Chapter Two
The cab slowed to a stop at a red light. Camie glared at Sherlock who was staring out the window.
"So you're a part of the forensics team?" Camie asked.
Sherlock glanced at her then back out the window. "I'm not. I am a Consulting Detective. When the police are you of their depth, they consult me."
"Hello freak. Lestrade invited you?" Sally raised the yellow tape so Sherlock could walk under. She stopped Camie. "Who's this? A girlfriend of yours?"
"A colleague. Doctor Camie Greer." Camie folded her hands and stared at Sally. Sally rocked back on her heels and glanced away for a second.
Sally put her hand on her hip. "Doctor of what exactly?"
"Deduction and psychology." Camie smiled. "I was invited, too."
Sherlock smirked as Sally hesitated, looked at Sherlock, and then lifted the tape for Camie, too. Camie ducked under the tape, and she took a deep breath. Sherlock gave her a reassuring look, as if he knew exactly what she was going to stay. Sally grinned. "Have fun on your date last night, Sally?"
Sherlock laughed and took Camie's arm. He lead her to the doorway and nodded at the guard. They walked across the wide dark marble floor around the fountain. "That was quite good."
"Really. You think so?" Camie grinned at the dark haired man.
"Course. It was brilliant." Sherlock lead her up the stairs of the abandoned hotel. Blue crime scene lights lined the steps. "What gave it away?"
"She smelled like man." Camie let go of his arm as they reached the top of the stairs. Policemen and investigators in blue suits walked about, disappearing into rooms. Some stared at Sherlock as he came closer, only to turn away when Sherlock stared back.
The man from Sherlock's apartment, Lestrade, was waiting. Sherlock pulled two pairs of black gloves out of his pocket and handed a pair to Camie. Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade while pulling his gloves on. "Where is it?"
"In the ballroom. I can give you ten minutes before you are questioned." Lestrade started walking down the hall.
"Good -wait- questioned?"
"Yes, the whole team seems to believe you murdered her."
Sherlock snorted. "We'll just have to prove them wrong. Come along, Camie." He glanced back at her. She had taken off her coat and put her hair up. "Ever seen a dead body?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to see more?" Sherlock put his hands in his coat pockets.
"Would I be here if I didn't?"
Lestrade opened the doors and let Sherlock and Camie in. A man laid in the middle of the room, sprawled out with a watery pool of blood around his head. The room stank of bleach. "The victim's name is Mark Bitterpool, age 23, works as a personal assistant at the national bank. Found this morning by two women and a relator looking to by this place."
"Why do you think I killed him?" Sherlock never took his eyes off the body. Camie stepped closer and bent over Mark. She looked up when Lestrade sighed and went back to the doors. He closed them as Camie and Sherlock watched. Written across the door in red was SHERLOCK. "Humph. Interesting. When was she killed?"
"About 24 hours ago."
"Good. I didn't do it. I was stuck inside all day. Bored. Ask Mrs. Hudson." He turned back to the body. "Now, Ms. Greer, what do you think?"
Camie handed Lestrade her coat and crouched beside the man. She picked up both of his hands and looked them over. "Detective Inspector, why do you think this man was murdered?"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth raised so slightly it hardly counted as a smile. Lestrade stared blankly. "Sorry, what?"
"Do you think this man was murdered by Sherlock?" Camie stood.
"No. I trust that Sherlock will never kill anyone."
"Then why is Sherlock's name written on the door?" Camie pointed to the entrance. Sherlock chuckled.
Lestrade continued to stare blankly at her. "I don't know. He must have been a fan."
Camie smiled. "Bitterpool was murdered. Look, the letters on the door written in blood. Cut on his wrist, his right wrist because he was left handed. How can I tell? There are ink smudges on the side of his palm. When he wrote his hand dragged across his words. Never see a lefty without it. But if he's left handed, how come there's no blood?"
She stopped, looking at Sherlock any help. He only stared back. "Continue."
Camie cleared her throat. "Ah, yes... Conclusion. Bitterpool was kidnapped on his way home, and the kidnapped forced him to cut his own wrists and write Sherlock on the door with a pain brush. Notice the brush marks. The killer slit his throat, took the tools, and bathed Bitterpool in bleach, as you can probably smell."
"She's brilliant. Where'd you find her, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes travelled over the floor not paying any attention to the DI. He waved his hand as if to say, carry on, I'm busy.
Camie watch him for a moment before looking over at Lestrade. "Where are his things?"
"We didn't find anything." Lestrade cleared his throat and glanced at Sherlock. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sherlock laid on the floor, careful to not breathe hard. "You didn't find his cell phone because whoever murdered him hid them. Why? I don't know. Perhaps to just play a game. Had your officers not contaminated the scene, you might have noticed the footsteps in the dust leading to the fireplace. Size 10, generic soles."
"I was just about to-"
"No you weren't, don't lie." Sherlock stood and brushed the dust from his clothes.
Camie took a breath. "Fair enough."
"This killer will kill again. Call me when something more exciting happens." Sherlock tightened his scarf and waited for Camie to button her coat. "I think we're done here, don't forget to check the fireplace."
The shops and streets of London slid by behind the cab's windows. Sherlock had not said anything since the crime scene. The silence of the ride hung heavy around them.
"What is the great Sherlock thinking about now?" Camie turned her head away from the window to the shadowy man. He glance at her and adjusted himself in the seat.
"You taught yourself deduction."
"Anyone can learn."
Sherlock's eyebrows wrinkled in concentration. "Why?"
"Surely you have figure that out by now. Before I got in the cab this morning, you had deduced me twice." Camie folded her hands and grinned at Sherlock.
"Four actually. And yes, I have a good idea why, but I wanted to hear it from you."
Camie squinted and looked away, saying nothing.
"Or you can say nothing." Sherlock stared at her, watching the way the sun hit her cheekbones. "You were... Good today. At the crime scene. But, you need more work."
Camie smiled and shook her head. "Thank you."
When Camie returned from the bathroom, Sherlock was laying on the couch, eyes closed, hands together, and one sleeve rolled up. Three skin colored patches stuck to his arm. She sat in a chair by the crackling fire and stared at the violin laying on the ground. Camie started for the instrument, thought better of it, and sat back. With a glance back at Sherlock, she settled in her char. The warmth and glow of the fire penetrated the whole room. Light danced across the piles of books and haphazard stacks of paper.
She could get used to it here with Sherlock and John. Solving mysteries, reading books... That was the life she had wanted. Something itched in the back of her mind. Something was missing. A few minutes passed before Camie realized what was gone. The loneliness, that dark hole inside of her had vanished. She smiled. After feeling it for so long, Camie was surprised she didn't notice sooner. All those nights sitting in the dorm alone because her roommates thought she was a freak, studying a major she invented, where shared with loneliness.
In her coat pocket, Camie's phone vibrated with a message from Rosalie. Her cousin wondered how the day had gone and when she was coming home. But, Camie had no cash, no oyster card.
"Sherlock, could I stay over?"
His eyes flashed open and Sherlock glanced at Camie. "Of course. You live here now, don't you. The spare room is down the hall."
From the apartment across the street, a woman watched the two detectives. With a smile on her face, she opened a cell phone and dialed a man named M.