As if mocking John's words, the next victim died of anaphylactic shock. Five-year-old Leola Arton was found in girl's locker room in Warwick school. The girl was carefully laid out on a low bench and covered with her own pink raincoat with flower print.
There were no doubts the murderer was the same.
Chocolate.
A little victim's hand was closed around a chocolate.
A Consulting Genius was happy to the point of indecency. A few times John was even forced to pinch Holmes' arm to stop him from grinning. Especially when they'd arrived at the crime scene, where Sherlock's smile was totally inappropriate. Scotland Yard was interested in any kind of information, therefore Lestrade patiently endured the insufferable genius; but even he flinched at the moments when the detective's face lit up with a thriumphant smile again and again.
"Are you going to tell us anything, or you just planning to continue shocking everybody?"
"You know perfectly well I don't care what the other people think," Sherlock hemmed. "You all free to call me a psychopat and gossip behind my back, if you like. But bear in mind that you're wasting the time you could've otherwise spent searching for criminals and catching them."
"Fine. Let's get back to the crime scene. Please."
A cutting retort was already at the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but John's reproachful stare stopped him short.
Five minutes later he began to talk – on the substance of the case only.
"You seem to be exceptionally quick-witted today, Lestrade. Must be the absence of Anderson… Doesn't matter, anyway. This time it's definitely a crime scene – the victim was killed right here, unlike the previous four ones.
"How did you…"
"Shut up," Sherlock waved his hand in irritation. "I'm not going to explain obvious things; only my idiotic flatmate is entitled to that privilege."
John harrumphed.
Was it praise or an insult – that clearly remained to be seen.
"… as I already mentioned, the murder transpired right here. Our maniac is starting to enjoy himself, and is obviously not afraid of anything – the style, as we can see, is changed. The killer even deemed necessary to leave one of the chocolates in the victim's hand. And the victim looks like a Chrismas present, all that's missing is a bow tied around the body."
"Sherlock!"
"… this time the murderer picked his victim more thorough. The girl had astma – a presence of the cap from inhaler in her school bag confirms that. Astma plus a strong allergy – the death is imminent. But it's a private school, so the murderer must've gained information about Leola's illness from her medical records. It required a visit to the school, and there's a chance somebody seen and maybe even can recognise our suspect. That's a serious risk. The murderer is toying with us – here I am, catch me! Previously the main desire was to kill, but now it transformed into seeking excitement and thrill. Which obviously brought along the firm belief of omnipotence and personal immunity…"
Holmes was grinning. He gestured with his hands, his pupils were dilated, his breathing quickened. To John's dismay, he looked dangerously similar to the maniac he was so enthusiasticly describing. And if for John Watson that was obvious, than for Yarders it must've been a very repulsive sight.
A bit no good.
Definitely a bit no good, because that wasn't the whole picture.
Sherlock was so much more than this.
"…and that's the main mistake. Oh, they all make mistakes, when they feel themselves at the top of the world.
"
"So what do you want us to do – wait while the murdeder makes a mistake?" Lestrade interrupted, frowning. "Wait for the death of the next victim?"
"You are not listening, Detective Inspector," Sherlock replied with irritation, carefully pulling the chocolate from the dead girl's hand. "The murderer already made a mistake."
"And? Are you planning to continue speaking in sharades? What mistake? What should we do?"
"You need to speak with the director, question teachers and students – anyone who could've noticed anything or anyone. Anyone who shouldn't be here or, on the contrary, appeared nor long ago."
"Okay," the DI made some notes. "Anything else?"
"All the girls were studying somewhere – be that a private school, like in this case with Leola Arton, or a primary school, like Emily March. So the killer must've had a plausible excuse to get to them, I'm sure of that. Look for a doctor, a pharmacist, a nurse…"
"A nurse?" Lestrade asked, looking up from his notebook. "Are you saying our murderer could be a woman?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying, Lestrade," the detective grumbled in reply.
Sherlock was obviously eager to leave the crime scene. He typed a message, from time to time stealing glances at the evidence bag with the chocolate. Poor Molly was again destined to miss her lunch – Holmes was definitely planning to go to Bart's and occupy a laboratory.
"But how, Sherlock?" John decided to save the DI from the lecture about his incompetence. "Care to explain?"
Sherlock shot a quick glance at his friend's face.
Watson struggled to appear genuinely interested.
But there was a hint of a smile in his eyes – that warm, special smile Sherlock could never comprehend.
Why were John's eyes smiling?
And why Sherlock was thinking about that right now?
Sherlock carded his fingers through his hair and sighed. He should definitely remind John later that such behaviour at the crime scene was a bit inappropriate.
But why wasn't he irritated by this at all?
"Sherlock…"
"It's quite simple, Inspector," Holmes lanched into his explanation at breakneck speed, as if his words were trying to keep up with his thoughts. "Although it may not be so obvious for your little brain. If your so-called specialists weren't acting like a bunch of brainless idiots at the crime scene, you should've realised that from the beginning…"
The detective crouched down, nodding for John and Lestrade to join him.
Watson readily mirrored his position, and a moment later the DI reluctantly followed suit.
"So?" there was a note of impatience in Lestrade's voice. "What do you want us to see?"
"Everything you failed to see before."
John looked closely at the tiled locker room floor. Dark brown tiles, without any pattern. Nothing special. The floor was washed recently – the whitish traces were now evident.
The thing is, sometimes you just need to look closely enough to see something important.
"Wait a minute. Is that… is that footprints?"
"Exactly, John," Sherlock's voice was full of triumph. "Footprints. Woman's footptints, to be exact."
"I see two sets of footprints here," Lestrade remarked, scrutinizing the floor. "One of them definitely belongs to a child."
The DI turned to look at the girl's body on the bench. He carefully raised the raincoat and looked at the soles of her boots.
"Those footprints are Leola Arton and her murderer's, Lestrade. There's no doubt about it."
"Why do you…"
"Just take a good look, Inspector. The floor was washed not long before the murder. It was still damp when the girl walked in here – that's why the footprints are so clearly seen. Our murderer was in Kéddo shoes without heels, well-worn judging by the soles, but relatively new – the pattern on the soles confirms that. So the murderer tries to keep up with fashion and prefers youth footwear. Now let's get back to the girl. Our murdered was leading her by the hand – the pattern of footprints confirms that. And Leola wasn't resisting – on the contrary, she was even pressing close to the woman. Then the murderer sits the girl down on the bench and joins her…"
"What's that?" John pointed his finger at the small white blots.
Sherlock's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Bravo, John. Those are tears. Leola was crying, and the woman was trying to soothe her. After that she must've offered the girl chocolates."
"But why did she trust that woman so easily?" Lestrade enquired.
"I have a couple of ideas," Sherlock rose to his feet. "The woman may have intridused herself as a friend of the girl's parents. Children of this age tend to believe people. The girl wanted to share her secrets with somebody – that's not unusual whem you live in a private school and see your family only once in a month."
Sherlock's voice became strangely hoarse all of a sudden. Holmes cleared his throat incomfortably and fell silent, turning away to look out of the window.
John frowned. There was something strange in Sherlock's pose. Something important.
What were you trying to hide, Sherlock?
"And the second? You said you have a couple of ideas," Lestrade rose from the floor, putting his notebook in his raincoat's pocket. "What's the second idea?"
"A kind and tender female doctor. It's easy to trust someone who wears a white labcoat and shows you sympathy," the detective turned his head a little, watching John out of the corner of his eye. "Howewer… sometimes even a labcoat is unnecessary."
John's fists were clenched so hard, his knuckles went white; lips pressed together into a thin line, and there was a deep crease between his eyebrows.
That's how Doctor John Watson's anger looked like.
"You're not taking too kindly to this piece of information, I see," there was a hint of interest in Sherlock's voice, and… a sympathy? "Curb your emotions, John. I need your expertise on this case."
John raises his head and locks his gaze with Sherlock's. There's a shadow of pain in John's dark-grey eyes – Sherlock's positive he saw it.
Or maybe it's just a flicker of light, reflected in his friend's eyes?
The doctor nods and Holmes feels somehow satisfied with this silent answer.
"Sherlock, you still didn't explain why you think those footprints belong to the murderer. What about the school personal – a charlady, or even a teacher?"
"No. It's our killer's footprints – and nobody else's," the detective crouched down again fishing a small tape measure out of his coat pocket. "Look closely. This woman's foot is approximately nine and a half inches, she has small feet, she probably wears size four. She is petite, skinny, and not tall."
"So what?" the DI tilted his head, his expression clearly doubtful. "There are hundreds of female persons in London that are fitting your description. Children, girls, women. Why are you sure our murderer…"
"You, as always, failed to hear me to the end, Lestrade. I had found the footprints at the previous crime scenes. The footwear was differen, but the size never changed. Our killer is an astute psychologist. She was searching for individual approach for every victim; it was important for her that the child trusted her."
"Wait, Sherlock. Are you trying to say she befriended those girls before killing them?"
"Ah, John, you're making progress," Sherlock grinned, but there was a spark of something akin to pride in his gaze. "Yes, she had definitely communicated with each of her victims previously. So we need to question all possible witnesses in those schools where the girls were studying. By the way, Lestrade, had your people checked the clinics on a subject of visits about allergy since the first murder? As I recall, I asked you about it yesterday."
"They are working on it, Sherlock," the DI retorted with irritation. "Our resources are not infinite. We have another ongoing investigations, I need to remind you. If you deign to come to Scotland Yard this evening, you can have all the information."
"And the autopsy report?" the detective nodded towards the body on the bench.
"Of course."
"Excellent."