Summary
Murders without apparent motive, and a killer who leaves no trace lead Sherlock and John through a maze of conflicting evidence in a race to save the final victim before time runs out.
Author's Note: This story is set in an imaginary season four sans all the things that I wish hadn't happened after HoB, like Sherlock's pseudo-cide, and Mary. And Euros. Just for fun.
The entire story is completely written and betaed. I'll be posting the remaining chapters over the next few days as I finish the final proofing. More notes at the end. - Ghyll
Chapter One
Barts Hospital Mortuary
Saturday, May 7
It's like looking in a mirror. The shape of this woman's face, the tilt of her nose, her eye colour- even the pyjamas she was wearing and the way she had pulled back her hair on the final night of her life. The resemblance is so stunning that it takes her breath away.
The sheer creepiness makes Molly tug the drape back into place and move several quick paces away to regroup.
According to the crime scene notes, the woman was found in her bed, apparently asleep, except that she wasn't. She was a doctor, a year younger than Molly, and also worked at a hospital. Apparently her work habits were so reliably predictable that her employer had called police to do a welfare check when she failed to show up for her shift and wasn't responding to texts or calls.
"Another trait we had in common," she says, then glances around the mortuary to make sure she's not being observed. There are only two other staff members on duty today, and one is especially cat-footed when it comes to materializing at her elbow without warning. Shrinking away from a corpse and talking to herself are bad enough without being caught in the act.
She is acutely aware that she's not being rational about this, but her sense of dread is visceral, and impossible to ignore.
As the seconds tick by, she grows more and more annoyed with herself, until finally she's had enough. Before her wimpy self can come up with a reason not to, her common sense self walks directly back to the body and pulls the drape completely off.
For a long moment, the illusion holds. And then, she begins to see more differences than similarities. In fact, the longer she studies the woman's features, the less resemblance there is. She thinks she's heard a technical term for whatever she just experienced, one Sherlock could no doubt instantly supply, and then describe for her, chapter and verse. For once, she's glad he's not here.
She sets to work, grounding herself once more in the meticulous process of her task. It doesn't take long to find the first clue. There is a fresh injection mark in the victim's left thigh, a site often used by insulin dependent diabetics, but there are no tell-tale marks of the daily blood sugar testing required for such a patient. There were also no drugs found on the premises other than a bottle of paracetamol in the bathroom. Combined with the dilated pupils and the fact noted by the crime scene supervisor that the woman's bed linens and her pyjamas were soaked with sweat, it appears that the victim succumbed to a drug overdose. But which drug? And how did all evidence of it disappear from the scene?
The internal examination is unremarkable. From all appearance, the woman was in perfect health one moment, and dead the next, further suggesting that the injection was the cause. Molly carefully extracts blood and tissue samples from the injection site and multiple locations in the body. Both the manner and cause of death will be listed as 'undetermined' until the samples are analysed. Either cocaine or insulin would produce the symptoms seen in this victim. If the drug was cocaine, it will be easily detected. Insulin is a different story. It quickly breaks down in the body, leaving only a suggestion of its presence behind. The tests are complex, and the results often open to question, particularly by a defence team if police ever find the killer and bring him to trial. It's one of the reasons there have been so few successful prosecutions where insulin was the murder weapon.
When she finally calls Greg to tell him her findings, he's obviously disappointed. "You mean there's a chance we'll never know what killed her?"
"No, I said there's a chance we won't have the kind of conclusive results the courts want, if it turns out to be insulin. The good news is that you found her quickly. The bad news is that insulin starts to break down almost immediately, and we'll be looking for the signs it was there. That's a hit or miss operation."
"Do you think Sherlock would have better luck than your lab?"
Molly smiles into the phone. "Sorry, not even Sherlock can change body chemistry."
"Would she have had time to inject herself and still get rid of the evidence?"
"I can't say until we know which drug it was, and how much of it she took. She may have had time, but you've searched the flat and the bins outside. Where would it be?"
"I've been asking myself the same question."
She promises to call him with the results as soon as they come in.
It ends up taking two weeks to keep that promise. "There is a 80 precent probability that it was a lethal dose of insulin," She tells him over the phone. When he doesn't respond, she adds, "You really can't get much better than that, Greg."
"Yeah, sorry. I know you said it wouldn't be 100 percent. " He sounds tired.
"Sounds like you haven't found a suspect yet."
"Not even close. No witnesses, no fingerprints, no trace evidence. No enemies. No angry boyfriends. No trouble at work. No... anything. Unless we catch a break, it's as good as over."
"Well, here's hoping you get that break," Molly tells him and gets a glum 'thanks' in reply.
She rings off. All that remains is to finish her final report and file it. Her part of the investigation is over.
Until it isn't.
Saturday, July 2
Greg's call spoils a rare Saturday morning lie-in and brings Molly into the mortuary with a pillow crease on her cheek and a vaguely touchy stomach thanks to last night's darts tournament and the obligatory post-match toasting. She finds him waiting for her in her office with a coffee that's still hot and a paper-wrapped egg sandwich. She takes the coffee gratefully, but places the sandwich in a drawer which she closes to mask the smell of eggs and cheese.
"Sorry about the rush," Greg says by way of greeting, "but I think this is another insulin overdose. You remember the one we worked on in May?"
She remembers all too well. Although she has since managed to identify the likely cause of her ridiculous reaction to that poor woman's face, knowing why it happened doesn't make her feel any less foolish. It was a long-ago nightmare that had plagued her for weeks after her first cadaver dissection. In the dream she had been standing over a body, just as she'd been doing in May, except that in the dream it really had been her own dead body on the table. How the dream could have triggered such a response after all this time, she wasn't sure, but it was the best explanation she could find.
Thankfully, the victim Greg has brought in this morning doesn't resemble the first one- or Molly- at all. She is much older, and considerably overweight.
"Her pupils are dilated, just like the first one." Greg offers as Molly begins the external examination. "And her shirt is stained with sweat."
"I'm not seeing any indication of testing punctures on her fingertips, so if it does turn out to be insulin, it wasn't therapeutic." She glances up at Greg. "Where was she found?"
"Lying on the sofa in her sitting room, peaceful as if she was napping. The neighbour heard the victim's phone ringing off the hook for a few hours and went to find out why she wasn't answering since he knew she was at home. He looked in the window when she didn't come to the door."
She moves to the victim's left thigh and almost immediately finds the perimortem injection she knows Greg is looking for. "It's the same as the one we found on the first victim."
"That's what I needed to hear." He pulls out his phone and heads for the door. "I'll be back."
Molly imagines Sherlock's mobile is about to ring.
She is just finishing up her post mortem when Greg returns with John and Sherlock. Sherlock strides to the table and does a quick circuit of the body, then comes to a halt and peers at the woman's left thigh with his magnifying glass. He addresses Lestrade without looking up. "What links this victim to the first other than the suspected insulin overdose?"
Greg takes a breath and launches into his evidence. "Both single, living alone in Central London. Both apparently healthy and found dead in their homes without any sign of struggle or outward physical injury. No forced entry."
Sherlock has moved to the woman's head to examine her eyes. "That's all?"
Greg frowns. "You don't see a pattern?" He gives John a questioning look.
Sherlock straightens and also turns to look at John.
John picks up the thread on cue. "If both victims were injected with lethal doses of insulin, I'd have to call that a pattern," he tells them, which gets a smile from Greg and a frown from Sherlock, until he adds, "but I don't see a serial killer."
Greg smile evaporates. "You don't?"
"There is no trademark signature," Sherlock replies. "No sensational aspects to draw press coverage. You may have a single killer, but I see no indication of psychopathy. You could have two accidental killings."
"Accidental? Exactly the same way?" Greg looks at John. "He's joking, right?"
John shakes his head. "Insulin abuse for weight loss is more common than you might think. Also, it can act as a performance enhancement for bodybuilders. It's dangerous as hell, and far from the most effective means to that end, but people do crazy things in the name of cutting corners."
"But there were no drugs at either crime scene," Greg points out.
John shrugs. "Fear of the needle might keep a new user from injecting herself. Add an accommodating drug dealer who makes a couple of mistakes, and you've got two dead bodies."
Greg looks from John to Sherlock and back, frowning. "I've never had to sell you on a case before. It's always the other way round. Now you're telling me this isn't a serial killer because he didn't what- hack off their heads with an axe? How do you know his signature isn't pristine bodies posed like they're asleep?"
Sherlock goes quiet for a long moment. "Lestrade, you may actually have a point."
"I DO have a point. Now, tell me you're going to take the bloody case."
"Send me copies of both files, and I'll let you know."
Greg lets out a heavy breath as soon as the door closes behind Sherlock and John. "John told me Sherlock's been in a mood lately. That usually means he's bored, and I figured he'd jump right on this."
Molly smiles. "He just likes to be the one to put it together. He'll be happy once he's found something that puts him ahead of you."
Greg's gaze shifts back to the door. "I hope it doesn't take another body to convince him."
In the taxi on the way home, John watches Sherlock tapping and scrolling on his phone. "You really think he has a point?"
Sherlock glances at him, then resumes scrolling. "A nonviolent serial killer is an intriguing concept."
John smiles. "So, that's a yes?"
"The similarities are interesting."
"He said grudgingly," John teases.
"Not at all. I am merely agreeing that there are enough similarities to warrant further investigation."
"Of course."
That earns him a narrow glance, but no comment.
Sherlock opens his laptop and resumes his research as soon as they walk into the flat.
Two hours later when John returns from an errand, he finds Sherlock still in the same spot. "Still at it?"
"There was a single article about the first murder, the day after it happened. It didn't even include the victim's name, just that she was a doctor."
"Sounds like her family hadn't been notified when the story was published," John offers, "Maybe there just wasn't enough new information later on to merit another article?"
"Possibly."
"If the police tell the press that there's a chance this new murder is related to the first, the coverage will be on the front page of every tabloid," John continues.
Sherlock frowns at the screen. "There's nothing about either killing that suggests a serial killer who was courting press coverage. Exactly the opposite, in fact. Both murders demonstrate the cold efficiency of a contract killer, but the victims seem highly unlikely targets for a paid assassin."
"And an insulin overdose is hardly an efficient murder weapon," John adds.
"It could be an inept drug dealer as you described to Lestrade."
"Or," John adds, "a serial killer who takes pride in leaving a tidy scene."
There's a knock on the door downstairs, then Mrs Hudson talking with someone, followed by her footsteps coming up the stairs. She comes into the flat carrying a large, fat brown envelope. "It's from Greg," she tells Sherlock, handing him the envelope. "Is it a case?"
Sherlock takes it to the coffee table and starts sorting the contents into stacks. "Perhaps."
Three hours later, John is ready for an evening out with Stamford. "Sherlock, I'm off out."
"Hmmm." The wall collage he's creating has Sherlock's full attention.
"Okay, I'll see you when I get back." That earns him another 'hmmm'.
The sitting room is empty when John comes home, and Sherlock's door is closed.
By the following morning, Sherlock has finished converting the files to his usual elaborately-constructed mind map. John finds him standing motionless in front of it when he comes down to make tea.
"Having any luck?" John asks, handing Sherlock his tea.
"They willingly admitted the killer to their homes. What stranger would you allow to enter your home?"
John sips his tea, thinking. "As myself, or do you want me to imagine what a single woman would do?"
Sherlock turns to look at him. "Excellent point." He turns toward the open door and shouts "Mrs Hudson!"
John winces. "It's barely seven in the morning!"
"And?" Sherlock asks archly, then aims his voice toward the stairs for another shout. "Mrs Hudson!"
It never fails to surprise and annoy John that Mrs Hudson nearly always comes out of her flat and up the stairs when Sherlock calls for her, no matter the hour, and she does not disappoint this time, either.
"I'm coming, for heaven's sake," she calls from the bottom of the steps.
Sherlock launches into his hypothetical the instant she enters the room. "Mrs Hudson, under what circumstances would you admit an unexpected stranger to your home?"
One of the consequences of having known Sherlock for as long as she has is that Mrs Hudson rarely expresses surprise at anything he says. She gives this a moment's consideration. "I'm hardly a good example of the average single woman, if you're looking for a typical response, you know. People show up here at all hours looking for you boys, and there are some very strange ones."
"But you don't admit them to your home," Sherlock points out.
"Yes, of course. You're right. This would be someone asking to come into my flat. Someone unexpected, so not a workman I've called." She pauses. "It would depend on who it was, and what they wanted. A policeman would qualify, I think. Honestly, I can't think of anyone else."
Sherlock nods as if this is the answer he expected. "Would you demand identification?"
"If he were in uniform, and if he had a believable reason, probably not." She frowns. "That seems a little unwise, now that I think about it."
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock turns back to the wall. She is dismissed.
Mrs Hudson gives John a bemused look, and returns to her flat.
John mulls this over for a moment. "You think the killer presented himself as a policeman?"
"No, I think he IS a policeman," Sherlock says without turning around.
"Based on WHAT?" Even for Sherlock, this is out of the blue.
Sherlock turns to the wall, gesturing back and forth across the expanse of string-connected photos and text and scribbled notes that is as opaque to John as every one of the damned things always is. "Masquerading as policeman would gain him access to all but the most cautious woman's home, especially if he has a persuasive story to tell. It would also give him access to the investigation. The killings lack the sensational aspects that would provide notoriety for a serial killer looking for fame. They're passionless executions. Means to an end. The victims lived low risk lives. They did nothing that would have exposed them to a random psychopath. Their homes were locked and in safe areas, and they allowed their killer to get close enough to inject them with a fatal dose of insulin without a struggle. My working hypothesis is that the killer is setting himself up to be the hero and solve the case by placing blame on a target whom he has already selected. An actual policeman would have knowledge of criminal candidates in the area and would have at least one in mind. It's likely that he has taken evidence from the scenes with which to implicate the chosen target."
John takes a moment to digest this. "You think that whoever solves the murders will actually be the murderer himself?"
"Yes, but we can hardly afford to wait for him to reveal himself. He has to commit another murder so he can plant the 'clues' he has engineered to implicate his target suspect."
John gives his head a shake to clear it, but it doesn't help. "You're basing all of this on Mrs Hudson saying she would let a policeman into her flat? That's a massive leap, even for you. There are 23 Murder Investigation Teams in London. Even with close to half of the member being women, it's a big suspect pool. Or are you not ruling out women?"
"Did you see anything about the murder that rules out a woman being the killer?"
Now that John thinks about it, the killer being a woman could make sense. "But the vast majority of serial killers are men."
"But not all," Sherlock replies, pulling out his phone.
From what John can gather hearing only Sherlock's side of the conversation, Lestrade finds Sherlock's theory as surprising as John does.
"I do not consider all of your officers idiots," Sherlock says at one point. "I would hardly suspect one of them being capable of these murders, if that were the case."
John supposes it's a compliment, of sorts. The teams should be flattered.
Sherlock concludes with a demand. "We will meet you in your office in an hour to review the personnel files. Both men and woman, Lestrade." He ends the call and tucks the phone into the inside pocket of his coat.
"I don't think he's allowed to let you look at confidential personnel files, Sherlock, no matter how nicely you ask."
"If he wants to catch the killer, he will find a way."
John has learned over the years that the better approach to disagreeing with Sherlock is to save your breath and wait for him to sort it out on his own. While there is always the possibility that he's right this time, too, the likelihood seems very low. Sherlock has never spent any time with the police on the Murder Investigation Teams outside of work, but John has. He's gone out of his way, in fact, to socialize in an effort make inroads where Sherlock remains bent on burning bridges. Whatever progress he's made is bound to be undone if Sherlock starts interrogating the lot of them for serial murder.
Unless he turns out to be right, of course.
Lestrade hasn't even had time to hang up his coat when Sherlock and John walk into his office. Not surprisingly, the surface of his desk is noticeably absent the requested stack of personnel folders. Sherlock starts in before the man can open his mouth.
"I see you're planning to wait until the next body turns up."
Greg drops wearily into his chair. "Sit down, Sherlock."
Surprisingly, Sherlock complies.
"First, I'm glad you've decided to agree with me that we're looking for a serial killer," Greg holds up a hand when Sherlock starts to interrupt, "but I think you're way off track with this theory. And I couldn't give you the personnel files, even if I wanted to. What would do you think they'd tell you anyway?"
Sherlock is silent for a moment. "The personnel files include psychological testing."
Lestrade sighs. "You're not going to find suspicious psych results on anyone who was accepted to the force."
Sherlock pointedly rolls his eyes. "Standard methods of analysis only detect the obvious. If there is a true sociopath on the force, I'm the only one who can identify him. Or her. We also need to establish who was on duty at the times of the murders."
Greg chews his lip for a moment. "I've worked with you long enough to know that ignoring even the craziest theory can be a mistake. I can't give you what you want, but I can go through the records myself to see who was off -duty when the women were killed. If I turn up any possibilities, I'll at least let you know the what, if not the who." He sits back. "Now if you're going to read me the riot act, please close the door."
Sherlock gets to his feet. "The next murder could be prevented if we knew who to watch. Remember that when you find the body." He walks out of the office without another word.
Lestrade rubs both hands over his face and exhales a weary sigh. He looks at John. "Do you think he's right?"
John hesitates. "I honestly don't know."
Greg looks thoughtfully at Sherlock's vacant chair. "He's always made it clear that he thinks the worst of my officers, and the feeling is very much mutual. I'd hate to think he might be letting that colour his judgment."
John shakes his head firmly. "Not a chance, Greg. If he comes up with a suspect, it will be based on evidence, not spite. You know him better than that."
Greg blows out a long breath. "I'm not saying he would do it consciously, but he's got blind spots like the rest of us. Genius or not, he's still human."
"I can't argue with that," John tells him. "But I'm pretty sure Sherlock would."
Sherlock has nothing to say on the way back to Baker Street, and John lets him sulk. As soon as they walk into the flat, Sherlock goes to work on the evidence wall. John watches him for a moment. "Editing?"
Sherlock turns to look at him. "Something like that."
John shrugs and wanders out to the kitchen. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes and pots, and it takes him nearly an hour to tidy up. When he heads back to the sitting room, he glances up at the wall to see what Sherlock has accomplished, and stops in his tracks. The wall above the sofa is now completely bare. Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, fingers steepled against pursed lips.
"Sherlock, what did you with it all?" And then he glances to his left and sees the original envelopes Greg sent the case files in stacked next to Sherlock's closed laptop. They are refilled to capacity. "You're sending it all back?"
Sherlock sighs. "There's no point cluttering the wall with evidence for a case Lestrade will not allow me to work."
John hasn't seen Sherlock in a proper sulk for some time, but he's certainly in one now. "Greg thinks you're letting your opinion of the police bias your judgment."
Sherlock scoffs. "Of course, he does."
John walks over to the sofa. "I told him he was wrong. That you'd never let that happen."
Sherlock glances up at him. "Thank you, John."
"I'm revising my opinion."
Sherlock sits up and swings his feet to the floor. "The next victim has less than two months to live."
"Then maybe you should keep looking for the man who plans to kill her."
"As soon as Lestrade stops blocking every avenue of investigation, I will. Contrary to popular belief, I am not clairvoyant."
"I know you're not going to let a murderer run free out of spite, Sherlock. If you really can't move forward without the personnel files, why don't you just ask Mycroft to pull some strings? Surely, he -"
Sherlock jumps up from the sofa with such energy that John takes a step backward and nearly trips. "There is no circumstance on earth or anywhere else that would induce me to ask Mycroft for the time of day, let alone anything that might give license for him to ask a favour in return."
A veteran of the Holmes brothers' wars, John treads carefully. "Oh? Did something happen?"
"Nothing worth mentioning," Sherlock huffs, then contradicts that comment by mentioning, in excruciating detail, how a recent recreational hack (purely for exercise, Sherlock insists) into a certain MI5 database managed to draw fire from the few members of government who outrank Mycroft, resulting in a demand by said superiors for certain concessions in lieu of the list of legal consequences they outlined as incentive.
When Sherlock exhausts his narrative, John ventures, "Well, if you can hack into MI5, it shouldn't be much of a challenge to get what you want from Scotland Yard."
Sherlock plops back onto the couch. "About those concessions..."
It seems Sherlock's online access is under surveillance. Temporarily.
John tries another tack. "Not wanting to press your luck with MI5, I get that. But I can't believe you're going to let Lestrade's little roadblock hang you up."
Sherlock settles back and closes his eyes. "The case files are here. You are welcome to look for an alternate route."
John smiles. Sherlock's off-hand tone takes not one whit of pleasure away from the fact that he's just asked for John's help.