Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, Light Bad Language

Authors Notes: I'm so glad I've got this all written up. I can post after editing straight away, it all good! I little more bromance in this chapter.

Please enjoy & review.

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Chapter Three: The Science of Deduction

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As Watson fumbled with his kit into the departmental car, he nearly broke his foot dropping it when Holmes voice came from a blind spot.

"Heading for the departmental labs? Capital! You can drive me to the station."

"Holmes!" Watson hastily shoved the case into the boot. "Do you mind?"

The man just looked pleased. "My apologies, Doctor. I didn't mean to startle you."

Watson had his doubts about that. Holmes had a strange sense of humour; that was clear. Nothing would be gained by pursuing it, though. "Which station?"

"The closest one. It's only a few minutes away."

Watson sighed. "Hop in." He invited.

Watson took a moment to affix the spinner knob to the steering wheel; he didn't like the thing, but it let him drive one handed until his shoulder was stronger.

They were silent until Watson steered the car onto the road proper.

"You want to know how I knew all those details about the killer," Holmes sardonic and deeply amused observation nearly made Watson swerve.

"Good grief," Watson swore. "Keep plucking the thoughts out of my head and I am going to have to give credence to the wild theory that you are some sort of psychic."

Holmes laughed out loud. "It's lucky you say such a thing so innocently, my good doctor, otherwise I would take mortal offense."

Watson flushed. It hadn't been what he had meant to say; simply what had been surprised out of him. It was strange have his thoughts pop out of someone else's mouth. "So, if there is nothing supernatural at work here, where did all those details come from? How could you know it was an American, in a city full of British people, tall, small feet, florid face and fit? All those things. I can't see how you could possibly know all those details, unless you witnessed the big event yourself."

Holmes shook his head in mock-despair. "Ah, Doctor, you were doing so well up to now. All those things are simplicity itself, once the proper logic has been applied." He spoke with a lofty air.

Watson was more amused with the insult than annoyed. He had a distinct feeling that this was an act; a well cultivated act, but still an act. The man was highly intelligent; and highly intelligent people, Watson knew, loved to explain themselves.

"I admit to my limits," Watson replied cheerfully. "As long as you don't keep me in suspense. Do that, and you walk!"

Holmes lit up a cigarette with the same lack of courtesy as he did everything else. "Who can argue with such terms?" he implored the air dramatically. "Very well. Height is childishly simple; you can measure it by a man's stride, and I had several distinct footprints to work from. Foot size was clearly disproportional to the stride. The boots the man wore were hiking boots of the hard core variety, well worn; quite different from the victim's shoes, might I add. He lived more outdoors than in. The killer was brought here in a taxi with his victim, whom by the look of his stride was falling down drunk..."

"Bloodshot eyes..." Watson murmured.

Holmes shot him a disgruntled look, indicating he did not like interruptions in his soliloquy. "Yes, I did notice. The killer was taller than his victim and was forced to support the drunken man part of the walk; Drebber is no lightweight, but there are no indications that the killer faltered or even was slowed by Drebber's not inconsiderable weight; so, fit, healthy, and not yet past middle age. The cigar ash was barely worth a look; I have written many a thesis on the varieties of cigar and cigarette ash. Five Star, and a patriotic American's brand, there is no question."

"Just because he smokes American cigars doesn't mean he's from across the Pond," Watson pointed out, deliberately oblivious to his companions annoyed glare. "US culture is insidious. And that still doesn't explain the frugal habits, the bad nails or the florid face."

Holmes huffed out a breath. "Patience, Watson, patience. The frugal habits are quite clear from his boots; well worn, he does not replace them often, even though his lifestyle would certainly recommend it. So he most likely follows this line in his clothing as well. The nail marks are quite clear from his writing on the wall."

"You barely glanced at the wall, and you noticed that?" Watson exclaimed.

"I notice more with one glance than many would see in years of study," Holmes snapped, somehow managing not to put a trace of puffed up self-importance in the statement. "If I may be allowed to finish?"

Watson suppressed a snicker. "Apologies, do go on. The florid face? I really would like an explanation for that one."

Holmes sent him another searching look, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion that he was being wound up. "Yes, well...that should be perfectly clear even to a five year old. Once we have established there was no fight and that the blood was the killers and not the victim's, we must ask ourselves, what kind of man would have a nose bleed at the moment of murder? Someone supremely unlucky? No, luck plays no role in a logical universe. Much more likely; the man has very high blood pressure, high enough to trigger bleeding with a moment of stress or adrenaline; hence, his complexion is most likely florid. And he's American. Lestrade, if only by accident, was indeed correct. This was indeed a crime of passion. The killer wanted his victim to die in incredible agony, he wanted to watch him die; that makes this deeply personal. Passionate, but planned; he lured his victim into a secluded spot, and hemotoxin is not easy to come by – perhaps a long term hatred, then. Drebber only entered the country a few weeks ago, according to his passport. This was longer than that. Passion had cooled into iron resolve. Drebber knew his killer quite well, a long time ago."

Watson was impressed. "That's amazing. I mean, you are right, it's all absurdly simple once you explain it...but you were there for twenty minutes and you practically had the man's name!"

"Spare me the saccharine flattery," Holmes snorted, though there was something preening in his body language.

"This is what you do? Tell the police their job?" Watson asked, grinning at his companion's transparent pleasure.

Holmes sighed theatrically. "We all have our crosses."

Watson snickered.

Holmes shot Watson a sideways glance. "Hollow point." He said abruptly.

"Hmmmm?"

"Your shoulder. Hollow point bullet. It's a fairly common bullet across Afghanistan at the moment," Holmes added. "It's the way you hold your shoulder and arm."

Watson felt the amusement drain out of him. "I suppose. I wasn't thinking of the calibre when it hit me. How did you..."

Holmes kept watching. "The tan. The calluses on your hands, the brace. You move like a soldier, but you weren't trained by the army to be a doctor. And you are a doctor, not a pathologist. You only have a mild interest in forensics. You referred to Drebber as a patient, not as a victim or a body."

Watson grimaced. He wasn't entire sure he like being dissected and read like a book.

"Is that it?" he asked, nodding towards the Underground entrance.

"Hmm? Oh yes, the station. Much obliged, doctor," Holmes made to rise from the car. He paused. "If I have...offended you in any way, I apologise. I tend to study things that interest me."

Watson supposed he could accept the awkward overture as it was meant. "No offense taken," he replied.

Holmes' raised eyebrow suggested the man did not entirely believe him. "So, when do you think you'd have a report ready on our Mr Drebber?"

Watson raised an eyebrow back at Holmes. "I suppose...sometime after transcribing my notes but before I hit print."

Holmes stared at him. Then his strange bark of laughter jumped from his chest, and he closed the door behind him.

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Watson limped to his room door; it had been a long day. Drebber's autopsy had taken time, Nokey's almost morbid interest in the horrific internal damage and his insistence on full lab workups had Watson standing on his bad leg longer than was strictly recommended. He'd worked full overtime, and had barely had time enough to say an adequate goodbye and thank you to Stamford; after all that had happened today, he'd more or less forgotten the man was leaving.

What he really wanted right now, he thought, was a shower and a good meal. He'd had a shower at the labs, but he never truly felt clean until he was out of that building and had washed in his own room.

He slipped his key card into it's slot and opened the door. Manoeuvring inside, he was forced to do an awkward pivot on his bad leg in order to get the door closed in the narrow entrance. He really needed to get a place. This hotel room was a terrible place to stay for someone with his injuries. If it wasn't awkward, jutting furniture, it was the rumble of the Underground beneath that never failed to induce a nightmare containing heavy ordinance. He wondered if it was worth his while to go out for din...

Some instincts just never die.

Watson dropped his cane, reached for his back holster and spun to face his apartment. He couldn't raise the gun in a proper two handed grip without setting off the pain in his shoulder, so he compromised with one hand, using the other against the wall to steady his balance without the cane. The hairs on his neck were still prickling as he reached the sitting room and...

"Relax, my good Watson, of all the intruders that may break into your barracks, I would mean the least harm."

"Holmes?" Watson stared over the sights at the eccentric man, quite at home reading the paper at his, Watson's, writing table. For a moment he just stared.

"Can you possibly put the gun down?" Holmes asked plaintively. "I promise I have no designs on your body, your possessions or your unmentionables. I know you are a suave lady-charmer of the world, but I'm afraid you simply can't have it all."

Watson spluttered as he slid the safety and lowered his weapon. "Holmes, what the hell are you doing in my room?"

Holmes waved the paper. "Looking for accommodations before my squalid lodging on Montague Street burns to the ground."

"I mean," Watson ground out as he limped forward to the other chair. "How did you get in here?"

"Oh that," Holmes waved an airy hand. "I scaled the opposing building and rigged a pulley system to the air conditioning unit. It was a little hair raising for moment whilst I scaled across but quite within the realms of the possible. After that, it was a rather simple matter of scaling down to your balcony and picking the door lock; good for you, by the way, not many people remember to do that."

Watson's jaw dropped open. "You...you could have ended a red stain on the pavement! Are you mad?" He sank into the chair.

Holmes shrugged. "I was perfectly safe; most of the time, anyway. A murderer in the West End did a remarkably similar trick in order to make his victim look like a suicide; now that I can prove it's within the realms of the possible, and that the killer would have left quite distinctive scuff marks on the window sidings as he climbed down, we may just have a case. It is a most fortunate happenstance that your lodgings were comparable in scale to that sordid affair."

Watson shook his head, and tried to think of something to say. "Do you take medication for this affliction, or have they given you up as a lost cause? You could have died, you bloody fool! And why are you breaking into my room? To prove a point?"

"That was merely a convenient happenstance; and I was absolutely certain I was right. And when I am certain about something, my good doctor, there is no room for error. As to why I am here...well, I suppose in a material sense I am here for your card."

"My card?" Watson repeated flatly.

"Yes. You would have been issued with an identification card as a part of the forensics department of the police. Since we are going to talk to a witness, it might be advisable to at least have a veneer of authority about us." Holmes nodded.

"Oh we are, are we?" Watson replied, suddenly feeling annoyed. The arrogant assertion that he was an asset to be moved around like furniture grated against him.

"Yes. I believe I just said that."

"Holmes," Watson tone was a warning. "It has been a long day. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I need a shower and I am not in the mood to play a valet to a madman. Please let yourself out – through the door, mind – and find someone with the energy to deal with your particular brand of insanity, if you would be so kind."

"Watson, Watson, Watson, you misunderstand me," Holmes held up his lanky hands.

"You need me to play a copper for some deluded crime fighting strategy; it seems perfectly clear to me!"

"Materially I need you for your card; but need is the wrong word, it's just that it would be more efficient if you came," Holmes explained, to Watson rising ire. "It would save me a good ten minutes of wasted explanations."

"That's just...!" Watson would have leapt to his feet if he wasn't sure he'd fall over.

"But!" Holmes cut through the angry tirade before it could build. "I am not stimulated by material matters, only intellectual. I need to find a suitable roommate to split the costs of lodgings with. Stamford mentioned you were in the market, so to speak. I am quite certain you would be a suitable roommate for me; wouldn't you prefer the chance to find out if I would be a suitable one for you?"

That was sufficiently unexpected to jolt Watson out of his temper. "You want to go and...what? Question a witness to find out whether we could live together for any length of time? Hunting down a murderer as a sort of timeshare social mixer?"

Holmes looked deeply amused. "Simplistic but essentially correct."

Watson huffed out a disbelieving breath and propped his feet up on a sideboard near his chair. "Has anyone ever told you your method of living is subject to a gross amount of surprisingly casual nonsense?"

Holmes eyebrows rose. "People usually just come straight out and tell me I'm mentally ill. You have a way with words, Doctor."

Watson merely looked back at the taller man. "And how, exactly, do you know that I would be a suitable roommate for you? You barely know me."

To this, Holmes snorted. "Watson, do pay attention. I did state quite clearly to you before that I notice more in a single glance that most others would see in a lifetime."

Watson knew he was going to regret this, but nevertheless was compelled to ask. "And what have you noticed about me, then?"

Holmes face lit up. He obviously lived for attention like this. He made a show of steepling his fingers and gazing at the bemused doctor over the top of them. "A trifling set of observations," he said in a dismissive tone that Watson refused to believe for a second. "You were born into poor circumstances. You had at least one elder sibling, male, from whom you inherited that watch. You once played sports semi-professionally, probably rugby; you joined the army shortly after getting your medical degree, where you completed your graduate work. You had a distinguished career in the infantry, before being moved into covert operations where you were wounded badly enough to be medically discharged. You're honest to a fault, loyal, unfailingly polite even to those whom you don't respect, you have a temper, you connect very easily to people at all levels of society, you have an eidetic memory, are highly intelligent, your professional ethic is meticulous; you gamble, not compulsively but usually unsuccessfully, you enjoy adventure more that security, you believe in self-therapy, you would much, much rather be working in a hospital or in practice than where you are, you are generally pragmatic, you have studied fencing but your main fighting style in something close to Eskrima, and you, without a doubt, excel at marksmanship with a variety of guns."

Watson's mouth was open. "What did you do, pull my files?"

Holmes gave a derisive laugh. "Why waste my time on tedious bits of paper records when mere observation will tell me all I need to know?"

"How?"

"Very simply," Holmes leaned back with a smug, self satisfied air. "Poor circumstances are clear from your method of dress; neat, respectable but practical. You usually chose economy over style, though you carry the cheaper looks well. You also tend to use more blankets rather than use the heating system more, which is most likely a habit ingrained from childhood, as is the general neatness and the almost reflexive use of the littlest amount of space, from living in close quarters; reinforced by infantry barracks, no doubt. Your watch itself is quite old, so it's probably originally your father's; the band however is more modern. The watch originally had a leather band - you can tell by the style of fastening - and it was switched with a titanium one of a style about ten years old; probably the choice of a much younger man that your father. The past sport is evident by the muscular development and set of the shoulders and neck; even though the tone has been ravaged, the muscles were quite clearly once very developed. Not soccer, for that would only encompass the legs, nor anything holding a bat or stick, because the wrists don't match. Rugby then. Joining the army is merely logistical; you are too young to have joined anytime but immediately after gaining your MD. The sheer amount of journals you subscribe to," here, Holmes waved a long fingered hand around the room. "Indicate you did some fairly in depth post-graduate study on multiple disciplines – mostly surgical. A distinguished career is evident in the large amount of souvenirs of different provinces of Afghanistan, plus the fact that you discharged with the rank of Major after skipping up the ranks rapidly, indicating you were in high demand, and also in your work ethic – meticulous, efficient, and thorough, which the armed forces tend to like."

Watson listened with fascination. "And covert operations?"

Holmes leaned forward. "You're boots say 'infantry', but your shoelaces say covert ops."

"My....what?"

"Shoelaces. You tie them distinctly in a civilian manner. The army trains it's men to conform to it's methods right down to manner of dress, but covert operations is all about sending soldiers where no soldiers are supposed to be. They train you, among other things, how to not look like a soldier; at least, not at first glance. Little things, like personal jewellery, piercings, and yes, civilian shoes. Admittedly the shoe tying could have been result of the occupational therapy you attend, but the conclusion was helped along by two things. One, the self therapy; I see lots of empty pill bottles but no pills. Some were filled quite recently, so either you take them like other people suck on mints – impossible, given your clear headed demeanour – or you never take them at all. Covert operation training would include managing injuries without painkillers. Two, you were able, even in your physical condition, to fend off an attack by two street fighters of no little experience, to point where they were both unconscious. The army may teach many men to fight that way, my good Doctor, but there is but one branch of the military that teaches it's men to switch themselves off from pain and fear so completely. Also, you are the first medical examiner I've yet met that carries a weapon with the intent to use it – a P226 SIG Pistol L105A1 – a Combat, if I'm not mistaken."

Watson sat back, astonished at the sheer amount of insight this man he barely knew seemed to be able to pull out of the air around him.

"As for the rest of it; mostly my deductions come from a deep understanding of human nature. Honesty is quite clear from the fact that you fail at gambling – not a world where honesty is valued, I should think. Gambling is also the hallmark of a risk taker, an adventurer, and your lack of skill is quite evident by the fact that you don't spend large amounts of cash in everyday life. Your all encompassing likability endears you to Stamford, Lestrade and Nokey and gets you good reviews from even the most brief of conversations, and if that's not a wide spectrum of tastes, intelligence levels and personalities, nothing is. Eidetic memory and intelligence are clear from your age; you are barely twenty four, and you have gone through medical school before joining the army; you must have started university as an unusually young age. Plus you were able to recall the symptoms of an obscure poison you, in all likelihood, would not have had any experience with aside from readings in medical school." Holmes shrugged. "The Eskrima was obvious from the way you move and the way you hold your stick; also, the type of stick - a heavy blackthorn blunt instrument and not an ergonomic aluminium affair. The marksmanship is quite clear from the calluses of your hands, also from your natural inclination to take a head shot, which is a harder to hit than the torso – also, you are supremely comfortable and confident holding a gun; confident enough to walk into a closed space knowing there is an unknown person or persons in wait for you there."

Watson was impressed and not a little awed. "Do you do this kind of thing to everyone you meet?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I don't usually waste my breath on the plebeian intellects around me, but I do pay attention. Nothing escapes me. Genius is my art, observation is my tool, logic and reasoning in the face of unsolvable quandaries are my masterpieces."

"And modesty is your virtue," Watson snorted, grinning.

"Now I am offended," Holmes looked it. "Modesty is not to be ranked among the virtues, Watson. Things either are, or they are not. Pretending otherwise, whether by underestimation or exaggeration, is a crime of the highest order."

Watson rolled his eyes. "You're right. False modesty is much worse that given a man a slow acting poison and condemning him to a tortuous death."

"No doubt there's some sordid but lamentably commonplace motive for the murder of our dear Mr Drebber," Holmes waved a flippant dismissal. "The psychological profile I've managed to work so far follows exactly with the indicators I've already revealed from the scene. An intelligent, early middle aged man, Caucasian, physically fit and has or had a high-skill outdoor labour occupation which gave him good opportunity to develop a wide range of lateral, practical tracking and problem solving abilities. Most likely he worked in a rural environment, in a position of trust and authority. He's organised, meticulous and pragmatic; but also quite able to think on his feet. Writing the message in his own blood was a spur of the moment decision that nevertheless was a well calculated strategy to throw investigators off track. Decisive then, focused and most definitely legally sane. He may not be educated in the academic sense, but he is most likely well-read and seeks to improve himself by his own methods. He probably made or refined the poison on his own, through self-taught chemistry."

Watson shook his head. "I wonder what spurred him to kill Drebber in such a way."

Holmes shrugged. "As I said, he's legally sane. I doubt very much his motives for killing the man were some sort fancy exaggerated by delusions. I have not received any word from my sources across the pond, but even without confirmation I highly doubt whether Drebber was a saint. This murderer is a revenge killer; he seeks to destroy the object which has wronged, humiliated or crippled him, in some sense."

"Do you think he's finished?"

"Possible. But it would be premature to assume that Drebber was the only person who had done him an injustice," Holmes stared at some point in the middle distance. "In fact, the planning of the crime indicates the man might be going on a spree, and going after all those he perceives as needing to be punished. Can only one man offend to such a degree that another would put a good portion of his life to the task of revenge? Possible, but not proven."

Watson frowned. "You're sure about that?"

"The injustice, whatever it was, happened long ago as I said," Holmes replied. "If he was wronged badly enough to be willing to kill in such a dramatic way, why did he wait? If it's about a woman, then it most likely happened when he was a young man. Youth is the time when one goes twittersnit over the female race hard enough to want to kill over it."

Watson snickered at the other man's tone of deep disgust.

"He waited a long time for this; but if the crime happened so many years ago, why not redress the matter while the emotions still ran hot? Could the killer have not been able to track him down? No. If he stalked his prey through an unfamiliar city with ease, then finding the man on his home turf would not have presented any difficulties. Maybe something else prevented him from doing so."

Watson waited silently while the other man completed his thought.

"Illness, perhaps; though unlikely. He was a physically fit man when he murdered Drebber. The blood pressure is a revealing factor – he may have developed a condition recently. It could certainly be the stressor which sent him here to kill Drebber. Prison? Much more likely," Holmes fanned his hands, dismissing the matter. "Bah, it is useless to speculate without facts."

He rose to his feet in one decisive movement. "Shall we?"

Watson was actually unbalanced enough, and certainly interested enough, to follow along with the eccentric specialist's intended plan. "Where exactly are we going?"

"You don't have a car, so we will have to take the Underground."

"Holmes," Watson replied the man's evasiveness warningly. "Where are we going?"

He blinked back at me. "Well it's perfectly clear Watson."

Watson gritted his teeth. If crippling had taught him anything, it was patience. "Not to me, you twit."

Holmes sent him a particularly petulant look of frustration, which forced some amusement back into the tired doctor. "We are going to No 4, Audley Court in Kennington Park."

Watson merely raised an eyebrow to indicate that meant exactly nothing to him.

Holmes gave a much put upon sigh. "To the home of Constable John Rance who was, in fact, the man who found the body. We need to get an exact account from him."

"See? Was that so hard?" Watson grinned in a patronizing tone that made the other man snort in disbelief. "If you're going to let your mind steam ahead of everyone else in the room, you should at least be prepared to wait for others to catch up."
"Good grief. I'd be waiting for the next ice age for everyone else to catch up, save maybe one man I know," Holmes seemed genuinely taken aback. "Do you nag everyone you meet with this much regularity?"

"Nope. Just high falutin' geniuses with absolutely deliberate blind spots and theatrical, attention seeking behaviours designed to infuriate and strike fear into the audience."

Holmes grinned. "I am impressed. Your methodology is crude and your strategy straight of the playground, but these pointed jabs to wind me up like a clockwork toy and prove your dominion in self confidence actually have some chance of working. Given much, much more sophistication and intelligence, of course."

Oh, this man was good, Watson admitted. "No dominion being proved here," he parried lightly. "Just making sure you know that while I currently have half a working body, suffer from screaming nightmares and am currently fighting off penury with a meagre wage, you are going to have to have more than just a big brain to put me on my back foot."

"I could say the same of your big gun, doctor," Holmes riposted haughtily, but his eyes gleamed alight with amusement and challenge.

"As long and we're all on the same page," Watson palmed a packet of pills off the counter top. "Shall we?"

"Oh, after you," Holmes gestured regally. "Able bodies go last."

Watson gave him a bladed grin and strode back towards the door. "Beauty before brains."

Holmes jaw dropped open, and for a flash of a second he looked affronted. Then he grinned. "Touché."

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End Chapter Three