The crystal blue eye gazed searchingly through the cold, metallic microscope. Dark eyebrows drawn together in a puzzling glare, the man carefully analyzed the slide before him. Suddenly, the man's icy stare turned triumphant as he cried out, "AHA!", causing the sleeping blonde beside him to fall off the lab bench and onto the cold, tiled floor with a resounding "umph!"
"I KNEW it had to be the first chair oboe! Just look at his socks!" cried the curly-haired man, speaking to no one in particular. His sudden change in demeanor would have shocked most people, but his mercurial mood swing was nothing new to the still sleepy man on the floor.
"Wait, the what? The oboe?! I thought we still had our sights on the second chair v-v-violinist," said the blonde, failing a stifling a massive yawn.
"Ugh- how boring John," said the man by the microscope, rolling his eyes in a dramatic fashion. "I ruled her out hours ago." The man stood, grabbing a long gray wool coat from the back of his chair and fishing for his mobile. "True, there is a motive. Concert mistress found murdered in the woods a mere two hours before the symphony is to perform, any ordinary person would naturally think the second chair violinist has the most to gain. Your line of reasoning was consistent with the simple-minded conclusions of the masses, no need to worry John."
John grumbled incoherently at his friend's insult, knowing that he meant nothing personal by such a statement. The blue-eyed man, unfortunately, lacked a proper filter. "And the oboe player? What is this about his socks, Sherlock?"
Sherlock grinned, typing in a number on his mobile phone. "Shot in the dark, but a good one nonetheless," he said smugly. "Traditional concert attire calls for men to wear high black socks underneath their pants so as to show no skin whatsoever. This particular man has been playing in the orchestra for over seven years, and what was he wearing? Ankle high socks!" Sherlock's enthusiasm over the man's choice of footwear still left John perplexed.
"So he didn't have any clean high socks…therefore he dragged our victim into the woods, strangled her, and left her there to rot? Sherlock, I thought we talked about this. Not all of us are capable of following the reasoning of-"
"-a high-functioning genius, I know," finished Sherlock with a tut.
"I was going to say 'mentally unstable sociopath' but I suppose your definition works as well," commented John, picking himself up off the floor and stretching with a grimace.
Sherlock graced John with a raised eyebrow and slight frown. "Sociopath, I'd agree with, but unstable? Compared to your past three girlfriends-"
"Sherlock!" interrupted John hastily, with two hands raised in surrender. "I was kidding! Now, please explain about these socks?"
Before Sherlock pressed the call button on his mobile, he smirked and took a deep breath. "Seven years Derrick Mallon played for the symphony and not once in seven years has he ever worn anything that slightly goes against regulation uniform. How do I know this? Just take a look at the man, a blind man could see it! Meticulously ironed shirts, perfectly creased trousers, buttons on his jacket polished at least twice a month, enough hair product used so that not a single hair falls out of place during three hours of performing. Never in a thousand years would Mallon dream of wearing ankle length socks on the night of a big performance. Now, why would a man who would probably go into cardiac arrest from breaking the rules chose to do just so? Simple. He was incapable of wearing high socks, it would have caused him too much pain? Why? Heracleum mantegazzianum."
"Bless you," said John, eyebrow raised.
Sherlock sighed and swiveled the microscope so that John could take a look. "More commonly known as 'giant hogweed.' It's sap is highly phototoxic, causing severe skin inflammation, itching, rash, and eventually, highly painful blisters after about 48 hours. Once only grown in Central Asia, it was introduced to Britain in the early 19th century, and very commonly found in the forest regions of Oxford. Covering these blisters with any form of material would have been incredibly painful, hence ankle height socks. Look at the crime scene photos and you will see three very prominent Heracleum mantegazzianum plants located around the body. Mallon is our man. I'm having Lestrade take him in for blood testing as we speak," concluded Sherlock, finally pressing the call button on his mobile.
John had his arms crossed during the entirety of Sherlock's explanation. "Socks," he muttered, looking up to the ceiling. "His bloody socks…"
"Lestrade," said Sherlock into his mobile. "Bring in Mallon. Have his legs tested for Heracleum mantegazzianum poisoning. What? No, I can't spell that!" growled Sherlock in frustration. "Just check for blisters, keep him there, and he will confess within the hour, I can assure you." There was a pause. "We will be there in 10 minutes." Sherlock hung up without a goodbye and began striding to the double doors to exit the lab.
John ran to catch up, quickly grabbing his discarded jacket. "But why?"
"Why what?" asked Sherlock, distractedly.
"What motive did Mallon have for killing the first chair violinist? What did he have to gain?"
Sherlock gazed at John as if he had spontaneously grown three heads. "It's obvious, isn't it?"
John refrained from rolling his eyes, exasperated. "Sherlock!-"
"He was in love with her and she rebuffed him. Unable to handle seeing her every single day, he decided to discard of her altogether. No man could have her then, so he would never have to suffer seeing her with someone else." Sherlock began walking again, his long legs putting him some distance ahead of John.
"How..could you possibly know that?" cried John.
"John, really, use your eyes! She was aesthetically pleasing, pretty by most people's standards, correct?" Sherlock stated, speaking of the victim as if he was classifying her scientifically.
"Well yes! She was gorgeous…" trailed off John, this time taking upon his own tone of incredulity at the fact that his friend was questioning the victim's attractiveness. In reality, she was drop dead stunning. She had large amber eyes and long blonde hair, a slim figure, and fairy-like features. A model, really…
Sherlock simply shrugged, making no further remark on her appearance. "And him? A rotund man who would rather spend his time playing billiards at a pub than focusing on his personal hygiene. While he dressed the part, he surely didn't smell it. She was repulsed by him. When we first visited the orchestra demanding who was friends with the victim, do you remember how some of the other violinists glanced Mallon's way?" asked Sherlock, beckoning for a cab as it pulled towards them.
"Hmm…no…but I'll trust you on this one," said John, squeezing in after Sherlock as the cab took off.
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "The victim's friends. She made sure to tell them about Mallon's advances.
They laughed at him, scoffed at the possibility of a relationship, belittled him. He couldn't take the embarrassment and couldn't bear to see her with another man, not that he needed to worry about that, so he effectively took care of her."
"What do you mean, not that he needed to worry?" asked John as the cab arrived at Scotland Yard just as the sun was setting.
Climbing out of the cab, Sherlock strode away and marched into the building, leaving John to cover the tab. Sherlock glanced at John when his faithful blogger was once again by his side. "She wouldn't have ever dated another man."
"What? Why?" asked John.
Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "She was a lesbian, didn't you see her hair tie?"
"Wh-how-? Wait, you know what? Never mind," stuttered John, following Sherlock into Lestrade's office. By this point in their relationship, John knew better than to question some of Sherlock's more odd assumptions. Sherlock was always right, and that was all that mattered in the long run. The less questions, the less of a headache John had when the case was solved. Just a few months ago, John would have done anything to experience the rapid deductions of the world's only consulting detective. But John had thought his friend was dead, having committed suicide off the very building the two partners left. But here he was again, alive and as snarky as always, and John wouldn't have had it any other way.
The two men entered Lestrade's office, where the gray-haired detective inspector was hanging up his phone. He turned to face the pair. Before he could speak, Sherlock was already asking, "Did you bring him in?"
"Nice to see you as well, Sherlock," sighed Lestrade, with a slight grin playing at his lips. While the DI would never admit it, he too desperately missed the consulting detective, quirks and all.
Sherlock just waited for a response.
Lestrade sighed yet again. "He's in interview 1, we have a man on it."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in frustration. "Lestrade, John and I can handle this ourselves. We don't need one of your inexperienced, idiotic, and quite frankly intellectually challenged team members ruining a perfectly simple confession that I-"
"Well if we are going to resort to name calling, I might as well plug in my two-sense as well," came a light voice from behind the two men. A young woman, about mid-twenties stood leaning against Lestrade's door frame, arms crossed and a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes alight with humour.
"Sherlock, John," started Lestrade. "I'd like to introduce you to our newest officer, Danielle Carter."
For once, Sherlock was silent.
