Why Fireflies Flash

Like a Piece of Meat

Eddie Van Coon's Flat

“Do you think he lost the lot of money?” John asks as Sherlock dons on latex gloves. “I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys.”

“You don't know that it was suicide,” Sherlock mumbles turning to the suitcase pushed up against the wall.

“Come on. The door was locked from the inside. You had to climb down the balcony.”

“And I picked the lock and it locked behind me,” Quinn said hovering over the consultant. “Killer could have gotten in that way.”

“Been away three days, judging by the laundry.” Sherlock stands nearly hitting Quinn as he did.

“Sorry,” she breathed backing away.

“Look at the case, John. There was something tightly packed inside it.”

John nods, turning back to the body. “Thanks, I'll take your word for it.”

“Problem?”

John looks at him incredulously. “Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some blokes dirty underwear.”

“Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti, why were they put there?” Sherlock inquired.

Quinn turned back to the body as the boys bounced back and forth, getting a bit miffed when Sherlock shoves her off to riffle through the man's pockets.

“What kind of message would everyone try to avoid? What about this morning, those letters you were looking at?” Sherlock questions as he pulls a wad of slobbery black paper from the victim's mouth.

“Bills.”

“Yes. He was being threatened.”

“Not by the gas board.”

“Course not.” Anabeth looks over in time to see a man join them in the room. “Looks like we've got company.”

“Ah Sergeant, we haven't met,” Sherlock say reaching out to shake his hand.

The man blatantly refuses, putting his hands on his hips. “Yeah, I know who you are. I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with the evidence.”

Anabeth clears her throat. “Someone didn't get laid last night,” she murmurs under her breath.

Sherlock gives her a warning look and hands over the evidence bag containing the paper. “I phone Lestrade. Is he on his way?”

“He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Dimmick.” DI Dimmick turned on his heel and left the room. “We're looking at a suicide.”

“That does seem to be the only explanation of all the facts,” John says glancing around the flat.

“Wrong! It's one possible explanation of some of the facts,” Sherlock says looking between the two men. “You've got a solution you like but you're choosing to ignore any evidence that doesn't comply with it.”

“Damn skippy,” Anabeth quips earning strange looks for everyone within earshot.

“Like?” Dimmick requests.

“The wound's on the right side of his head,” answers Sherlock.

“And?”

“Van Coon was left handed. Would call for quite a bit of contortion,” he explains as he atempts to shoot himself in the right side of his head with his finger gun.

“Left-handed?”

“Oh come on!” Anabeth shouts. “All you had to do is look around. If it was a snake it would have bitten you, multiple times. Coffee table of the left-hand-side of the couch. The handle of the coffee mug is pointing to the left. The plug in the outlet is on the left. Pen and paper on the left side of the phone because he habitually picked it up with his right. Easier to write messages down that way; it's a hassle to switch hands during a phone call, especially with a corded phone.”