Chapter Three

"At least her head landed on her case and not the floor," muses Lestrade. "or she'd be much angrier when she wakes up." He chuckles. "Course, the way she looked at you a minute ago, Molly, I'd say you're done for either way." Lestrade and Molly lift Katelynn up and deposit her on the window seat. Molly looks earnestly at her cousin's face, hoping for some indication that she'd wake soon. But it was clear that a long flight from America followed by hours of walking in the rain had drained Katelynn. She wouldn't be up for hearing an apology any time soon. Instead, the unconscious woman sighs and fidgets her way into a more comfortable position before settling down.

Lestrade straightens up and scratches his jaw stubble. "At any rate, we still have a murderer on the loose. Or so you seem to think, Mr. Holmes."

While all this had been occurring, Sherlock Holmes had remained distant from the situation. He remained lingering by the science equipment. His eyes were on the floor, but unfocused. At least, not focused on anything visible to the others. Molly tilted her head at him, waiting.

"Sherlock?"

He snapped out of it. A flood of words poured from his mouth, as though a boulder blocking a stream had finally loosened and been swept away. "Yes, of course it was murder. What else could it be-don't answer that. We've not the time. Murder!" He takes a step closer to the counter in front of him and places one hand on it firmly for balance. His right hand is raised, fingers splayed out, gesticulating in erratic patterns as he continues to speak.

"Wednesday, 2:26pm, 31-year-old math teacher is about to board a bus home from work when he feels a sudden, stinging sensation in his right thigh. A few hours later at home he's rubbing his leg through his trousers and notices a small bump where the stinging had occurred. He and his wife dismiss it as a wasp sting and put some ice on it. As the night draws near he's sweating from a high fever and his speech is slurred. He's taken to the hospital and treated for blood poisoning. He's dead by morning. Rapid onset heart failure. Our victim, Todd Crosby, is just as your reports determined, Lestrade. Average job, dull hobbies, faithful to his wife. No skeletons buried in dear Todd's closet. So how does a math teacher 'beloved by all' wind up downstairs in a drawer where it's good and cold?"

The room is silent for a moment. Lestrade blinks tiredly. "Would you just get on with it? Obviously it wasn't a wasp sting or you wouldn't be here chattering on excitedly. So what was it?"

Sherlock beams triumphantly. His lips part.

"An umbrella."