The Great Game [Reader Insert]

frickin janus cars my dude (edit title later) >>OOps i didn't edit it

     You did not like Mr. Ewart. He was obviously trying to hide something, and you despised when others thought they could hide things from you.
     He sat there, twisting left and right on his stupid little swivel chair looking up at you and Sherlock (John was sitting down and he's short; pretty hard to ever have to look up to see him), and you could see right through him. Only child, obviously. Parents left his life when he was young, but not through death. If they had died, he would have pictures of them on his desk somewhere. Sentiment. You know how it is. Mr. Ewart did, however, have an old photo of an elderly couple. So, his parents split up and left him at a very young age, too young for their absence to much affect his morale, and he had to grow up with perhaps grandparents. And he'd been away recently. Had a tan line, most visible in parts above his wrist.

     "I don't see how I can help you," Mr. Ewart said, tapping his foot impatiently.

     John, glancing at some notes in his lap, answered, "Mr. Monkford hired a car from you... yesterday."

     "I've no idea what happened to him. Poor sod!" Mr. Ewart sighed. "Yeah, it had a lovely motor. Mazda Rx8. Wouldn't mind on of them myself." As he talked, Sherlock circled round the room to Ewart's left hand side.

     "Is that one?" Sherl asked, pointing at one of the photos on the wall behind Ewart. 

     Mr. Ewart turned to his right look at the specified car, and behind him Sherlock leaned close to observe something at Ewart's collarbone- probably the tan line that you had noticed earlier. 

     
"No, they're all Jags," Mr. Ewart said, swiveling his chair back to its original position. Sherlock immediately straightened up before Ewart could see that he'd moved. "I can see you're not a car man, eh?"

     "But surely you can afford one? A Mazda I mean."

     Mr. Ewart frowned. "You've got a fair point there, but it's like working in a sweetshop." He scratched  at his upper arm, which was covered up by the sleeve of his sadly unfashionable button-up. (See unflattering picture above. ono I just read an article about the difference between button-ups and button-downs and now the word button is doing that thing where it doesn't make sense or look right anymore.) "Once you start picking at the Liquorice Allsorts, where does it stop?" He smiled to himself as if he'd just made an inside joke.

     At that exact moment, both your and Sherlock's gazes sharpened. Sherlock was closer, so he had a better view, but you both saw the same thing: the tiniest drop of blood at the exact spot where Ewart had been scratching. You and Sherlock exchanged a look of mutual understanding: Mr. Ewart had taken a shot of something to up his energy. Must be allergic to coffee or something in it- either that, or he had an undiagnosed case of low B12. You silently kicked yourself in the head for not noticing the symptoms- dilated pupils, the insistent buzz in his right leg, the overexcessive blinking like he needed to clear his eyes.

     You drew the conclusion that Ewart had been out of town on a business trip. The tan suggested somewhere sunny, so nowhere close by. (haha take that britain, you ridiculously cloudy place) Only thing was that his job by no means required a business trip so far from London. And it couldn't be a holiday trip, because he wouldn't have needed that booster drug if it was a vacation. He would have been well-rested. There could be the B12 deficiency, but probability states that he was more likely to have been diagnosed of deficiency and treated than to be undiagnosed and resort to injections to keep up energy. 

     There was something going on here at Janus Cars, something just below the surface, right under your nose.

     Sherlock must have been n the same track. Out of the blue, he went, "Mr. Ewart, do you have any change for the cigarette machine? I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change. I'm gasping."

     You couldn't stop yourself from grinning ridiculously. Although Holmes could be an absolute idiot, sometimes he was just brilliant!

     You watched like a starving dog as Ewart took out his wallet with a grunt and went flipping through the notes and cards. After a moment, he closed it up. "No change, sorry." Well, that was fine. You and Sherlock had gotten just what you needed.

     "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ewart," you said. "You've been very helpful." You gave a polite nod of appreciation and then gave John a look that said it was time to go. Mr. Ewart look confused. You were leaving? The group had barely been there more than a few minutes; How had you gathered enough information to be well along your merry way?

     The answer of course, was simple. 

     You were (Y/N) (L/N). The greatest detective mind on Earth.

     (Okey, back from vacation. It was dope. They changed the Tower of Terror ride into the Guardians of the Galaxy: Mission Breakout- and while I miss the Tower of Terror, I do enjoy my Marvel fandom. I went on that ride over and over and over again, despite the massive line, bcos I need my fangirl sustenance (Peter Quill/Star-Lord/Chris Pratt and Rocket Racoon were absolutely genius in the little clips on the ride. I love Marvel, goshdarnit, it FUELS my WILL to LIVE. Anyway, back to my normal writing schedule. Hope you missed me. :L *struggles not to fill the next half page with did you miss me? did you miss me? Did you miss me?*)