16Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
A/N: Drabble, because it's gotta be scary to be unable to turn your brain off and *want* to.
No, it's a mistake to theorize before you have the data, must look at the facts first, the facts, male, age approximately 27, in good health, dies of a heart attack. But it couldn't have been a heart attack, John said that didn't make sense, he's seen a lot of heart attacks. A healthy person doesn't usually have a heart attack, but of course they can... I'll have to wait for the autopsy... but there's not time to wait for the autopsy! His sister is going to be next and the killer will only get further and further away... So tired...Stop, please just stop for a few minutes, stop-
The creaking on the steps outside the door, footsteps, slight limp, favoring the right side, comfortable pace, normal volume, not trying to sneak, then, so it must be John. John's come home. Door opens, key is used, took exactly five seconds so it's a familiar motion, definitely John.
"Sherlock?"
Yes, it's John. John's home.
But the dog that was outside, the dog was a German Shepherd and they're protective, it would have seen the struggle and it would have barked if its master was being attacked if it didn't know the attacker, but no one said they heard a dog barking. Did the dog know the attacker? Was the dog drugged? No, no, the footprints were normal, normal stride for a dog of that size and breed, a drugged dog would have fallen asleep, no crushed grass to indicate that. It was a different dog! Replaced! Please stop, why can't I stop? Maybe the neighbors were in on it. Perhaps they all had something against this victim.
"His aunt... what did she stand to gain from his death?"
"Sherlock."
John... it's John... hullo John...
No, it couldn't have been the aunt, the dirt was all wrong, the streets didn't work, she wasn't lying when I interrogated her, used my best show and everything, the dog...
"Sherlock!"
Hand on arm. Medium pressure, firm grip, insisting but not painful, clearly intended to restrain me. Medium-sized hand, not hairy, probably a man of middling height judging from the angle of the hand where it grips my upper arm...
John... Hullo, John, hullo...
"Sherlock, calm down."
There. Silence. Finally, finally, silence.