Scotland Yard got a call about a body found in a resident by a neighbor; Detective Lestrade was called to the scene. When he arrived he looked around and, before stepping in too far, he pulled his phone out. He knew this was a case for Sherlock Holmes; the world's only consulting Detective. He called Sherlock and waited for him to pick up.
"Sherlock, I have case for you, I assure you it's worth your time." DI Lestrade said, giving the address before he hung up.
"You called him, didn't you?" Anderson glowered.
"Yes. now, do your job." DI Lestrade said, putting his phone in his pocket. Anderson and the team got to work. So, Lestrade just waited for Sherlock.
Sherlock alighted the cab and made his way up on the curb. He studied the outside of the unassuming small house, scowling at the trampling that had been done by Anderson and crew. He took in a few mental notes. He could tell that the man had entered through the window, but left through the front door, jumping onto the grass to attempt to rid his shoes of blood, and jumping the small fence and taking off down the street. A little blood had been left on the sole of the shoe. He noted mentally, 'high arch, supination, most likely was wearing typical runners.'
He finished his outward review of the house, checking the grass, window frame, fence and other parts for more evidence but only found small black fibers and perhaps a fingernail. He would alert Lestrade to that when he met him.
He entered the house, stopping to study the full bloody foot prints. He was correct, typical runners, approximately a size eleven therefore would be roughly his height if the stride and size was correct. He looked up to study the den. It was in complete disarray. The couch was overturned, the table shattered against a wall, the television was smashed, there was blood spatter on the wall and a small statue that must have originally been on the mantel if the dustless circle had anything to say.
He made his way to the body, studying the spatter and such to get a theory on the height of the man who had obviously bludgeoned the woman in the head. He pulled out some latex gloves he had in his pocket and slipped them on before touching the body and analyzing it.
Sherlock hovered over the body, studying it. It was a woman in her mid forties, blonde curly hair. He couldn't tell you much more for her entire body was covered in lacerations. Her face had been sliced in a methodical manner. On each side, nearly symmetrical, were two cuts from hair line, across the eyes and over the jaw, ending at the neck wound that had ended her life. She was nearly decapitated.
The rest of her body was a wreck; everything was red. She was covered in thin, intersecting lesions that were all precise as if made in a predetermined pattern and with practiced ease. The lacerations created a horrible pattern over the stomach.
"It looks like he was attempting to carve something specific here..." He murmured, pulling out his magnifying lens and studying the intersecting marks. "This was done with a scalpel more than likely. Medical knowledge." He followed down to the extremities, noting that both the wrists and the ankles had been sliced similarly to the neck; almost completely severed.
"Was there any scalpels found?" Sherlock murmured when he saw feet approaching him and looked up at D.I. Lestrade.
"None, I take it that's what you think caused this?" The DI asked, crouching down next to the body.
"He also apparently took her nipples." Sherlock murmured. Lestrade grimaced, trying not to look at it.
"There isn't a lot of blood and some bruising indicates that even after death she was held up slightly. Did you find anything under her neck or back?" The brunette asked, looking around the room for any such items. Lestrade shook his head, "None. I also noted that for all the lacerations and near dismemberment there was a lack of blood. We looked throughout the house, including the bath tub, but found nothing."
Sherlock frowned, studying the body and noticing something, "The ankles and wrists, those were cut postmortem. Look at the flesh. This was done for some reason aside from exsanguination. She most likely died from the neck wound... which the blood is missing. How peculiar." He stood up and looked at Lestrade, "Inform me at once when there is news, I'll be working on my end with my theory. Also, tell Anderson he missed a fingernail on the windowsill. It may come in useful."
With that, he walked out of the house.
Lestrade looked after the retreating form, his concentration being broken by a voice.
"We found the next of kin. A John Watson." Sergeant Donovan said.
"I will go see him no. Oh, yeah, Anderson? You missed a fingernail on the windowsill." Di Lestrade said before leaving, Anderson's curses trailing after him.
Winterimperfect wrote the crime scene. Doing a fantastic Job of it.
Hope you like it.