Chapter Eleven: Advantageous Assumptions

As comfortable as John was with hospitals, it still struck him as weird that he was looking forward to visiting the morgue—especially when he'd known the deceased in question, however briefly. If it helped to bring her justice, though, he hoped that Livia wouldn't have minded their nosing around. Sherlock's cleverness was astounding, and how could he not be eager to witness some more? If she had known his friend better, she would have been relieved to have him on the case, too. At least, that was what he wanted to believe.

Yup, that was what he was anticipating...Sherlock's brain. Not the fact that he looked like Guercino's Saint Sebastian. Well, a Saint Sebastian that wasn't mostly naked, more's the pity, and not currently enduring a death sentence, which was nice. Though that wasn't very obvious in the picture…Nope, it was. A Google search made it apparent that his memory had edited an arrow out of the painting, too busy concentrating on the rope-bound, twisted body. Oops.

Fine, he anticipated both. But he was human. Being happy to be around someone who was easy on the eyes wasn't a sin, was it?

When they met at the police station, Gemma gave them a strained smile. "Let's go." She waved them outside. "It turned out that I have sorely disappointed my chief. And wouldn't you know it, not because I failed to guard you 24/7, but because I've been too helpful. How was I supposed to know that I had to sabotage whatshe asked you to do?" she hissed, hands restless with the strength of her indignation.

Sherlock's glare could have given a mouse a nervous breakdown, but she didn't even notice it. John, frankly, had no reply. It was a thing to make a mistake, but another to set up traps! If nothing else worked, he'd make sure that Sherlock took advantage of his contacts in the media to start the biggest shitstorm that Europe had ever seen. Oh, the old bat would regret it.

He might have zoned out for a minute there, in his righteous anger, because next he knew Sherlock's glare had changed into a smirk, which didn't seem a logical reaction.

"Are you coming or not?" his friend asked, nodding toward a police car parked nearby.

"Yeah." He didn't have a choice anyway, did he? It was useless to resist a cop, even when they admitted to having nefarious plans. He half expected to be brought to the prison, so when he saw the hospital in front of them, he frowned. "Are we still going to the morgue?"

"Of course. The commissioner should have known better than to try to use me for her tricks! We're going to solve this case whether she likes it or not. Honestly, that she thought I would automatically be a hindrance to any investigation is an insult that I won't forget," Gemma growled.

Oh. John grinned reflexively. He liked their agent. Maybe they wouldn't need to mount an international scandal. "Erm...I don't speak nearly as much Italian as I'd like. If someone could translate the pathologist's words for me, it'd be lovely."

"Done," Sherlock replied, before the actual Italian with them could agree.

Gemma's mouth snapped closed, widening into a smile as she led them through the hospital, The pathologist, a forty-something, lanky man, jumped when they entered.

According to Sherlock's whispered translation Gemma exclaimed, "Luca! How many times do I have to tell you, less coffee and...okay I know it sounds bad, but less focus. There's a door. Sometimes people will use it. Any movement in your field of vision is not necessarily a zombie." She laughed, and Luca laughed with her, rubbing the nape of his neck.

"So, what can you tell us?" Gemma asked.

"Us?" the pathologist narrowed his eyes at them both. "Teo already came round to ask...and I have never met your companions. Why aren't they in uniform, anyway?"

She shrugged. "Oh come on, you know Teo. He's...well, not the brightest. My friends have been asked by commissioner Di Giovanni herself to help us with the investigation. International consultants. The victim's family is loaded, so she went all out to make sure that we'd catch the culprit soon."

John was tempted to clap. Misrepresenting the situation so completely without telling a single lie was a feat that he hadn't expected from her .

"Oh." Luca dropped the test tube he'd picked up while talking to her, then rushed to cushion its fall. Laying it gently on a counter, he straightened up into a rigid stance. "I...didn't know. Why doesn't anybody tell me things?"

John had to restrain himself from ordering the man, "at ease." He couldn't erase the smile from his lips, though.

"What kind of international? I mean, I don't know too many languages," the pathologist said, looking intently at what John would later discover was the handle of the cupboard behind them.

Sherlock reassured him that there was no need for him to translate, as he was perfectly adequate to the task, before gently prompting him for data.

"Yes, right, so...well, obviously she's been stabbed. Many times over. There are plenty of defence wounds and other shallow cuts, but the ones which killed her are the cut to her throat—our victim actually had her throat slashed, I swear, it's the first time I've seen that—and a stab in her chest. It didn't hit her heart, only the right lung, but still, one lung collapsing is not what you want to deal with while bleeding out. The weapon is one of her own kitchen's knives, from what your colleagues said, and it didn't have any fingerprints on it. As if things could ever be so easy." Luca's report ended in a deep sigh.

"Have the other forensics examined the kitchen?" Sherlock rumbled in Italian.

"Yes, of course, we do know it started there, if only from the choice of weapon. But any theory based on the evidence we found there would need a stronger support than these clues. It's a students' flat. Sure, there was a fibre caught in the back of one of the chairs, see?" the man said, showing them a sample. At a glance, all John could say was that the cloth was black and definitely not wool. From Luca's attitude, that was about all he could tell, too. Fine, he might know the actual material. "But any lawyer worth his salt would insinuate that it could have been stuck there at any time. And even the cups left on the table could have been there for a day or two, for all we know. That is, assuming we find a match for the DNA on them. That will require at least a couple of weeks anyway," the pathologist replied, "I'm sure doctor Watson will confirm this."

John honestly didn't expect to be called as a witness, but he could only nod. He gave a cursory examination of the body and the morgue, just to check that no procedure had been patently neglected, and nothing seemed out of place. . Nothing but Livia's body; she should never have been laying on a slab in the first place, except a steak knife and an unnamed bastard had disagreed.

He'd never seen anyone actually scrunch his nose, either, but Sherlock did exactly that, declaring, "We can't wait that long to solve this!"

Luca opened his arms in surrender, defeat in every line of his body, and said, "I'm already being as quick as I can."

Gemma patted his shoulder, saying, "Don't worry. That's why we have consultants this time. You don't need to fret, okay? You mess up when you're stressed, and we don't need any of that now."

Sherlock's translation alarmed the former soldier; something had to be done, before their pathologist lost his last marble and ruined their case. "Please, tell him that we've all been overworked and under pressure to perform. We're here to help. We'll get the murderer. He just needs to take a deep breath and do his job."

The newly minted consulting detective levelled a look at John, which expressed how much he thought it shouldn't be their role to reassure anyone. When the doctor hissed, "Go. On!" though, he caved and complied.

The pathologist finally smiled at them. "I'm so honoured to cooperate with the Interpol! You won't have to regret my work."

"We're sure. Now, we must be off. And I hope you're analysing everything in the bathroom, too. The murderer will have needed to clean up, or he'd stand out. Even the worst cop wouldn't miss someone walking around dripping as much blood as a slaughterhouse labourer still in his work clothes," Sherlock remarked.

"On it!" Luca actually saluted, with just two fingers, and definitely at the wrong angle, but John wasn't about to scold him. His eager mood would help the investigation.

They all managed to keep their composure until they were out of the hospital. Then, John started guffawing—and Sherlock followed suit. "Interpol?" he managed, between chuckles.

Gemma flushed, but didn't say a word. John couldn't divine if she was embarrassed, or fighting her own urge to laugh.

"You didn't correct him, agent," Sherlock teased.

"I'm trying to solve the case. In any way necessary," she replied, her mouth tight.

"Next step?" John hurried to ask, before the pair could start bickering. You'd think that a genius would realise that they didn't need to make any more enemies here.

"Questioning," his partner said, "She was killed by someone she knew. Even if the two coffee cups in the kitchen were old, which I don't believe, as the residue would have dried further, the door wasn't forced. Even in Italy, you don't offer coffee to burglars."

John giggled again. That would have been an interesting custom.

"Do you already suspect someone?" Gemma asked.

"Before acquiring the relevant data? Even if doing that is a habit of your colleagues, I'm not so stupid. I thought you were helping us because you knew better," Sherlock snapped, quickening his pace.

The former soldier feared for a moment that his attempt to help had caused more damage than his friend could ever do on his own, but Gemma just sped up to keep pace and cooed, "Ooh, clay for bricks, right?"

"So you can memorise renowned mystery literature, but it seems you consider proper procedure something that concerns literary creations more than actual investigations. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or frustrated." Sherlock huffed.

"Il fine giustifica i mezzi," she quoted again, shrugging.

"And here I thought that 'the end justifies the means' was the motto of criminals and villains." Despite his words, there was a lopsided smile on his lips.

"Oh, I'd say that's more a motto for chaotic than evil alignment, and I'm afraid we're all a bit chaotic, here. The best you can hope for is chaotic good, and I promise you that I actually want to catch the actual murderer. That's good, isn't it?" Gemma quipped, playing with one of her cropped auburn curls.

Sherlock blinked. He blinked again. "You're not making any sense."

"You've not roleplayed then, " John interjected, proceeding to explain. "Anyway, who's the first to question on our list?"

"Let's start with her flatmate. She would have all she needs to make herself presentable after her murder in the first place. And if college taught me anything, it's that flatmates and dorm mates often want to murder each other. Maybe this one actually went through with it," Sherlock replied, sitting shotgun in Gemma's car. She would have a hard time maintaining the right facade with her colleagues this way.

That was the only reason John frowned at it. He wasn't so shallow as to want his new acquaintance in the back just to be beside him. They were still forming any sort of relationship, never mind a sentimental one. "I thought college taught you chemistry," he said.

Gemma got behind the wheel, sighed and said, "As you wish. You haven't seen her, though. I'd bet that she is innocent. But I suppose she could give you some useful info."

Easier said than done. The flatmate had been put up by a friend, and it was the latter who opened the door when they called. Even upon seeing Gemma in full uniform, she remained on the threshold, arms crossed, glaring at them. She actually reminded John of an ancient goddess. A tunic-like white dress? Check. Blond, long hair? Check again. Luckily hers was caught in a pony tail, because an actual ancient-looking hairdo would have been more than a little spooky. Glacier-hued eyes, even though they seemed fiery with rage? Triple check. She was actually taller than Sherlock, which she certainly used to her full advantage in an attempt to look imposing. "So?" she barked.

"Alessandra De Biasi, yes? We're looking for Miss Cola," Gemma said, in her best soothing tone.

Alessandra didn't move. "Again? She's in shock, you know. You might be used to...to...that," she replied. Her arms opened in defeat, the right one turning in small, aborted half-circles, as if she could physically grasp the words she couldn't speak "But we're not. How don't you understand that?"

Sherlock whispered the translation into John's ear, and then snapped in perfect Italian, "How don't you understand suspect in a murder investigation?"

John didn't need a translation for that. The words 'suspect' was close enough, and the woman's reaction unmistakable. She went white first, then flushed brightly, and her already angry stare turned downright murderous. To avoid having yet another exceedingly bloody crime on their hands, Gemma and he stepped in front of Sherlock at the same time, and started spewing apologies in two languages.

Alessandra reined her temper in at this, mumbling something about not knowing it had turned into an international investigation, and finally stepped aside. John repressed a smile. He'd never realised how useful abandoning someone to their own assumptions could be. Their host guided them to a room, still keeping a wary eye on Sherlock.

There was no screaming now. Livia's flatmate lay on top of the sheets, curled up into the tiniest ball she could manage, facing the wall. Despite undoubtedly hearing the steps of multiple people coming in, she didn't turn around, nor make a sound. John was just happy that she'd bothered with a nightgown. He had a feeling that the effort required to keep behind the new consulting detective while she made herself presentable would be a waste of energy.

For a moment nothing at all happened, then Sherlock declared, "So, you didn't kill Livia, after all."

John had no idea what the other had observed to provoke such a statement, or if maybe this was his idea of putting a suspect at ease, so that she would slip up. He barely kept himself from openly facepalming, and starting a lecture on proper bedside manners. Or witness-side manners, or whatever you called it. Evidently, Sherlock's parents had to be insane, but they were proving to be more lacking than John expected. No one, and especially no British man, should arrive at such an age without an understanding of tact.

Unsurprisingly, loud sobs echoed at once. The doctor suspected that his friend had just eliminated any chance to obtain coherent sentences from her. But Alessandra walked closer, and petted her friend's back while making shushing noises. Shortly after, their witness sniffled loudly and turned around, glowering at them. John didn't need to understand the language to figure out that what she was saying, among gulping breaths, was along the lines of, "Lucky me that you realised".

Her sarcasm didn't seem to faze Sherlock, who took the only chair in the room—without asking, not that John would have complained. After all, he had experience—from both sides—of how unpleasant it was, for the person spoken to, when someone literally talked down to you.

"If you want the murderer to be caught, I need you to tell me three things about your flatmate. I'd add honestly, but I'll realise if you'll lie anyway."

She replied (according to Gemma, who took over translating duties without even being asked), "Speak up, then fuck off." Good. Raging would help her.

"Did Livia have any lover?"

A beat of silence, then, "No."

"But..." Sherlock trailed off.

"She fancied someone. And someone fancied her. And I don't know who I'd bet she would eventually end up with." John was relieved to see her finish a sentence without breaking down. "Matteo and Valentino, if you're asking. Can't remember last names. Look up our classes; Valentino was in our courses, and Matteo—he's Bea's brother, and Bea is in class, too. You can find him through her."

"Perfect, thank you. That helps a lot. Now, as far as you know, was there anyone who hated her, envied her, or otherwise wished her ill?"

"No one...no one would do..." her voice broke down.

Before the detective could upset her more, John started speaking, hoping someone would take up the duty of translating. "Of course no one would do that, normally. But we don't know what happened yet. Extraordinary circumstances might exacerbate what would otherwise no more than talking behind one's back. We need to know who had at least a shadow in their heart that could explode."

She quieted again, for five interminable minutes, before saying, "Livia was going to have a brilliant career. Because of her family, you know. That means that anyone who knows her would envy her. But most of all, Sergio...well, he's brilliant. But as much as everyone praises him, he doesn't have enough connections to have the best chances at a career. Not the one he'd deserve, and he knows it. If you want a name besides everyone in our faculty."

"Last question, and then you'll be able to rest. You made it obvious that her family isn't in need of money, but was she good at managing it? Did she often go into debt, or on the contrary, had she loaned money to anyone?"

She shook her head. "No debts, I'd know about it. I mean, she'd ask me first. I was right there. Loans—to everyone who asked, really, but they were mostly small amounts. You don't murder for 20 Euros. The only one who came round more often than the others...I mean, I'm not saying she would do that, but... Viola. Classmate, too."

"Thank you. That is all I wanted to know. Have a good day." Sherlock smiled at her, rose and left. John and Gemma looked at each other before following hastily. Better get out, before anyone had time to react to his badly timed wishes.