock, but if you guys want to get involved in some more of my writing, then please take a look.

Thank you so much! Hugs and kisses to you all!!! xoxoxoxox

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The whitewashed walls of the morgue and the shining steel equipment gave the room a very clinical feeling. As John walked in, he noted Anderson, Molly and Lestrade standing in the corner of the room. Anderson wore a scowl fierce enough to frighten small children. Lestrade rested his head in his hand like he had a headache, and Molly was craning her neck to get a good glimpse at what Sherlock was doing. What he was doing, was examining a body that lay upon a stainless steel bench top. With a spatula.

"Ah John, good to see you," said Lestrade with a tired voice.

"Yes good. Now you're here, you can control your boyfriend," spat Anderson bitterly.

Both he and Molly frowned at this comment. "He's-" began John, but was cut off abruptly as Sherlock spoke in a bored tone. "Not his boyfriend. Now if you could please refrain from talking, I'm doing some serious investigation." Anderson opened his mouth to argue, but Lestrade spotted him. "Just let it go," he said tiredly. Anderson pulled a sour face, like he'd been sucking a lemon.

"Well, I shan't stay where I'm not wanted," proclaimed Anderson. He rose from his seat but made no move towards the door. He looked between the inhabitants of the room expectantly, as though he was waiting for someone to object and beg him to stay.

No one spoke for a few excruciating seconds, before Sherlock said dryly. "Do just leave, Anderson. You are wasting valuable oxygen."

Anderson's face reddened with anger, but without saying another word he stormed out of the morgue, the large doors slamming behind him. For a moment silence descended, before Sherlock turned around; his arms held loft and raising the spatula. "Now we can begin!"

The body was that of young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, early thirties. She lay on the steel bench, her body pale and lifeless. Excellent observation John, of course her body is lifeless. "So John, what can you tell me about her?" asked Sherlock, in that smug tone that implied he already knew, but wanted prove John's theories wrong first.

John tugged on a pair of latex gloves and inspected the body. He ran his eyes over her, taking in every detail. Long blonde hair that was clearly dyed and styled by a hair dresser. Her nails had a French manicure, so she clearly held an office position of some sort. Her teeth were perfectly straight, which suggested dental work as a child, and slightly yellowed, so perhaps she was a light smoker, or a heavy coffee drinker. God, I'm starting to sound like Sherlock, he groaned internally. He glanced up to see Sherlock smirking as he watched John work. Well, at least I'm not as obnoxious as him and that stupid upper lip. "Hmm, I'd estimate her age to be ... Thirty."

"Twenty nine," interjected Sherlock.

"Thanks. And she has no wounds or other signs of damage, like injection wounds etcetera. So it appears to be some sort of internal incident."

"Excellent John. So you'd assume, a heart attack, internal bleeding or a drug overdose, orally ingested."

"Except," interrupted Lestrade. "The reports came back negative. No traces of drugs, no indications of heart or respiratory failure. We have nothing."

John frowned. "Then why treat this as suspicious if you've got nothing?"

"Think John!" exclaimed Sherlock. "You're the doctor, and you've got a dead body with nothing wrong with it. Isn't that a bit of a contradiction?"

John nodded. Nobody died without reason. Even people who died in their sleep did so because of respiratory or heart failure.

Hesitantly, Molly spoke, "So technically, she could be up and about ... Only, she's not."

"Thank you for that keen observation Molly," said Sherlock dryly, handing her the spatula.

She looked a little startled as she awkwardly held a spatula, with a look of mild revulsion that made John question exactly what Sherlock had been doing with the spatula.

"Have you ever heard of the case of John Dillinger?" asked Sherlock, removing the latex gloves.

"No, should I know it?" replied John, his curiosity spiking.

"I had no expectations you would. John Dillinger, was a bank robber, who is 1934 burnt off his fingerprints with acid in an attempt to leave the crime scene spotless."

Molly looked intensely interested in this seemingly unrelated case. Although she stood further back, she leant forward, her gaze fixed on Sherlock. Lestrade however, seemed rather tired by all of Sherlock's general arrogance and obnoxiousness. He sat in his chair, with his chin resting on his fist, with a rather bored expression.

"And he was successful," continued Sherlock. "His crime scenes were left without a trace. And that was his error. By leaving nothing, he left something. And something meant the police were able to link the crime to him and arrest him. By leaving a blank canvas, he provided a greater clue than had he left the prints in the first place. And that is what our criminal has done here. And that, is how we shall find them."