John Watson looked around at the dozen or so bodies in the "graveyard" of the haunted house attraction. He'd come to this particular venue on opening day with Sarah, and nothing stuck out at him as being unusual. But now it was closed down on its biggest potential day of business, Halloween itself, all because someone noticed the smell of decaying corpse and hadn't assumed it was part of the effect.

"Right. Uh, they've been dead about five days, judging by the decomposition."

"Within a few hours of each other," Sherlock Holmes added. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring off at the horizon.

"Probably," John finished sadly. "Everyone thought they were actors in really good makeup. Who would do that?"

"Oh, any number of people. A disgruntled employee, a stage manager too devoted to his work, someone who just happens to take the opportunity to dump the bodies here. It's a great place for getting rid of cadavers if you don't have the time to bury them properly. Hundreds of people walk by, never noticing that the bodies in front of them are actual corpses, thinking the smell is an artificial compound designed to smell like rot, assuming that it's a well-staged performance. Very brazen to put the bodies in public. Arrogant."

"Or sloppy," said John standing up.

"No," Sherlock said. "He took the time to position all of the corpses into a tableau. It was deliberate, it was careful. He assumed that because it was in plain sight that no one would notice. Very neat."

"Sometimes I wonder why you're not locked up," piped up Anderson from behind them.

"Probably because no one has any proof I've done anything wrong." Sherlock gave Anderson his best you're-an-idiot-so-shut-up look.

"Not that we haven't tried," muttered Anderson.

"Sherlock! We found another one!" DI Lestrade's voice came around the corner, and there was no subtlety about the urgency. Sherlock instantly ran toward Lestrade, John in tow, with Anderson and his forensics crew not far behind. The stench in the new room was almost overwhelming, driving John to gag. Sherlock merely wrinkled his nose. The crime scene photographer took enough photos to reconstruct the scene properly, and then Sherlock got within inches of the man but at no point made physical contact.

"Victim in his mid forties, ex-smoker, diet high in fats and sugars. Been dead around three weeks. Chemical stains on his clothes, so he was probably a janitor. Recently divorced—tan line where a wedding ring should be. She didn't die; people wear the ring after their loved ones die, at least for a while. Probably a heavy drinker as well." Feeling the need to explain this, he added: "Recent surgery; incision somewhat healed, two weeks since his liver transplant."

John was continually amazed by his flatmate's abilities of perception and deduction, but sometimes wished he didn't show such glee in his knowledge of the dead. It wasn't normal, but then, nothing about Sherlock could be considered normal. Sherlock took a few steps back, and faced Lestrade.

"I'm surprised you wanted me on this one. Not really much to interest me here."

"It's a hard job, and we need the best." Lestrade shrugged in the way he did when he was feeling desperate.

"Sorry we couldn't find you a really special crime scene," snarked Anderson on his way to collect the body to transport it to the morgue.

"Anderson, don't poke the corpse," was Sherlock's reply.

"Why?" Anderson put his hand on the body's surgery scar to help move the body, the abdomen of which burst, showering the forensics specialist in decaying organ fragments. Everyone stood silent for a few moments before Sherlock spoke up.

"Well, I'm glad I came after all."