Maybe you should try texting John. Sherlock just deletes any texts he sees from you. He's so childish sometimes. Send.
I agree. Mycroft
So are you going to bother John about it? Send.
Just did. Waiting for a response. Mycroft
Tell me what he texts back when he does. Send.
You set down your phone and looked around your room, which was densely decorated with photos and newspaper articles about Carl Powers' death. Five hours were left, and you hadn't made as much progress on the case as you'd like to have done. You had to think, to concentrate. A fit in the water? It seemed obvious that it'd be poison. But that wasn't enough. What type of poison? How was it administered? The answer had to be somewhere. It had to be staring you right in the-
Your phone binged a text alert. You opened your eyes, not realizing you'd even closed them in the first place, and looked at the phone.
John just texted that he's on his way. -Mycroft
You smirked and started typing your answer.
Sherlock sent John. Wow. He's such a baby. Well, you have fun with that. I should really get back to the case.
The bomber case. Yes. Goodbye. -Mycroft
Bye. Have fun with that root canal.
You hit the back button to the list of conversation and clicked on Sherlock's name.
Sherlock.
Waited a bit, but no response.
Sherlock, you dimwit, I've been working on the case and about how Carl Powers was murdered.
Once again, you waited, and finally he texted back from upstairs.
Poison, obviously. -SH
Obviously. That's not what I mean though. How it was administered- he had eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into the medication. Look for a poison that wouldn't show up in the autopsy; something virtually undetectable.
...
On it. -SH
Half an hour later, Sherlock's blog- 'The Science of Deduction'- had a new post. "FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers. (1978-1989) Botulinum Toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker St."
Sherlock told you that the poison Clostridium Botulinum was still left inside the shoe from when Powers put the cream on his feet. You were right. The tiny traces meant that the killer had to hide the shoes. But the killer didn't get rid of them, they kept them all those years. Which meant...
The bomber was the murderer.
(Sorry for a short chapter, but still havin' computer problems. At least I published more than one chapter today. I thought I wouldn't be able to do that; thought I'd only get one done. Good thing I have insomnia.)
YOU ARE READING
The Great Game [Reader Insert]
Fanfiction(Y/N) is sucked into another storm of a case, but this time, something's different. This time, things get a little more... personal.