The crime scene was at a semi detached house in Vauxhall. John gave a nod to the officers as they lifted the police tape to let he and Sherlock through.
"Afternoon, Lestrade," he said to the DI who greeted them inside.
"Afternoon, boys," replied Lestrade, "Got another one for you. What you make of it?"
In the years since he had known Sherlock, John could say he was no stranger to crime scenes. He had learned to brace himself for the most gruesome and morbid. Yet this scene, like the two before it, were neither of those things. There were no signs of a struggle and no blood spatter. Everything from the furniture suite to the lamp shades seemed virtually untouched.
"His name was Jacob Green," explained Lestrade, observing the body of a man lying face down on the floor, "Forty-two, single, lived alone, worked at Vauxhall Station. That's all we got so far. Due to the nature of the scene we figured it has to have some connection with the first two killings."
John automatically jotted all this down in his notebook. He then frowned and flicked back through the notes of the last two cases. The first victim was a student living at home on the other side of town. The other was a married man in his fifties who ran a local newsagents. Thus far, there was nothing that connected these three people apart from how they were killed.
"Anything else you can tell us about him?" John enquired.
"He may have been spiritual," Lestrade guessed nodding at the bookcase at the far wall.
John stepped toward the bookcase and read the spines. They were indeed of the theological persuasion, most in reference to various religions, some of which he had never even heard of.
"A religious nut then?" He said flicking through one of the volumes.
"No," Sherlock spoke suddenly, "He doesn't follow one religion. He is passionate about many. He's a philosopher. He's searching for the meaning of life."
"Ironic." John glanced at the body. "Don't suppose his hobby has anything to do with his death?"
" Could be," Sherlock mumbled, "If he had been convinced the meaning of life was through death, that may be another way to explain the lack of a struggle. Though that wouldn't explain the previous murders."
John slid the volume back between the other books and watched as Sherlock sat in one of the armchairs, rose again and stood at the feet of the body. It was clear he was reenacting the crime in his mind. He then lay face down beside the body and remained there for a moment. John and Lestrade exchanged glanced.
"Um...Sherlock?" John prompted.
"He didn't fall," came the muffled reply.
"What?"
Sherlock sprang up susdenly. "He didn't fall. He was laid down gently." He beckoned Lestrade over and pointed to the pool of blood that formed from beneath the body. "No spatter," he said. "Also..." From within his coat pocket he produced a rubber glove and snapped it on. He tilted the victim's head slightly so that the front of the face was showing. John crouched down to get a better look.
"No cranial impact," Sherlock continued, "Had he fallen face down there would have been at least some bruising." John dutifully took note.
"Right..." Lestrade mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "So what does it all mean?"
"What does it all mean, John?" Sherlock asked. John faltered, feeling hot under the spotlight.
"Um...well..." he tapped his pen against the notepad, "The victim knew his killer."
"And we know that because...?"
"There was no forced entry. He must have let the killer in."
"Good. And...?"
"And..." He thought about what Sherlock said about the body being laid down. There was something reverent about it. "The killer respected him?" he tried, "This didn't seem like a crime of passion. The killer was...well...nice about the whole murdering thing. I suspect there must have been some sort of meaningful relationship between the two."
"Good. Obvious, but good. You're deductive reasoning hasn't depreciated in my absence so that's something at least," said Sherlock. John decided to take that as a compliment. "There's just one thing we're missing here: motivation."
John struggled with this one and it seemed that Sherlock and Lestrade did too. Sherlock suddenly stood straight. "Who killed you, Jacob Green of Vauxhall, and why did they want you dead?" he demanded, pointing accusingly at the corpse. "Information. We need more information." Sherlock was visibly frustrated now and he paced back and forth in agitation.
"Well the team are still doing background checks on the last two victims and we need to dig into this guy a bit too," said Lestrade, "We can have more information for you soon."
Sherlock seized Lestrade by the shoulders and said, "Soon isn't soon enough, Lestrade. Haven't you heard? There's a serial killer on the loose."
"Say serial killer a little louder, I don't think the press quite heard you," Lestrade retorted.
"Sherlock," John gently interjected, "A word please."
John stepped into the hallway for privacy and Sherlock followed.
"Are you alright?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
"Of course I'm alright, John. What a stupid question."
"You just...don't seem yourself lately."
"I am perfectly myself I can assure you."
John paused. He wasn't exactly wrong. Sherlock was very much himself, but a version of himself he hadn't seen in a while. People had often made comment that Sherlock's harsh demeanour had softened since John came into his life. Something must have happened since his standoff with Moriarty that reverted him back to his old self, but John couldn't quite figure it out.
"I just think your pushing yourself a bit," he said carefully, "Maybe you should take some time to relax. Have a bath. Spend some time with Enola."
"Who?"
"Your sister."
"Right." Sherlock rolled his eyes in disdain. "I was planning on following the body to the morgue for the post mortem. Then I was going to run some background checks on our victims. Not waiting for this lot to spark a synapse between them. Probably got Anderson or some other waste of taxpayers' money running around-"
"Sherlock-"
"Are you joining me?"
John sighed, growing impatient with Sherlock's disregard for his concern.
"I told you this morning that I have plans with Mary this evening," he replied, "Sherlock, do me a favour and take care of yourself, won't you?"
"There's nothing wrong with me!" Sherlock grumbled irritably before catching himself.
"Really. You haven't slept in twenty-four hours, you're not eating and I haven't seen you this riled up since before you leapt off the roof of St. Bart's."
"Oh fine!" Sherlock hissed overdramatically, "I suppose a quick recharge would help me think properly. I'd still solve the case faster than these idiots."
"Hey!" Lestrade complained as he approached.
"Oh do get over yourself, Lestrade. I wouldn't be here if you didn't need me."
Lestrade simply gave a nod in acquiescence.
"Anyway I best be off," John said, "Remember what I said, Sherlock-"
"Yes, yes, rest, meditate, take a vitamin etcetera, etcetera. I get the picture, John," Sherlock snapped.
"There we go, that's the spirit." He clapped Sherlock on the arm as he made his way to the front door. "Don't worry, we'll figure this out. We always do."
Sherlock arrived home late in the evening. His mind palace was a mess: the mental equivalent of dozens of post-it notes plastered wall to wall, referencing and cross-referencing each other multiple times. This case was a challenge and while he usually relished challenge this particular one frustrated him. Clues were sparse. What details he had weren't very relevant. He felt like his skill as a detective was waning and the panic the thought brought him was distracting. Perhaps John was right. Perhaps a bit of self care would be good for him.
Inside the door of 221B he felt something was off. He couldn't quite put his finger on what though. The atmosphere was just...different. Putting this feeling down to exhaustion, he removed his coat and scarf and made his way to the bathroom to run a bath. What he saw then appalled him. The bottom of his tub was destroyed with some sort of inky black substance. Sherlock wiped the substance with his fingers and brought it to his nose. Peroxide. Hair dye. It then struck him why the flat felt strange.
"Enola," he grumbled, suddenly remembering his new flatmate.
He stormed out of the bathroom and burst through the spare room door to find Enola wrapped around a lanky boy in passion. The pair broke away, startled by the intrusion. Their clothes were messed and their hair (Enola's was now cut short and dyed black, explaining the bathtub) was disheveled.
"Oh hi!" Enola said adjusting her skirt, "This is Rory."
"Roy," her lustful companion corrected sulkily.
"Roy this is my brother, Sherlock."
"What? As in Sherlock Holmes the great detective?" Roy gushed in awe, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." He enthusiastically exteded a hand to shake but retracted it again. "Actually I wouldn't touch that hand if I were you," he said.
"Oh my god," Sherlock muttered, shutting his eyes and practising great restraint. "Alright. Out."
"Oh, piss off Sherlock. You're worse than Mycroft," Enola said.
Sherlock glared at her. "My house, my rules, sister mine. And rule number one is no boys. So I'll say it once more: out."
He grabbed Roy by the cuff before he could put his jeans back on, dragged him down the hallway and shoved him out the front door.
"Hey! Leave him alone! He done nothing!" Enola protested behind him.
"You too," Sherlock said shoving his sister out on the street with her suitor.
"Wait, what?" Enola said.
Sherlock slammed the door in her face and sighed.
"Give me patience," he grumbled under his breath