Chapter 2 – A Third Murder

The paths and streets of London were glistening from the smattering of rain they'd been privy to early that evening. The cab had passed Shepherd's Bush Green and Uxbridge some time before and these houses were much further from the lights of the high street. Where they were headed would have usually been deadly silent at this hour, with all its inhabitants asleep, but now it was abuzz with noise, people unearthed from their beds, bright flashing police lights, and the air – which should have tasted of nothing – tasted of murder.

Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the cab quickly, glancing around before turning smartly on his heels to hand the cab driver some money. John wondered why Sherlock still insisted on taking cabs everywhere after his run in with Jeff the Cabbie the other month, but it was how he preferred to travel and neither love nor money could dissuade that man from doing exactly as he chose. He might have been summoned by Lestrade, but he certainly wouldn't go anywhere in a police escort. John supposed that fear was just another 'human thing' that Sherlock didn't trouble himself with, but as he had pointed out to John, logically, the odds of another homicidal cab driver were slim to none.

John Watson joined his flat mate's side as the black vehicle drove off, and looked up at the house as he pulled his coat around himself. "First impressions?"

"None of note," Sherlock murmured in a low voice, before heading towards to the house. The DI, a greying man of his early forties, was talking to an officer in uniform when he recognised the men walking towards him. Lestrade hadn't been detective inspector for long when he had first heard of Sherlock Holmes, and while he was a capable man in the London Metropolitan Police Force – one of the best in fact – he wasn't a few weeks in before he realised he needed Sherlock. Criminals were getting bloody smart, that was for sure, and when you had a smart criminal, you needed a smarter man to work it all out. And Lestrade was the first to admit he wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. He couldn't get inside the mind of a killer in the way Sherlock could, and he didn't know whether he should be impressed or frightened.

"See you got my message then," the man said, sauntering over to him. "Thought about replying?"

"It crossed my mind," Sherlock replied, sniffing and looking around. "What's happened?"

Lestrade let them in immediately, ignoring the looks he received from his colleagues; their disapproval boiled down to little more than jealously – a kind of bitterness that they couldn't solve it, and the man who had breezed past them without so much as a word would know the life story of the victim, his killer and both of their grandmother's in the short time he was allowed.

"Victim's name is Ben Tobin. He was murdered yesterday evening, and found today. I wouldn't have called you otherwise but these murders are mounting up," the DI started, as John pulled on some forensic scrubs. "There have been two others – all presumably linked. This one...well, you can see," he added uncomfortably gesturing to the room he had led them to.

The room was dim, with forensic lights stationed around the room at various points; it was a chilling scene, with the body sprawled out centre, and video camera pointed at an angle towards some glistening words on the wall. Sherlock stepped in and looked around with a scrutinising expression, swiftly followed by John. A dark haired woman in the corner, dressed like Watson and examining something closely, looked up. She seemed to take in their presence, assessing them, and quick as a flash, smiled brightly at them both.

"Ah, the cavalry," she said is an almost cheery voice, pulling a pen from behind her ear and scribbling on a clipboard. "I wondered when they'd call you in. You're a little late though – I figured this kind of thing would be right up your twisted little alley."

Sherlock sighed in an irritated way. "John Watson, this is Jane Adler – she's part of the forensic and pathology team. Jane, Dr John Watson," he added with a blank emotionless smile that he often gave people that went as quickly as it appeared. It was for show, and held nothing behind it. His attentions soon fell to the body before them.

"Nice to meet you," Jane smiled, shaking John's hand firmly and meeting his gaze with bright eyes. "You must be the new flat mate. I've heard a lot about you."

"Yeah I...have you?" John started with a confused smile, looking at Sherlock from an answer; the woman and Sherlock clearly knew each other, but he doubted they were friends of any sort. Sherlock didn't have friends, John had observed - he wasn't even sure if he classed as a friend - so it seemed incredibly unlikely that she had gained her information through a tête-à-tête with the detective over a friendly coffee.

"How's my brother Jane?" Sherlock asked blankly. John turned his head to look at her, but the woman's eyes didn't rise from what she was doing - she was obviously accustomed to Sherlock taking one look at someone and knowing what they'd been doing.

"Your...brother?" she repeated slowly, without a trace of emotion in her voice.

"Yes, Mycroft. Slightly fatter than me, receding hairline, works for the government. You met with him today. You've tried to mask the scent of his favourite cigars but they're particularly pungent," Sherlock concluded, sniffing.

"Maybe I took to smoking," she said quietly with a smile at John, who weakly returned it.

Lestrade, who had stayed quiet, shifted anxiously. "Look, I need you to give me as much as you can," he said. "I'm going to leave you with Jane..."

Sherlock let a reproachful look cross his face.

"Jane stays," Lestrade said, exerting some authority. "I'm going to have to speak to the people who live next door, see if they noticed anything and someone's got to stay here with you. Besides, she's as good an assistant as any – at least she can follow you when you go off on one of your tangents." Sherlock pulled a face like an angry child that couldn't have his own way. "Just try and get along."

"It's me or Anderson," Jane added with a smirk. Sherlock seemed to ponder on her words before answering.

"I'll take the lesser of two evils." Another flash of his false smile. "What do we know so far?" he asked crouching beside the body.

"Someone rang the station saying there'd been a murder and gave us the address," Lestrade answered. "Just like the last two times."

"Ah, our killer has an ego," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Traceable number?"

"Pay phone."

"And the other murders have been like this?" John asked, staring at the walls with a grim expression.

"Like I said, we believe they're linked. Each murder is different but there are distinct similarities, for example, our killer's left a little note at each crime scene. " They all looked at the painted words – THE OBSERVED OF ALL OBSERVERS – in a violent red - presumably blood. A look from Jane confirmed it. John suddenly felt the gravity of the horror they found themselves in and swallowed hard. He'd seen terrible things, enough for a lifetime, but the casualties of war were regrettable, at times necessary. He had strong morals but he could rationalise killing when people's lives were in danger. This was, or appeared to be, cold blooded murder - to no true purpose. Sherlock blinked as the words registered.

"Hamlet," he muttered.

"Pardon?" John said with a frown.

"It's a line from Shakespeare's Hamlet," Jane replied, smiling at John.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Yeah, they all seem to be from Shakespeare's plays – the first was Othello, and the second from Macbeth."

"You should have called me sooner," Sherlock scolded in a raised voice. His face was pale in the dim light and he looked menacing. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.

"It's not as easy as that! While I'm happy to admit that when I'm over my head I need your help, I can't run to you at the first sign of trouble. The new Superintendent wants us to at least look like the Metropolitan police are having a stab at it." He exhaled a disgruntled sigh and folded his arms. "Look – you've got five minutes...if you need it. I'm going to interview those people." He left quietly, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock seemed to pause in a pensive state before he turned quickly back to the scene. Jane clicked the pen she had been using and crossed her arms with an expectant look at the curly haired man in front of her. "What can you tell us then? I presume you've already figured everything out."

"The victim is a military man," Sherlock said looking at the body face down on the floor. "But judging by his clothes and physique has been out of service for some time..." The tall man rootled in his pockets and gently turned him. "His glasses didn't break as he fell, otherwise there would be lacerations to the face – they were removed before the victim fell, either by hand or from the blow. The distance and angle suggests removed," he added, stepping backwards slowly to trace the direction of the glasses. "Removal makes it more symbolic, ritualistic. Then," he said looking at the broken glasses "they were trodden on by the killer. Deliberately. I'd say he was a size ten by these scuff marks, and the way the glass lies."

"He?" Jane said. "You're sure it's a He?"

"Of course it's a He. The strength required to kill the victim, the size of his feet, the handwritten message, the decidedly masculine feel to this crime scene. So far, so obvious."

"I guess you've got a point," John said, looking at the man's head. "Whoever did that was strong and pretty angry."

Sherlock moved around the body quickly. "Look at his leg – it's at a slight angle to his body which means he fell awkwardly, probably an injury he's had for some time - his body sub consciously moved in a way so not to cause pain. Also his watch and jewellery look expensive but aren't; they're poor quality, cheap, as are his clothes. He wants to look good on the surface – sense of pride – but he hasn't got the money. Army pension's a crippler," he said, breathing a little harder from his rant and looking at the quiet man in the corner.

"Yeah, that is true," John agreed with a slightly bitter voice.

"Of course it is," Sherlock interrupted. "A military man who was injured, and has been home for some time. Unable to get a job and living off his army pension. Why's he not been able to get a job? Because he's been dealing with psychological trauma – the leg, the packet of cigarettes in his pocket; new - the receipt in his pocket dates the purchase at eleven this morning - and nearly empty – so he was a nervous man, dealing with intense emotions, perhaps guilt, maybe remorse."

"So far, so obvious," Jane repeated a little sarcastically, perhaps for John's benefit.

Sherlock put away the tiny magnifying glass he'd been using. "John - would you come and examine the body?"

"Er, yeah, sure," John said, stooping down, turning the man's face. "He had a fairly deep wound on his torso from a sharp weapon but..." John frowned as he struggled to turn the large body. "It wouldn't have killed him. It's not deep enough. Judging by the discolouration in the face, I'd say he died of asphyxiation."

"And what of the video camera?" Sherlock asked Jane. She turned it around carefully towards them.

"See for yourself." She pressed play as both men rose to watch; it was the victim, presumably moments from death and his reaction as he walked into the room – the camera had been set up before and waited with the killer behind it to capture the scene.

"Oh, this is elegant," Sherlock murmured softly.

"Please," the man started to beg. A gun clicked behind the camera.

"How did Hamlet die?" John asked quietly, both mesmerised and horrified by the screen.

"Poisoned sword – in a rapier battle with Laertes, they're both wounded by the same sword and Hamlet dies some time after from the poison on the blade," Jane answered grimly.

"I am justly killed by mine own treachery..." Ben Tobin read from a sheet of paper, sobbing as he did so. The video cut out shortly after.

"The victim was killed in the same way as Hamlet was. The poison caused the asphyxiation," John said slowly, swallowing hard.

"Very poetic," Jane said, moving away with a heavy sigh.

"Our killer has a morbid obsession with the Bard," Sherlock concluded thoughtfully. "I need to see the other bodies."

"Well, I can take you to them, but I'll need Lestrade's permission," Jane said folding her arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once more. "I think I have clearance."

"I know that, but I still have to stick to the rules, even if you won't."

Lestrade came into the room hurriedly. "The Superintendent just pulled up – you pair need to hot foot it out. Now," he said, looking grey. "Just hide in the other room while I bring him in here and then you can sneak past. It'd be easier if you wore your bloody scrubs; then you'd blend in," he added with a whine at Sherlock.

"I need to see the other bodies," Sherlock stated as if Lestrade hadn't spoken.

"Fine, you can see them in the morning," the other man replied dismissively. "Now go!" he hissed.

"I need to see them now," Sherlock continued blankly. "If you want me to find the murderer."

"I'll take him," Jane said brushing past Sherlock with her things. "I'm headed there anyway." A forensics team began to filter in to collect the victim's body. "Sometimes, if you want the child to behave, you have to give him the illusion that he's getting what he wants," she said in low voice to Lestrade, though Sherlock and John heard her. He nodded thoughtfully, and Jane slipped past him to head downstairs.

"Fine," the DI sighed again, softening a little. "The bodies are all yours. Text me any leads, or just pass them on to Adler. Just do me a favour and be discreet. My neck's on the line at the minute."

"Wonderful," Sherlock smiled, heading out. "Come along John."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Sherlock," said Molly in a surprised chirp as they all breezed in. She'd been putting some paperwork through, expecting it to be another slow night; she quite liked the graveyard shift, after all it was peaceful, but the peace meant it could be a little dull. "I didn't know you were working tonight."

Sherlock unwrapped his blue scarf and removed his long coat, throwing them on the hooks by the door. John did the same, but hung his carefully. They'd all gotten a cab from the house to St. Bart's, and Sherlock had spent the entire journey in deep thought and a frosty silence with Jane Adler. Not that she was very talkative either; in fact, she either stared out of the window, or stared at her phone. John didn't know the ins and outs of their relationship, but it seemed that they didn't get along very well; at least, Sherlock seemed to really dislike her presence and he made no effort at all to talk to her. But then again, he was like that with most people. Yet, after the whole Mycroft thing, John had expected him to probe her a little more. Perhaps his mind was completely focused on the case now.

"Can you get the bodies out please Molly?" Sherlock simply said as he sauntered through the lab, examining his cuff.

Molly looked at them all with a timid expression; Jane prepping some tools, Sherlock with his hands in his pockets now, and that quiet doctor watching it all as she was. This was just like Sherlock to come swooping in and demand something – whatever it was he had asked – and disturb her peace. When he wasn't around, she got on quite nicely, day to day, and then wham; he just showed up and expected her to pander to him. How many times had she resolved not to do it? And yet she did; Sherlock had a strange commanding presence, especially where she was concerned. She found it difficult to assert herself around him, not that she was usually very outgoing. "Which bodies, sorry?" she laughed nervously.

"Kenneth Grimes and Henry Wiggins," Jane explained blankly.

"Oh, you mean the Shakespeare murders? That's what some of the guys in forensics have called them," Molly said with a weak smile, walking over to the cabinets. "Oh! Has there been another?" she asked with a sudden thought.

"Yes, he's on his way," John replied. He could see Sherlock was growing impatient, and his friend was in one of those jittery excitable states.

"What are you looking for on these bodies?" Jane asked, pulling on some gloves and chucking the box at Sherlock, who caught it easily.

"Similarities," Sherlock replied, pulling on his own pair. "Something that ties all the victims together."

"Well, they're obviously connected," John said, retrieving some gloves for himself. "How did these two...die?" he asked carefully.

"Grimes was shot through the heart, and Wiggins was..." Jane paused tucking some stray hair behind her ears as she read the notes. "...decapitated. Continuing with the Shakespeare theme obviously. Macbeth was decapitated after he was killed in a fight and Othello shot himself through the chest."

"I'll need photographs of the other crime scenes," Sherlock said as Molly wheeled one of the bodies over to the table.

"I can get those sent over," Jane said, striding off. Molly looked at the men, who were occupied as they unzipped Wiggin's body bag, and quickly scampered after Jane.

"Jane!" she called out, running down one of the white corridors of St. Bartholomew's and catching up with the taller woman. They'd worked together for some time – Molly was usually stuck within the confines of St. Bart's morgue, but as part of the pathology team, Jane often stalked the corridors too. She couldn't exactly call them friends; for some reason Jane had a certain aloofness about her and while Molly found it very easy to talk to her when she was around, they never saw each other outside of work. Jane was a quiet sort of person, very involved in her work.

"Yes Molly?"

"I was wondering if you could give me some...you know...female advice? About relationships. I don't know who else to talk to about it really...I mean all my friends think I'm dumb after the whole Jim thing anyway..."

"Relationship advice?" Jane looked at little concerned, frowning as she logged onto a computer in the staff lounge. She'd text Donovan for the photographs and provided the policewoman didn't have her tongue wrapped around Anderson's, she'd send them pretty quickly. "Me?"

"Well, yeah, kind of. I mean, I know you're not dating anyone but you seem to understand Sher – I mean, men - and I was just wondering if you could give me some friendly advice."

Jane turned to finally look at the woman beside her and took in her wide eyes and innocent expression. She looked desperate and a little lost, with her weak smile. It was obvious who she wanted advice for, Jane thought with some discomfort, and she also knew it was a fruitless effort. Sherlock was no more interested in Molly than he was any woman. He wasn't exactly the relationship sort. But how to put that delicately?

"Look, I don't think I'm the best person to ask Molly," Jane said carefully, clicking onto her mail account and tapping in the password quickly. "What about Karen? In IT."

"I can't show my face in IT - did you know Jim quit? I can't get hold of him. It's like he's disappeared," Molly said, blushing; her chagrin was obvious. "I can't believe he was gay. I'm so stupid."

Jane sighed heavily, opening the email and ignoring the 'Freakette' at the start of it - Donovan's sense of humour was hit and miss at times, mostly miss. "You're not stupid." She took pity on her. "Ok, what's the problem?"

"Well, I like this guy," Molly started awkwardly. "Who can be sweet when he wants to be...but barely looks at me the rest of the time..."

"Then I would say..." Jane said slowly, waiting for the printer to kick in. "It doesn't really sound as if he's serious. You're too good for him. You should find a guy who's going to respect you for the...wonderful individual you are."

"Really?" Molly asked with a frown. "It's just sometimes it feels like he's flirting..."

"He's not. He's playing games with you to get what he wants," Jane said, taking the pictures from the printer with a frown.

"Oh..."

"Look," Jane said, realising she'd been a bit blunt. "Sherlock's all appeal and excitement – sweeping you up into weird situations - and he can be very charming..."

"Who said anything about Sherlock?" Molly interrupted nervously, blinking.

Jane gave her a knowing smile. "But he's not interested in people Molly. Not unless they're dead, or trying to commit a crime."

The girl blinked and looked slightly crestfallen, as if she had expected Jane to give her the magic formula to make Sherlock human. It was regrettable but the sooner Molly realised he wasn't - anatomically perhaps, but Jane had never seen evidence in his mind or heart - the better it would be. People were disappointed when they expected anything else.

"Come on," she said, managing a soft voice, ushering her out of the computer room and smiling warmly. "Just let go of the idea. You have a lot to offer someone...romantically...and he's not the one, so don't waste your time on him. He only pushes you round. Besides, I bet he'd be a rubbish boyfriend. He'd probably...forget your birthday because he was trying to remember some ancient language lost in time."

Molly laughed at her words and put her hands in her lab coat pockets. "You know, you're right. I knew talking to you about it would make me feel better. I shouldn't let him push me round. I am a strong, independent woman." Jane nodded in agreement. "Coffee?" Molly added as an afterthought as she strolled away, back to the lab.

Jane smiled to herself as she nodded and followed her to give Sherlock the photographs. "Yeah. Black, two sugars please."