Unconnected

Chapter 1: Obvious

Flashing blue lights lit up the darkened pier that had recently been enfolded by long strips of yellow tape. The pier itself was ordinary, with the water gently lapping along the side of the bank. The night itself was ordinary, with only a gentle breeze ruffling through the trees. The corpse in the middle of the pier was not ordinary.

It was the third body they had found under similar circumstances. All three bodies were female and seemed to have been killed with a similar method, but that was where the similarities ended. The race, age, and physical build of each woman was different, and they could not for the life of them find any connecting factor.

Sergeant Sally Donovan surveyed the scene, meticulously examining everything that might give a clue to point to the killer. She searched fruitlessly for car or foot tracks, a dropped article of clothing, a cigarette butt, anything. She was determined that this time, this time she would not be accused of being stupid and blind. Though she refused to admit it to herself, she wanted to prove her own worth. What was worse was that she so desperately wanted to prove it to him.

Despite her best efforts, she could only see what she had seen when she'd first arrived. The woman was in her late thirties and heavy, but not grotesquely so. She was wearing very current fashions from top designers. There were no visible signs of trauma, other than the blow to the back of the head that presumably killed her. Her clothing was smooth without any indications of defensive action. The only thing amiss, as far as she could see, was the missing purse. Without it, they had no identification on their Jane Doe, but Sally hoped that somehow the missing information would eventually lead them to the killer.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was all she had.

Right on cue, the tall, imposing figure seemed to materialize just on the other side of the yellow tape. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, he was far too busy for such trivial social conventions. His eyes were scanning, taking in everything that had been seen but not observed by the officers.

Reluctantly, Sally stood to walk towards him, her eyes narrowing in displeasure over his interested gaze. It wasn't right for him to be so keen on the sight of a dead body. It wasn't decent.

"Freak. What are you doing here?"

"Clearly you know exactly why I'm here as you were just crouched next to a body that even you could not have missed. And you already know that I'm here because Detective Lestrade requested my help on a case that you are so obviously out of your depth with. Now, are there any more pointless questions you want to ask, or are you going to let me do what I do best?"

Sherlock's cold, dispassionate voice raised Sally's ire more with each word, but she knew she did not really have a choice as she lifted the tape to let him in. Sherlock ducked under and strode away without even a pretense of thanks. Behind him, the sergeant rolled her eyes as she followed after him.

Sally watched as the consulting detective bent near the body, closely looking at everything that was there. She could practically hear his mind clicking away as it ruled out possible scenarios and arranged probable ones based on the evidence the killer had left. Detective Inspector Lestrade came up next to her as they watched the strange man conclude his investigation with surprisingly little damage to potential evidence.

Two minutes later, the thin, lanky man rose to his feet, peeling off his latex gloves as he turned to face them.

"What do you have, then?" Lestrade asked.

"Not much. She's a local, single but looking very actively. She's also very active in her social life and has recently been going to the gym. Fashion is important, but that's to be expected as she's doing everything she possibly can to snag the illusive perfect man. The killer didn't know her beforehand, but he must have lured her here somehow."

"How in the hell can you know all that?" Sally fumed. She'd been staring at that body for the past half hour and hadn't been able to come up with half of that. He had to be tricking them somehow by withholding pertinent information that he'd acquired beforehand.

Sherlock's piercing blue eyes rested on Sally for a moment before he spoke. "As usual, Sgt. Donovan, you are looking without seeing. The precise way that she has taken care to present herself as attractive as possible reeks of desperation, as does the noxious amount of perfume she's liberally applied and the amount of make up on her face. If she had been dating anyone, the lures would be unnecessary. Her skin has the loose elasticity of someone who has recently been losing a lot of weight, yet she is not tanned, which means that she has been exercising indoors. That points to an active gym membership. Her clothes are obviously new, but they're also expensive and cut just a little too snug. She's anticipating losing more weight soon, but she is very conscious of looking good while doing so. As for her social life, the callouses on her thumb are made from frequent and rapid texting. She works in an office, but she's not high enough to need to text to that degree for business, so it must be personal. "

With that, he dismissed the stunned officer and turned back to Lestrade. "Am I correct in assuming that no identification has yet been found?"

"No, we haven't uncovered her name yet," Lestrade answered, bemused by yet another display of the detective's brilliant deduction skills. "We've found no purse or anything else to tell us who she is."

"Check the gyms; start with the more popular ones," came the recommendation that sounded more like an order.

"Do you know the connecting link between the cases yet?" Sally couldn't help but ask.

"Not yet. I need to examine whatever evidence might have been salvaged from the bungling job you have done so far. Lord knows what may have been lost already due to sheer ineptitude."

Sally wanted to slap him. Her hand was slightly raised to do so before she was able to regain control of herself.

Not even bothering with seeing how his words were received, Sherlock pivoted on his heel to walk back to the street. It took a few moments of staring at his retreating figure for her to recollect that the picture was incomplete.

"Where's his little colleague, then?"

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John Watson sighed in exasperation as he ascended the stairs to the second level. The sounds of a violin being painfully plucked wafted downstairs, greeting him as he opened the door. Just as he'd suspected, his roommate was sitting in his chair, absently tugging at the taut strings as he stared at the wall.

Quickly, John glanced around to make his own deductions. Obviously, there was a case of some kind that he had begun working on. It must be something puzzling enough to intrigue him, but not so convoluted that he needed to fully immerse himself into the task of composing a song that left his mind free to operate.

Knowing that any attempt at engaging Sherlock in what he deemed meaningless conversation would likely fail, he left his flatmate to his musing and instead busied himself with fixing a nice cuppa.

By the time the kettle was boiling, the plucking had stopped. John looked over to see that Sherlock had shifted forward in his chair, steepling his hands in front of his face. The violin was discarded to the side, having fulfilled its usefulness. Three files were spread out over the table in front of him, containing the deaths of three separate women. From what John could make out, they all seemed pretty different aside from the fact that they were all dead.

Picking up the nearest file, John read the name typed on the bottom of a picture of an attractive, young black woman.

"Yvonne Tennyson."

"Young teenage girl, home on holiday from university. She was on her way to visit a friend when she got sidetracked and ended up dead in an ally. Cause of death was a single blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Her purse was missing." Sherlock rattled off the girl's description distractedly as he continued to stare vacantly.

John nodded in recognition as he read off the second name, this time a middle-aged white woman. "Chelsea Brown."

"Mother of three, ran a home business selling scented candles. She was at the grocery store when she was taken, leaving her car in the parking lot. Her body was found a block away from the store, single blunt force trauma to the back of the head. No purse."

The third file was so far only labeled as 'Jane Doe,' but John knew that it was unlikely to remain so for long. The pictures showed a heavyset Indian woman in designer clothes with, yes, what appeared to be a single blow to the back of the head.

"Any connection other than hitting them from behind and taking their bags?"

"Yes, they're all dead," came the distant reply. "Why would he take their bags? If he was a robber, he would simply take their possessions and let them alone, but he kills them. Besides, what kind of a robber would be completely uninterested in jewelry? He lures them away to secluded places, he gets them to trust him, and then he kills them. He's not brave, he does it when he can't see their face. The question is 'why,' though. There has to be a trigger. He doesn't enjoy killing, it's a compulsion."

"How do you know he doesn't enjoy killing? I'd think that three bodies point to some level of enjoyment," John argued.

Sherlock glared up at his flatmate, annoyed by the smallness of unthinking minds. "If he enjoyed killing, he wouldn't leave their bodies neat and tidy like he has been. He'd play a little. Either before or after, he'd rough them up a bit. This is no power killer, this is a scared, pathetic human being who is so good at playing the mouse that he's going unnoticed by all around him. He's blending in, passing right before everyone's eyes."

John was about to ask how they'd be able to find such a person when a knock came at the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see Sergeant Donovan on the other side.

"Is the Freak in?" she asked before pushing her way inside, not waiting for a response. Clomping up the stairs, Sally shrugged out of her coat before standing firmly in front of Sherlock Holmes. "Checked around at the gyms. You were right. Her name is Rashika Singh."

"A text message would have been sufficient," Sherlock stated, not bothering to look up at the imposing woman.

"That would have kept me from seeing your method."

"My method?" One eyebrow rose as his eyes finally came into focus.

"Yes, your method. How you work. I want to know how you know so much."

"I pay attention."

Sally rolled her eyes. She'd known it was a long shot, but she had to know how he did it. If there was a way to become a better cop, she'd do it, no matter how much she hated swallowing her pride.

After standing on place for a moment, she tossed her coat across the back of the opposite chair before flopping down herself. Crossing her arms comfortably across her body, she continued to stare at the enigmatic man, barely acknowledging the sounds of John moving around in the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, no one had said a word. Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

"What are you doing?"

"Paying attention."

"To me?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Don't flatter yourself," she scoffed. "I'm paying attention to your method."

"Are you now? What have you observed so far?"

"So far, I've seen a conceited asshole muse to himself while blocking out everything around him so he can concentrate."

"I haven't been blocking out anything. Since we have begun our fascinating staring contest, John has completed making his tea and been reading the newspaper, the political section, judging from the amount of irritated taps he's been making on the table. You have received two text messages, but you haven't received them, which tells me that you already know what they are about and you have no desire to check for confirmation. I'd say that they're probably from Anderson, seeing as how your mouth tightened with each text, showing that you are irritated with him. Trouble in adulterer's paradise? You already knew he was a lying cheater when you entered into the relationship, so maybe the lure of being in a forbidden relationship has lost its luster. Or maybe you've found someone else more interesting. Is that why you're really here?"

Sally's fist tightened more as the infuriating man continued rattling off details that were far too cannily accurate.

"Bastard. I'll have you know that I'm not here for any reason other than professional interest."

"Are you now? Is it really so professionally developmental to enter into a man's home uninvited so you can stare at him?"

"It is if he's the world's only consulting detective."

Abruptly standing, Sherlock snatched up his coat, putting it on as he spoke. "Well then, let's see if we can't find a more active way for you to observe, shall we?"

Without a glance behind to see if she was following or not, he strode out the door leaving a dumbfounded sergeant behind him. John looked up to catch her eye. "Yeah, he does that," he echoed her words to him from their first meeting.

Quickly, Sally grabbed her coat and ran after him. He had just flagged down a cab when she threw herself inside after him.

"Where are we going?"

"To Rashika Singh's house, of course."

Of course, Sally thought snidely.

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The cabby stopped in front of the address that Sally gave for where the late Rashika Singh had lived. The apartment was in a fashionable part of the city, but clearly in a location where the rent was fairly inexpensive. Obviously, Rashika liked to keep up appearances.

"Follow my lead," Sherlock instructed as he rang the doorbell. A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal a clearly upset woman, most likely Rashika's mother. Instantly, the detective transformed his face into a sorrowful mask.

"I just got the news. Is it true, then? Is she really gone?"

The woman's face contorted in confusion. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"This must be so hard for you," he ignored her question. "We were waiting over at the pub all night, but she never showed up. It wasn't until later that we found out why."

"She wasn't headed to a pub last night," the woman's confusion increased. "She was on her way to her friend Claire's house."

"That was just like her, always so busy with so many friends. God, we're going to miss her."

"She's really only been busy the last few months. How long did you say you've known her?"

"Fairly recently. We met at the Red Dog pub with my girlfriend, Sally."

Sally snapped out of her stunned silence upon hearing herself referred to as Sherlock's girlfriend. Girlfriend?

"Rashika never went to the Red Dog, she said she'd never be caught dead in there with all of the hideous décor."

"Really?" Sherlock suddenly turned off his ruse. "That is interesting."

Turning on his heel, he walked away, leaving Sally to scamper after him.

"What was interesting?" she called out.

"Rashika would have never gone to the Red Dog pub."

"Yes, I heard that. Why is that interesting?"

"Really, what must it be like to be you? Is it peaceful having such a sluggish brain without any activity to excite it? If Rashika had no desire to go to the Red Dog, then why was her body found in the alley behind the pub?"

Sally paused. "I don't know."

"And that's what I find interesting."

"But how did the killer get her there? Was she coerced?"

"You know as well as I do that there were no signs of defensive maneuvers or any indication that she was there unwillingly. Even her body confirms that with no adrenaline being found in her bloodstream."

"Hold on, now. The autopsy report isn't due back until the morning. How do you know that?" Sherlock just smirked. "Of course. That little doctor who has that mad crush on you. Hopper, is it?"

"It's Dr. Hooper."

"Ooh, a bit defensive, are we? Did I strike a nerve?"

"I see no reason for you to go around insulting people you don't know."

"What, a manner lesson? From you? You insult people all the time."

"Only if I know them."

"You insulted me for the first time two minutes after we'd met."

"That's how long it took for me to know you."

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Stony silence filled the cab as Sally refused to speak to the infuriating man she was reluctantly following. Sherlock was lost to his own thoughts, happily content with the lack of communication at present. It wasn't until the taxi stopped in front of the New Scotland Yard building that she spoke again.

"What are we doing here, then?"

"To do a bit of research on our case, of course."

"Don't you usually have your own little ways of digging up clues that don't involve the tax payers' money?"

"Of course, but the whole point of our joint venture is for you to be a better cop, is it not? It makes more sense to train you to use your own resources than to reveal what my own are."

Her feet rooted to the floor in surprise. Was he being considerate or snide? With Sherlock it was always a fine line. She'd ask how he knew her true motives, but it would only be opening herself up to more ridicule.

It wasn't until he paused to hold the door to the building open that he realized she was no longer walking. Lifting an eyebrow in question, he waited for her to recollect herself and catch up.

Fifteen minutes later, Sally didn't care about Sherlock's methods, she just wanted him to stop hovering over her desk.

"No, no. Try the CCTV of the bank across the corner. It has an unobstructed view of the way Rashika would likely have been taken."

With a sigh, Sally closed the program she had just finished opening that was apparently so very wrong. She thought the traffic cam would have been an obvious starting point, but apparently what seemed obvious to her was foolishness to him.

Another hour later, and Sally was forced to swallow an irritating truth. No matter how much she hated being wrong, she hated him being right even more so. And he was right. Again. There was Rashika, walking across the street at just past 10 in the evening, talking on her mobile. Something caught her attention, and she looked off to the right down the alley from which she would never reemerge.

"Great. So we know she was talking on her cell phone to someone and then she got distracted. Too bad we can't see what she saw, so we're still in the dark on our suspect."

"Wrong, sergeant. Look again. What do you see?"

Was he being…supportive? Where was the snark followed by a tedious lecture about how blind she was?

There was something more than unusually suspicious about a Sherlock who was going through the effort of being encouraging. Had he been body snatched? Had a personality overwrite? Was he dying?

Her questions must have been obvious in her eyes, because the enigmatic man heaved a sigh before speaking.

"I already told you that I was going to help make you a better cop. The faster I do that, the better for both of us."

Sally stared at him, stunned, before looking back at the screen. If he was willing to help her towards her end goal, who was she to stop him?

"Okay, what am I missing?"

"Think about it. What exactly is she doing? Why did she turn her head? The answers are all there in front of you, you just need to learn how to see instead of blindly stumbling around."

"Okay. She's talking on her mobile."

"What does that tell you?"

"That she has someone to talk to?"

"More than that. Think. Where was she going?"

"To her friend Claire's house."

"Right. She was walking there, even though it was rather far. She's made this route before, or she'd be unlikely to do so at such a late hour. What does that mean? It means that she had to have seen something unusual. Something made her pause and end her call. It had to have been something interesting enough to draw her attention without being alarming to where she'd call for help. Now think. What do you know?"

"I know exactly what you just said, what more can I say?"

"Dammit, Sally. You have a good head on your shoulders; now use it. Think. What do you know about the assailant?"

Sally thought.

"He'd have to have some way of garnering trust. He could be in a uniform or appear disabled or have a child. A child wouldn't make much sense, as it would be an unwanted variable in a murder, so the other two scenarios are more likely."

"Keep going."

"She looked slightly concerned on the video, so maybe he was asking for help. She had to have some reason to go with him down the alley."

"Excellent. Now tell me, did you notice anything else about her?"

"Not really." Sally admitted. At this point, her pride was beyond the point of needing protection.

"Her mobile. She put it in her pocket.

"Yeah, so?"

"The robber took her purse, but he also took her phone. Going through someone's pockets is indicative of a much closer invasion of privacy than stealing a bag."

"Maybe she pulled it out later when she felt she was in danger."

"She didn't know she was in danger," Sherlock reminded her.

"Right. Doctor Hooper." Sally remembered their conversation about adrenaline levels and how Sherlock had obtained them 12 hours before the police.

Sherlock's lips twitched in acknowledgement of the grudging nod of respect afforded to the pathologist.

"So what do we do now, sensei? Where do we go from here?"

"You should know that," he admonished. "We find that phone."

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John watched as Sherlock paced around the small flat. Even though life with his roommate could never be called boring, the past few days were particularly interesting.

Eventually, Sherlock paused, seeming to have arrived at some sort of conclusion. Oddly enough, he did not then proceed to scamper off to where the evidence had led him. Instead, he simply picked up his mobile, typed out a text, and then planted himself in front of the telly to yell at the horrible daytime programs.

"What exactly is it that is going on between you and Sally?" John finally asked.

"We're working a case." Sherlock remained focused on the screen.

"Yeah, I know that. What I don't get is why. You can't stand each other, you can hardly tolerate being in close proximity, and yet you're both willingly spending extra time together. For a case."

"What's the matter, John, are you jealous?"

"You know I'm not, and don't try to deflect. You never do anything without an ulterior motive. What is it?"

With a sigh, Sherlock turned to face his friend. "Sally came here two days ago insistent on discovering my methodology. I knew that I could ignore her and have her following me around and pestering me, or I could do my best to give her what she wants and send her away, the sooner the better. Now which decision makes more sense, I ask you?"

"So you're taking her under your wing, are you? I didn't know you cared." John's voice was teasing, but there was truth in his words.

"I don't care. This seems the fastest way to make her leave. And if by some miracle she actually becomes more observant and therefore a better cop, so much the better. One less bumbling idiot."

With that, his attention was diverted back to the telly, to which he yelled out that of course the man was not the boy's father, and that it was all there in the turn of the boy's ears.

John turned a blind eye to his antics. He showed no reaction when an incoming text signal sent Sherlock flying from the apartment five minutes later. He certainly didn't notice the way he subconsciously brushed his hands down his suit and through his hair in an attempt to improve any visual flaws.

No, John was happy to continue the illusion that he was in complete ignorance.

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"So what now? You get a warrant for the victim's phone records and then make weird 'deductions' based on their calling patterns?" Sally's voice had nowhere near the sneer she thought it did.

"I told you. I'm not teaching you my methods. I'm showing you how to use your own. Tell me honestly, did they teach you anything about research before they pinned a badge on you, or were you out sick that day?"

"Sorry. Must have missed the part about going rogue while memorizing all the laws about procedures for obtaining evidence I can actually use in court. It may surprise you to know that most juries don't take kindly to the thought of the government invading their privacy without cause."

"Cause. And what is that? It's just linking a cause to an obvious effect. How can you survive with such mind-numbingness?"

"Well, I do keep you around, don't I?"

Sherlock just smirked at her and turned back to the paperwork on her desk. Quickly, he flipped to the last page, pointing to the last outgoing call ever made on Rashika's phone. "Now that is interesting."

"So it is," Sally breathed.

The last call was made at least 2 hours after Rashika's time of death.