It's funny how murderers seem to prefer the bleak setting of grey and gloomy. Empty flats; abandoned warehouses; back alleys; basement. Never somewhere warm and dry, Sherlock thought. Maybe they thought that 'cold and damp' worked with them to hide evidence. Clearly, they didn't they realise how much could be left behind for even idiots like Anderson to find.
John circled the body, in that way he had of trying to do whatever Sherlock does, and examined the victim. "Ligature marks on the neck," he began, "so strangled then. Odd patterns in the marks - presumably from whatever was used. Body looks to have been moved about a bit after she died", he continued," but not far. Just some disturbances on the dirty floor locally. Could be from a struggle, I suppose." He stopped to look at Sherlock with an "am I getting this right so far?" silent question.
Sherlock wasn't even looking at him. Anticipating John's stall, he had stopped his study of the doctor and returned to surveying the basement. John sideways glanced at Greg, who was watching both men, and shrugged.
Sherlock had been watching John as he studied the victim. He watched how John paced around the body, stopping every so often, touching her gently as if mindful of her pain and tilting his head as he processed information. Unlike the discordant noise of dinosaurs like Anderson, John's silent thoughts were like music to Sherlock's ears.
Sherlock shook himself from his distraction to work on his own deductions.
Unmarried female (no sign of ring - not now, not ever), late 30s, travelled from the south west in recent days (rail ticket stub in left pocket), dead approximately 12 hours, strangled with her own belt (killer unprepared but clearly not in a hurry to clear up, because he put her belt back on her skirt afterwards). Murdered by 5ft 10 male (assumption made by angle of attack and visible hand marks from restraint), stocky build, size 11 feet, wearing smart dress shoes (footprints in damp slime near body - wouldn't be there if the location had been warm and dry). Lovers tryst gone wrong?
It hadn't escaped Greg's notice how quiet Sherlock had been. He watched John circle the body, and noticed Sherlock watching him; almost captivated by him. When John started offering his suggestions, Greg noticed Sherlock start pacing around the basement, coat swirling behind him. After John had finished, Greg cleared his throat. "Sherlock?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow. "Anything to add?"
Sherlock twirled back to face the other men to find both Greg and John staring at him, faces looking serious and expectant.
"What?" Sherlock asked, feeling scrutinised and a little uncomfortable. Greg shook his head. Sherlock looked distracted, and Greg was more than a little bothered by that. "Deductions, Sherlock?" John eventually responded. "It's why we're here."
Sherlock effortlessly rattled off his results, adding that they should first try looking for a boyfriend or secret lover, and on finishing, swept out of the basement and up the stairs.
Greg looked bewildered at John. "I dunno, mate." John replied to Greg's silent question. "He's been off all day." Greg hummed. "You'd better go if you don't want to be left behind." he said, knowing Sherlock, in one of those moods, wouldn't hesitate to just leave.
"Right, yes." John had become used to having to keep up with Sherlock, and he followed up the stairs, two at a time. "Wait up, Sherlock!" he shouted up.
He reached the outside door just as Sherlock was hailing a taxi - something Sherlock always found irritatingly easy to do. He'd just caught up to the detective as he started to get in. Sherlock moved across the seat and sat silently facing the window as John slid alongside.
The taxi ride was uncomfortable. Sherlock could feel John occasionally glancing at him, and it made him more and more anxious. The proximity of John was making him feel... something. What? He wasn't sure.
On the one hand, he wanted John close. He loved John close. He needed John close.
On the other hand, John's closeness was making Sherlock fidgety. Like he needed to do something.
It occurred to Sherlock that he did need to do something. He tapped on the window to the driver who pulled over. "I'll get out here", he started, "please take Doctor Watson to Baker Street." With that, Sherlock was up and out and running along the damp London pavement, coat billowing behind him, and a very confused John Watson sat gazing after him from the taxi. "Right then, yes", the cabbie said, as if nothing remotely out of the ordinary had just happened, "Baker Street."
Sherlock disliked intensely the panicked feeling that was slowly snaking through him. He could feel it crawling all over him: from the ends of his wild, unruly hair to the tips of his toes. He could feel it worming its way around every limb, every joint and every muscle and taking hold of his internal organs and crushing them mercilessly. He stopped, finding himself in familiar surroundings. Not believing in coincidences, he suddenly knew exactly where he was going.