A/N: My apologies! I meant for this to go up earlier, but I've been having terrible internet problems lately.


August 9, 2010

That damn violin. Normally – there's that word again – I don't mind it, but I do when it wakes me from a deep sleep. It's no good telling Sherlock to stop either. I tried. He ignored me.

Earlier, I left off with the discovery of the body in the missing women's living room. Not much happened until Lestrade arrived, so I'll start with that.

"Just like the boy," the Detective Inspector noted, looking down at the victim, a blonde woman I put to be middle thirties. "Homeless in appearance, missing the tops of each finger but the smallest, recently frozen." He looked to Sherlock. "Did you move her at all?"

Sherlock looked insulted. "I examined her. She's still how we found her."

Lestrade nodded. "I just needed to check, you know that." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What can you tell me about her?"

"She's not as wealthy as the first victim," Sherlock answered. "Her hair colour is a box colour. Women of money would always get it done professionally. Her hands are scarred from cuts and burns inflicted, suggesting she cooks often. Her skin smells of chemicals; she cleaned often. I'd say she was employed as a chef and maid. Recently separated from her spouse; you can see where her ring was. She left him, otherwise she'd still be wearing the ring."

"The killer could have taken it," I suggested. "Geoffrey was missing his watch, and they were both redressed."

"No," Sherlock disagreed, and knelt down beside the body. He raised her left hand for me to see. "She had a recent burn; it goes along most of her finger."

"If she'd been wearing her ring when it happened there would be a space," I caught on.

"I don't understand the purpose of cutting off their fingertips," Lestrade stated, and looked to Sherlock. "Do you have an idea?"

"An idea, yes," Sherlock answered, the way he does when he's following a thought in his head. He looked up when he noticed Lestrade and I were still looking at him. "What?"

"Would you mind sharing?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes," Sherlock answered plainly, putting on one of his gloves and picking up a glass from the table in the kitchen. "Get Chloe Jenkin's finger prints off of this and compare it to the buttons on the first victim's shirt; I believe you'll find that they match."

"The prints on this glass could belong to anyone," Lestrade argued, but he took it just the same and passed it off to his team.

"They'll belong to her," Sherlock stated. "She lived alone, and rarely, if ever, had company."

"How can you be sure?" I asked.

Sherlock pointed down the hall. "There's a guest room. There's a layer of dust on the bedside table and dresser. If you had people stay over regularly, wouldn't you keep up the room?"

As usual, Sherlock made a good point.

He decided it was time for us to leave, so the two of us walked out of the building and to the street. He didn't immediately flag down a cab as I had expected he would. Instead, he kept walking down the road.

I managed to pick up some chips from a store just before they shut down for the night.

"So what is your idea?" I asked between bites. They weren't the best I'd ever had, but certainly not the worst. "You do have one, right?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock answered, looking straight ahead as though he were looking for something to appear.

I popped another chip in my mouth and waited for him to answer. He didn't. "Well?"

"The prints on Geoffrey's shirt were planted," he finally explained. "When Lestrade gets the results back, every one of Chloe Jenkin's prints will be there, except for her smallest finger."

"You think Chloe Jenkins is dead then?" I asked.

"Of course she is." A smile spread along his face. "We've got a serial killer, John. Isn't it fantastic?"

Only he would find a serial killer fantastic.

He never did say where we were going. Suddenly he turned back to the road and waved down a cab, and we headed home.

As I've been writing this, he's set down his violin and stared at the map on the wall. I think he may have tacked up information about the victims too. Sometimes I wonder if he ever sleeps, or if his body's as much of a machine as his mind.

He's looking out the window. I'm guessing Lestrade's arrived which means something new has been found. I'll update later.

- Dr. John Watson