CH.2

"Tell me what you notice, John."

The morning air chills him but I find it tolerable. He is bound in his black jacket, the one with the asymmetrical patches. I watch closely as he leans over, moves, squats, reaches out and touches the body. I watch the way the denim hugs the curve of his upper thigh.

"Hm."

"What is it?" Even though I already know.

"Looks like," his voice is still soft this early in the morning. Almost quiet. I have to move in to hear, "the victim was strangled first and then shot."

"Yes."

"But there's a chemical burn there, under the nose."

"I see."

"Why would the killer try three different things? One would have been enough."

I fold my hands behind my back. Company is approaching, I sense it before John does. As they draw in through the trees the morning grey reveals their faces. Mycroft looks pleasantly unbothered. Lestrade looks far more concerned than he needs to be—as usual. He is carrying a cup of coffee from a corner shop. It smells fake.

"I trust you and John have gleaned a plethora of information thus far."

We had showed up twenty minutes earlier, stopped briefly at the house to ask about the specific location of the body—no sense wasting time. John and I could do fine on our own, we didn't need the presence of others to cloud our judgments. We had already completely surveyed the area, taking in all the clues Moriarty had left for us. Although I knew right away it wasn't Moriarty who had killed or deposited the body here.

"Brother, you needn't look at me with such disdain. I have done you a service in bringing this to your attention."

"He would have gotten ahold of me otherwise, as I've stated before."

"Yes, but he chose this first. What do you make of it?"

I made eye contact with him for a brief moment. Don't need to answer. Lestrade began to ask John questions, and in his foolish kindness he offered information. I wish he wouldn't, but he can't help himself. He sees Lestrade as an ally. I see Lestrade as a necessary stepping stone.

Back in the flat, we debrief privately. He makes us tea and makes himself a sandwich. I cannot eat until I have further pressed this case. John glances at my figure. The past few months have seen successive cases that have weighed me for weeks at a time. I barely eat or sleep, and I've indulged in cocaine and cigarettes on more than one occasion. He doesn't understand, but he notices. And it makes him feel something, though I don't know what. I would ask him to explain it, but I fear the answer.

We sit down across from each other and sip from our cups like gentlemen, one leg crossed over the other. He listens patiently as I unload every detail to him and iterate my theory. I recall the moment at which Jim Moriarty told us in the pool room that he doesn't like to get his hands dirty. That further proves my point that this was not his handiwork. But the postcard was written in his hand. I compared it to that scrap on which he wrote his then mobile number at the hospital. Same scrawl. He sent a messenger. A messenger who knows how to kill, yet elected to let his work look sloppy. Novice at best.

I ask John, "Who do you know that could kill with such expertise they could make a kill look amateur on purpose?"

"'s no easy task." He thinks, takes a few bites of his sandwich. I watch the muscles in his jaw move rhythmically. I watch his eyes stray, as if pulling ideas from the walls. "But Jim knows a lot of other people like himself. Criminals, people who know how to be quick and clean."

"Yes, but this was purposefully unclean."

"Well he wouldn't be stupid enough to think we'd buy into it. Would he?"

"He knows we've picked up on it. No, John, think. What kind of person would be able to manipulate their kills? Not a criminal, somebody else. Someone with poise. You saw the way the body was positioned, handled. The way the note wasn't damaged at all. The area in the woods—we found a cigarette butt and a beer bottle. He's familiar with kills. So familiar he can enjoy himself on the job and still execute the mission perfectly."

"What if it was the victim's bottle?"

"Couldn't have been. Like you said, the victim was dead before they were put on site. Somehow Mycroft's groundskeepers completely missed the action. And it happened in broad daylight."

"Stealth."

"Precisely."

"A military man, perhaps?"

I spring out of my chair, set my cup down on the mantle and begin to pace. "A military man. That fits! Experience, comfort—well, maybe not comfort, but he no longer cares. His apathy comes across as comfort. His use of substances to support his work, yes." I feel John's eyes beat upon me as I stop completely, speak low. "We have much work to do, John. This afternoon you'll have to call your people and inquire about a list—a list of all the soldiers with questionable backgrounds who have either left the military or been discharged in the past… let's say three years."

John gets up and jots something down on a scratch pad at the desk. "You think it could be a criminal, then? Questionable background?"

"Not criminal—but who else would work for a criminal consultant than someone who can no longer use their talents in an effective manner? No, he was either kicked out or forced to resign. I'm nearly certain you'll find something if you just look."

"Right. And what will you be doing?"

"I'll be going to the National Theatre. There's bound to be another message waiting. Can't waste time."

Suddenly John is looking up at me, inches away. "No, we can't." I feel an energy, a pull. A need to reach out and wrap my fingers about his arm. His face is keen, sharp. His thin lips and short lashes. A boy in a man's body. Something ordinary becomes completely fascinating, and I don't allow myself to react. A sigh from him tells me he feels a pull as well. Why else would he breath out in frustration? He wants something from me. He puts his hand on my wrist, gently. "I won't be with you this afternoon. Be careful."

"Like I need you to protect me." I turn and walk away.