Guess which wonderful Sherlock fanfic inspired the murder weapon?


They find the third body unceremoniously dumped into a trash bin.

As soon as the cops come, it seems as if the dark alleyway has been cleared empty. There's nothing but the buzzing of flies and the smell of damp concrete together with the week's garbage. There are no rats, no stray dogs, no stray cats. There are just old flies and a rotting body. The shadows hide nothing; in fact, the emptiness of the area seems to send a chill through the air.

The corpse isn't even stuffed and hidden properly. Its limbs dangle precariously from the bin and its face is buried deep into the other contents of a black trash bag. Its body twists as it squeezes into the small space of dirty metal that smells of rotting organic material, very faint shampoo, the damp and in general - garbage.

The smell hits everyone first. As soon as the first man opens up the bin to reveal the body, everyone reels back as the odor hits their noses. The flies buzz about - some go away only to circle heads and return to the corpse - and the men swat at them uselessly, gloved hands and masked noses doing nothing much to repel the flies and the smell of death.

"Oh, god, that smells terrible," DI Lestrade coughs. He holds a hand to his nose and squints his eyes. No one really wants to go near. He doesn't want to either.

They open up the bag. The body is dressed in expensive clothing: leather shoes, designer slacks, a long dark coat and a familiar blue scarf tucked in carefully. The victim's hair consists of long and dark curls that have been cut up angrily, but with enough precision to make it look as if it was done deliberately.

Lestrade coughs again. His eyes seem to water, but he backs away and almost sighs.

He doesn't linger. The wounds glare at him from their places on the victim's paling skin.


"There's a third body," Lestrade says, receiving a mug of tea from John. He thanks the man and resumes speaking. "Found in the dumpster pretty near one of our major roads. He's been all cut up - gashes and cuts all over his face and body - and guess what he looks like?"

Sherlock doesn't look up from his microscope. Instead, he adjusts the slide and gives an unconvinced grunt.

"Three bodies," John mutters, taking a seat on his armchair. "Three bodies with the same face. Don't you think that this is something you should be worried about, Sherlock?" He looks at the detective but doesn't receive a look in return.

Lestrade puffs out a breath of air.

"The body was dumped into a rubbish bin not very neatly, right near a public road where lots of people pass every day. It was meant to be found, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks up from his microscope. He turns his head and looks at Lestrade in the eye.

"You've come in early enough. We've got someone who wants attention. Or perhaps a moronic first-time murderer. We'll see."

He's gone out the door with his scarf and coat by the time Lestrade places the mug down on an empty spot on the table in front of him, and hailing a taxi cab by the time John and Lestrade catch him.


"The Freak's here again?" Donovan asks as soon as Sherlock appears. Lestrade shoots her a look but the detective ignores her and strides over to the body wordlessly.

"Try not to stain the crime scene more than-" Anderson begins, but Sherlock interrupts him with a quick quip that promptly makes the man shut his mouth. John walks by, wondering what he could have said, but doesn't linger on it.

The body has been rolled onto a sheet. It still lies on the sidewalk - probably just in case they find some kind of evidence in the garbage cans, and even its garbage bag lies nearby - face-up. Another sheet covers its body and flies buzz about. Every now and then someone shoos them away, but they won't leave.

Sherlock pulls on his gloves and slowly peels the sheet back to reveal the corpse. John flinches. At least there aren't any maggots in it yet; he's surprised they didn't arrive any sooner since the body was found in the garbage cans.

The body's hair is just like Sherlock's - a thick head of dark curls. The only difference is that almost half of his the hair on his head has been stripped away, cut off furiously with a pair of scissors, perhaps. His face and hands are the only parts of his body wherein skin is exposed, and it's gruesome.

Large gashes decorate his skin. They're deep and wide as they swirl about, tracing angry slashes on his face. His nose looks broken and his lips are sliced into two. A punctured eye stares up at the blue sky, its broken surface filling the space in between his eyelids.

The hands also contain cuts, although not as deep. They're numerous but smaller, although it looks as though more dirt has entered them. They sit there, stiff against the body's sides and cold fingers frozen in place, held together by brittle bone and torn flesh.

Sherlock kneels down. He keeps his coat away from the body as much as possible, but soon enough there is nothing but his deductions and observations. A minute passes and he starts prodding the body none-too-gently. He runs a gloved finger against a single gash and then shuffles around for a bit more. John thinks he sees Sherlock pocketing something, but it could just be him moving his coat so it won't come into contact with the foul-smelling body.

He then opens the garbage bag that the body came in, and then closes it again after surveying the contents.

"John," Sherlock's voice calls out. John comes forward. "What do you think caused these wounds?"

John frowns as he makes his own deductions.

"Something long and sharp, maybe thin? Certainly not surgical scissors, and I can't think of any medical tool that could cut someone open like that. It lacks the precision." He pauses. "However, maybe an ordinary blade did it?"

Sherlock almost smiles.

"Good job, John," he says, standing up and inspecting the body from above one last time. "I wonder if you've noticed, though - probably not. But if you did, you must have noticed that this is a public place where lots of people wander round. It would be natural to have salons and barber shops around, wouldn't it? The slashes suggest some sort of object that would function in the same way as scissors do. However, they aren't straight, so we don't need an ordinary pair. We need a specialized pair, and I believe that hairdressers would be the first and most logical place to start from."

John looks at him. Sherlock faces his friend and removes his gloves.

"Just as I said before: we either have a man who wants attention or someone who is just horribly clumsy." Sherlock shakes his head. "Hopefully, we have the former. This will be interesting. He surely wouldn't be caught so easily."

John removes his gloves as well and follows Sherlock as they exit the scene. They pass Lestrade who speaks to someone else, perhaps also from Scotland Yard. John and he make eye contact, and the unspoken agreements are already made.

Take care. Don't get killed. Hopefully get back in time to do some analyses, but knowing Sherlock that wouldn't happen.

"You already know which hairdresser to go to?" John asks. They walk briskly along the sidewalk. A lot of people really are around. John wonders how the murderer could have smuggled the body up into the garbage bins. "There are lots of them around here. What did you see?"

Sherlock turns sharply and John almost bumps into someone as he's caught off guard. They - well, Sherlock pushes the door open and John follows - promptly enter the first establishment that they face.

It's a small hair salon with a few customers. The workers look up at the noisy entrance and John feels a little bit embarrassed. Everyone's having an ordinary day, and they bust in looking demanding. Soon enough, everyone returns to their work.

A woman approaches them with a smile.

"What would you like, sir?"

Sherlock looks down on her with contempt. He then looks at shelves that contain different products for sale and asks, "You sell these? Only your shop?"

The woman nods. "Yes. Family makes them, and they work. So, we sell them and our customers tend to buy them too. Want to try some, perhaps?"

Sherlock doesn't answer for a while as he scans the customers and the workers. John knows that he's deducing every single one of them; there's no doubt. The woman waits patiently, her hands clasped together in front of her and her smile looking more and more awkward.

"Do a lot of people buy your products?" he asks.

"Well, usually the same people. It's not something we can just rely on alone."

"No one new?"

The woman frowns. "I'm sorry, why are you asking this?"

Sherlock doesn't answer her question. "Did anyone new - not a usual customer - come in and buy one of your products?" He takes a small step forward. The woman looks a bit apprehended, but no one pays them much attention. The sound of a blow dryer comes on.

The woman doesn't reply. Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh and removes something from his pocket. John almost rolls his eyes, as if to say: "I can't believe you've nicked some evidence again, Sherlock."

The woman stares at the paper in Sherlock's hand. He waves it around and she frowns.

"Does this look familiar to you?" he hisses. The woman nods.

"Of course. It's a receipt for one of our products, although it smells a bit... filthy."

John can't help but hope that no one else smells the stench of garbage. It clings onto the receipt and he wishes that Sherlock stop waving it around.

"Did a stranger buy this recently?" he asks her. She looks irritated, ready to force them to leave. Because of this, she looks at the receipt and thinks for a bit.

"I handle the counter so I usually know the people who buy. I mean, they're all regulars." She smiles. "But, yes, I think I remember. A man bought this from us without even having his hair cut. He just got it and swooped out."

John asks, "Can you describe him?"

"Tall. Dark hair. I can't remember much. He was wearing a long coat."

Sherlock thins out his lips. There's a pause as he scans the room once more.

"Those scissors," he points out. The woman looks in the direction of the customers and her employees. "Two of the workers use different scissors. Different blades and a slightly different reflection of light."

John traces Sherlock's vision. Sure enough, two of the hairdressers cut with different blades. Their customers - both curly haired women - seem unsuspecting of the two men in front.

The woman hesitates for a bit.

"Yes," she answers. "They're very expensive and specialized. Molybdenum steel, in fact... Although we usually use it for customers with curly hair or those who want extremely specific haircuts that only the Molybdenum can provide." She looks to be on edge. "Is there something wrong?"

Sherlock looks at John. John looks at him, a bit confused.

"I need your manager. And I need to inspect a pair. Are they common in hair salons?" Sherlock asks. John tries to look apologetic, maybe to convince the woman to let him inspect a pair - it could be important, and he almost believes that he knows the reason why - but she's still hesitating.

"I am the manager," the woman says. She looks a bit affronted. "I own this place, too."

John speaks softly.

"We're... sorry. But can we really just inspect a pair? You can even watch us if you're that afraid we'll run off with them." He smiles. "It's important. We'll be careful. Surely."

The manager shifts her weight on her feet. Sherlock looks down on her with half-lidded eyes and then spins around to watch the hairdressers again.

"No, no, no." He mutters. The manager steps back for a bit; she clearly has more important matters to attend to. But she's afraid to let Sherlock out of her sight, afraid that he'll end up destroying the establishment or scaring away the customers.

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he watches a satisfied woman promptly approach them. Her smile is wide; she's proud obviously. Her hair is short and smells faintly of new shampoo and whatever product they put - he doesn't care about women's hair products, not at all.

The manager's attention focuses on the woman. Money and receipts are exchanged. There's a mechanical wave and mechanical smile of goodbye. As soon as the woman leaves, the manager avoids eye contact with the two men in front of her. She opens up the money drawer and carefully inserts the payment inside. Her hands move quickly to open up a book - a record - and she grabs a pen and quickly writes down in scrawl the payment received.

"What is it, then?" she asks. Her frown is now visible. "If you're here to just question us, then don't bother-"

Sherlock steps forward. He intimidates her for a second, but she achieves a cold demeanor.

"Where were you last night?" he asks, voice firm but low. She looks up at him, her coldness fading away into fear. She won't let it conquer her, John can tell, but she's afraid. He's tall and no one notices them, even in the busyness of the area.

"I-why?" she asks.

"Where were you last night?" Sherlock repeats. "You haven't been able to cover it up neatly. Your make-up reveals dark bags under your eyes that suggest lack of sleep. It could have been for several nights, or a single night of barely any sleep when you usually get enough could also do it. Where were you last night? What were you doing?"

The manager doesn't answer.

"You're left handed." Sherlock looks over his shoulder and catches John's attention. "She's left-handed and possessive of her scissors - property. Molybdenum, she says. Very expensive, and probably very strong. Its convex blade and razor sharp edges, if handled by someone with her dominant hand, would have been able to create those gashes on the body in such a way. The gashes seem to be done from behind - right to left - and the few ones in front generally lead to the left direction. Her hands seem stable enough. She's of more than average height but not too tall, and the fact that she's a hairdresser with expert knowledge on the usage of these blades can be enough proof. Now," he turns to face her. She is shocked. "Your alibi? Proof that it wasn't you? We don't have much evidence, barely any at all. You say that no one else has these types of blades. It could be false, but what is your alibi?"

John thinks that Sherlock's jumping to conclusions - of course not, probably. He probably has something else in his head that he hasn't voiced out yet, but surely, not just this?

"The body was dumped into the rubbish bins near this street. It was half-hazardly shoved into a garbage bag that also contained empty bottles of your products for sale. You couldn't have been that clumsy, could you? We have everything, but also not everything. It doesn't make sense. Were you framed?" He pauses. "Or is this all part of your plan?"

The manager swallows and takes a step back. Her lower back hits the edge of the counter and she flinches, steadying herself. The record book slides away.

"I was doing overtime: counting the day's pay, finishing up the checkbook, making sure that all of our things were in place. I went home late, yes, because I had to cover for one of our sick workers, but I didn't go near our rubbish bins that night. The day before they had already collected the garbage, so we didn't need to empty out the bins at back yet."

"Is your sick man still on leave?"

She shakes her head. "He's over there - man with the blond hair."

His eyes lower to the scarf on her neck. It's tousled.

"Your scarf," he says. "Is done not neatly. You were in a rush to get here. And it's not even noon."

"I overslept," she squeaks. "And I was far from here-"

"You wouldn't hold your establishment too far from your home."

"I-I slept over."

He gives her a once over - gaze lingering on her face and neck - before deciding to turn around. He suddenly shakes his head and turns away, prompting John to follow. They exit the hairdresser's before John asks him.

"Sherlock," John begins. "What was that?"

"She was on edge," Sherlock replies. "I had to get it out of her. I had to know what she would say for herself."

John frowns. "But what about leaving just like that? If you think that the scissors were the murder weapon, then how-"

They cross the street. Signs blink about, signalling this way and that. John licks his lips.

"Why did you just leave like that?"

"She's not the killer," Sherlock replies. "She's just an adulterer; nothing interesting in that. She could be the killer, but we don't have proof for that. Besides, she doesn't seem to be hiding anything. If she wanted to be found she would give us hints. It would be boring if she just let things be like this and act so innocent in front of the man with the idea. If she wanted a chance of getting caught, she wouldn't act like that."

John frowns.

"What if she really was clumsy?" He asks.

"Then she isn't worth our time." He replies. "I don't deal with amateurs."

"But we know the murder weapon now," John quips.

"The murderer was probably going to frame her if evidence pointed out to her. Everyone else in the shop was right-handed, probably not even ambidextrous. The slashes on the body were made by a left-handed person, or at least someone ambidextrous - but using his left hand."

"No motive?" John asks. Sherlock grumbles.

"We need more evidence. We need to scout the area. Find possible rivals - both of the establishment and that of the woman herself. We need to know the hairdressers, too, perhaps. It might help."

They stop walking. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"But the murderer is good, so far. He's hidden his trail. He's making all the evidence point to a clumsy worker of an obvious shop. Now, if we left the idiotic police force to themselves, they would be arresting all the wrong people. The real killer, most definitely, is hiding in plain sight. He hauled that body there without being seen. The place tends to be full of people. How did he manage that?"

John sighs. It's almost noon and he feels the familiar surge of hunger.

"Will you be returning to the crime scene?"

Sherlock's eyes flitter left and right, deducing hundreds of people at the same time.

"Yes."

"What if it's a serial killer?" John offers. "He's targeting your doppelgangers. Ever thought of that? Be careful, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffs.

"Don't believe that nonsense. I'm disappointed in you, John."

"Why have these three victims all looked like you so far?"

"I solved the second one. The first is ruled suicide."

"They haven't caught them yet,"

Sherlock looks at his friend in the eye. John stares back.

"You can't be serious."

"I am, Sherlock."


The next day, Sherlock arrives home to find John eating breakfast. The latter opens his mouth to ask where the hell Sherlock has been, but before he can even speak Sherlock's phone rings.

The message is from Lestrade.

There's a fourth body.