The cab took a turn and flashing lights caught my attention. We must have arrived at the crime scene. I sat up and stared as our vehicle pulled over and Sherlock gave him the fare. There were three patrol cars and an ambulance parked near an apartment complex. We couldn't get close in the cab, so we climbed out and began hoofing it over toward the police tape.
I stretched my arms up; it seems despite the three of us being slim the ride in the middle of the back seat still stiffened me up.
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
I glanced toward him to see he was peering between my and John quizzically. His eyes reflected the flashing lights of the police vehicles. I could tell he desperately wanted to know the answer to his question, but at the same time he seemed a touch nervous.
"I was in Japan for two years," I said. "Left after I got my masters. I prefer the eastern art styles."
"She's bloody good too," John said.
I shot him a grateful glance before sighing. "And I am getting on well. A company is publishing my manga, and now it's starting to get translated."
John looked irritated and didn't meet my eyes. I decided a change of subject was needed.
"Harry and John don't get on," I said.
"Never have," John added in a murmur. "Maddie was a bit better with being civil when we were younger but..."
"But now, I've had enough of it too," I said.
"Harry left Clara three months ago, they're getting a divorce," John said. "...And Harry is a drinker."
"Spot on, then," Sherlock mused. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."
Well, he hadn't guessed anything regarding Miyako or how my teacher was the one who sent me away from Japan to keep me safe, but that wasn't the only thing he missed.
John and I exchanged an amused grin.
"What?" Sherlock demanded, appearing suddenly put out.
"And Harry is short for Harriet," John explained.
Sherlock's face pinched in irritation and he stopped in his tracks. "Harry's your sister," he breathed.
"There it is," I said with a small gesture with my index finger.
"What exactly are we supposed to be doing here, by the way?" John asked as he continued toward the police tape ahead. I was surprised he wasn't reveling in getting something past Sherlock the way I was.
"Another sister!" Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth and finally started walking again. "It's always something... Should have seen it coming from the odd nickname Max has."
"You are only human, Sherlock," I reminded him.
"No, seriously, what are we doing?" John pressed.
By now, we'd reached the police tape. A woman approached us, a police officer given her uniform. She had dark skin and her black hair poofed out in ringlets of ebony. It looked soft to the touch. She spotted Sherlock and her pretty face twisted up in disdain.
"Hello, freak," she greeted.
"Okay, that makes things immediately uncomfortable," I muttered.
"I wasn't talking to you," the woman snapped toward me. "But I can if you'd like. This is a crime scene."
"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock informed her. "And please do attempt to treat my company with some semblance of decency; you don't even know them."
"Why?" the woman demanded.
"Because that's generally how people are expected to act?" I supplied with my brows both rising and pinching together.
"That's not what she means," Sherlock told me. Facing the woman again, he said, "I was invited."
"Why?" the woman repeated, this time more sharply.
"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock sighed.
"Well, you know what I think?" The woman folded her arms, clearly growing more irritated by the second.
"Always, Sally," Sherlock said as he reached down to grip the police tape and lifted it to allow himself under it. He paused beside the woman and I saw his nostrils flare as he took a breath in. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."
"I don't..." the woman began, clearly flustered, but then she looked at me as I started to follow Sherlock under the tape. "Hold on just a second, who are you? And you?" Her dark eyes flashed toward John.
"Colleagues of mine," Sherlock said. "Doctor Watson and his sister..." He suddenly turned toward me as I popped up on his side of the tape. "Do you have a title of any kind? Would it simply be Miss Watson?"
"That leads to misunderstandings a lot when John and I are in the same setting," I replied curtly. "Maxine is fine."
Sherlock raised a single brow and for a moment looked like he was going to speak again, but then the woman cut in.
"Colleagues? How does someone like you get a colleague?" she scoffed.
"Doctor Watson... and Maxine, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan," Sherlock introduced. "Old friend." He added the last bit with nothing but sarcasm.
"Did he follow you two home?" Donovan asked dryly toward us.
"Would it just be better if we waited—" John began.
"No," Sherlock said, gripping the tape and lifting it up for John.
John glanced to me, then to Donovan. She didn't make any move to stop him, and I was already at Sherlock's side. He stepped under the tape to join us.
"Freak's here," Donovan said into a radio clipped to her chest. "Bringing him in. He has a couple of... friends."
"Is this normal behavior for her?" I whispered to Sherlock.
"You'll find most people I deal with merely put up with me because they have to," Sherlock murmured back.
Before I could respond, there was another voice calling out to us.
"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear?"
I swiveled my head to face forward and saw a man had stepped out of the building. He was in a white coverall and was glaring at Sherlock with distaste.
"Anderson, I assume," I greeted. I remembered Sherlock mentioning the name back at the flat and that Anderson worked forensics. Clearly, this was him.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Anderson barked toward me. His face was gaunt and long and he had thick dark hair parted in the center. His nose was hooked and his lips thin as he pursed them into a tight line.
"If you did, that would be odd," I said.
Anderson fixated his gaze on Sherlock. "Who are they?" he demanded.
"Rude," I muttered when I was completely ignored.
"Yes, quite rude, I agree," Sherlock said as he stepped to my side. "I'm clear on not contaminating the crime scene. And is your wife gone for long?"
"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson spat. "Someone told you that."
"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock said.
"What?" Anderson was clearly confused.
"It's for men," Sherlock told him.
"Of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!" Anderson shouted.
"So is Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock sniffed in pointedly. "Oh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"
Anderson looked at Donovan who had gotten a bit darker in the cheeks. He shook his head as he fixated a glare on Sherlock. "Now look; whatever you're trying to imply-"
"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock assured. He began leading the way toward the door. "I'm sure Sally just came 'round for a nice chat and happened to stay over." He paused and glanced back at Donovan. "And I'm assuming she scrubbed your floors by the state of her knees..."
John and I exchanged raised brows before taking a quick peek at Donovan's knees. Sure enough, what little skin showed was a touch discolored. I let out a low whistle as I followed after our new comrade, leaving Anderson and Donovan horror-struck behind us.
Just inside was what I could only describe as a prep room. There was a plastic sheet covering the doorway that led further into the building. I recognized the man that had come to the flat earlier; Lestrade, I assumed. He was pulling on a white coverall similar to Anderson's.
"Sherlock," he greeted.
Sherlock ignored him for the moment. He pointed at a pile of coveralls and looked to my brother and me. "You'll both need to wear one of these."
"All right, that's fine," I said as I went to pick one out. "Assuming they have some in our size..."
"Our size? I'm taller than you," John pointed out irritably.
"Two inches isn't much, Johnny," I reminded him as I tossed the coveralls. "Especially with these general sized garments."
"Who are they?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.
"They're with me," Sherlock replied simply.
"But who are they?" Lestrade pressed.
"I said they're with me," Sherlock said. His voice held a surprising amount of authority.
I put aside my coat and then my scarf, the latter with a small amount of reluctance. I began to pull on a coverall I found that might fit me. It still ended up being a tad too big and bagged around the cuffs of the sleeves and the hems of the legs. I had kicked off my boots and put the little cloth covers over my socks.
"They're meant to go over your shoes," John told me.
"You know I don't like shoes," I said flatly.
John sighed as he pulled on his over coverall. He glanced toward Sherlock, who was merely waiting patiently. He'd pulled off his winter gloves and replaced them with latex ones. "Aren't you going to put one on?" John asked him.
Sherlock merely stared at him with a pointed look.
John sighed and shrugged at me and I grinned back at him. I could feel my heart thrumming in my neck. This had to be the most interesting and exciting think I'd ever done. A crime scene. I felt like I was in one of my manga volumes. Of course, I didn't have magic running through my veins like my protagonist did.
"Where are we?" Sherlock asked Lestrade once we were all ready.
"Upstairs," Lestrade replied.
So up we went.
The stairwell was made up of dark wood and stretched up two flights. As we ascended, Lestrade glanced back at us.
"I can give you two minutes," he said.
"May need longer," Sherlock replied, his voice holding an air of simplicity. Like he was talking about cooking a meal.
"We've gathered that her name is Jennifer Wilson," Lestrade went on after only a small look toward the detective. "That's what's on her credit cards anyway. We're running them now for contact details. She hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."
"That's unfortunate," I murmured.
"Yes," Lestrade agreed. He reached a door and opened it, allowing us inside.
The room was small and void of furniture, save a wooden rocking horse in the corner. There was some scaffolding propping up the far wall and there were a few holes gaping in it and the floor. There were bright spotlights set up around the edges of the room, most likely put there by the police. They all pointed toward the center of the room where she laid: the first dead body I've ever seen.
Perhaps it was nice that she was face down and there wasn't any blood or any obvious signs that she wasn't just passed out. However, I could... feel it. The woman on the floorboards before me was a shell—empty of life that once allowed her to walk and talk and smile.
She had long brown hair. It was a touch messy, which I found odd considering how immaculate her nails were and the obvious high quality of her bright pink overcoat. Her shoes matched its color, high heels that spoke of a woman who cared deeply of her appearance. I wasn't that close to her, but it was like I could sense the stiffness in her limbs. No one could ever be that still and be alive.
Her left hand was near something that had been carved into the wooden floor. I could see the nails on that hand were chipped and the tips of her fingers looked raw. She'd been the one to put that there- the message Lestrade had mentioned back at the flat. It merely said: RACHE.
John's face twisted up in sadness and he let out a breath of something akin to grief. He gripped my shoulder and glanced at me warily. He didn't say anything, but his eyes were clearly asking if I was okay. The odd thing was... I was fine.
It made no sense. Here was my brother, who had seen more death and violence than anyone should. He clearly felt a certain level of anguish at the sight before us. However, I felt nothing but sheer curiosity within me. What was that message supposed to mean? How was it she was the fourth person to commit suicide in this fashion? How did she even die? I wasn't the doctor here, my brother was, but I was going to assume overdose.
I forced all the insistent questions in my mind to calm down enough for me to give John a tight nod. I forced a grimace to my face in an attempt to show him I was feeling something like him. This wasn't the first time I didn't want my brother to realize how far from normal I could be. I never knew how I'd react to seeing a dead body, but I know for sure I wasn't expecting to feel... nothing.
Sherlock stared down at the body, his brilliant green eyes flicking over it with the intensity and accuracy of a lizard examining a bug. It wasn't so much that he was looking at the woman's motionless form like he wanted to eat it, but there certainly was something akin to hunger in his expression. Hunger for information, I was willing to bet. He lifted a hand and aimed it at her, as if trying to pull information from her by sheer will.
Then, without warning, he whipped his head around and snapped abruptly at Lestrade. "Shut up."
Lestrade was clearly startled. "I didn't say anything!" he insisted.
"You're thinking; it's annoying," Sherlock muttered, looking back at the body.
Lestrade, John, and I all shared a surprised look, all of us with our brows raised. Sherlock stepped slowly forward to the side of the woman's corpse. His gaze locked onto the woman's scratched message in the floorboards. I too stared at it, trying to force it to make sense. I saw Sherlock give a small shake of his head, as if dismissing something. He was surely thinking of possible meanings.
I took a small, tentative step forward. My socked feet allowed my movement to be silent as a whisper. Rache... What in the world could that—oh. I saw that the E was barely finished. Her hand was closest to the last letter. She wanted to put more.
Okay, so she was left handed... she wanted to put more, but no normal words started with the letters she'd put. Unless it wasn't a word she was trying to carve. A name? Rachel?
Sherlock squatted down beside the woman and ran his gloved fingers along the back of her pink coat. He lifted his hand and I saw the light reflect oddly off his fingertips. It seemed there was moisture on the woman's coat. Had the woman gone through the rain? The detective then searched her coat pockets with a level of delicacy that would be highly beneficial to any artist. From a pocket he pulled a white folding umbrella. He runs his fingers over its folds and frowns.
The umbrella is dry, I realized. Why would someone who cares so deeply for her appearance run through the rain when she had an umbrella?
I inched closer. It seemed Lestrade and John were both too engrossed with Sherlock to notice me. I slowly made my way around to be closer to the woman's head. I kept about a meter back to give Sherlock plenty of space. I crouched down, hugging my knees to my chest and balancing on my toes as I watched the detective work.
Sherlock replaced the umbrella into her pocket and then swiped his fingers under the collar of her coat. They gleamed when he removed them. More moisture. She'd turned her collar up against the rain rather than go for her umbrella.
The detective dug a hand into his own pocket and produced a small magnifier. He clicked it open and leaned down toward the woman's left wrist to inspect the gold bracelet there. I tilted my head. Why was her jewelry important? She was clearly a woman with expensive taste... I watched as Sherlock moved to look at a gold earring on her left ear and a gold chain around her neck.
However, when Sherlock moved to the rings on her left hand, he paused. He began to blink rapidly and his forehead wrinkled a touch. He found something different- something of note. With prudent precision, he reached down and worked off the wedding ring. It was gold, like the rest of her jewelry. Sherlock tilted it before his magnifier with a frown.
My brow furrowed as I tried to figure out what was so important about the ring. Sherlock had proved that if someone was just observant enough, they could yield all the information they needed. So what information was that ring giving him?
Suddenly, a small, victorious smile captured Sherlock's lips. He slipped the ring back on the woman's finger and he got to his feet.
"Got anything?" Lestrade asked hopefully.
"Not much," Sherlock confessed casually.
"She's German." Anderson had followed us up. He stood in the doorway now and pointed toward the carved message in the floor. "Rache, it means revenge in German. Perhaps she was—"
"Yes, thank you!" Sherlock sang as he strode over and slammed the door in Anderson's face.
I shook my head and looked down at the message near my toes. "Not likely," I said. "I think she was trying to write 'Rachel.'"
Sherlock paused and turned to stare down at me. "Yes. I think so too," he murmured.
"It's not very flattering that you look so surprised," I told him. "Other people are capable of intelligent thought."
"Yes, but not often," Sherlock sighed. He pulled out his phone and began to type away on it.
"So she's not German?" Lestrade queried.
"Of course not," Sherlock said. "But she is from out of town. She only intended to stay in London for one night."
The image of him pulling off the woman's ring flashed in my mind.
"That's why you were looking at the ring," I murmured. "She's a harpy. Er... was a harpy..."
"You're certainly on point, Max," Sherlock muttered. He grinned a bit at his mobile. "Yes, she was going to have a delightful time with a man that wasn't her husband before heading back home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."
"I'm sorry—obvious?" John echoed.
"What about the message though?" Lestrade pressed.
"Doctor Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock asked John, electing to ignore the questions.
"About the message?" John appeared confused.
"About the body," Sherlock clarified. "You're a medical man."
"Wait- no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade said.
"They won't work with me," Sherlock reminded him.
"I'm breaking every rule by letting you in here," Lestrade said.
"Yes... because you need me." Sherlock held the Detective Inspector's gaze unflinchingly.
Lestrade stared back for a heartbeat or two before he sighed in defeat and glanced away. "Yes, I do. God help me."
"Doctor Watson," Sherlock prompted.
"Hm?" John had been staring at the body. He lifted his head and glanced toward Lestrade, a silent question in his eyes.
"Oh, do as he says," Lestrade grunted. He headed to the door and opened it. As he walked outside, I heard him say, "Anderson, keep everyone out for a few minutes."
Once the door closed behind Lestrade, John limped forward to get a closer look at the body. He lowered himself down, his expression flooding with pain as he did so. He gripped his cane for support with one hand.
Sherlock knelt down on the woman's other side as I inched closer to her head.
"Well?" Sherlock asked John.
"What am I doing here?" John demanded. "What is Maddie doing here? You've put her in a state of shock—she can't even show her emotions properly about this!"
"I'm fine," I assured my brother.
He cast me a doubtful look. "I told you this wasn't going to be like your stories."
"She's telling the truth," Sherlock said. "She's fine. Now, what can you tell me? You're here to help me prove a point."
"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," John said.
"Yeah, well, this is more fun," Sherlock replied.
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." John looked both bewildered and offended. He glanced at me. "Maddie, do you need to step outside?"
I blinked in confusion and met his gaze. "No?" The word ended up coming out like a question. I didn't understand why John thought I would need to leave the room.
My brother stared at me for a few more heartbeats. His brow was furrowed as if he were trying to work out an equation. Then, he shook his head and focused on the corpse before him. John shifted his bad leg with a grimace to get in a better position and reached down to gently take up the woman's right hand. His eyes scanned her pallid flesh for a moment then he delicately placed her hand back down.
"Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably," John said. "Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."
Sherlock cocked his head and stared at my brother. "You know what it was. You've read the papers."
John blinked. "What—she's one of the suicides? The fourth...?"
"That's what he said before Lestrade barged into the flat," I said. I then looked up to see Lestrade was in the doorway, leaning there with one brow raised. "Oh. Hello Detective Inspector," I greeted him with a small wave.
Lestrade shook his head at me and instead spoke to Sherlock. "Sherlock—two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."
Sherlock got to his feet and faced Lestrade while John struggled to straighten. I nearly came to his aid, but the moment I stood up, my brother shot me a stern look. I cleared my throat awkwardly and focused on Sherlock.
"Victim is in her late thirties," Sherlock told Lestrade. "Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink... Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase.
Lestrade blinked. "Suitcase?"
I exchanged a confused look with John. He shrugged. Seems he hadn't seen a suitcase either.
"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock went on without skipping a beat. "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, you're just making this up," Lestrade accused.
"Oooh," I said, eyes widening with realization. "That's why you were looking at her ring. The rest of her jewelry is clean and the ring isn't, right?"
Sherlock turned to face me, head tilted. "Yes, unless you look at the inside of it... Quite astute of you, Max." He pointed down at the woman. "The ring is at least ten years old. As Max said, the rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. 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 ring 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."
I had initially felt proud I noticed something that Sherlock had about the ring, but the clearly not nearly as much as he did. I deflated and stared down at the woman's left hand. How was it he could notice everything?
"That's brilliant," John said, blinking with astonishment.
Sherlock shot him a small look that was rather difficult to place the mood of. Part of me found it to be pleased but another seemed annoyed.
"Sorry," John muttered, looking at the floor.
"Cardiff?" Lestrade said. I was surprised that was the first thing he wanted to question.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.
"It's not obvious to me," John confessed.
Sherlock looked between us. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."
"Is it because it recently rained and there were high winds in Cardiff?" I queried.
Sherlock fixed his green eyes on me, brows raising. "Yes. Yes that's right. Care to explain for our company?" He gestured toward my brother and Lestrade.
I shrugged and stepped forward. "When Sherlock was looking at her, I saw the light on his fingertips. Uh- see, latex reflects dampness quite obviously... So I could tell when he found moisture on... on Mrs. Wilson." It was strange calling the dead woman by her name. It made her more real. That didn't make me too comfortable. I waved a hand toward her body. "The back of her coat is wet, so is the fabric under her collar. She has a umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry. She's dressed far too nicely to have gone willingly through a downpour without using her umbrella... so there had to have been wind that was too strong to allow her to use it."
Sherlock took a small step back from me and stared with eyes that were both impressed and confused.
"Yes," he said. "Max, you're proving to be quite useful." He looked over at Lestrade again. "The victim's suitcase tells us that she packed enough for an overnight stay, so she must be coming from afar, but not too far because her coat would have dried, so that helped narrow my search. Within a two to three hour radius, where have there been rain and strong winds?" He showed his mobile to Lestrade. "Cardiff."
"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed.
Sherlock turned to him. "Do you know you do that out loud?"
"Sorry," John said. "I'll shut up."
"No, it's... fine." Sherlock seemed to be a touch confused for a moment. I could guess he wasn't used to compliments. Part of me could understand why not, but on the other hand I couldn't fathom it. Sherlock was clearly brilliant. He wasn't exactly smooth with socialization, but part of me had a feeling that was because he didn't want to waste energy on people who treated him like dirt. Not to mention, I knew how it was to be disinterested with average conversation.
"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock snapped back to attention and spun to examine the room. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."
"You're sure she was writing 'Rachel?'" Lestrade pressed.
"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?" Sherlock pressed a hand to his chin.
"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade said.
Sherlock pointed down at the woman's body, specifically at her legs. "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," he explained irritably. "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 the night."
The detective went to the corpse and squatted down at her side. He examined her leg more closely, narrowing his eyes.
"Now where is it?" Sherlock demanded. "What have you done with it?"
"There wasn't a case," Lestrade told him.
Sherlock slowly lifted his head and frowned at the Detective Inspector. "Say that again."
"There wasn't a case," Lestrade insisted. "There was never any suitcase."
With abrupt intensity, Sherlock hopped to his feet and strode to the door. "Suitcase!" he called as he left the room and began heading down the stairs. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"
"Sherlock!" Lestrade was clearly exacerbated. "There was no case!"
John and I followed the Detective Inspector out of the room and we looked over the railing at Sherlock who was still heading downstairs. He slowed a bit, his face struck with concentration.
"But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them."
"Right, yeah, thanks—and?" Lestrade demanded.
"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings- serial killings." Sherlock had stopped now on the landing below us. He held up his hands in front of his face and beamed with delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those- there's always something to look forward to."
"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock waved him off dismissively. "Her case!" he insisted. "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case." His voice suddenly lowered and his eyes glassed over as they fell on the wall before him. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case in the car..."
"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," John suggested.
"No, she never got to the hotel," Sherlock said, facing us again. "Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking... " He trailed off and his eyes grew foggy again. He stared at nothing in particular for a few heartbeats, then he stiffened. "Oh," he breathed. He clapped his hands together and gave a small jump of delight. "Oh!"
"Sherlock?" John pressed.
"What is it, what?" Lestrade demanded.
Sherlock was beaming again. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."
"We can't just wait!" Lestrade said.
"Oh we're done waiting!" Sherlock exclaimed and began 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 reached the bottom of the steps and vanished from view.
"Of course yeah- but what mistake?" Lestrade bellowed after him.
Sherlock appeared again, gripping the railing of the stairs. "PINK!" he shouted, and then he was gone again.
Lestrade shook his head, clearly confused. He turned and began to head back into the room. Anderson and a few other people in coveralls came up the steps after him.
"Let's get on with it," Anderson muttered as he passed us.
I looked over at John and shrugged. "Well, this was... interesting."
John exhaled heavily through his mouth and nodded. Together, we began to head down the stairs.
Once we ditched the coveralls and got our coats, (and in my case my shoes and scarf), we headed back outside. The night was even more complete now, and with it came a biting chill. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I stretched my hands up and folded them behind my head.
"Not what I expected," I admitted.
"Seeing your first dead body never is," John muttered. He glanced at me. "You... you really were okay." He stated it as fact, not a question.
I wasn't sure why I was embarrassed about his baffled look. "Yeah. I mean... she was gone. A shell. No use fixating on it; her killer is still on the loose. That's what needs attention."
"I suppose so," John sighed and nodded. "I guess... I'm not used to you being so... grown up."
"I'm twenty-seven."
"Still."
He laughed as I smiled a little and made our way toward the police tape. Donovan was standing where we originally met her. She spotted us approaching and and gave a small nod.
"He's gone," she said.
"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" John clarified.
"Yeah, he just took off. He does that," Donovan replied.
"Oh. I guess we'll have to..." I looked around. "I know he said Brixton, but... where can we get a cab?" I couldn't help but make a small glance at John's leg before I added, "I'm not a hug fan of walking for miles."
"She means to say my leg won't let us walk for miles." John elbowed me.
"I was trying to be sly," I told him.
"You're horrid at it," John retorted.
Donovan actually smiled a bit in amusement. "Try the main road," she said, gesturing down the road we were currently on before lifting the tape for us.
"Thanks," John said as we ducked under.
"But you two aren't his friends," Donovan said suddenly, forcing us to look back at her. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"
John and I looked at one another before my brother shrugged. "We're... we're no one. We just met him."
"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy." Donovan's dark gaze was piercing and darted between my brother and me.
"Why?" I asked.
"You know why he's here?" Donovan placed on hand on her hip. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."
I raised my brows and opened my mouth, but John gripped my shoulder firmly.
"Why would he do that?" he asked.
"Because he's a psychopath," Donovan answered simply. "And psychopaths get bored."
"Donovan!" Lestrade's voice came echoing from the building's entrance.
"Coming!" Donovan called back and began to walk back toward the door. She glanced back once and said, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." Then she turned away and kept on going.
John and I watched her for a few more moments before I shook my head and began to lead the way up the road.
Psychopaths get bored.
Donovan's words were a bit more haunting than I liked. I always knew I was... different. Sometimes I felt wrong. But a psychopath...
"She might have a point," John suddenly said. "He is... well..."
"Sherlock is... different," I said, "but he isn't a killer."
"What makes you so sure?" John asked.
"Because he..." I began. He's like me, I thought.
It was true. Sherlock wasn't appreciative of the company of other people; he clearly found the majority of the population dull and listless. He had to find common living lacking of any color- he had to find any 9-5 jobs mundane and monotonous. Anything normal- anything typical or predictable- all it did was drain his energy. It made him crave something more, and that craving wasn't something easily sated.
My boredom had been with me ever since I could remember. As I aged, I found that every time I managed to find something to sate that boredom, after a while it too became boring. It was like taking medication for too long and building up an immunity. I had to find something more interesting than the last; something more daring- something more... risky.
My latest journey was going to Japan with nothing but one backpack and my sketchbook. I'd made it work, and living there and making my manga was enough to keep me pacified for two years. Drawing was the only thing that was a constant in my line of things I did with my life. It seems that my attention to detail could come in handy with my new... hobby.
Sherlock Holmes... he had found his medication. Perhaps it could be my medicine too.
"Maddie?" John prompted.
I shook my head. "Sherlock isn't a killer," I repeated. "I'm good at reading people, you know that."
John glanced at me for a moment. "You... you actually find this fun."
"You don't?" I wriggled my brows at him.
John sighed. "Let's just find a cab, shall we?"
I smiled and nodded. One thing was for certain: I wasn't going to be bored for a while.