Not My Blogger - Prologue

John Watson stood silently next to a quiet London road, no doubt the lack of traffic was due to the rolls of police tape barricading the normally throbbing street, but his mind was too clouded with sleep to put two and two together. All he could think about was the fact that it was bloody cold for November, and how weird it was to be able to see your breath. He pulled his thin leather jacket around him before reluctantly turning and walking through the smashed doors of a particularly rough looking pub- The fox and rooster. Of course, any pub decorated with a dead body looked rough.

"The trajectory of the shot shows that it'd have to be taken from above..." John rolled his eyes at his flatmate, who had been running around like a whippet since receiving a text from Detective Inspector Lestrade regarding a shooting. His pre-case celebration had resulted in John being dragged out of bed at two O'clock in the morning. Said flatmate was currently leaping onto a very unstable looking table to examine the ceiling. "AH! Found it!" He exclaimed, leaping down and running up the stairs. "Come on, John!" He yelled, not pausing to see if his companion was following him.

John glanced at a bemused looking silver-haired man for permission, simply receiving a long-suffering nod, before running after his friend.

"Sherlock, will you please slow down?" He yelled, following him into what appeared to be the master bedroom. He was met by the sight of Sherlock staring in confusion at a mirror laden wall.

"It doesn't make sense, the room should be bigger!" He exclaimed, running to the window and attempting to lean out of it, only succeeding in getting his shoulders stuck. "Is there a window? Maybe a room's been blocked?" John walked towards the mirrors and carefully pushed the one on the right, it moved backwards and rolled freely.

"Huh, interesting wardrobe." He mused, turning to see a shell-shocked Sherlock, his mouth gaping. "John... Remind me about this later." He said, before all but diving into the wardrobe and examining it, in the bottom corner there were a few gaps where the decaying wood had created what were essentially peep-holes, allowing someone to have a restricted view of the floor bellow, next to them was a very clear bullet hole. Sherlock slowly crept out, explaining his findings to John, and Lestrade, who had now joined them. "So what have we learnt?" He asked, looking incredibly dishevelled and slightly disappointed. "John, you seem to be more observant than usual?"

John blinked and narrowed his eyes. "Erm... I dunno, the killer must have known about the wardrobe... So... They've been here before?" He replies, triumphantly, stopping himself from groaning at the effort that it took.

"Sparkling form. Truly, it's incredible, given the circumstances." Sherlock added, earning a furious glare from his friend.

"Circumstances?" Lestrade piped up, eyebrows raised.

"John got home at half one after celebrating his sisters Birthday." Sherlock explained, ignoring the death glare and turning towards the door.

Lestrade chuckled, but cast John a sympathetic smile. "You better get some sleep." Sherlock glanced back, holding open the door for his companion to join him.

"That, Inspector, is the most useful thing you've said all morning." He commented dryly, placing a hand on John's shoulder and leading him into the cold morning air. "Ask the wife who visited regularly, more importantly people who had access to that room, they'll probably have a military or law enforcement background, judging by the fact that they handled the shot in one go." He informed Lestrade, before casting the comment. "My money's on the Nephew." over his shoulder and herding his friend towards the taxi rank.

That was two months ago. Since then, the seemingly innocent murder case had been joined by five more. The Nephew was innocent. There were no bullets left on the scene, ballistics reports were not accurate. Sherlock Holmes was getting increasingly agitated. John Watson's bad dreams were increasing. London was no longer safe.