The tension was rising in the room, yet only a selected few were able to realize this. John still, after three years, couldn't fathom how one man could upset Sherlock in so many ways. How could such man lack the focus in which was meant to be on the murder? How was it possible that he couldn't tune Anderson out? The detective did have a prestigious mind, for Christ's sake.Â
The bantering had erupted just as the violinist sauntered into the crime scene. "Why is he here?" beckoned Sherlock, shooting a death glare at Anderson while the other man returned a snotty grin.
"Because he's on the job," Greg called out to the detective who was walking farther away at a quick pace. John stayed behind. "You really need to go out and get him a muzzle for these days," remarked Lestrade just slightly over his shoulder so the doctor could hear him.
John's arms remained at his sides as he contemplated the odd of finding a muzzle for humans. "I really should," he nodded slightly, gaze focused on Sherlock inspecting the body meters in front of him.
The detective began to beam in the time that he spurted out the relations of the evidence and the murder. "It's so simple," the man practically sang, "it was the brother!"
 "Isn't it always the the brother?" Greg mocked, a loose chuckle forming in his throat. Sherlock, upon hearing this from the other side of the room, bore his eyes unto the D.I. As if to say: I can hear you. Lestrade flicked an eyebrow up in competitive response before being beckoned into another room by sergeant Donovan, leaving only the flatmates and Anderson in the room. Alone. John quickly became worried.
Anderson's nasally declaration didn't help the situation.
"We talked to him. It wasn't the brother. He didn't do anything," he tattered from the corner of the flat.
The doctor had to admit that Sherlock's response was calm compared to what it could have been. Slightly too calm, actually. "And what in your idiot mind proves that?" The detective's lips were pursed as he stood up from his previously crouched position near the body.
"We investigated him. He had no suspicious actions whatsoever."
"And are the murderers ever suspicious?" cooed Sherlock, who was now making his way over to where John stood silently- closer to Anderson. "Clearly he wasn't dubious!"
"It's improbable for the brother to kill his own sister."
Sherlock muttered his next words faintly, nevertheless them being still audible. "Bloody idiot."
Anderson's eyes locked on Sherlock's. "What?" he asked confidently, arms crossing over his chest.
"You heard me. Pretending to be deaf could be quite offense to some," the detective continue, creating a stride towards his opponent with his hands buried in his coat pockets.
Anderson ignored his comment and continued persisting with his opinion. "We've tested everything. The brother didn't touch her!"
"And are you positive?" Sherlock gritted through his teeth, inches away from the ignorant man's face, his long frame looming the over the Anderson. His stature was different than John's, the violinist now noticed. John stood more confidently, although he was a few centimeters smaller than Anderson. He never let Sherlock's height overpower him or his thoughts. Anderson was different. Anderson was adaptable in this matter of emotions and the detective used this flaw against him.
"Your mother left at a young age; your father was an alcoholic. Being an only child, as a teen you turned to drugs for sympathy of your situation. Someone..a teacher possibly..talked sense into you and turned you around before university. After scraping up the money for it, you spent five years there and met your wife, whom you've recently found you don't care much for when considering you and Sally have become a bit more, hmm, serious. Now if you'd please just accept that the victim was shot by her brother on the night of the sixteenth I'm sure all of this would go quite a bit smoother than it is now."
"Sherlock," John breathed, not requiring any more words to explain every distinct one of his thoughts. With just one look in the eye, Sherlock knew. He'd gone to far.
Anderson was breathing heavier now, his eyes firmly narrowed on the violinist and his fists clamped at his sides. He was obviously angered and Sherlock understood it would not end well.Â
A clenched hand flew through the air, but the detective was too quick. He ducked, sending a flailing Anderson past him, heading towards the stairs. He wouldn't have fell if Sherlock didn't trip him, but being the ignorant prick he was, he did and he sent the man tumbling down the flight of steps.
 Lestrade, Donovan, and a few others came running once they heard the fall. "What happened?" the D.I. panted, looking down at his colleague at the bottom of the stairs, clearly wrecked.
John quickly glared at the violinist as if to say we'll deal with this later before responding casually, "He was just leaving when he fumbled with his footsteps and fell. Sherlock and I tried to help, but it was all too late."
After a few more moments of conversation, the members of Scotland Yard descended the flight of stairs to help the trembling man while the detective and his blogger (a quite unhappy one) fled the scene on the fire escape. Even though he managed to escape the fists of Anderson, by the time they got back to 221B Sherlock had acquired a few more bruises than he left with.
