It was a typical day in London, with gray clouds in the sky and a steady drizzle falling to the ground. It wasn't a heavy enough rain to really effect anything, but rather one of those rains that merely made a day miserable. Of course the residents of London barely registered the moisture as they were used to it, including the Detective Inspector walking across the wet tarmac. Small puddles had formed in the small dips of the pavement and a gentle splash was heard as DI Lestrade's shoe displaced the water. Ignoring the small amount of water the DI continued to walk towards the small but luxurious private jet sitting passively on the runway. As he approached, a roll up stairway was wheeled to the door to the jet and the large door was opened. Lestrade paused at the bottom of the steps and shifted almost nervously from foot to foot, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he looked around, his back towards the stairs.
After a few moments of waiting footsteps were heard on the metal behind him and Lestrade turned to look at the figure there. The woman paused at the top of the stairs looking at her surroundings before pulling her coat around her more tightly to fend off the London chill. Finally her eyes landed on Lestrade and he felt himself straightening under her scrutinizing gaze, those piercing blue eyes making him feel incompetent and as if he need to prove himself. Once she had regarded him she looked back into the plane and turned to receive the book that the captain of the plane handed her. With that done she headed down the stairs and strode up to Lestrade. Her petite frame forced her to look up at him, despite that Lestrade felt about two inches tall under the intense gaze.
"I'm sorry for your-"
"They aren't dead." The woman's american accent interrupted him as she looked around the tarmac again. "That your car?" She asked as she began to stride towards it. Lestrade stood there frozen for a moment before he quickly set out after her.
"Yeah, well wait a second!" He cried and put a hand on her shoulder forcing her to turn back and face him. Once she faced him an annoyed expression quickly twisted her features.
"What," she bit out, Lestrade taking an involuntary step back. "is so important as it cannot be discussed in the warmth of the car? Because right now I am cold and it does nothing to help my temper." She paused for a moment to wait for an answer that never came before nodding to herself. "Good." With that she walked away from him and headed to the car. She easily opened it and climbed in on the passenger side. Lestrade paused for just a moment before heading over and going to the drivers side. Grabbing the handle, he pulled and sighed as he realized the door was locked. Pulling his keys out of his pocket, he unlocked his door and slid into the seat. As he put the key in the ignition and started the car he was about to drive off when a thought occurred to him.
"The car was locked," he said.
"Excellent observation, maybe the police aren't incredibly useless after all," the woman replied as she leaned over and cranked up the heat, still burrowed in her jacket.
"You picked the lock?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
"I told you, it's cold."
"You broke into a patrol car because it was cold?"
"Yes, now can we go?" She gave him another irritated look and he turned to the front, shaking his head slightly as he put the car into drive and off they went. The woman opened her book and it was silent for a few moments except for the purr of the engine and the light rustling of the pages turning. Finally mustering up the courage to ask what she was doing Lestrade turned to the woman.
"Reading." The woman replied to the unasked question. When Lestrade opened his mouth to ask what she held up a hand. "Quiet." Lestrade's jaw snapped shut and he focused back on the road. Two minutes later the book snapped shut and the woman turned slightly to face the DI.
"Say the alphabet phonetically." She ordered quickly.
"What, why?" Lestrade asked confused.
"Just do it."
Lestrade paused for a moment before sighing and doing as she asked. When she next opened her mouth Lestrade was surprised not the hear the american accent he had associated with the daughter of his two best agents, but rather an authentic London accent.
"Now, where is it?"
After recovering from the shock Lestrade cleared his throat before answering.
"Ah, Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. What were you reading?"
Instead of answering the woman merely held up the book revealing the title London A to Z before the woman took it and shoved it in the glove box of his car.
"So these deaths, there's been three of them." The woman stated.
"Yes, all three took the same drug and all were in places they shouldn't be." Lestrade replied.
"What makes this one different?"
"You've read up on the case right?"
"Of course."
"You know how they never leave notes?"
"Yeah."
"This one did."
The woman paused in thought for a moment before a grin spread across her face.
"Wonderful." Was her only comment before silence fell aside from the purr of the engine and noise of London life. Finally they reached the crime scene and as the woman stepped out of the car many of the officer gave her odd looks yet she paid them no mind as she swept into the building and began heading up the stairs. Yet she was stopped when a female officer stood in front of her and prevented her from continuing up.
"Who are you?" The officer asked, a Sergeant Sally Donovan according to the badge clipped to her belt. The woman looked over Sally before rolling her eyes. "Why are you here?"
"I was invited." The woman answered taking a step to the right intending to continue up but Sally moved as well.
"Why?" Sergeant Donovan asked.
"I think the Detective Inspector would like me to take a look." The woman replied sarcastically before pushing by and continuing up the stairs.
"Now you wait a second!" Sally cried and started after the woman. Lestrade chose that minute to arrive and he sighed.
"Sally! Just leave it!" He called and Sally paused as the woman continued up the stairs. Lestrade started up the steps and Sally met him halfway.
"You know her?" She asked.
Just then the woman's voice echoed down and Lestrade looked up to find her giving him a look that sent ice through his veins and had his heart beating nervously.
"You could say that," he murmured as he hurried up the stairs. When the woman was convinced he was on his way she turned only to find herself face with another obstacle, this one in the form of a forensic analyst.
"Who are you?" he asked, Jezebel looked him over quickly before realizing she wouldn't get by him without answering his question.
"I'm here because Lestrade brought me, and your name is?"
"Anderson."
"Well Anderson, I'd say it a pleasure to meet you but that would be a lie. Let me through." She said annoyed and tried to move past him.
"It's a crime scene I don't want it contaminated." Anderson replied and the woman let out an annoyed huff looking him over again.
"How long is your wife away?" She asked abruptly.
"Who told you that?" Anderson spluttered.
"Your deodorant."
"My deoderant?"
"Yes, it's for men."
"Of course it is. I'm wearing it."
"So is Sergeant Donovan." The woman said and used his temporary shock to slip into the room where there were blue sanitary coveralls and latex gloves. The woman had just grabbed a pair of latex gloves when Anderson turned to face her.
"Whatever you're trying to imply-"
"I'm implying anything, I'm sure the good Sergeant merely came around for nice chat and just so happened to stay over. And she must have been so kind as to scrub your floors going by the state of her knees." The woman interrupted before pulling on the gloves with a snap and heading into the room where the body was. She stood by the door for a few moments, inspecting the room and waiting for Lestrade.
"Her name is Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. Right now we are running them for contact details. Some kids found her," the DI said as he walked into the room.
The woman nodded briefly before stepping closer to the body. As she moved closer her attention was immediately drawn to to the letters scratched into the wooden floor on the left side of the victim's head. It was possible the victim was left handed after checking the victims hands and noting that the polish on the index and middle finger of her left hand was chipped and broken from scratching it was confirmed. Jennifer Wilson had been left-handed. Then the woman turned her attention to the letters themselves. Rache. Immediately: Rache: German, revenge, came to the front of her mind. Silently the woman gave a tiny dismissive shake of her head. Looking back to the words she mentally placed a clearer type over the words and letters began to fly across her vision before finally settling on Rachel. Nodding to herself the woman then turned to the victim's coat. Running a hand across the back of the victim's jacket she lifted her gloves to inspect the tips of her fingers. Noting the moisture on her gloves the woman then looked through the woman's pockets. In the left hand pocket there was a white umbrella the woman ran her fingers along the folds of the material. Dry. The woman paused for only a moment before putting the umbrella back and running her fingers under the collar of the victim's coat. Wet. Reaching into her pocket the woman pulled out a small magnifying glass and began to inspect the victim's jewelry. First she looked at the victim's necklace, the earrings, the bracelet on her left wrist, and finally at the wedding ring. All of the jewelry was well cared for and carefully cleaned, except for her wedding ring. Curiously the woman reached forward and gently pulled the ring off the corpse's finger before examining the inside. The inside was shiny and well polished, but the outside was dirty as if she never cared for it. The victim was married, but not happily. The ring itself was between ten and fifteen years old. Because the inside was shinier than the outside it must have been regularly removed. The victim obviously didn't work with her hands, her nails were too well cared for, therefore the victim must have removed it for a lover. She was an adulterer, however she wouldn't have settled with just one lover. The woman then made her final deduction. Serial adulterer.
The woman smirked slightly as she stood and pulled the gloves from her hands. Shoving the pile of latex into her pocket the woman pulled out her mobile and began to type quickly.
"Well?" Lestrade asked. The woman smirked again as she found what she wanted before turning and heading towards the door.
"You may want to call your detective now. I'm sure he'd pout for ages if you didn't tell him about this," the woman said as she walked out of the room before turning back to Lestrade. "I'll be on the roof, text me when he's here."
Lestrade watched her petite form before signing. After taking off his blue coverall and heading down the stairs to his car, he was on his way to 221B Baker Street.
At 221B it was a calm day. There weren't any cases that had come in that day, and luckily Sherlock was focused on his experiments. humming quietly to himself John stood from his chair and headed into the kitchen, easily navigating the sea of beakers and petri dishes, to make himself another cup of tea before he headed back into the living room to sit in front of the telly. The calm that had settled on 221B was relaxing and John was honestly enjoying it for the moment. Unfortunately the peace lasted only long enough for him to drink half of his tea before footsteps were heard on the stairs and Lestrade appeared in the room. Sherlock was out of his chair instantly and looking at Lestrade with barely contained excitement.
"Where?" Sherlock bounced on his feet eagerly as he asked.
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Lestrade had a disorientating feeling of deja vu as sherlock asked his next question.
"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if something wasn't different."
"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade asked.
"Yeah."
"This one did, will you come?"
"Not In a police car, I'll be right behind," Sherlock answered as he began to gather his things. John sighed and stood moving into the kitchen to dump out his tea before heading back into the living room to grab his coat as well.
"Thank you," Lestrade said before he was down the stairs and into his car again heading back to the crime scene. As John was pulling on his coat Sherlock was jumping around like a kid on christmas morning.
"Three serial suicides and now a note! Oh it's christmas!" He cried happily as he gathered his coat and things before darted out the door and down to the street, John on his heels. Calling a cab the two sat silently for the journey across London. Upon arriving at the crime scene they were approached by none other than Sally Donovan.
"Hello, freak," she said condescendingly.
"I'm here to see Lestrade," Sherlock replied.
"Why?"
"I was invited."
"Why?" The question was spit out like an insult, as if Sherlock were dirt on her shoe.
"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock replied sarcastically.
"Well, you know what I think."
"Always Sally." Sherlock slipped under the crime scene tape, breathing in through his nose he paused for a moment. "And I know you didn't make it home last night." John quickly followed Sherlock under the tape and together they headed towards the building.
"I don't -" Sally let out a sigh giving up. "Freaks here," Sally said into her radio before following them. As they walked Sherlock inspected the area around them, taking in everything he could about their location. As soon as their feet touched the pavement Anderson came walking towards them, still dressed in his coveralls.
"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson asked. Sherlock took another deep breath through his nose.
"Quite clear. Is your wife away for long?" Sherlock asked. Anderson looked at him in shock for a moment before he recovered.
"Oh don't act like you figured that out. Someone told you," Anderson said.
"Your deodorant told me that."
"My deodorant?"
"It's for men."
"Of course it's for men I'm wearing it."
"So is Sergeant Donovan." Anderson spun to look at Sally who looked just as shocked and confused as he did. Sherlock sniffed pointedly. "Oh and I believe it just vaporized, may I go in?" Sherlock asked as he, with John in tow, brushed past Anderson and down the footpath to the door of the house.
"Now wait a minute," Anderson called as he spun to face Sherlock. "Whatever you're trying to imply," he said weakly, remembering just a few minutes previously the same conversation with a petite, redheaded woman.
"I'm not trying to imply anything. Surely Sally just came around to chat and happened to stay over." Giving a pointed look to her knees Sherlock then looked back to Anderson. "And she must have scrubbed your floors by the state of her knees." Sherlock then turned and walked into the building confidently. John following closely.
They strode up the stairs and met Lestrade as they walked.
"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade said.
"May need more," Sherlock commented as he brushed past Lestrade. Pausing in the room with the overalls he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and waited on John and Lestrade pulled on the obnoxious blue coveralls before heading into the room. Once in the room Sherlock and the others stood completely still for a few moments before Sherlock looked over to Lestrade.
"Shut up," He snapped.
"I didn't say anything," Lestrade claimed innocently.
"You were thinking, it's annoying." Sherlock then moved forward towards the body. First his attention went to the writing by the womans head. Dismissively he shook his head before squatting next to the corpse. He ran his hand over the victim's back before pulling his hand back and looking closely at the fingertips of his gloves. Sherlock then searched her pockets, finding the umbrella he pulled it out and ran his fingers along the folds of material before again inspecting his fingertips. Making a mental note he turned to run his fingers under the collar of the victims coat before again inspecting his fingertips. With that done he pulled a small magnifying glass out of his pocket and leaned in to get a look at the woman's jewelry. Upon reaching the wedding ring on her left finger he paused before gently pulling it from her finger and inspecting the inside. After slipping the ring back on the corpses finger he stood and took out his phone.
"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.
"Not much," Sherlock replied nonchalantly as he typed on his phone.
"She's german," Anderson said from the doorway. "Rache: it's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something-"
"Yes thank you for your input," Sherlock said as he moved to the door and closed it in Anderson's face.
"So she's German?" Lestrade asked confused.
"Of course not-" Sherlock began.
"But she is from out of town." A female voice announced. John and Sherlock spun to face here the voice had come from. "She intended to stay in London for a single night before returning home to Cardiff." Sherlock looked at her affronted for a moment. The woman gave him a look and grinned. "Well go on, don't gape. It doesn't suit you."
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded once he had collected himself. The woman smirked again before turning to Lestrade.
"Your victim is in her late thirties. A professional person going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night," The woman said easily. Sherlock stood silently before moving closer.
"Got that by the size of her suitcase?" He asked and the woman looked at him.
"Of course."
"Wait, suitcase?" Lestrade interrupted the two of them. They both turned from where they had been closely scrutinizing each other to look at the DI.
"Suitcase yes," Sherlock said and moved over to look down at the body, the woman standing across from him. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."
"Oh for gods sake if you're just making this up!" Lestrade exclaimed.
"Her wedding ring. It's at least 10 years old. She takes good care of her jewelry, it's all regularly cleaned, except for her wedding ring. The outside is dirty but the inside of the band is cleaning. The only cleaning it gets is when she works it off her finger." The woman supplied, gesturing towards the mentioned piece of jewelry.
"She doesn't take it off for work, just look at her fingernails. She doesn't work with her hands. So what -or rather who does she take her ring off for? Clearly not one lover-" Sherlock began.
"She'd never sustain being single for that amount of time." The woman interjected.
"So more likely a string of them. Simple," Sherlock finished.
"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade gave him and look and the woman looked at Lestrade in mild surprise and almost disappointment.
"It should be fairly obvious." She said and Lestrade felt himself deflate a little with guilt of her disappointment before he caught himself and straightened up with a frown.
"Dear god what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring," Sherlock commented and the woman gave him a reprimanding look which Sherlock shrugged off easily.
"It's her coat, it's slightly damp. She was in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain ianywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She turned it up against the wind. In her left hand pocket there is an umbrella, yet it's dry; not just wind, strong wind. Strong enough that she couldn't use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight so she must have come a decent distance but she couldn't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind with that travel time?" The woman easily explained before turning the Sherlock who looked rather put out that he didn't get to deliver the explanation. Sherlock pressed a few keys on his phone and showed the screen to Lestrade.
"Cardiff," Sherlock said easily his pout quickly disappearing.
"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer of some sort." Sherlock spun in a circle searching the room quickly. "Find out who Rachel is," Sherlock ordered.
"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade asked, obviously unable to keep up with the thought process of two geniuses. The woman snorted lightly.
"No, she was writing an angry message in German," she said sarcastically.
"The question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Sherlock asked rhetorically.
"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked and the woman let out a small huff of annoyance.
"Is he always this slow?" She asked Sherlock.
"Unfortunately all of them are," he replied.
"Hm, now I'm starting to see the appeal of you extracurriculars," The woman replied as she turned to explain to Lestrade. "Back of her right leg: tiny splash marks on her heel and calf yet not present on her left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase with her right hand. That splash pattern doesn't occur in any other way. Smallish going by the size of the spread. A woman this clothes conscious, must be an overnight bag."
Lestrade squatted next to the body to examine the marks more carefully.
"Now where is the case, what have you done with it?" Sherlock asked.
"There wasn't any case," Lestrade replied. A light seemed to go off over both Sherlock's and the woman's head. Sherlock was ready to dash out of the room but the woman quickly blocked his way. They had a silent fight through miniscule facial expressions before the woman turned to Lestrade as Sherlock began to sulk slightly.
"The case, its somewhere within a five mile radius in an alleyway big enough for a car. Go," She ordered and Lestrade rushed from the room. The woman took another look at the room before stepping out as well. Sherlock paused for only a moment before following the woman, John close on his heels and utterly confused. Finally they caught her on the sidewalk outside of the house.
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded again. The woman grinned at him.
"Of course you wouldn't know. Maybe you can figure it out," She said and grinned at him as she took a step back gesturing towards herself. Sherlock looked her over. The woman was rather petite, only about 5' 1" and was rather solidly built, but not bulky. He would probably say Irish except for the typical broad shoulders of the Germans. Dressed in a dark v neck t-shirt and fitting jeans it was apparent she took care of her physical well being. It was likely that she rarely got sick. Her hair was a deep red with the occasional shimmer of a blonde color, and it fell in a mass of loose curls and gentle waves around her face. Across her cheeks there was a light smattering of freckles and dark eyelashes surrounded a piercing, icy blue gaze. Yet as Sherlock tried to dig further he could tell nothing more about her than these obvious physical traits.
"How are you doing that?" He asked her mildly surprised.
"You know how, you do it as well," she replied with a grin.
"Who are you," He asked again. The woman gave him a sly look and averted the question.
"What do you do for a living Mr. Holmes?" She asked instead.
"Surely you must know," He replied.
"I want to hear it."
"Fine, if you must know. I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Of course, I made up the job." The reply was confident, completely sure.
"Well, to put it simply, not."
"Not what?"
"Not the only one."
