You and Sherlock

He Shoots With His Right Hand

Poor Ms. Wintle, you thought to yourself as Sherlock stepped out into the balcony a few moments later.  You had propped the gate open with a piece of rubble from the street, determined to not let it swing shut and lock you out. You weren't entirely able to explain why you were still outside, even to yourself. It had nothing at all to do with the anxious thrumming of your heart as you watched Sherlock out on the balcony you told yourself. Nothing at all. Letting your mind drift back to Ms. Wintle, you smirked. She probably had absolutely no idea what had just hit her. Watching in equal parts horror and fascination as Sherlock nimbly swing off Ms. Wintle's balcony on to Van Coon's, you loosed a soft sigh of relief as he reached for the handle of the door and stepped inside. Now you stepped off the street and inside the building.
You hurried past a few errant tenants, wishing fleetingly that you had Sherlock's skills of deduction — wishing that you could read them the way he could — before stopping outside Van Coon's front door.

You waited a few moments and then cast your gaze up and down the hallway. Okay, then. Nothing and no one. Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you tried to look as innocuous as possible and not at all acting as an accomplice in crime. Not that the law would ever apply to Sherlock anyway, you thought to yourself with a soft snort. Shifting your weight again, you tried not to start to worry. It'd been a few minutes since Sherlock had gone inside. After another minute of silence, you reached forward and pressed the buzzer.
"Sherlock?" Nothing. Pressing the button again, you said more loudly, "Sherlock!"
Nothing. Ugh. Either Sherlock was just being Sherlock or he was in danger. Anxiety surging up, you pressed the buzzer.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?"

You sighed and tried to resist the urge to bang your head against the door. Why was he like this?
"Sherlock?" you tried again. "Anytime you want to let me in would be nice." You emphasized your statement by rapping your knuckles sharply against the door. Stepping back, you sighed heavily and then not a second later, Sherlock burst through the front door and whipped his head around frantically before catching your gaze.

"Y/N." He said it with such gravity and finality that you shivered. "Time to call the amateurs." He added dryly. "A man's been murdered."

"And I thought Christmas wasn't for another few months," you shot back, rewarded with a soft smirk. "I'll call Lestrade."

Sherlock nodded curtly and walked back into the flat.

"Investigating before the police mess it up?" 

Sherlock nodded again, not really listening. You sat down on the white sofa, resigned, and waited for the police to come.

Thirty minutes later found you and Sherlock in the bedroom, his coat off and him putting on a pair of latex gloves to ostensibly examine the body.   The soft gurgle of voices drifted into the bedroom, the crowd of forensics officers dispersed throughout the flat. You looked back down at the scene in front of you.

A man lying dead, bullet hole in his brain, gun nearby. It seemed obvious enough, and yet Sherlock was here. 

"Do you think it could have been suicide? Maybe he lost a lot of money and couldn't see a way out. These bankers and traders seem susceptible to such tendencies."

Sherlock barely looked back at you.

"We don't know that it was suicide."

"The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony." You pursed your lips thoughtfully. "Improbable that somebody broke in, given how high off the ground the flat is, and the door was locked." 

Sherlock squatted down by a suitcase on the floor near the bed and flipped open the lid. He stared at the contents inside for a few seconds.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry." Sherlock's brow furrowed as his finger traced the air above the dirtied clothing. He straightened up and turned to you. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."