"That's certainly very pink,"
"What do you mean by that?" asked Sherlock, snapping on a pair of gloves and going to crouch next to the body.
"Her coat is quite a bright pink. Almost an alarming shade, actually," explained John. Sherlock hummed an agreement, running a hand along the woman's back. John watched him work, entranced. Sherlock slipped his fingers underneath her collar, before pulling out an umbrella.
After turning it over once in his hands, he placed it back in her pocket. He took her wrist in one hand and used the other to felt her hand for a ring. Once he had a grip on the woman's wedding ring, he removed it carefully. He rolled it around in his fingers before pulling it back on.
"What do the splash marks on her legs look like?" he asked, while he did this.
"Splash marks?"
"Splash marks, yes. Keep up. Look for patterns of water spread on the fabric. Tell me what you see."
John squinted at the woman's tights. "It's about the size of a palm, starting just above the ankle. On the left side. Does that help?"
"Better than nothing," muttered Sherlock.
Noticing the rough state of the woman's nails, he eventually managed to locate and run his finger along the letters etched into the floor. "What does this say?"
"Rache," John attempted. The word was weird and sounded foreign in his mouth. "Like Rachel without the last letter. Do you think it's a message?"
"It's possible," admitted Sherlock. Standing up again, he snapped off his gloves and shoved them in his coat pocket.
"So, have you got anything useful?" asked Lestrade.
"Not much," Sherlock answered, fiddling through his phone and cursing under his breath. His phone buzzed and quietly played a sound clip. John couldn't quite hear what the clip was playing but it was clearly interesting, causing Sherlock to grin.
"She's German," interjected a voice from the doorway. Surprised, John turned around, only for his eyes to meet Anderson's. He scowled at the sight. He had only met Anderson once - and that was just for a few seconds - but he had already decided that he didn't like him very much. Anyone who had an affair was automatically in his bad books, and Anderson seemed like a massive fucking wanker as well.
"Rache. It's German for revenge," he smirked. John really wanted to punch him in the face, smug bastard. Sherlock seemed to agree with him, walking up to the door and slamming it in Anderson's face.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Thank you for your input,"
"So she's German," John said.
"No. She isn't from London though. She's staying in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff." He held out his phone, where a weather report was up on the screen, but he snatched it away before John could get a good look.
"But what about the message?" asked Lestrade.
Sherlock ignored Lestrade's question, instead turning his attention to John. "I need you to perform a medical examination for me," said Sherlock gesturing toward the body. "Find the cause of death."
"We have an entire forensic team out there Sherlock. Don't drag your assistant into this," interjected Lestrade.
"None of them will work with me. You know that. Besides, John's a medical man. He'll be fine," snapped Sherlock. "John, the body,"
John nodded and made his way over, setting his cane on the floor and lowering himself to the ground. He reminded himself to breathe. It was just a body. He'd seen plenty of those in his lifetime. This one was no different. Stay calm and focused, tell them what they need to know. His eyes swept the body for any signs of wounds that could denote the use of a weapon such as a knife or gun. Finding none, he came to the conclusion that the death was likely nonviolent.
Taking the victim's wrist, he turned it over only to find numerous small markings on the arm. Petechiae. Usually coterminous with asphyxiation of some kind, as they appear when there is a severe lack of oxygen in the blood, which causes the capillaries to burst.
That suggested asphyxiation of some kind, strangulation maybe. He checked the neck for any signs of trauma but found none. He sniffed the air, searching for the recognisable scent of alcohol and found none.
"Likely asphyxiated. No signs of trauma so probably choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol, so it could be drugs related or a possibly seizure," he offered.
"Come on. You know what happened. You've seen the news,"
John swallowed a shaky breath. "She's one of the suicides. The fourth." He had seen a handful of suicide attempts before. Desperate people have nothing to lose after all. He had expected – hoped even – to get used to it, just as he hoped to get used to seeing death as a medic. He was wrong of course. It was gut wrenching every single time.
Reality sucked sometimes.
"Times up. I need anything you've got," said Lestrade.
"Victim is in her late forties. A professional working in the media by my best guess if John's description of her coat is anything to go by. She's travelled from Cardiff and is staying in London for one night, judging by the size of her suitcase. I assume she is visiting her latest lover," explained Sherlock.
"Suitcase?" said Lestrade, more of a question than anything.
"Yes, suitcase. She's been unhappily married for over ten years and has had a string of lovers, though none of them knew she was married,"
"I swear if you're just making this up."
"The ring is at least ten years old, judging by its condition and style. Not very well taken care of, going by the scuffs and marks on it – state of the marriage right there. Given that the marriage is likely in shambles, it is only logical that her one night visits to the city are due to a string of affairs – it would be impossible to maintain the lie of being single for more than a few weeks.
"That's brilliant," exclaimed John. Sherlock looked at him sharply. "Sorry. Where'd you get Cardiff from though?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me…"
"My god. What is it like in your funny little minds?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Her coat is still wet, indicating that she's been in heavy rain within the last few hours, given the type of fabric her coat is made from. However, it hasn't rained in London today. The underside of her collar is also damp. She turned it up against the wind. Didn't use her umbrella though – so it was strong wind.
"It's obvious from the range of the splash marks on her thigh that her suitcase is only small. This indicates that she's only staying one night, so she must have travelled some distance, though not more that two or three hours away. Only place that fits those parameters is Cardiff. Obvious,"
John was impressed. The man was brilliant.
"So where's the suitcase?" demands Sherlock, feeling around the room. "We need to find her phone or organizer – find who Rachel is,"
"There isn't one," said Lestrade. "We never found a case in this building."
The gears were turning in Sherlock's mind. Throwing open the door, he stormed out onto the landing of the house. "Did anyone find a suitcase!"
"There isn't a case Sherlock. There never was one,"
"But they take the poison themselves. They chew and swallow the pills themselves. It's so obvious," exclaimed Sherlock, feeling his way down the stairs and doing his best not to fall. "It's murder. I don't know how but it is. We have a serial killer on our hands. Always fun. You have to wait for them make a mistake."
"We can't just wait Sherlock!" said Lestrade. "People could die!"
"We won't have to. She clearly had a case, so where is it? The murderer must have driven her here, so the case is still be in his car. Now he'll be trying getting rid of it – we just need to find it,"
He grinned and offered out his hand. "Let's go catch ourselves a serial killer. Will you help me with this, John?"
John paused for half a second. On the one hand, he was still reeling from the shock of being dragged to a crime scene and finding out about the suspected murder. His adrenaline was through the roof and his heart was racing. On the other hand, he wanted more.
He needed this high. The adrenaline and sense of loyalty had been the only things that kept him going in the army. Now that he'd lost that, he needed to find another way to get that feeling. This seemed like a good replacement.
"Yeah, I will,"