Consulting Pineapples (Psychlock)

Chapter Seven--Strikes Again

Sherlock was silent for the duration of the cab ride, smiling a rather worrying half smile and staring at the driver’s seat in front of him. John sat there, utterly confused, then tried to figure it out.

    “Icicles, then. What about them?” John  tried asking as they arrived at the scene of the murder.

    Sherlock looked around critically, not making any effort to answer. John took this as an invitation to talk it out. “Large amounts of salt found in the victim’s blood. Salt can’t kill you, and he died from a large stab wound in the back. Salt...melts ice. Sherlock, I-”

    Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Figured it out, have you? Please, shut up. I’m thinking.”

    John shut his mouth and looked away, sighing as his companion stepped up to the body again, then looked around the scene. Nodding in smug approval, Sherlock turned back to John. “Let’s go before the forensics show up again to kick us out.”

    “Was I right?” John asked, but Sherlock ignored him.

    “Suspects…” Sherlock’s half smile was back, and John could almost see how fast he was thinking.

    “Any ideas?” John climbed into another cab, leaving open the door for Sherlock.

    “Quite a few.” Sherlock didn’t elaborate but instead leaned forward in his seat with his eyes closed. “Hungry?”

Shawn was muttering to himself in the hotel room as he inspected every object in the suitcase. Gus was finding it increasingly annoying. He tried to concentrate on his book but it was awfully hard with Shawn saying things like, “Unmarried. Not actually a security guard. Ooo, a secret assassin? No, just an agent. Nothing particularly special.”

    After a good half-hour putting up with it, Gus was about to scream. Luckily, Shawn was done, having found everything he wanted.

    “He stopped obeying. He stopped following orders. He was an agent, sent to kill someone, and he refused. That’s why he was murdered, Gus! Now if I only knew who…And don’t you dare tell me to take this to the police, Gus. No. Just no.”

    “You have to, Shawn!” Gus protested.

    Shawn snorted. “Oh, please. No, I don’t.” He paused at the look on Gus’s face. “How about...I’ll take it once I’ve solved the case. Okay?”

    “Not okay, Shawn. You’re withholding evidence, which I’m guessing is illegal in England, too.”

    “Well, I do it in Santa Barbara all the time soooo...I’ll say I’m okay.” He sighed. “Look, Gus, I will give it to them.”

    “Shawn, it’s different in Santa Barbara! This is another country!” But Shawn was paying no attention.

    “Suspects…” he muttered, closing his eyes and half-smiling.

They had a meal that mostly involved John eating a large order of chips while Sherlock looked straight ahead, muttering to himself. John was used to stares, but Sherlock was being extra-annoying today.

    “Are you still mad about that Shawn bloke?” John threw his trash away.

    “Hmm?” Sherlock asked, although he had obviously heard very clearly.

    The ex-army doctor sighed. “Are you threatened by him? That he’s psychic and-”

    Sherlock cut him off impatiently. “No, not psychic, obviously not psychic. Now, suspects. Who would stab a security guard with an icicle?” He sat up straighter, looking over his shoulder. “I need to see that suitcase again.”

    John stood, wiping his face with a napkin. “Good luck getting it off Donovan, she’s been pretty cranky recently.”

     “Indeed.” Sherlock crossed to the door, holding it open for John expectantly.

     They caught a cab and got to Scotland Yard a few minutes later, Sherlock instantly shooting out of the cab and walking up to the door faster than John could stand up.

Shawn wanted to break into the police station.

    Gus almost slapped him. “We’re avoiding getting arrested!”

    “I won’t get caught.”

    “Says you,” Gus said with a sigh. They had been having this same argument for a while now.

    “Fine,” Shawn said reluctantly, grabbing a piece of pineapple off of the fruit tray in the hotel room. “I’ll figure it out some other way. The records would be really nice to have, but I guess you have a point.” He took some more pineapple and began pacing the room again. “Whoever killed him is an agent. He’d have to be unobtrusive. Not too tall, not too short. Probably a master assassin.”

    “Only eight million people to search.” Gus rolled his eyes.

    “Negativery, Gus!”

    “No, truth! There are over eight million people who live in London!”

    Shawn shot him a glare. “Stop being so negativery. It interferes with my thinking.”

    Gus snorted. “Oh, please.”

    Shawn stood up suddenly and looked out the window. “More lights, Gus. Look. More sirens. Another murder?” He grabbed his coat and hurried out the door. “Come on!”