TheDarkestShinobi: Sorry, no John in this one, but Sherlock's deductions take so much space, enjoy. I can't take credit for coming up with these crimes, they are Ted Derker's.

Start:

A rectangular room, a 5 meter by 12 meter

Sherlock stands at the door, as he observes. Lastrades men have been in here too long, they've disturbed the dust. The interior was dimly lit, the floor was wood and the roof was tin. More light came in from cracks in the roof. It had been abandoned a long time.

There was a shovel and a pitchfork against the far wall that hadn't been touched yet, and he walked over to it slowly. He crouched, careful not to remove anything. The dust around it is settled, thick; hasn't been moved in years.

"We can't figure out how he used them, but we're going to scan them for fingerprints."

"Brilliant." Sherlock said as he stood, his coat sending dust flying.

"Really?" Anderson asked, skeptically.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock pulled out his phone while walking away "brilliant waste of resources and time. You'll find nothing; they both haven't been touched in years."

A single window with dirty, tinted panes, crowded by cobwebs

He stayed long, but not long enough to get stifled by the heat. No more than a day. He was an expert at this then, should be, it's his third kill. Food cans in the corner, made to look like he would be back, he wouldn't. He hadn't come back.

Sherlock finally came to rest in front of the dead woman. Her body was glued to the wall, single line of glue' he didn't want to ruin her skin. She was right handed. Married, happily, by the indent in her left ring finger, but the killer didn't like that she was married, or else it wouldn't have been removed. Long hair, but with the ridges suggesting it was always pulled back. He softly opened her hands fully. Strain from writing and being on the computer, didn't seem like pleasure, so she worked in an office. He pulled back her finger to expose her nail, pencil dust, so a mathematical profession.

Her nude torso had a pale glow in the single light shaft, almost heavenly. Her tan was natural. That skin tone and the curves of her face and body, she was some sort of Spanish, maybe Hispanic. He stopped moving, letting his mind race. Both arms stretched out on either side, like a sacrifice. Her posture, protruding. He left his head shift from left to right. Aztec, no, Mayan, similar, no, no, this was art. The killer was so careful; everything had to be so perfect. Venus de Milo, no, Winged Victory, but this wasn't made to be like a ship. This was elegant, a sacrifice, a thousand different renditions of the crucifixion ran through his mind, yes. The killer was Christian. Most of her weight was supported on dowels under her armpits, which were very carefully shaven. Her heels were brought together at the heel and angled away to form a V.

There was a white veil of translucent lace carefully arranged to cover her face. She was a bride. Explains why he took off her wedding band, a bride of Christ perhaps. He let his index and middle trail down her face and side as his eyes remained closed. She was smooth, almost too smooth to be real, and soft, he could feel muscle around her abdominal, and her biceps were tougher than most. This was an athlete as well.

He took a step back, the killer was careful, oh so careful to make sure everything was symmetric in the placement of her body, everything except for her head. It slumped gently to the left, eyes closed. No pain, no suffering and no blood. He didn't want to know he killed her.

"She's beautiful." Donavan said behind him. He closed his eyes and sniffed.

"Have any of you eaten?" He asked the whole and received many sounds of negativity. "The killer had baked beans, out of a can."

"How-"

"Sniff, metallic, also beans, but the beans don't smell fresh, very salty." He paused "You won't find a can though; he wouldn't be stupid enough to leave anything behind."

He turned to the worktable. It watched the killer take this woman's life, what could it tell him?

"He brought her in here, killed her right here." No scuffs, the table didn't move from where it was. "No struggle. He didn't want her to feel pain." Sherlock took two steps back raising his hands to his head. "He kept her on the edge, sedated, yet conscious. She was fully aware when he numbed her heels and drilled into them." He narrowed his eyes. "He drilled into her on the table."

"There's no blood." Lastrade said and Sherlock turned away.

"There's no blood anywhere. Now he reseals the wound and brings her up here, and holds her up long enough for the glue to hold. He is delicate, oh so delicate. He reopened the wounds and watched her, spoke to her even, told her why."

The how was the simple part. He rested his chin in the crevasse between his thumbs and forefingers.

"But why? He is so careful, so delicate. He's precise in his takings. Christian Sacrifice, the brides of Christ, four of them now. But even then, all this was unnecessary, why put in so much care for these women? He shaved them, moisturized them, he made sure they were perfect. There is something, something I'm missing something big."

He lets out a long low groan.

"Oh, oh you," He smiles and he lowers his hands and walks up to the bride. "You love them. Oh you love each and every one of these women." He lifts her peaceful face. "You have to, you can't bear to see them in pain, but you have to send them to Christ." He talks to her now. "Oh you, he needs to make you understand why you're being sacrificed, that's why he keeps you conscience."

He turns to see the other two with open eyes and explains, in painfully obvious details how he knows and they take his word as they always do.

"Seven, detective inspector, I think this man has the seven women he wants to sacrifice already picked out."

"Seven?" Donavan asks and Sherlock nodded.

"It's a symbolic number to that religion."

End