The body lay twisted and distorted on the cold tiles, the victims long, dark hair floating in the thick, congealing pool surrounding her. Her wide brown eyes were blank, her alabaster features still and yet John couldn't help but notice her deep set, dark eyes seemed frozen with the last thought and emotion she had: fear. John pursed his lips; despite his experience, and the ever climbing body count present in his life since meeting Sherlock, one never truly became desensitized to death.

He glanced over at Sherlock who was surveying the scene with a sharp intensity, his bright eyes flickering from wall to floor to body and John could only imagine the stream of brilliance taking place in his mind. "How's it going" asked Lestrade stepping back into the room, gingerly avoiding the blood which dripped sickeningly over the threshold of the door and down the stairs. "Fourth suicide in the area this week" he said glancing down at the body "maybe a suicide pact, the lab just rang, no drugs or alcohol in her system."

"Obviously" Sherlock was crouched by the body, holding a magnifying glass up to the woman's limp fingers, the bottom of his coat resting dangerously close to the crimson pool. "this wasn't suicide, it was murder" he snapped his magnifying glass together again with a satisfying click and rose gracefully to his feet as he slid it back into his coat pocket. "What do the victims have in common?" he directed towards Lestrade.

"Wait what?" said the Detective Inspector incredulously glancing from the body up to Sherlock who sighed dramatically.

"I imagined your investigation might have proceeded past those crucial first steps in the past five days your team of idiots have been investigating" he replied sarcastically "but don't hurry yourself, I'm sure the murderer will stop at four, it's a nice round number to finish on."

"Hang on" Lestrade said hastily " Like I said, we've been treating these as suicides"

Sherlock rolled his eyes "So it would seem"

"Well she did use her gun to shoot herself in the head" Lestrade gestured towards the handgun nestled loosely in her bloody fingers, he paused for a moment, frowning as if he was suddenly seeing something else "Didn't she?"

"Nope" Sherlock popped the 'p' on his lips as he replied in the annoyingly superior tone he reserved almost exclusively for police officers. He fixed Lestrade with a gaze John knew only too well was likely to be followed by a long line of insults directed at Lestrade, the state of his marriage and of course the almost impressively imaginative array of descriptions Sherlock had for Scotland Yard's investigative inabilities.

"Why don't you take us through it then" John interrupted loudly, shooting Sherlock a warning glance. Sherlock stuck out his bottom lip, rearranging his features to closely imitate a petulant child and John could almost hear the word 'Dull' form in the Detectives mind, but of course such a thing would never pose a barrier to Sherlock expressing his deductions with as many dripping tones of superiority as a person can put into any statement.'

"She had obviously just arrived home, heading straight to the bathroom without removing her shoes or jacket. But look how she's dressed, its cold out there, she was wearing gloves and a scarf, both of which she discarded in the lounge on the way, but not her hat. She was clearly wearing one, look at the dents in her hair, so where is it?"

"Maybe it's in her bedroom, or the kitchen?" said John questioningly

"No, she came straight to the bathroom, hat on, and was shot. There's wool fibers around the entry hole in her skull, carried by the bullet from the hat so she was definitely wearing it. The murderer took it with him then, so why? It's human psychology, people don't injure themselves through clothing, regardless of whether it would make a difference to the outcome. People slicing their wrists roll up their sleeves, people who stab themselves unclothe the area, people who drown themselves in the bath will get in naked. So the murderer knew this, took the risk of taking evidence with him to make sure the details suggested suicide. The angle and size of the wound say she was shot at close range, close for it to be believable she did it herself and even for some gunpowder residue to land on her hands. The small details, they've all been thought out. Yet the entry angle is wrong, people committing suicide with a gun almost always angle it upwards but this shot came from above, the trigger pulled by someone who was taller than her. So the murderer was in fact an amateur, someone with minimal experience, but acting on the advice or instruction of someone who knows how to stage a murder as a suicide and cares about the details."

He paused for a millisecond, frowning slightly "Cares about the details and making it look like a suicide, yet not enough to commit the murder himself and pull off the perfect facade ."

There was a pause, the few seconds of silence which always followed one of Sherlock's deductions. Lestrade was frowning down at the body piecing together everything Sherlock had said, everything which seemed so much more obvious now that it had been pointed out, well perhaps obvious was going a bit far, but surely these were the sort of things the forensics team should have picked up. Yet all they had managed was to tell him was that her fingerprints were on the gun, 'Of course they bloody were' Lestrade thought 'Shes holding the damned thing.'

Sherlock flicked the collar of his coat up, satisfied that he had impressed everyone in the room and that this case had turned out to be quite promising. John caught his eye giving him a slightly exasperated look which said ' Stop showing off.'

"Send the files of the other three murders over to Baker Street" Sherlock directed at Lestrade before taking off lightly down the stairs.

Lestrade exhaled loudly, rubbing his eyes wearily as he reached in his pocket for his phone "The press is going to have a field day with this, four serial suicides which turn out to be murders" he shook his head "Thanks for getting Sherlock over here, he didn't sound very keen when I rang him"

"Well he's certainly enjoying himself now" said John grimly "I'll ring you if he finds something"

Lestrade nodded gratefully dialing a number into his phone and gritting his teeth as a loud voice answered on the other end.

Taking his cue, John followed Sherlock's path out the door, taking great care to avoid what was becoming a macabre stream of blood down the steps into the lounge. He paused at the door to the flat where a picture hung in a large frame, the face in the corner caught John's gaze. The woman, or the victim as John mentally corrected himself, was sitting in the middle of a luscious green field, the sun on her face as she smiled, her eyes fixed on something further forward in the frame. John followed her gaze, it was a young girl, no more than 7 years old, her hair in braids, a lopsided daisy chain onto her head.

"Her daughter" said a voice behind John following his gaze. "Terrible isn't it, all the suicide victims this week have had children" The officer shook his head sadly.

'murder victims' thought John, 'not suicide.' He nodded slightly in answer to the officers comments, before ducking under the police tape and exiting the apartment, his stomach churning slightly.