Chapter Text
Sherlock was anxious. It was not a feeling he was familiar with and he didn't like it at all but he had a very good reason to be: in less than a week, it was John's birthday. Not that he didn't have a gift idea in mind; he knew exactly what to offer him. The problem was that the book he wanted to give him was nowhere to be found.
He was looking for something very peculiar, a first edition of Charles Dickens' David Copperfield which he knew had been John's favorite as a child. It was the perfect present, and Sherlock wanted this birthday to be perfect: it was John's first after Eurus. He had visited what seemed to be a hundred bookshops and was starting to think that the book didn't even exist. Of course, he could always turn to Mycroft but asking for his brother's help felt like cheating. He wanted to find John's gift on his own.
Six days before the big day, he received a call from Lestrade. The police was having some trouble with a case. Not unusual, Sherlock thought, and most of the time he liked demonstrating his superiority to all those inspectors who thought they were special because they had been given a badge, but that day, all he felt was anger. One time, just one time, he wanted them to finally be smart enough to resolve the case without his help.
But he couldn't just say "no" –actually he could, but he was still having trouble with refusing an opportunity to look clever- so he called John, put on his coat and grabbed a taxi and about 20 minutes later he was in a jewelry store standing over a dead body.
The poor man, who appeared to be the owner of the store, had been stabbed three times, twice in the stomach and once on the throat, but the cuts weren't from the same weapon.
"The body was found this morning", Lestrade announced. "Someone in the street noticed the broken storefront and called the police. According to the first observations, he was killed around 11pm yesterday. It's the third robbery in a month, but the first with a murder."
Sherlock kneeled next to the body and took out his pocket magnifier, carefully examining his wounds. The one on the stomach apparently came from a rather large and sharp knife and the one on the throat from something smaller. He went to the other side of the body and looked again. Then he stood up and faced Lestrade, who was silently waiting, his arms crossed upon his chest.
"There were two attackers, at least. One of them was threatening him and keeping him from calling someone –that's how he was cut on the throat-, and when they had what they wanted, they killed him."
"How do you know there were two of them?" Lestrade asked.
"Do you ever look at what's in front of you? The cut on the throat was provided by someone standing right behind him, according to the wound's emplacement. So the person had to be left-handed, otherwise the wound would have been on the right side of the throat. As for the other ones, they're on the right side of the stomach. Besides, who would carry two different types of weapon?"
He didn't wait for an answer and proceeded with his investigation. John, who was until then taking notes, joined him.
"Sherlock, what are we doing here? It doesn't look like something the police can't handle" he said in a hushed voice, so that the others couldn't hear him.
"As usual, John, you see but you don't observe. Lestrade had a very good reason to call us. You see the glass door behind you?"
"The one that has been broken by the thieves? Of course. Why?"
"It was broken from the inside."
"What?"
John turned around and looked at the broken glass scattered on the floor, without seeing anything anomalous. For him, it looked like the thieves had broken the door in order to get inside the shop, as thieves usually did.
Sherlock had disappeared behind the counter, and came out a few seconds later.
"What was the man still doing here at this time of the night?"
"I don't know. Maybe it was a habit."
"No, he wasn't supposed to be there" Sherlock muttered. "He was living above the shop, right? What about we take a look there?"
A few moments later, they were all in the apartment. Sherlock went straight to the dead man's bedroom, as he already knew what he would find there. He then went to the kitchen and the bathroom, before joining the others in the living room.
"Alright. Our man was supposed to go to Manchester, however his flight was cancelled. Of course the thieves couldn't know that, so they came all the same. But our man is a light sleeper and he heard someone unlocking the door. He went downstairs, and ran into them. They were as surprised as him, but better prepared. One of them threatened him with the screwdriver he had taken to open the store cashier. The other went upstairs and took a knife in the kitchen. They took the money, and they killed him."
As usual, all the people in the room were amazed by his deductions, including John who was used to it. That was why he would never get tired of investigating with Sherlock.
"How on Earth can you know all of this?" Lestrade asked.
"Simple. You told me it was the third robbery and the first one with a murder, which means the thieves were careful to come when the owners weren't there. That was confirmed when I saw a cabin suitcase full to the brim. If he was travelling by train, he would have taken a bigger one, and if he was still home, his flight must have been cancelled, and the only one that was cancelled yesterday was London-Manchester.
As I have already told John, the storefront door has been broken from the inside. However, I highly doubt the owner would have let the door open during the night so one of the thieves must have had a key. They opened the door and therefore made the doorbell ring but at that time they still thought they were alone. Yet the sound woke up our man and he went downstairs."
"How do you know he was a light sleeper?"
"I found sleeping pills in his suitcase, and there were too many to be used only on the flight. That means he had trouble sleeping, and since they were still in his bag, he didn't take them yesterday. Now, if I could go back to what's actually important. Thank you.
So, once he was in the shop, he discovered the thieves. They thought he wouldn't be there, so they had to have taken something to open the store cashier. Seeing its emplacement and form, it must have been a screwdriver. Besides, that would match his cut on the throat. But if they used it to threaten the owner, they couldn't take the money, and so one of them had to get another weapon. There is a knife display in the kitchen, and a large one is missing.
Now that they had the situation in hand, they could take the money. The problem was, they couldn't let the man live now that he had seen them, because he knew one of the thieves. They had to kill him. Then before leaving, they broke the glass door to make the police think that was how they came in."
"What makes you think he knew one of them?"
"How else would they have got the key of the front door?"
The funny thing with Sherlock was that once he explained his deductions, it always seemed so simple and perfectly logical, and it made them wonder how they could have missed all these details. That was why you needed Sherlock on a crime scene: to put together all the pieces.
But Sherlock was already leaving, and both John and Lestrade hurried behind him.
"I need a list of everyone that works here, everyone that could have the key, along with all the potential girlfriends and family, although I highly doubt he was in a relationship. Oh and," he added just before going out of the shop, "you should analyze all the glass fragments. You might find blood stains on them."
***
He had however shared his "birthday problem" with Mrs Hudson, knowing she wouldn't tell John, but he hadn't expected her to actually help him with it. Yet his landlady was full of surprises and one morning, as he was working on a new case –although he had not dropped the robbery- she sneaked up into the kitchen with a smile on her face.
"Sherlock! I've got some great news about your trouble with..."
She lowered her voice.
"John's birthday's present."
"John is out working, Mrs Hudson", Sherlock replied, his eyes glued to a microscope. "You don't need to whisper like that."
But it had triggered his attention, so in an attempt to be civilized and to keep his landlady from running away, he looked away from the object he was analyzing –a piece of blue fabric- and turned to Mrs Hudson.
"You know my friend Helene. Well it was her birthday last week and she invited some people to celebrate it. It was all rather lovely but the cake wasn't too good. I thought it had too much cream in it. But on the other hand, the champagne was delicious..."
"Get to the point, please", Sherlock asked, suddenly eager to return to his current case, which implied to find out whether the blue fabric had pink stains on it or not.
"Yes, yes. So we were all giving her our gifts, and I remember Amanda had found a very rare book, a signed copy of Victor Hugo's poetry book. Somebody asked her where it came from and apparently there is a very nice bookshop in Soho where they sell very rare editions..."