[COMPLETE] ??? ???? ?? ??? ??????「Sherlock」

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"I GOTTA ADMIT, IT'S 'N HONOUR BEIN' ABLE TO HAVE THE 'OLMES TEAM IN MY HOUSE," their client gushed, side-stepping as he let the investigators make their way inside. He was short, weighing an unhealthy 120lbs, his face slightly scruffy and a cap of blonde fuzz simply slapped atop his head. His name was Otis Cobb, in his late forties and could probably cut someone just from speaking with his snaggle-tooth maw. The house was a dingy shade of off-white, all light having been previously shut out by multiple sets of long, thick, musty-smelling sienna drapes. It had been six months since the man had last cleaned, let alone moved from the indented couch-chair settled in the middle of the room. The inside of the den was charred, striped in ash, all colour burned away in spots upon the tacky floral wallpaper.

"So, can you tell us exactly what happened here?" John asked as he came to stand beside the scrawny man. His hands tucked into his pockets and he peered around, up at the popcorn ceiling. There was no television in the room, one small coffee table laying collapsed upon the ground from where it had fallen apart in the blaze. The acrid smell of burning glue filled Sherlock's nose. He had put the wallpaper up himself, clearly against his own will. What on earth had his wife been thinking?

"I work at the corner store gas station just a little while from 'ere, n' my landlord called me durin' my night shift 'n' told me that my house 'ad been broken into. When I got 'ere, they had already arrested him." His muddy eyes latched onto Sherlock, the detective glancing down at his hands. An indent upon his ring finger from where he had once worn a wedding ring. Freshly divorced; he could still hear how he had thrown the ring across the room, how it had clattered down into the vent off to the side of the rather lived-in man-cave. Cobb's accent was nauseating. "My own flesh 'n' blood. I couldn't believe it."

"Our only trouble, Otis, is that the police have told us that your brother has been pleading innocent, meaning that brings us right back to the beginning," Sherlock disclosed, standing from where he had knelt to examine the register sitting by the window. He skirted around a member of the forensic team. "When the fire started. Now, when your wife left two days ago, did she mention anything about what had happened between her and your brother?"

Otis physically tensed, shock painting his features. "How—"

John chuckled softly as the detective continued, hands behind his back. "You have recently and suddenly filed a divorce against your wife, Darlene Eleanor Cobb: Darlene West now. You were not holding up her expectations as a man, and, your brother, being more enticing for a woman as he has far more wealth and, not to mention, does not abuse the bottle— she naturally turns to him in her time of need. You know the rest, do you not?"

"I gave up booze two years ago!" Otis spat. It was incredible how quickly someone could grow hostile when the truth was thrown straight into their face.

"Clearly not," John piped up, frowning deeply. "Your breath wreaks of the stuff and we found freshly opened bottles in the backyard."

Sherlock nodded and gave Cobb a dip of his head as well, enjoying how pragmatically John had looked upon the situation. He never ceased to amaze him. Taking a quick breath, Sherlock turned toward a rather dumbfounded analyst, dressed in his plastic contamination suit, and spoke quietly to him. "Keep the authorities outside aware of the situation in here."