“Lucy Finch: found dead yesterday at 11:15am in the toilet of the chain coffee store, Costa Coffee.” Lestrade announced to the two newcomers.
John frowned and Sherlock nodded and indicated for the inspector to continue.
“She was found by the manager of the coffee shop after customers complained that the toilet had been engaged for over two hours. On the mirror she wrote, in lipstick, the word ‘sorry’. Cause of death was an overdose of paracetamol – we suspect suicide.” The inspector concluded.
Sherlock nodded again. “Have you left the body where it was found?” He inquired.
“Yes, it’s still in the toilet.”
“Right.” Sherlock walked purposefully towards the lavatory.
“Sherlock!” Lestrade called after him. “You probably don’t want to go in there just yet…”
Sherlock didn’t hear him.
“Why not?” John asked on Sherlock’s behalf.
“Anderson.”
---
Sherlock strolled down a short corridor towards the toilets. He found the door open, opposite the kitchen. How very hygienic. The corridor was so narrow that the door had to be closed in order to manoeuvre in and out of the kitchen. Sherlock stepped into the tiny bathroom, only to find Anderson in his way.
Sherlock groaned.
“The feeling is mutual.” Anderson replied dryly.
Anderson crouched down and began inspecting the body of Lucy Finch. “I’m nearly done, don’t worry.”
Sherlock moved aside, out of the way of the door, in anticipation of Anderson leaving the small room. Just as he did, a police officer in uniform left the kitchen opposite and pushed the toilet door to. The door swung closed and clicked shut. Sherlock, unaware of his current predicament, scowled down at Anderson.
Anderson finally stood up and made for the door. He squeezed past Sherlock (who swore heavily under his breath as he was shoved into the peeling canary yellow wall) and pushed down on the door handle. He leant into the door and tried to open it. It wouldn’t budge. He shook violently at the handle, but to no avail.
“Oh, let me try.” Sherlock sighed. He elbowed Anderson in the ribs and propelled him towards the dirt encrusted sink. Anderson stumbled over the corpse and slammed into the cold water tap. The tap snapped off and water began spurting out everywhere.
Sherlock shook his head in exasperation and frantically twisted at the door knob. Nope. The door was jammed. Definitely and utterly jammed. Great.
---
Anderson and Sherlock were soaked. Anderson was sat on the closed toilet and Sherlock leant up against the stuck door. They had given up on shouting for help at least twenty minutes ago and had taken to sulking instead. Sherlock had assigned sides for the two of them – Anderson wasn’t allowed to come past the broken sink and Sherlock wasn’t allowed to go near the toilet on which Anderson was perched.
'Cause I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it/ Sex in the air, I don't care, I love the smell of it/ Sticks and stones may break my bones/ But chains and whips excite me…
Rihanna’s S&M filled the tiny room and echoed off the sodden walls. Sherlock frowned. Anderson flushed red and fumbled around in his pockets. He pulled out his phone – too late.
“Emergency signal only, great.” Anderson moaned. He was relieved that Sherlock wasn’t as clever when it came to the area of sex than he was with everything else, otherwise he’d never have heard the end of it.
“You wouldn’t get it Sherlock, don’t worry yourself.” Anderson muttered.
Sherlock’s frown darkened. “Why won’t I get it?”
“Because it’s to do with sex.”
“I get sex!”
Anderson scoffed and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock grunted in return and ignored him. He frowned again.
“I get sex.” He repeated, “For instance, I know you and Donovan were at it last night.” He countered.
“Oh, what gave it away? No, let me guess: was it a particular brand of cologne I’m wearing, or was it a mark I have behind my left ear, perhaps?” He mocked.
“No, John saw you and her leave the restaurant down the street from us and get in the same cab – that’s how I know.”
Anderson stuck a finger up at Sherlock.
Sherlock’s frown faded. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Anderson replied coldly.
“Yes you did, a while back.”
“Because it is to do with sex?”
“No, before that.”
“You won’t get it?”
“No, before that.”
“Emergency signal?”
“Yes, that – ring the police, now.” Sherlock snapped.
“I can’t ring the police, freak; it isn’t an emergency.” Anderson cried out in disbelief.
“Yes it is! I’m stuck in a coffee shop loo, which is slowly flooding, with a pitiful excuse for a man with an IQ lower than that of a dung beetle – speaking of which, he could probably pass for a dung beetle too if he really tried, but I think that is an alien concept to him.”
Anderson rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll go mad before the room actually does flood.”
---
The sickly smell of one day old vomit floated about the room as the water reached just above ankle level. Lucy’s corpse slowly floated towards Sherlock, who kicked it back in Anderson’s direction. Anderson kicked it back and returned to his position atop the toilet, out of the diluted sick water. Sherlock kicked the corpse back to him, Anderson kicked it to Sherlock, and Sherlock kicked it back. This went on for at least another half an hour.
When Lestrade at last realised that the pair were still missing and went to break the toilet door down, he found Sherlock practically throwing the body of Miss Finch on top of Anderson.
“Get away from my side, freak!” Anderson yelled and fell off the toilet into the water, spraying all three of them in the putrid liquid. Lestrade swore heavily as the water gushed out, carrying the now battered corpse along with it.
Sherlock ran to the inspector and hugged him. “Thank you, I don’t know how much more of him I could have taken.” He told the stunned man.
Sherlock detached himself from Lestrade and sauntered off, determined not to lose any more of his dignity.
---
Written by DiscombobulatedFish
