Maria McCoy was five years older than Sarah White. You observe her folded arms, no trace of fight visible, her clothes mudded and torn in the same places like the last time. Her make-up has been flowing down her face in the rain, mascara rivers soaking the collar of her whitish shirt. She played a string instrument for her left hand fingertips are calloused and their fingernails are skin-short. She misses her left ring finger and when you expose her stomach, you're not surprised to see a set of livid purple bruises grazing its lower half.

You close your eyes, trying to concentrate. So much things match now but there is something fleeing your grasp yet, something that could unmask this silly case sooner than later.

"She was a dyed brunette, wasn't she?" John asks suddenly from behind your back, his lips set into a tight line when you spun around and look at him intently. He flickers his eyes onto the ground, awkwardness encircling his voice, "Harry used to have such suckers when she'd take the wrong shade."

You blink, nodding your head. There are freckles on the girl's nose and neckline, their delicate colour nearly blending with the skin's.

Maria's hair is short, cut somewhat tomboyish but she still has that stereotypical air of feminity around her, if something like that even exists. Your eyes are soft when you draw out a photo from one of your pockets, the ring in it looking just as eerie as always. You wonder why you haven't noticed its bulge on White's throat but now that you know what exactly to look for, it's laughably easy.

"You saw Sarah, didn't you?" John's voice is quiet, a little raspy as if he just had a coughing fit. You look at him over your shoulder, still crouching at McCoy's head, your own tilted slightly in interest. It was bound to happen, what with the tale-tale the woman always seems to be to you, at least when it comes to John's interest. He stares impatiently at you, hands stuffed into his jeans' pockets and you can't help but play the dumb just for the kicks, even for a few minutes.

"It's your girlfriend, not mine. Why would I want to see her?" There's a note of amusement in your murmur as you turn away to inspect the body further, folds of your coat grazing slightly your ankles. You can hear John sighing as his footsteps near.

"Sherlock, don't be more childish than you already are. It's not amusing at all."

"To me it is." You rose to your feet, a swell of irrational anger suddenly seizing your insides. It's silly to feel something like that on the crime scene but here you are, clasping a fluttering shot in one of your hands, an ID and another pair of unused woman gloves in the other, the lump in your throat going lose. A scowl takes its once well-known place on your face, the air growing hot as you narrow your eyes at the man. He's standing much too close for your liking all of the sudden. It didn't bother you before, so why does it now? "Very much so, especially with her knowing our address. You gave it to her?"

John rolls his eyes at you but there is defensiveness in the gesture you don't usually see in him these days. You can see his fingers curl slightly underneath the plain material, his facial muscles tightening. "You're not the only one living there, you know. I have every right to-"

"Neither are you, John." Your tone is much harsher than you wanted it to be but what has been said, has been said. John glances sharply at you, his face twisting slightly. You can't really fathom what this look in his eyes, as he averts his gaze from you suddenly, can mean. It seems that once again you said much too much, using just a few words.

You open your mouth to fill the awkward silence that has followed with something accurate but it's John who breaks it finally, gazing unseeingly at Lestrade moving to and fro in the far distance. His expression is once again collected, a far-away tint of melancholy staining his sigh, "I have no idea why I even bother anymore."

There is something very wrong in these quiet words. You know that much already and your palms begin to sweat as John continues, kicking a few stray stones with the tip of his shoe, "I don't get it, Sherlock. Is someone's happiness that much unreasonable to you that you feel the need to destroy it straight away the moment you get the chance?"

He chuckles to himself, eyeing the gloomy sky as the first few drops begin to fall once again, "It's a rhetorical question though, isn't it?"