221B

Chapter 11 - The Great Game

The tide is low enough on the south bank of the River Thames, low enough that the body of a rather large man wearing black trousers, black socks, no shoes, and a white shirt. He's laid on his back on a  plastic sheet as police and forensics officers work at the scene as Sherlock, John, and I arrive. Sherlock pulls on a pair of latex gloves, walking towards Lestrade, who stands beside the body.

"Do you reckon this is connected then? The bomber?" Lestrade asks.

"Must be. Odd, though..." Sherlock holds up the pink phone. "He hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume that some poor buggar's primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade asks.

"Yes." Sherlock answers, then steps back and takes a long look at the body.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asks.

"Seven...so far." Sherlock answers.

"Seven?!" Lestrade asks incredulously.

"Don't be so surprised, you're not talking to any average detective, you're talking to Sherlock Holmes." I mutter to Lestrade, who nods in agreement.

Sherlock walks closer to the body and squats down to look at the man's face closely with his magnifier. He looks at the ripped pocket on the shirt next before working his way down until he reaches the man's feet. Sherlock pulls off one of the socks to examine the sole of the man's foot with his magnifier. He stands, closing the magnifier. He looks at John and I and jerks his head towards the body, silently telling us to examine it.

"Alright then." I answer, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. John and I both look at Lestrade, who holds his hand out in a "be my guest" kind of gesture. John and I squat down on either side of the body and John reaches out to take hold of the man's wrist. Sherlock walks a few steps away, getting his phone out.

Pants and shirt made of polyester-cheap, obviously not going out for the night. They're too big for him, so it must have been some kind of work uniform. But what kind of work?

John's voice interrupts my thoughts.

"He's been dead for about 24 hours. Maybe a bit longer." He says. "Did he drown?"

I slightly press my hands where the man's lungs are and push down a little, a little bit of water trickles out of his mouth, but not a lot-I hadn't pressed down very hard or very little. Considering the water amount-he hadn't swallowed much water upon entering it.

"No." I answer John. "No, he didn't drown." I say a second later.

John and Lestrade look at me.

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asks. "He died of asphyxiation."

"Well," I say. "If he drowned, there would've been much more water in his lungs, in this case there wasn't much. If he was conscious when entering the water, he most likely would've swallowed a lot by accident. If he was unconscious when entering the water, his body would've swallowed a little by accident before realizing that it wasn't air, but water, causing him to stop breathing completely to keep the water out of his lungs. It's a natural thing for the human body to do when unconscious-the body reacts for you-a part of your brain, specifically. That part of the brain's instinct is to keep you alive as long as possible, therefore, it would prevent you from swallowing more water." I explain. I look up and see Sherlock smirk down at his phone.

Lestrade nods. "Sounds reasonable."

"I would agree with the asphyxiation as well." John says. "There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here."

John and I stand up. "In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition." John says.

"He's been in the river for a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data." Sherlock says, then grins. "But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."