"These bits of cloth are scattered in a sort of trail," John said. "The police are following it to see if it will lead to the—"
Sherlock cut him off with a soft groan. "Yes, it's too easy. Harold Thomson, the husband," that part, the girl knew, was added for her, "is the murderer. Well, he didn't murder her, he had someone else do it. There was a receipt in the dumpster from the bank that Harold works at. The murderer must have dropped it while he was disposing of the body."
"You went through the dumpster?"
Sherlock looked at the nameless girl and sighed. "Yes, and I've done it many times before and now I'm bored."
John rolled his eyes and made to leave the kitchen. "I'll be upstairs." He stopped then, and turned to squint at Sherlock. "Why are you down here, anyway?"
Sherlock's eyes widened and he leaned toward his flatmate. "Booored!"
John shook his head and left the room. "Just don't shoot anything," he said, and the girl listened as he trudged up the stairs.
Sherlock sat back in his chair and turned to her. "What are we going to call you?"
She shrugged. "You're the genius. You come up with a name."
He frowned and said, "Gertrude."
"Oh, God no." She laughed. "That's an awful name."
The frown deepened. "Yes, I suppose it is." He turned away, stared at the wall, and huffed. "Trying to think of a name is too boring."
"You're bored very easily."
He pushed away from the table, jumping to his feet and doing a little dance that he wasn't aware of around the kitchen. "I'm bored, oh, God, I'm bored. Entertain me."
She clucked her tongue. "We could play chess."
"No," he said, stopping to give her a strange look. "I'd win within minutes."
"Yes," she said. "And then you could boast about it for hours. Or something. I don't know, what do you want to do?"
"Alright," Sherlock said, in a way that sounded as though he was accepting a gruesome fate. "Fine. Let's play chess."
...
"How did you do that?"
John glanced over from his laptop to see a disgruntled Sherlock hunched over the chessboard. The girl without a name was looking fairly surprised herself. Sherlock looked up at her.
"I don't know."
"Did you cheat?"
"You would have caught me if I'd cheated, wouldn't you?" She began rearranging the pieces to go back in their original spots and he stopped her, pulling her hands away by her wrists. John watched as he glared down at the pieces.
"That's not possible."
"What's the matter?" the girl asked, confused. "Is this the first time you've ever lost?"
"You lost?" John set his computer down on the floor.
"Shut up, John," Sherlock mumbled. He was beginning to pull at a piece of hair on the back of his neck. He sat up straight, clasping his hands in his lap and giving the girl a serious look. "Play again."
And so they did.
She moved a knight and took out one of his bishops. "So about that murder." She sounded calm, but Sherlock could hear the underlying nervousness revolving around the subject.
"What about it?" He counterattacked, using a pawn to take one of her rooks.
"What if it wasn't the husband?" She moved her other rook forward to defend her queen.
"Not possible." His remaining knight took her rook.
"Well, but what if it was?"
John walked into the room carrying a small bowl. "Sherlock, what's this? And why was it in the refrigerator?"
"It's a piece of tongue, put it back." He moved another pawn forward.
"Why is there a piece of tongue in your refrigerator?" She moved one of her pawns to block his and he frowned.
"Experimenting." His hand moved around the board, lightly touching random pieces here and there before landing on his king, who he moved to the side.
"So, the ketchup was a fake murder scene, right?" She moved her queen forward, pressing closer.
"Indeed." He took her queen with a bishop, snatching it off the board with a triumphant laugh.
"Well, what if the blue cloth trail is, too?"
"What?"
She looked up from the board to see him scrutinizing her every move. Her breath caught in her throat at the alert gleam in his eyes. "Well, I mean, if this guy is going to the effort of pouring ketchup everywhere, he seems pretty thorough. Why leave a trail?"
He looked down and watched as she check-mated him with her knight and bishops. He seemed frozen there, and with a shiver she recalled the night she'd been discovered by Mrs. Hudson who she could hear, at that moment, coming in the door downstairs.
"You did it again."
"Yep."
"Why would he leave a trail?" Sherlock stood, still staring at the board. "That doesn't make any sense. He wouldn't make that kind of mistake..."
And that's when he began pacing. She watched as he moved around the room, occasionally stopping to stare into space or at the wall. She moved the chess pieces back into their places. When she couldn't take it anymore she asked, "What are you thinking?"
He suddenly moved toward the door and grabbed his coat, pulling a small piece of paper out of one of the pockets. He studied it for a moment and then turned toward the kitchen, where John was trying to clean a stack of plates.
"John."
"What?"
"We have to go to the bank."
"What for?"
"John, this receipt..."
The girl twisted in her chair to look at him. "The one that proves that Mr. Thomson is the murderer?"
"The exact one."
John sighed. "Actually, Sherlock, I was planning on going out with Sarah tonight—and remember, you promised not to come uninvited." He waved a soapy finger at his flatmate.
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, to insist that the case was more important, when the girl stubbed her toe on the leg of her chair and cursed. The consulting detective's gaze landed on her. "What about you?"
"What?" She looked at him over her shoulder, pulling her foot up to rest on her knee so that she could inspect it.
He waved the receipt at her and raised an eyebrow. She blinked.
"You want me to go with you?"
"Why not?"
She looked down at herself. Since last week, she'd been borrowing Mrs. Hudson's clothes to wear. While she was thankful for having clean clothes to wear, the clothes didn't actually fit correctly, and looked fairly awkward on her. "Er, I'm not, um, good at mysteries."
He scoffed. "You just pointed out that the trail is as fake as the ketchup."
"That was just a good guess."
"I need someone to talk to."
She sighed and pulled at the collar of her blouse. "All right. I'll go."
"Excellent."