It's only a matter of time before the police finally show up. A photographer is now taking pictures of Van Coon's body and a forensics officer is dusting for fingerprints on the nearby mirror whilst the other forensics officers search for prints elsewhere in the flat. Sherlock took his jacket off and is now putting a pair of latex gloves as I speak to John besides him.

"D'you think he'd lost a lot of money? I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys."

"Sherlock doesn't think it was suicide."

"How could it be? He was left handed." Sherlock chirped in, squatting down by a suitcase on the floor near the bed. He opened the lid before he began to look at the contents. 

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony." John pressed on, all reasons to believe that it was a suicide. 

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry." Sherlock ignored what John said and proceeded with his deductions. He stood up, looking our way. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

Furrowing my brows with curiosity, I unfold my arms and step forward to get a better look. There was a deep indentation in the clothing. "You're right."

"I'll take your word for it." John said. Sherlock turned to face him.

"Problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear."

"Those symbols at the bank – the graffiti. Why were they put there?" Sherlock questioned, walking to the foot of the bed.

"Could have been a code?"

"It was a code. Obviously."

"Obviously. We should have known from the start." I muttered sarcastically, shaking my head. Sherlock just looked closely at the corpse's legs - or possible his shoes, I wasn't sure - before looking in the mans pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering." John joined in on the guessing game.

"Oh good. You follow."

"No." John stated, and Sherlock just threw me and John a look before moving on the examine Van Coon's hands. It wasn't mine or Johns fault we couldn't think like Sherlock, but we were coping. 

"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid? What about this morning – those letters you were looking at?" 

"Bills."

Sherlock gently prises open Van Coon's mouth and pulls out a small black origami flower from inside. Air hisses out from the dead man's lungs, and I grimace slightly. "Yes. He was being threatened."

Sherlock placed the paper flower into an evidence bag before a plain clothed police officer walks into the bedroom. I'm surprised by how young the male looks, he looks like a school boy. Nonetheless Sherlock turns and walks towards him, offering a hand to shake. "Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met."

The young man put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, I know who you are; and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."

Lowering hid hand, Sherlock gives the evidence bag to the officer and puts on his best stroppy look. "I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector Dimmock."

"Detective? Shouldn't you be at home doing your homework?" I couldn't help it, it just slipped through my lips. I should really learn to think before speaking. But I knew I had a point. He looked too young to be working for the police, let alone have a D.I. rank. Sherlock looks surprised at my outburst, before turning to share his surprised look with John. And again, I'm left to question why Sherlock was so surprised in the first place.

"I don't appreciate insults, especially from people who shouldn't even be here the first place. I'm having an officer escort you out."

"She's with us." Sherlock cut in, stepping forward. "Eleanor and John are my assistances. I'm assuming Lestrade has informed you about my involvement with the police. You need me here, and if I'm here then so are my assistances."

Dimmock paused, giving Sherlock a long stare. He threw me another look before walking out of the room, all of us following after him into the living room. 

"Maybe you should keep your thoughts to yourself." Sherlock mumbled next to me.

"Never going to happen." I mumbled back, and when I glanced up I noticed Sherlock smirking slightly. 

"We're obviously looking at a suicide." Dimmock stated, stopping in his tracks.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts." John said. Sherlock took off his latex gloves.

"Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts." Sherlock told John, turning to Dimmock, "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?"

"The wound was on the right side of his head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed." Sherlock stated, going into an elaborated mine as he demonstrated his point, pretending to try and point a gun to his right temple with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed?"

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice! All you have to do is look around this flat." Sherlock pointed towards the table besides the sofa, "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D'you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it." John responded tiredly. 

"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list."

"Yeah, thought you might." I sighed, digging my hands into my pockets as I waited for Sherlock to stop showing off.

"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." He turned to Dimmock with an impatient look spread across his face. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."

"But the gun: why..." Dimmock finally began, but Sherlock interrupted him as soon as he spoke.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." Sherlock informed him, walking away in the direction of his coat, scarf and gloves.

"What?"

"At the bank today," I jumped in the conversation, "There was graffiti on the wall. Some sort of warning."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in." 

"And the bullet?" Dimmock wondered, looking back at Sherlock.

"Went through the open window."

"Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?!"

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it." Sherlock said confidently, putting on his scarf.

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"

We all looked over at Sherlock then, who condescendingly speaks as he dramatically slams his hand into his glove, "Good! You're finally asking the right questions." He voiced, before he turned and flounces out. John looks round at Dimmock before sighing, pointing apologetically towards the departing drama queen. Me and John followed after Sherlock, wondering what we were going to do next on solving this massive mystery.