This is for my good friend Lucy - Happy Birthday, Honey! She will recognise her wit and if not her lovely character (this isn't you, hun, honestly!) in the first chapter somewhere ... *whispers* cat-woman!
John watched with curiosity and some trepidation as Sherlock lifted a slender forearm and sniffed at it tentatively and then with more conviction. John moved forward abruptly as Sherlock placed the arm back, but he needn't have worried as Sherlock was being as considerate and gentle as it was possible for him to be to another human being.
Sherlock turned his head away from the body and breathed out as if to empty his lungs completely and then in to full capacity and out again several more times, before turning back again, under the watchful gaze of the four pairs of eyes in the room.
Molly gasped as Sherlock lifted the girl's leg, allowing her already over short skirt to slip upwards and sniffed at her outer thigh. "For goodness sake, Sherlock, have some respect, she's dead!"
"I'd hardly be doing that if she were not," Sherlock replied with a scathing tone. There was a pregnant pause ... "Observe the shimmering on her limbs and torso-" he continued.
John swallowed, "Yeah, so? She was dressed up for a party, and had sprayed on body glitter - it's Christmas, it's what people do. What does that tell us we don't know?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes in distain. "That she had not dressed herself at all and that she'd had no intension of going to any party." He raised her arm and offered it to John. "Smell!" he commanded.
John took a hesitant sniff. "Don't expect me to smell her leg-"
"I shan't, just so you know, the smell is identical, so not the application of perfume on the wrist going astray." He placed the forearm back down, with slightly less care than previous, causing Molly to wince once more.
"Recognise the aroma, John?"
"No, should I?"
"Identical to a certain soap from the Lush Company that was deposited in our bathroom around the second week of February this year. Heart shaped - nasty propensity for making its victims sparkle."
Lestrade sniggered and Sherlock shot him a hostile look. "Just imagining its victims," Greg said wryly.
Sherlock resumed his studious look and perusal of the evidence.
"Coupled with tray, ready with single mug containing hot chocolate powder, three small, fancy chocolates in a tiny dish, all next to a recently boiled kettle. This was not a young woman who had just returned home from a party with someone, nor was she intending to go out later. She had settled down for a night in - bath, comfort tray, telly ... sad, boring person, dissatisfied with who she was and what she looks like. Likely has a cat somewhere around - I'd look for that if I were you, Lestrade, before it decides to take a sneaky bite when we're not looking."
"Hair still damp around the edges, not set, blow dried nor straightened - she has enough hair products in her bathroom to open a shop and she's hardly likely to be going out without using one of those contraptions that women think make them desirable - hair straightening, curling tongs - can't seem to make up their minds and constantly warring with what nature has provided them with ..."
Molly shifted on her heels uncomfortably.
Greg noticing Molly's discomfort: "Sherlock, get on with it. Some of us have lives ..."
"Right. Chances are she picked the soap at random, either didn't realise what it was or didn't care as no one was going to see her tonight. Bag with Lush logo and receipt in a bedroom that is not our victim's - not hers, she was the victim of the soap as well as the killer... Need to check who bought it," Sherlock said to the air. No one moved, which he didn't seem to notice, so John assumed it wasn't urgent.
"She was killed after she got out of the bath, but before she got into the kitchen to finish making that hot drink. Mistake on the killer's part, not looking in the kitchen and removing that evidence, as it really points the finger ..."
Anderson had managed to keep quiet for long enough for Sherlock to tolerate his presence, but he was about to blow it big time. "How? How exactly does that blow the cover of the murderer? How on earth does a tray of variations on a chocolate theme point anything at anyone?"
Sherlock's head snapped round towards the offending noise. "And who, pray tell, let this idiot into my crime scene?"
Anderson made a harrumphing noise, before being unceremoniously ushered out into the hallway by Lestrade, where he joined Sergeant Donovan in muttering oaths under their breaths.
Lestrade rejoined the group in moments to find Sherlock examining the soles of the young women's feet. "But really, Sherlock, how?" he asked with more awe in his voice than derision.
"Oh honestly, keep up you nincompoops! I've already explained this once - you're plumbing new lows in lack of concentration and intelligence ... One mug of chocolate, no other drink of any kind for second person - she'd at least put out a glass of water. Three chocolates; one might denote a love token, two - sharing, but three is for self alone, more aesthetically pleasing than two or four, not as greedy as five. She cared about what everyone thinks of her, including herself. Likely would have gone back to that box for more later."
"So," said Greg hesitantly, "not a stranger met at a party then, as we'd originally thought?"
Sherlock turned his head around slowly and fixed the DI with a hard stare. "I'll take that as a 'yes' then," Greg said, smirking at Molly and John the moment Sherlock turned away.
"Ok, down to the real business," Sherlock said rubbing his hands together. "She was a medical student, first year, most likely. Not long since she's done her rotation in Pathology."
Molly swallowed deeply. "How-"
"- you're not known for house calls, Molly, and there's a difference between your professional sensitivity and being as obviously upset and unfathomably guilty as you are. Though, as I can be fairly sure that you weren't the murderer, I'm at loss about the guilt."
Molly looked more uneasy than before. "She was lonely and wanted to talk. I didn't have time; I didn't make time to talk when she was crying out to."
"Hardly matters now anyway. And why would you want to? That would be like a middle aged depressive, going through a painful divorce, cornering Lestrade ... like poles repel."
"Or a self-obsessed, smug, would-be genius, who is so up himself that he can't keep his big fat gob shut", John said with feeling, "cornering another self-obsessed, smug, would-be genius, who is so up himself that he can't keep his big fat gob shut - tragic results! Doubtless quite amusing for the disinterested bystander ..."
Sherlock was ignoring him and leafing through a bundle of post, checking the names on each. "You'll need to speak to all of these ... I'd not look much further than Tina Holbrook, Jan Green and A. Lahiri for your killer."
"Why not someone she knows well, coming unexpectedly. She lets them in-"
"No, no no! She'd not let them in and then get into the bath; not be able to while in the bath - there is no trail of damp footsteps across the floor. Her hair is damper, further up the back of her head, than it should be for someone who didn't wash her hair, as she did not. Either she was interrupted before she was able, or she did not intend to wash it and was lower down in the bath than she meant to go, or she didn't care if it got wet. Either way, she did not let anyone in and was killed the moment she stepped out of the bath, judging from the damp footsteps, which are restricted to the bathmat. They then carried her into a bedroom and dressed her in party clothes - seemingly her own - so they would have to have known her to know which room was hers, or it was a one in four chance ... Unlikely at best." Sherlock concluded.
"How do you know she didn't dress herself?" Lestrade voiced for them all.
Sherlock sighed. "I don't know why I bother - John, perhaps you'd like to take over the more obvious observations."
John opened his mouth and then shut it again, opened it once more, before Sherlock continued with a tone of sheer exasperation, "Obviously, no woman would match that top with that skirt if going out for the evening. Her pants are on backwards. They have made a deplorable effort at fastening her bra. And it is much easier to straighten clothing on your self when standing up, than on someone else when propping them up. Not one item of clothing is sitting on her body as it should be. She is also still wet in places that someone would take more care to dry on them-selves. Particularly under the breast-line and around the crotch. At least we can be sure that this was not a sexual assault, though I'd not yet rule out it being sexual in nature."
There was less than a two second pause after Sherlock's findings and all three looked as if they were assimilating a very difficult mathematical equation.
"Phone us when you have interviewed all the suspects, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "John!" He turned on his heels and was off through the door. They could hear a slight commotion in the hallway and Anderson blundered through the door. "Would it be alright with you if I got on with my job now?" he said with some acidity.
John was about to turn to Molly to offer some comfort but was interrupted by a barked command from outside, "John!"
"It's alright, John, I'm fine. I'll see you in the Dog and Duck, Wednesday week."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world." He gave her a sympathetic smile as he rushed after his flatmate.
Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, dear Looo-cy -Happy Birthday to you!