How Sage Became a Holmes//book the first (A Sherlock BBC Fanfiction)

Deductions, and Sage's Perdicament.

Moments later, Sherlock, John and I were sitting in a taxi on the way to the crime scene; with myself in the front seat next to the cabbie, and John and Sherlock in the back.
"Ok, you've got questions." Sherlock said to John.
"Yeah, where are we going?" Asked John.
"Crime scene. Next." I said.
"Who-" he paused. "Who are you? What do you two do?"
"Guesses?" Asked Sherlock. I turned in my seat to face them as John speculated.
"Well, I'd say private detective."
"But?"
"The police don't go to private detectives."
"I'm a consulting detective." Said Sherlock, attempting and failing to conceal his pride.
"Only one in the world. He invented the job." I put in, doing nothing to help his ego.
"And what does it mean?" Asked John.
"It means when the police are clueless and need assistance which is always..."
"They come to him." I finished Sherlock's sentence for him. John scoffed and I glared at him.
"The police don't consult amateurs." He said, either ignoring or not noticing my glare. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked to me. That was his deducing face. He turned to John, rattling off everything he could.
"Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. And your words as you walked in the room said trained at Bart's. Army doctor, obviously." Said Sherlock. Ha. So I had been right. "Your limp is bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. Which would mean that the circumstances of the original injury were traumatic: wounded in action." John was silent for a good few seconds, probably processing everything Sherlock had just rambled off.
"You said I had a therapist." I attempted not to scoff as I said:
"No offense Doctor Watson, but you've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you have a therapist."
I thought Sherlock was done with his deductions, but presumed wrong, as he continued. He then deduced that John had a recently divorced, alcoholic brother, who didn't get along that well with him, or John didn't approve of because of his drinking. Oh, and all this was (correctly, mind you) observed from John's mobile phone. When Sherlock was done, John just stared at him.
"That-" said John, "was amazing." Sherlock thought this over a minute.
"You really think so?" He asked.
"Of course it was." Replied John. Yep, defiantly doing nothing for Sherlock's ego.
"It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." Seriously John, stop now.
"That's not what people normally say." Remarked Sherlock.
"What do people normally say?"
"Usually 'piss off'" I replied.
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We arrived at a tall, unkept looking building. There were police cars and lights all about, and a line of caution tape dividing us from most of the action. I followed Sherlock over to the caution tape with John closely behind. Sherlock suddenly turned to John.
"Did I get anything wrong?" He asked. Oh please, were we still on this?
"Harry and me don't get on." said John. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago, they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker. And Harry's short for Harriet."
"Oh, sister! Damn."
"You were close." I said, patting his shoulder sarcastically. If one can even do that. Just assume I do everything sarcastically, really.
"Look, what exactly am I doing here?" Said John.
And then it was I spotted my favorite person in the face of the earth. (Sarcasm!)
"Hello, Freak! Oh, look you've got your shadow with you. And another one too?" She clicked her tongue.
"Hello, Donovan." I spat.
"That's Sergeant Donovan to you." She replied just as hatefully.
"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Said Sherlock, cutting us off.
"Why?"
"We were invited." I said matter of factly.
"Why?" Said Sally, her voice laced with a hint of menace.
"He wants me to take a look." Said Sherlock, looking down on her.
"Well you know what I think, don't you?"
"Yeah, and I don't give a damn." "Always, Sally." Sherlock and I replied at the same time. Guess who said what. Donovan rolled her eyes and let us underneath the caution tape.
"I even know you didn't make it home last night."
"I don't-wait, who's this?" She stammered as John started to duck under the tape.
"A colleague, Dr. Watson." Sally scoffed.
"Another one? You starting a collection now, or what?" God, I hate her.
"John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan."
"Did he follow you home like the brat?" Sally further questioned. Ouch, that hurt.
"Freak's here bringing him in." Sally spoke into her walkie-talkie as Sherlock held up the tape for John. We followed her into the building, but not until after bumping into Anderson? who ordered us not to contaminant his crime scene, and Sherlock accused him and Sally of sleeping with each other.
Excuse we while I go vomit my brains out.
Lestrade lead us up a long, winding staircase to a small room where a body was lying face down. From first glance, I noted that she was wearing all pink and had scratched R-A-C-H-E into the wood floor with her finger nails. But once Sherlock had his way for a minute or so, we'd probably know her life story.