A/N: Really people, you can favorite and follow but not review? Now that's just plain mean. Come on, now. Without feedback there is no point in going through the trouble to post on this site. If you are at all interested in the story, review. Please. Thank you.
Chapter Three
Sherlock inhaled a slow, deep breath of damp air. There was nothing special or specific about the location, chosen only for it's proximity to the busy causeway, ensuring that the victim would be found quickly. The concrete was wet and cracked under their feet, weeds growing stubbornly from between the crevices. A distant hum of steady traffic permeated the background, but the sound hadn't bothered her.
The pale touch of death had grasped tightly to the corpse, rendering her more perfect than surely she had ever looked alive. Someone, whoever had deposited her here so courteously, had cleansed her of all the grime, all the flaws that daily activity would have inflicted upon her. Her hair was freshly brushed, combed meticulously, until every individual strand lay perfectly, just the way the killer intended. Her hands and feet were clean, scrubbed and even filed, no lines from uncomfortable heels or traces of cotton fibers from her socks or gloves. Her makeup was matte and immaculate, applied for her after death, as there was no trace of oil shine or signs of her fingers touching her face after her application. No woman alive kept their makeup that perfect, there were always smudges of fingers brushing against the face, or extra shine in the hair, from where it picked up oil from the skin.
She lay straight, with hands draped serenely over her abdomen, obviously placed very deliberately and carefully. Her body was stark naked, minus the elegant, deep purple silk ribbon tied around her pretty throat. Someone had gone through great trouble to position her this way.
"John?" He asked, not bothering to take his eyes from the body. A head of sandy colored hair entered his view as John kneeled down, gently prodding and examining. Sherlock waited patiently while he formed his assessment.
"No signs of physical trauma, no wounds that I can see. Probably drugged or poisoned. Dead nearly twelve hours, by the signs of rigor." John said, still crouched in front of him. His evaluation was quick and professional, another trait that he had acquired from his military service that Sherlock admired and appreciated.
Lastrade stood on the other side of the body, watching Sherlock and waiting, rocking back and forth slightly, his hands in his coat pockets. His gaunt face and shadowed eyes suggested that he hadn't gotten more than six hours of sleep. The way he pressed his palm into his abdomen suggested that he hadn't yet eaten breakfast, but he had had coffee judging by the stain on his tie. Sherlock knew that he was in no mood to mince words this morning, so he kept it quick.
"Her killer either knew her or took her when her guard was down, sleeping or otherwise occupied and unaware of her presence. The lack of struggle or visible cause of death suggests that she is uncomfortable with the hands on approach, which is appropriate considering the most likely cause of death was some type of poison or drug. She was stripped after the deed was done, and cleaned up nicely, the killer even applied her makeup, before placing her here for the world to see. Exposed."
"What makes you think the killer was a woman?" Lastrade asked, his tired eyes watching Sherlock intently. John had stood, stepping away from the corpse and averting his eyes now that his work was done. Always the gentleman.
"The way she was killed, kindly instead of violent, poison or a sedative, usually a womans preferred method. There is no sign of sexual contact, another hint that the killer is female, or at least not attracted to women. Her make up was done very well, also suggesting that whoever applied it was a women. Men usually do not have the skill or practice required to apply makeup like this. The question, which should be obvious, is what is the purpose of the silk?" He drifted off, studying the dainty piece of cloth wrapped around her neck.
John and Lastrade were silent as they observed him bend his knees, holding his coat out of the way with one hand so that he could examine it more closely.
"Gloves." he ordered, holding a hand up expectantly without taking his eyes off of the ribbon. He heard John sigh before turning to fetch a pair of gloves from some police individuals nearby.
Purple silk, why purple silk? And why around her neck? It must mean something, something personal about the killer or something personal about the victim. She wouldn't go through all this trouble to make her look just this way without there being a particular meaning behind it… so why purple silk?
His hand was still waiting expectantly when John placed the gloves in his palm. He pulled his fingers through the rubber distastefully, snapping them into place before gently examining the knot. It was professionally cut, with no label that Sherlock could see. He rubbed the smooth fabric through his fingers, familiarizing himself with the feel of it.
"Well if you're both finished here?" Lastrade inquired, sighing with fatigue. Sherlock stood slowly, but didn't bother to reply.
"Yes, I think we are. Thank you, detective." John answered, courteously.
"I'll call you if we get another one." Lastrade said, waving the rest of his team over to complete their work.
"You two lovebirds have a good day!" Sally yelled as they strode away.
"What do you think?" John asked him as they walked back towards the main street to catch a cab.
"I think this is going to be interesting." Sherlock answered simply, smiling to himself as they walked.
"Interesting? Looking at naked, dead women is interesting to you is it?" John muttered, without any real crossness. Sherlock merely barked out a quick laugh.
"Fancy stopping for a cup of coffee?" John inquired as they reached the main street.
"No. I hate stopping at that vile little coffee shop. That sludge is dreadful, and the little man at the counter always stares at me." He said, aware but unconcerned with the haughty tone in his own voice.
"Yes well it's better than nothing." John argued, watching as Sherlock hailed a cabbie.
"If you're on your way out of the house and in a hurry, yes. But not when you're on your way home. I know for a fact that you, my dear John, can make a more acceptable brew at home. You can make us some there. Ah look, here we go." He finished, pulling the cab door open before the vehicle even came to a complete stop.
True to from, John busied himself with the pot as soon as they walked into the flat. Ignoring him, Sherlock pulled off his scarf and coat, draping them absently over the metal hook just inside the door. He collapsed on the couch, bringing his fingers together in front of him, pressing them to his mouth as he ran through the crime scene in his head.
The purple silk… clean skin, filed finger and toenails to perfection, the purple silk, the make up, the direct placement of her hands, her nudity, the purple silk… He was missing something… but what? The damn purple silk…
"Coffee?" John asked, holding the cup inches away from Sherlock arm. Sherlock swatted his arm in his general direction wordlessly. How could John think of coffee at a time like this? Someone was trying to send a message, a message hidden in a dark knot of silk, but what was the message? What was the significance? Certainly there was a significance. She was clean, plain. Nothing notable, except for that knot around her neck. Like washing a canvas before applying the paint…
"... shouldn't be back too late, by any note." John's voice stirred in him, halting his thoughts like the snap of a rubber band.
"What?" He quipped, sitting up suddenly, his attention focused on his flatmate. John was squirming, his eyes darting down at his cup, his usually stiff military posture somewhat wavering. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"I said, I'll be going out again tonight, but I shouldn't be back too late." He repeatedly strongly, steeling himself.
"You can't be serious. I require your assistance here, John. There is work to be done." He said, never taking his eyes off of his roommate.
"You don't need me for this Sherlock, and you'll be fine without me for a few hours at any rate." John said, holding his ground.
"No no no, I need you here. You know I work better when I talk aloud. I need your input." He insisted, unhappy with the way that John was shaking his head.
"You mean you want me to listen to you mutter nonsense under the pretense of assisting. Talk to your skull. I won't be out long."
"The skull doesn't talk back John! I need you here!"
"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock. You don't need me. I am going. You'll be fine."
"Why are you so determined to go out?" Sherlock nearly yelled, his voice growing louder to match his increasing frustration.
"Companionship, Sherlock!" John yelled back, flustered and finally letting his temper show. Without giving him a reprieve, Sherlock pushed harder.
"That's what you've got me for!"
"WelI don't get off with you, do I!"
Sherlock paused, frowning, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at John. John, whose nostrils were flaring with his embarrassed indignation. The marvelous flush of his cheeks were a telltale, he hadn't meant to let that last part slip out. Suddenly the redness of his skin, his uncomfortable figiting, his hedging reluctance to discuss any romantic situation with Sherlock, all took on a new meaning.
So John wanted to get off, did he? Was that all this was about, his need for sex? The one piece of a relationship that he wasn't receiving from Sherlock? Isn't that what a relationship was, conversation, spending copious amounts of time with one another, enjoying the company of that select person? He did and felt these things with John, more than any other person on the planet. That was enough for him.
But was it enough for John? No, obviously not, if he was so inclined to spend time with someone who was not Sherlock. John needed a relationship that included sexual contact as well, which Sherlock couldn't give him.
Or could he? No. He banished the thought immediately. But what if…? He looked at John, who was still quite red in the face and huffing uncomfortably. Did Sherlock even find him attractive? Well, yes, he supposed. He was rather dull, but so was everyone.
But no, that wasn't quite true either, was it? John was not dull at all. Perhaps a little slow intellectually, but never dull. He was, unfailingly loyal, and more devoted to Sherlock than he really deserved. Perhaps more devoted than was normal. Could it be? Could it be possible, and for him to have never noticed before?
He looked more closely at John, who was frowning at him now. The tiny beads of sweat at his temple, the way he brushed imaginary dirt off of his knee, his lower lip protruding only just a bit… The way he attended to Sherlock on a daily basis, cooked for him, cleaned up after him, took care of him without ever asking anything in return. His subtle shyness, his eagerness to help, his unwavering, if unconscious, affection.
Yes, it was quite possible. Quite probable, in fact. Now who was the dull one!
"Yes well, I'll uh, I'll be off then." He said, clearing his throat as he stood. Unable to speak through the depth of his sudden realization, Sherlock didn't react. He let him walk away, unhindered and oblivious.
