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Greg knew there was something wrong the moment they walked onto the crime scene.
Sherlock stalked towards the police tape with a thunderous expression, like Death himself come for the soul of the departed. Beside him, Donovan muttered an almost inaudible ‘ohshit’. Far behind, John strolled along in Sherlock’s wake with a somehow aggressively ordinary calm.
“Are, um,” said Greg, his eyes bouncing between them warily as John came into range, “you two sure you’re okay for this today?”
“Oh, don’t worry, Sherlock won’t put a foot wrong,” said John breezily. He smiled at Greg, apparently oblivious to the way Sherlock stopped, stock-still, and gave him an acid look. “He’s pulled up his socks lately, you’re very unlikely to have to boot him off the scene for putting his foot in his mouth.”
“Right,” said Greg slowly, and looked at Sherlock for help, only to get a stony glare in response. “Well, it’s, um, murder. Bludgeoning with a cricket bat. Looks like a break-in, but…” He made a helpless gesture. “Something doesn’t feel right, I just can’t put my finger on what. I thought you should take a look. Nice, high society couple by all accounts. The wife died recently, natural causes from what we can see, and now this.”
“You’re a bit wrongfooted?” asked John, before Sherlock could speak. “We’re happy to kick some ideas around for you. Sherlock’ll help you find your feet.”
Greg frowned at him. “What’s with…?” he asked.
“He’s been like this all morning,” interrupted Sherlock, sounding traumatised, but finally managing to beat John to speaking.
“All morning, since I got down past the foot of the stairs and discovered the only thing for breakfast was toes-t,” muttered John.
“You already used that one!” protested Sherlock.
“And I’ll walk that road again, Sherlock!” John fired back. “Put your best foot forward, because you’re going to be run off your feet until you’re ready to run up a white flag!”
Sherlock made a sound of disgust and turned his back on John. “I tried to lock him in the cab,” he told Greg, “but he escaped.”
Greg’s lips twitched as he got a clearer idea of what was going on here. This wasn’t a fight. It was a war of attrition. “Wouldn’t that have been shooting yourself in the foot?” he asked innocently. “We gumshoes depend on John to make sure you toe the line.”
Sherlock glared. “Don’t you start. You don’t even know what this is about.”
“The shoe fits; I’m sure you deserve to have us run with it,” shrugged Greg. “Apparently whatever it is was enough to make John put his foot down. I’d feel like a heel if I didn’t keep instep.”
“And I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to follow in his footsteps and get the boot in,” Donovan added, looking fascinated at the way Sherlock flinched at the words.
“Oh, we’re definitely voting with our feet,” agreed Greg, leading the way between the marble columns out the front and into the house. “We’ll learn at the feet of the master how to keep you walking the straight and narrow. Not that we could ever fill his shoes, of course,” he said, with an amused glance at John, who smirked back at him.
Sherlock glared at him, and dropped back to walk with John again.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” Sherlock bickered with him as they passed through the door into the parlour where the body lay.
Greg considered trying to shut them up, out of respect for the dead, but decided it would be a wasted effort. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to stop them—and at least Sherlock wasn’t making the relatives cry under John’s extraordinary barrage.
“Worried they’ll see your feet of clay, now the shoe’s on the other foot?” asked John. “Someone has to keep your feet on the ground, because two left feet on the milk shelf was going too far, Sherlock—too far!—even if the ones in the lettuce crisper were all right.”
Sherlock shuddered at that one—it made even Greg feel a little queasy, although all the more determined to back John up—and crouched down by the corpse to begin his examination.
“Let us know when you’ve got a toehold on it,” said John. “We’re all waiting for the other shoe to drop, here.”
“Do you mind?” asked Sherlock, favouring John with a filthy look. “I need to concentrate here. You can’t pun, it’s a crime scene!”
John said nothing more, just watching Sherlock intensely while he worked—checking the victim's nails, his hair, his wounds. John’s eyes never left him for a moment. Finally, Sherlock’s shoulders slumped.
“Stop thinking about it, John. It’s very distracting!”
“Thinking about what?” asked John innocently, but he didn’t shift his eyes from Sherlock.
Sherlock circled the body once more, this time darting increasingly frequent glances at John as he worked, and then finally burst out, “Fine, just say it!”
“Mmm,” said John. “Are there any interesting feet-ures to the case?”
“One or two!” snarled Sherlock.
“Well, no need to drag your feet,” said John. “Surely it’s not too hard to sole-ve, every murderer has his Achilles heel. Why don’t you walk us through it, so we can all get home and put our feet up?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock, and stood up, but his voice was strained. “This man was clearly homeless several years ago, but has been living well since he married upwards. Either he killed the wife, or someone thinks he did. Definitely not a break-in; this is revenge. Most of these blows were delivered well post-mortem.”
“You mean he was down at the heels, but pulled himself up by his bootstraps?” asked John innocently. “Got his feet under the table of a wealthy woman with one foot in the grave, but got off on the wrong foot with someone who thinks he put her six feet—”
“All right, John!” cried Sherlock, surging to his feet with both hands fisted in his hair, apparently attempting to pull it out by the roots. “I will get rid of the feet, the moment we get home; I’ll buy you new milk, I’m sorry, so sorry, for ever throwing the bloody stuff out to make room for a crucial experiment that could solve a murder! Clearly nothing is more important than your morning cup of tea! Just please, please, for the love of God, stop this madness!”
Greg and Donovan stared at him, wide-eyed, while John merely nodded gravely, gracious in victory.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said. “I knew you’d eventually concede to de-feet.”
“JOHN!”