Chapter 10: A Study in Pink

It was morning, though not yet daylight, and much of London still slept. John, however, was perfectly awake. The bed was made and the pillow was fluffed, and he was sat on the edge of the mattress with his hands folded in his lap. He was not yet dressed because he had not yet showered, but he had laid out his clothes in a neatly folded pile at the corner of the bed. For today, another cold one, he had chosen a pair of jeans, a black collared shirt, and a grey cable jumper. If he went out, his shoes were ready for him on the shoe rack, but until then, he would wear socks and house slippers.

The Tag Heuer watch—which the woman, when taking it off him, had said was probably worth more than he was; and which, knowing that now, he set carefully in a drawer every night before putting it on again every morning—told him that he still had five minutes. Then, he would quietly go downstairs and shower while Mr Holmes still slept. A quick shower, then a quick scrub-down of the bathroom, and then it would be time to make breakfast (eggs, toast, bacon, tea), which would be ready by the time Mr Holmes appeared in the kitchen. But he still had five minutes.

So he sat on the edge of the mattress, hands folded, perfectly still, facing the painting hanging in its new frame.

It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and it was a wonder to him that it he was given allowance to look at it, every day. The cerulean water seemed to roll, the hoary waves to break. The grass appeared to shiver in the wind. John could almost smell the sea-salt air, and feel the warm sun on his face, and hear the call of gulls. Closing his eyes, he returned. Now the wind was in his ears and on his skin and through his hair. He breathed in the subtle scent of the dandelion. Somewhere, off in the distance, he heard a voice on the wind: someone calling his name. But he couldn't make it out, because he couldn't remember it after all, what he had been called. Not quite. He strained, listening harder, but all he heard was the wind.

No matter. He opened his eyes, and he was back in the bedroom, but the scene had not disappeared. Displayed in brushstrokes of blue, white, and gold, it remained there during the day, waiting for him to return, and then into the night, watching over him while he dreamt, like a talisman against the nightmares. No more hiding, no more guilt. He could look every day, for as long as he liked.

Well. For four more minutes.

He poured the tea.

'Why do they die, sir?' he asked.

Mr Holmes was an endless fascination. John supposed that there was no end to his knowing things, and sometimes he wondered how his host's brain managed to keep it all in. He had heard once that the bigger the brain, the more intelligent the animal, which was why an elephant was so much cleverer than a mouse. But then, shouldn't an elephant also be cleverer than a man? Maybe, because elephants couldn't talk and couldn't write, people just didn't know how clever they really were. Then again, John could talk, but he was an idiot, so maybe brain size had little do with cleverness after all. Nevertheless, he fancied that Mr Holmes' brain was so large that it pushed against the walls of his skull, wishing for a bigger box; and by comparison, John's own was rattling around like a marble in a tin.

'Simple,' said Mr Holmes, for whom the world really was simple. 'Living organisms depend on a chemical that controls nerves signals delivered from the brain to the muscles. It's how we do everything from walk to hold a fork to breathe. Our diaphragms'—he touched his stomach, just above the belly button—'are muscles that facilitate breathing. So it's important that this chemical works well. But what happens if that chemical is corrupted?'

John thought.

'The muscles can't work?'

'Quite the opposite. They can't be controlled. Think of the chemical like an off switch.' Mr Holmes lifted his hand and held it parallel to the table, over his bacon and toast. 'Right now, my muscles are under control. My control. My brain is telling my hand: Hold still! But take that control away?' His hand began to tremble. 'The muscles begin to spasm. Violently, painfully. Eventually, the muscles fatigue and stop working at all.'

John placed a hand on his stomach. Diaphragm. That's what Mr Holmes had called it. He locked the word away. 'And then you can't breathe?'

Mr Holmes smiled. He appeared pleased with John's reasoning, which made John pleased with himself. 'Just so. And without urgent medical care, you are most certain to die.'

John was caught between horror and curiosity. 'Why would they do that to themselves?'

The recent suicides had been the subject of the morning news, which Mr Holmes turned on briefly every day before breakfast, just to see whether Parliament had exploded in the night (so he said). John couldn't always tell when Mr Holmes was joking—but he thought Mr Holmes was joking. As for the perplexing suicides, a detective on the telly had reassured the concerned public, saying, 'We are all as safe as we want to be.' Upon hearing this, Mr Holmes had muttered, 'Suicides, my arse,' while typing rapidly into his phone. Thus began their conversation.

John quite liked those. Conversations, that is.

The day proceeded quite as usual. While Sherlock showered, John did the washing up. At eleven, Mrs Hudson came for tea and to complain of her hip. At one, John prepared the vegetables for a stew while Mr Holmes worked on his laptop. At three, he and Mr Holmes played five games of Battleships. At four, John roasted the beef and prepared the bullion. At six, Mrs Hudson returned with the evening paper, and while John set the pot to simmer, hoping for a game of draughts or maybe rummy before the night was through, he listened while she and Mr Holmes argued in the sitting room.

'See, you have all the apps still open,' Mr Holmes was saying, a touch impatiently. 'Look at that! When's the last time you even bothered to close one? That's why your battery keeps draining.'

'I do close them!' Mrs Hudson protested. 'See? I go here, touch here . . .'

'You've minimised them. They're still running.' He sighed with exasperation. 'Do you even use half of these? They're just taking up storage space.'

'Oh, should I get more storage? A storage app?'

'That's not how it works,' Mr Holmes grumbled.

'Well, I don't know about these things.'

'I should be out solving cases, not acting as your electronics consultant.'

'What about these suicides then, Sherlock?' said Mrs Hudson, unperturbed by his perturbedness, and John heard the rustle of a newspaper. 'I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same.'

'Four.'

There was something in his voice that made John turn from the hob. Mr Holmes was by the window, looking out onto the street.

'The paper says three,' said Mrs Hudson, holding it close to her face, eyes skimming.

'There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time.'

Something was happening. Something was wrong. From downstairs came the crashing open of a door, followed quickly by the hurried steps of someone racing up the stairs. John set aside the wooden spoon and crept to the edge of the kitchen, hiding himself behind the glass divider. Through a gap, he saw a man jog into the room without so much of a customary May I come in, as if he had done it a thousand times. It was the same man from the pound, the copper with grey hair, neatly parted, wearing a long black coat. Worried, John held his breath and kept himself concealed.

Mr Holmes turned from the window, looking as John had never seen him look. His face was stoic and professional, but his eyes gleamed excitedly.

As if they were already in the middle of a conversation, Mr Holmes asked, 'Where?'

The man answered just as easily, 'Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.'

'What's new about this one? You would have just called if there wasn't something different.'

'You know how they never leave notes?'

'I believe I'm the one who pointed it out.'

'Yeah, well. This one did.'

Mr Holmes lifted his chin and cocked an eyebrow.

'Don't look so smug. Will you come?'

'Who's on forensics?'

'Anderson.'

Mr Holmes scowled. 'Pass.'

'Oh, don't be a child. It's not like I'm assigning you to be his assistant.'

'His assistant!'

The policeman lifted his hands as though in surrender. 'Or him to be yours or whatever.'

'I don't need him. I'll bring my own.'

'Your own what?'

'Assistant.'

'Since when do you need—?'

'Brixton, Lauriston Gardens, I'll be right behind. Off you go.'

The man sighed and rolled his head like he was rolling his eyes, but he turned around and left the way he came.

For a moment, there was silence in the flat as the footsteps faded away. Then, with the closing of the front door, Mr Holmes' composure broke. He leapt into the air with an exclamation: 'Brilliant! Yes!' He was literally twirling on the spot. 'Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's second Christmas!'

'Look at you, all excited,' said Mrs Hudson, but her censure was tinged with amusement. 'It's not decent.'

'Who cares about decent, Mrs Hudson? The game is on! John!'

John jumped at the shout of his name, but recovered himself and stepped cautiously into view. 'Sir?'

'This is it, the one I've been waiting for.' He spread his arms. 'What do you think? Coming?'

'Me, sir?'

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson hissed, certainly more censorious this time.

Mr Holmes ignored her. 'How 'bout it? Want to help me solve a case?'

It had been several weeks since Mr Holmes had first proposed taking John out with him. Nothing had been mentioned since. John was used to hollow promises, so though he had been willing and interested, he had maintained no expectation that Mr Holmes would actually follow through. In fact, he was quite sure the matter had been entirely forgotten. Until now.

'Okay,' said John.

'Then turn off the hob, grab your coat, and let's go!'

Mr Holmes was ready to fly out the door, but John delayed him, and he felt terrible. Mrs Hudson, though not exactly pleased, told him not to mind the kitchen, she would take care of it. But it still took him time to change into proper shoes, and put on his coat, and secure the identifying bracelets. Mr Holmes was bouncing on the balls of his feet by the time he was at last ready.

'Great, great! Let's go!' He whirled and nearly flung himself down the steps. John did his best to keep up.

They took a taxi. John had never been too sure about taxis. Wards couldn't take them without their hosts, and in his experience, hosts preferred not to travel with their wards. His last host, on the day of his acquisition, had placed him in the back of a nice black car to take him to the residence, but it hadn't been a taxi, and he hadn't ever travelled with his host again. He knew how to take the bus, and the Tube, but he didn't always have the permission or funds. Normally, John walked.

Mr Holmes let him slide in first and gave the address to the cabbie. John didn't know where Brixton was, but it must have been part of London, or he wouldn't be allowed. Surely, Mr Holmes would know that. He kept his concern to himself, but couldn't help fidgeting with the bracelets, waiting for them to announce that he was in violation of boundaries.

Mr Holmes spotted him.

'You're fine,' he said. 'Brixton is nowhere near the borders of Greater London.'

He pulled his hands apart, embarrassed his anxiety was so transparent.

'Nervous?'

'No sir,' he said automatically while his heart was thrumming.

'But?'

John thought quickly. 'When we arrive, sir, what would you have me do?'

'Just stand and observe,' said Mr Holmes. 'It's what I do.' But he was smiling. 'Bit of a drive, so let's play a game.'

'Here?'

'Why not? I'm going to test your memory.'

John straightened his back, awaiting the challenge.

'Bones of the hand.' Mr Holmes spread his gloved hand and wiggled his fingers. 'How many?'

'Twenty-seven, sir.'

'Good. Each finger is made up of . . .'

'Three phalanges.'

'Name them.'

John touched his own finger as he answered: 'Distal, middle, and proximital.' Mr Holmes cringed and held it. John corrected himself: 'Proximal.'

'How is the thumb different?'

'No middle phalange.'

'Wrist bones?'

'Ulna and radius.'

'Carpal bones?'

They continued like this until John had named every bone of the human hand, needing prompting only twice ('hamate' and 'capitate'). Then Mr Holmes proceeded to describe intrinsic and extrinsic muscles. At one point, as John was repeating the information back to him, the cabbie, who had until this time been silent, muttered under his breath, 'Waste of time, mate.'

'I'll thank you to shut your mouth,' Mr Holmes snapped. Then, to John, 'Ignore him. It's often best to pretend cabbies don't exist. One day, robots will do their job.'

But John felt deflated. There was no real point to these exercises, after all. He just . . . liked doing them. Maybe he shouldn't. The cabbie was right. It was pointless.

By the time they arrived in Brixton, it was full dark, which both thrilled and terrified him. He was almost never out past curfew, and the last time . . . Well, it was best not to think about last time. The cabbie dropped them off at the end of the street, and Mr Holmes made a point of giving him exact change and not a penny more. Then he bid John follow him.

They approached a barrier of yellow police tape, a place John normally would not set foot near. But to Mr Holmes, it was like a welcome mat. Before they could cross under, however, they were halted.

'Hello, freak.'

John was startled. He had never heard anyone speak to Mr Holmes like that. He turned his head toward the officer and nearly fainted dead on his feet. A feeling of panic awoke in him, and he cast his eyes to the ground and shuffled nervously to the side, not quite behind Mr Holmes but trying to be absorbed in his shadow all the same.

'A pleasant evening to you too, Sally. How do you like being the newest addition to Lestrade's team, eh? Move aside, I was invited specially.' He lifted the tape and waited, obviously expecting John to pass under it. John didn't move. Even so, the woman put out a hand to stop him.

'Whoa, wait. Who's . . . this?'

And that's when John knew that she recognised him, too. His alarm spiked, and all he could think was, Don't tell Mr Holmes!

'My assistant,' Mr Holmes said smoothly.

'Assistant!' said the officer. 'Since when do you need assistant?'

She was clearly not amused, perhaps even angry, and John scrambled to temper the oncoming storm. 'Sir, perhaps I should head back.' But it was past curfew. How could he go on his own? Maybe no one would notice on a bus if he sat in the back and kept to himself. Maybe Mrs Hudson could come get him. Or maybe the police would just escort him away.

'Nope.' Mr Holmes raised the yellow tape higher and gestured sharply with his head. 'Sally's new at this. Still learning how things work around here when I get called to the scene.' John hesitated, then stepped forward tentatively, waiting to be detained, shoved back, or at the very least shouted at.

None of those things happened. However, when he crossed under the tape, the woman took his arm, turned him to the side, and began walking him away, barking at his host, 'Stay put!'

'Oi!' Mr Holmes shouted. 'The hell you think you're doing!'

'I'm having a word with your ward, that's what,' the officer snapped. 'Stay back, or I'll eject you both.'

John had rarely been forcibly separated from a host before, and when he had, it had been permanent. For a moment, he was terrified as she marched him several paces away. But she came to a stop within comfortable distance to Mr Holmes, if only just out of earshot. A stone's throw away, Mr Holmes was fuming. The officer didn't seem to care.

'All right there?' she asked.

John's attention snapped back. 'Sorry, ma'am, should I go?'

'No, I'm asking: Are you all right? Tiny, is it?'

He shrank a little. 'John,' he said. 'I'm called John now, ma'am.'

She sighed, as though relieved. 'A hell of a lot better. John then. You remember me? The station? The diner?'

He nodded.

'You're not in trouble. I just want you to be honest. Will you be honest with me, John?'

He wasn't sure what he was really being asked, and he wanted to look to Mr Holmes for help, but he feared to displease her. So he nodded yes.

'You have a new host. Sherlock Holmes. Is that right?'

'Yes ma'am.'

'Have you been with him long?'

'Some weeks, ma'am.'

'Okay. And are you all right?'

He was surprised by the persistent question, and she must have seen it in his face.

'Because your last host . . .' She seemed to rethink what she was saying. 'All I'm saying is, I may be new here, but I've heard all the stories, and if I could tell you to stay away from Sherlock, I would.'

Stay away? Did she know about the incident in the bedroom? But that hadn't been Mr Holmes' fault, and in any case, he had been little harmed by it. Maybe it was the refrigerated head, then. But that was for science; Mr Holmes said so. 'Pardon, ma'am, but why?'

'Because he's a psychopath. All this crime solving stuff? Sticking his nose in our business? He's not paid or anything. He does it because he gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off, and you know what? One day, it won't be enough. One day . . . Look, I don't mean to frighten you. But what I told you before . . . Do you remember what I told you before?'

He nodded yes.

'Good. But let me say it again. If one day it's not all right, you call me, yeah?' As she talked, she slipped a small card into the front pocket of his coat. 'I don't know how he came by you, but if you ever need to get away from him, you give me a call.'

'I'm waiting!' Mr Holmes called in clear irritation.

'Off you go then,' she said.

He shuffled away and angled back toward Mr Holmes, who had turned toward the entrance to the building. When John was close enough, he scowled and asked, 'What was that about? What did she say to you?'

'She'—should he say?—'she said I shouldn't be here, sir.'

Mr Holmes scoffed. 'Cabbies and police constables, John. Ignore them both. Neither is worth listening to.'

But John wasn't so sure. Already, he felt distinctly uncomfortable, like every officer he walked past was staring at him, glaring at him. He shouldn't have come out after all. He should have looked to Mrs Hudson for help and she could have found him an excuse, even if it did leave Mr Holmes disappointed. The feeling didn't go away once they entered the tall stone building because there, they ran into the man with grey hair whom John had seen from his hiding place in the flat. Though he didn't seem to recognise John from the pound, he did not seem at all pleased.

Mr Holmes, however, acted like the copper wasn't even standing there. He reached for what looked to be a blue plastic jumpsuit and tossed it to John. 'You'll need to wear one of these,' he said.

'Now hang on,' said the policeman. 'Who's this?'

'He's with me,' said Mr Holmes.

'He's wearing bracelets! Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock, you brought your ward?'

'Well spotted, Lestrade. I said I'd bring an assistant.'

'He can't be here!' The man called Lestrade looked furious. His face had gone from pale to beet-red in a matter of seconds, and he didn't bother to lower his voice as he shouted, 'This is a crime scene!'

'Just zip it on over your clothes, John,' said Mr Holmes, unruffled.

'There's a dead body upstairs,' Mr Lestrade continued to protest. 'You can't bring him to see a dead body!'

'Why not? He did well enough with the decapitated head.'

As Mr Lestrade's jaw fell open, aghast, Mr Holmes turned his back on the policeman to wink at John. They both proceeded to dress in the jumpsuits, Mr Lestrade muttering to himself in the background. Was this not okay after all? He didn't want to cause Mr Holmes any trouble.

But when they began to ascend the winding staircase, John noticed something curious. No one was looking at him anymore. The suit made him anonymous. He looked like Mr Holmes, and Mr Lestrade, and half a dozen others milling about the abandoned building. The suit hid the bracelets. They were all strangers to him, and that's what he was to them, and it was fine. One of them even said sorry when bumping into him on the stair. Wasn't that odd?

'I can give you two minutes,' Mr Lestrade was saying as he led the way.

'You came to get me, and all you can give me is two minutes?'

'Yeah, well, I didn't expect you to bring . . .' He made a sharp gesture with his head.

'It takes as long as it takes, Lestrade. But you're being generous. I need only one.'

Mr Lestrade sighed. They were approaching the top floor. 'Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her.'

The door was open. Both Mr Lestrade and Mr Holmes strode purposefully inside. John entered with a little more hesitation, coming to a complete stop just over the threshold. There, in the centre of a drab, bare room, the body of a woman lay prostrate. Her coat was pink. Her shoes were pink. Her fingernails were pink. If John hadn't been told differently, he would have guessed she was sleeping, perhaps passed out. But in reality, he knew he was staring at a dead body. It wasn't the first time. But it didn't seem to be any easier to comprehend. Here one minute, gone the next.

'Do your thing,' said Mr Lestrade, but with a sarcastic wave of his fingers.

'Stand back and shut up,' said Mr Holmes.

And with that, Mr Holmes got to work. John stared, riveted to his every movement. One moment, he was standing erect on the body's right, staring down at some scratches in the floorboards; next moment, he was crouched on the body's left, lifting a hand and removing a gold ring from the woman's finger.

'Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one . . .' Mr Lestrade said between gritted teeth.

'I said shut up.'

'Do you need your full two minutes after all?'

Mr Holmes clasped his hands behind his back and twirled sharply on the spot to face Mr Lestrade. 'Finished.'

'What, already?'

'Shall I begin?'

'She's German.'

John's head snapped around to see a man leaning against the doorjamb, speaking almost directly over his shoulder.

'Rache,' the man said. 'In German, it means revenge. She could be trying to leave us a clue—'

'Yes, thank you for your input,' said Mr Holmes, crossing the room in two long strides and slamming the door closed in the other man's face. John thought he heard an mmfph! from the other side of the door.

'Revenge!' Mr Lestrade said, excitedly.

'Don't be daft, she's not German. She is from out of town though.' He was pushing buttons rapidly on his phone. 'Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.'

'Obvious?' John said. How was that obvious! He had thought they were still waiting for word on the credit card information. But both men ignored him.

'Victim was in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes. Something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night, going by the size of her suitcase.'

John looked around, as if it were possible to miss a suitcase in such an empty room. But he didn't see a suitcase.

Mr Lestrade seemed to have spotted the problem as well. 'Suitcase?'

'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.'

'Oh for God's sake!' shouted Mr Lestrade. 'Are you just making this up to get back at me for not taking you along on the last one?'

'Her wedding ring!' Mr Holmes shouted back, pointing to the corpse's left hand. '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.'

'Brilliant,' said John. He couldn't help himself. It was like magic. Maybe Mr Holmes was really a mind-reader, or psychic!

Mr Holmes smiled at him and winked again.

'Yeah, brilliant,' said Lestrade, scathingly, and John thought he must have been mocking him. He felt his face go red and so determined to shut up. 'What about Cardiff, then, eh?'

'Her coat,' continued Mr Holmes, stepping around the corpse and pointing. '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 is 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, 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 and the body is still fresh. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?' Triumphantly, he turned his phone around to show the policeman. 'Cardiff.'

John wanted to applaud. He had never seen or heard anything like this before. It was amazing, fantastic. No wonder Mr Holmes had been so keen to show it off. He belonged on the telly with his own show and everything.

But not all were impressed, it seemed.

'You keep saying suitcase,' said Mr Lestrade.

'Yes, check it for her organiser. Find out who Rachel is.'

'She was writing Rachel?'

Mr Holmes scoffed. 'No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel! Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?'

'Don't get off track. How do you know she had a suitcase?'

'Back of the right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left.'

John looked. He saw them now, but he hadn't noticed them before. He wouldn't have even thought to look.

'She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Small case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was staying only one night. So where is it? What have you done with it?'

'No case.'

'Eh?'

Mr Lestrade looked almost haughty, putting his latex-gloved hands in the pockets of the blue jumpsuit. 'There wasn't a case. We've swept this building top to bottom and up and down the street. No suitcase. Looks like you're mistaken on that one, Sherlock.'

'Mistaken? Of course I'm not! I'm right, I'm always right! This is murder, Lestrade. They take the poison themselves, they chew and swallow the pills themselves. But it's still murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides. They're killings. Serial killings.' His fingers were twitching excitedly. 'We've got ourselves a serial killer. Oh, I love those. Always something to look forward to.'

'What are you saying?'

'Her case! Come on, where is it! Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case.' Then, as though talking to himself, working it out with himself, he said, 'So the killer must have driven her here and forgot the case was in the car . . .'

Then silence fell. Mr Holmes' fingertips were pressed together at his mouth, like John had seen him before, and his eyes were intensely focused on nothing; he was lost in thought. Mr Lestrade stared at him expectantly. John looked between them, wondering what would happen next. But time ticked on, and nothing did.

Finally, Mr Lestrade sighed. 'All right, that's your minute allowance, and then some. We're going to get to work on finding her family and acquaintances in the city, see if anyone knew where she was going—'

'What do you think, John?'

Mr Holmes turned suddenly to face John with those intense, scrutinising eyes. John started, looked at Mr Lestrade, glanced to the body of Jennifer Wilson, and looked back to Mr Holmes. 'Sir?'

'Yes, you've been awfully quiet. What do you think? Anything strike you as noteworthy?'

'Jesus Christ.' Mr Lestrade turned aside, like he couldn't bear to watch.

'Um.' What was he to say! He was an idiot, there to watch and keep quiet. He didn't realise there would be questions.

'Go on. Anything at all?'

'Um. Only . . .' John glanced back at the corpse. 'Well, sir, there's an awful lot of pink.'

A different kind of silence fell. This one was dreadful. Mr Lestrade was barely containing his laughter at John's stupidity, and Mr Holmes looked disappointed. John wished for permission to leave, to be alone, to return to the bedroom on the second floor and look at the painting of Dover. But he didn't dare request it. He stood still while his face burned scarlet and awaited the mockery.

'Brilliant,' Mr Holmes whispered.

'Come again?' said Mr Lestrade with a half-laugh but incredulity written all over his face.

'Pink.' Mr Holmes slowly stepped toward John, talking directly to him now, though surely his words were meant for Mr Lestrade. 'She never made it to a hotel. The state of her hair says it all. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. Pink. She'd never leave the hotel looking like that. Pink.' He clapped his hands around John's upper arms. 'John, you're a genius!'

'I am?'

'Oh, come on,' protested Lestrade.

But Mr Holmes seemed to have forgotten the policeman entirely. 'Serial killers are always hard,' he said to John. 'You have to wait for them to make a mistake. Houston, we have a mistake! We're done waiting. He's made the mistake! John, you've put your finger directly on the mistake! Pink!'

Then he seized John by the hand and pulled him excitedly out of the room. 'Come, John, we haven't a moment to lose!' He started laughing as he skipped his way down the stairs, John labouring to keep up.

It occurred to John, and not for the first time, that his host was quite possibly a little bit mad. But strangely, and certainly for the first time, John decided that he didn't mind. In fact—and it was daring of him even to think it—he rather liked it.