A broken hourglass, sand everywhere; nearly impossible to pull any fingerprints.
"Good morning!" Sherlock Holmes chimed. He was chipper-something must be wrong.
"What are you on about?" John Watson asked, glancing up briefly as he took samples of broken glass.
"Two murders in one week, John!" he bellowed. He was like a child at Christmastime in these moments. It was as if he knew something no one else did., which, as usual, he probably did.
John bagged the samples and stood up. "No entry, no sign of struggle. She knew her attacker."
"Go on," Sherlock said, almost giddy with excitement.
"No delivery people coming or going. No rows with anyone. Someone she worked with? A disgruntled lover, perhaps?"
Holmes stood silent, flipping through various books and trinkets on a nightstand. "Watson," he said finally, "what's missing here?"
Watson walked over to where Sherlock was and examined the nightstand.
"Her spectacles, her cane," Sherlock said. He opened at book, written in Braille.
"This girl is blind."
John opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Suddenly, there was a commotion at the front door.
"But I live here!"
There she was, the blind girl, cane in hand, dark spectacles on her face.
It wasn't her who'd been murdered, but her flat mate, apparently.
Sherlock frowned and made his way through the living room, past Anderson and LeStrade, and led the woman inside. He sat her down on the sofa, analysing her all at once. Shy, quiet, bookworm, neat and orderly. Only child. No living relatives. Alone, now.
"When's the last time you saw your flat mate?"
"Tina?"
"Yes."
"This morning, why? What's happened?"
Just then, workers carried Tina's covered body out on a gurney from a back bedroom.
"For God's sake, what's happened?" the girl asked, fear evident in her voice.
Sherlock knew at once that she was completely innocent.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Tina has been murdered."
The girl's face paled and she dropped her cane; had she been standing, Sherlock surely would have had to steady her.
"Do you know anyone who might wish her harm?" Watson asked.
"No, no one," the girl said.
John realized that they hadn't yet asked the girl her name. Reading his mind, Sherlock asked.
"Julia Gable."
She told them that she was twenty-three and had come to England from America as a student transfer. She answered an ad for a flat mate, and that's how she and Tina met.
How long was her stay here? What was she studying? Did anyone wish her harm?
She answered all of their questions, calmly as she could.
"Do you have another place to stay?" Watson asked, and Julia shook her head no. He looked at Sherlock, always one for the underdog, the down and out. The beautiful blond girl. John almost expected him to hand her a key to 221 B Baker Street, but he didn't, instead suggesting that she stay at a halfway house temporarily. Sherlock would take her there, of course.
He took her hand and led her through the crowded apartment while Watson stayed behind.
They were quiet in the car, until Julia spoke.
"Don't you want to know-" "How you became blind?" Sherlock finished. "No. It has nothing to do with who you are as a person."
Julia traced the handle of her cane with her fingers.
"Oh. Well thank you."
"Quite welcome." Sherlock was short, concise, contemplative; after all, he had a murder to solve.
They arrived at the halfway house and Sherlock stayed long enough to make sure she was safe. She gave him a list of things she'd like to have from the flat: Watson could manage that.
Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter around his neck once outside. He put his deerstalker hat on and headed back to the crime scene.