Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes

Shut Up

The Thames was cold, murky and had just spat out a body on the shore. The soggy person was an obese male wearing soggy black trousers and a white shirt and was missing his shoes. Sherlock, John and Lestrade were snapping on latex gloves as forensics investigated the scene. Clara was shivering in her thin cardigan, wishing she could steal Sherlock's warm coat no matter how much of an arse he was being. Clara stood as far away from the body she could, though close enough to be able to hear the boys talking. She held her own pair of rubber gloves by her fingertips, wanting none of this police riffraff. She almost throttled Sherlock when he came barging into her flat. He grabbed her hand mumbling about another silly clue the bomber had given him and pulled her outside and into a can. Poor Oscar nearly had heart failure when Sherlock nearly stepped on him. Clara didn't want to go, but Mycroft was paying her well.

'D'you think this is all connected, then? The bomber?' Lestrade asked, peering at the poor sod on the shore.

'Must be. Funny though...' Sherlock held up the pink phone. 'He hasn't been in touch.'

'But we must assume that some poor bugger is primed to explode, yeah?'

Sherlock nodded morbidly. The idea sent a wave of shivers down Clara's spine. She was still angry at the detective for what happened to the old woman. She never wanted that to happen again, ever, not if she could stop that bloody Holmes from messing it up. Sherlock stepped backwards from the crime scene and took a long look at the man. 'Any ideas,' the inspector asked.

'Seven, so far.'

'Seven?!'

'Show off,' Clara grumbled. Sherlock glared at her but she matched it with her own death stare. Sherlock walked closer to the body again, and squatted down to examine the deceased's face using his magnifier. He then moved to the ripped pocket on the shirt and slowly worked his way downwards to the man's feet. Clara stared wide eyes as Sherlock pulled off the wet sock making her nose scrunch up as she imagined the awful smell. Sherlock examined the soles with his magnifying glass for a second. He closed the tool with a loud snap, clearly done his investigating. He turned to John, sending him a silent plea to examine the body. John looked at Lestrade, who nodded. The doctor reached over to take hold of the man's wrist, muttering to himself. Sherlock busied himself by tapping away on his phone. Clara stepped closer so she could hear better.

'Dead about twenty four hours - maybe a bit longer,' John told them then looked at Lestrade. 'Did he drown?'

'Apparently not. Not enough Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.'

'Yes, I'd agree.' John started pointing to the deceased's mouth and cheeks. 'There's a lot of bruising. Here, here and here. Mainly around the nose and mouth.'

'Fingertips,' Sherlock muttered thoughtfully, thinking about what John had said.

'Late thirties I'd say, though not in the best condition...' John continued. Clara stepped closer, hating herself for it. She was standing right next to Lestrade now.

'He's been in the river a long while, that water has destroyed most of the data,' Sherlock explained, putting away his phone. He quirk an irritated grin. 'But I'd tell you one thing, that lost Vermeer painting his a fake.'

'What?' Lestrade exclaimed, accompanied by various outbursts from the others.

'We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates...'

'Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait, what painting? What are you - what are you on about?'

Clara thought that if she had a pound for every time someone asked that she could buy the help the detective needed. 'The lost Vermeer painting is being unveiled in a week or something. There's posters everywhere,' Clara tried to explain, for the inspector's sake . She knew of the painting but not how it connected to the body.