Chapter four: Alternate Meeting Pt. 4

Sherlock walks towards the corpse and I take a few steps to the side behind him. He looks down at something on the floorboards, and I step a little closer to see that the poor woman had scratched the word rache into the floorboards. Judging by the broken nails, she'd done so when she was dying and was unable to finish the word Rachel. Off the top of my head, I couldn't think of what other word it could be. I then move to the other side of Lestrade so I can get a better view of what he's doing.

Sherlock kneels beside the body and runs his gloved hand along the back of her coat, then looks at his fingers, rubbing them together. He reaches into her coat pockets, pulls out a white folding umbrella, repeats his previous actions and then returns the umbrella to her pocket. He then inspects the collar of her coat and again looks at his fingers. He then reaches into his pocket he takes out a small magnifier, opens it and begins to inspect the bracelet on her wrist, her earrings and the necklace. But he's fascinated by the rings on her ring finger.

He works the wedding ring off her finger and holds it up to look inside of the ring, for some reason only to slide it back onto her finger. I watch as he smiles in satisfaction, obviously licking what he's deduced.

"Got anything?"

Sherlock pulls of his glove and says rather nonchalantly. "Not much."

I shake my head and mutter. "He's such a liar." Standing up, he then pulls his cell phone from his pocket and begins typing on it. I shake my head in amusement. Again, he's on his phone.

"She's German." I turn around to see Anderson lounging against the door behind me. Sherlock begins approaching him, not looking up from his phone. "Rache,' it's German for 'revenge'."

I ask simply. "Couldn't she have been writing Rachel?"

"Not likely, she could be trying to tell us something-

Sherlock begins to close the door in Anderson's face; sarcasm is heavy in his voice. "Yes, thank you for your input." My mouth falls open in surprise, but a small laugh escapes from me as he slams the door shut.

I whisper to John in shock. "I can't believe he just did that."

"So she's German?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock is still looking at his phone. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though, intended to stay in London for one night ... before returning home to Cardiff." He pockets his phone. "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry," John says in confusion as all three of us frown at him. "obvious?"

" What about the message," Lestrade asks. "though?"

Sherlock ignores him and addresses John. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"Wait, no," Lestrade immediately begins shaking his head. "we have a whole team right outside."

Sherlock dismisses him. "They won't work with me." I groan. He is such a child it's unbelievable. But then no child ever thought on his level.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Lestrade points out.

Sherlock is undeterred by Lestrade's argument. "Yes ... because you need me."

Lestrade stares at him for a moment. "Yes, I do." Lestrade then addresses the floor. "God help me."

I groan and shake my head. "Oh, that wasn't necessary."

He ignores me and again addresses John. "Doctor Watson."

However, John is courteous enough to look to Lestrade, to silently ask his permission, before touching the body.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." He turns and exits the room, as if having to bear the moment of two men, off the police force, helping them, would be too much for him. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Sherlock and John walk over to the body. Sherlock kneel down on one side of it and John carefully lowers himself to one knee on the other side. Sherlock is impatient and giddy as a schoolboy, waiting for the fun to begin. I can tell that this whole thing is just fun for him. "Well?"

"What am I doing here?" John asks softly.

"Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"Fun?" Their brief exchange of quick fire ends at Sherlock's poor choice on an adjective. "There's a woman lying dead."

Sherlock is silent for a second before replying rather blandly. "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper. "

Lestrade comes back into the room and John leans forward to look more closely at the woman's body. Sherlock begins to impatiently rub his hands, waiting for John's analysis. He puts his head close to hers and sniffs, then straightens a little before lifting her right hand and examining it. Sherlock begins rocking on his heels, his fingers folded up under his nose, rocking back and forth impatiently.

Then finally, John looks towards Sherlock. "Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

Sherlock immediately strikes that idea down. "You know what it was. You've read the papers."

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth?"

"Sherlock, Lestrade says firmly. "Two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

He standing up smoothly as John struggles to get to his feet. I'm almost tempted to help him, but I wasn't going to bruise his mail ego. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink." He looked at me. "Wouldn't you agree?" I nodded as he continued. "Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" at Lestrade's confusion, John and I automatically begin to look around the room but there isn't a suitcase anywhere.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

My mouth drops open in surprise. Lestrade sounds positively outraged thought. "Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up-

"Her wedding ring," Sherlock points down at it. "ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant." John can't keep the admiration out his voice and I'm certain it's showing on my face. Sherlock gives him a slight glare and John is immediately apologetic. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade questions.

"It's obvious," Sherlock asks simply. "isn't it?"

John states the question for us. "It's not obvious to me."

Sherlock pauses as he looks at all of us. "Dear God," there's a dramatic note in his voice, whether or not it's intentional, I couldn't say. I'm somehow able to hide the smirk that wants to creep onto my lips. "what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." My smile vanishes and I glower at him as he turns back to the body. "Frankly, I can feel my knowledge draining away and stupidity settle in. "Her coat, it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar, it's damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight," again, he mentions suitcase so I glance around the room. Maybe someone took it, with those eyes of his, if there'd been a suitcase; he would have noticed it by now. "so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He gets his phone from his pocket and shows a webpage that reveals the weather for this portion of Britain. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" John bursts out.

Sherlock mutters to John. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry." John mutters. "I'll shut up."

"No, it's ... fine." He turns and glances at me. I hold his gaze as he frowns and asks me. "What are you doing? What's that face?"

I frown. "I can't see my own face. How should I know what it's doing?"

Lestrade speaks up, getting Sherlock's attention off me. "Why do you keep saying suitcase?"

Delighted to have a new subject, he spins around in a circle to look. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?

Sherlock glowers sarcastically at him. "No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?"

I shake my head. "Don't ask, he just knows."

He points down to the body, where her tights have small black splotches on the lower part of her leg. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night."

I nod. "And, probably pink, judging by the matching ensemble, down to her shoes even."

"Correct." He squats down by her body and examines the backs of her legs more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case."

At Lestrade's words, Sherlock raises his head and frowns up at Lestrade. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case." Sherlock stands up and moves towards the door. "There was never any suitcase."

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?" Sherlock shouts loudly as he moves to go down the stairs. "Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade, John and I only follow Sherlock, John and Lestrade only go as far as the landing. Lestrade calls down to him. "Sherlock, there was no case!"

He stops on the landing for a moment to explain, I almost bump into him because he stops so fast. "They take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves." He begins to hurry down the stairs again. "There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks!" Lestrade mutters before shouting down the stairs. "And?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." He claps his hands in front of his face in delight; he doesn't even bother to contain his excitement. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock stops and shouts up the stairs. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case." He talks in a quieter note, as if he's making a note to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel," John supplies. "left her case there."

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes." I nod my head in agreement. "She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking," he stops talking as he makes a realization. "Oh." His eyes widen and his face lights up. "Oh!" He claps his hands in delight.

"Sherlock?" John asks.

Greg is now leaning over the railings, trying to hear Sherlock better. "What is it, what?"

Sherlock however is now smiling cheerfully to himself. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting!" He begins to hurry down the stairs again. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel! "

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and disappears from sight. "Of course, yeah, but" Lestrade shouts loudly. "what mistake?!"

Sherlock comes back into view and bellows up at Lestrade. "PINK!" He then hurries off again.

I frown before saying. "Ding-dang it."

"What?" Lestrade asks as he looks down at me. "You know what he's talking about?"

"Almost but," I shake my head before admitting. "I think I'm going to like him. And it's a most irritating realization for me."