By the time John returned to his bedsit that evening his mind was still whirring with thoughts of Sherlock Holmes. He was obviously a bit of an arse, but John thought he could handle that. God knows he put up with worse in the army. It would be a fair trade off anyway, if he got to live with someone that captivating.
Sherlock Holmes was interesting, like so few things seemed to John since his return. He reveled in it. The meeting had brought back a spark of colour to John's otherwise dull routine and he was reluctant to let it go.
Remembering what had happened, John sat down on his bed and pulled out his phone. He scrolled though and found the last sent message.
'If dwarf has green ladder,
arrest dwarf
SH'
John grinned slightly. Of course it had to make no sense to him, it would've been odd if it had. The mention of 'dwarfs' pulled at John however. Replacing his phone he reached under his bed for the book Murray had gifted him. He rubbed off the fine layer of dust that had gathered on top and cracked one of them open, intent to discover or at least narrow down the possibilities as to what the strange man was.
As with Murray, this soon turned out to be impossible. There were many beings who could perform magic and many ways in which fae could hide their appearance to seem human, both to others of their kind and other humans.
Eventually John defaulted to Googling the man's name for any sort of information. No social media accounts, which was unusual. Or perhaps not. It did however bring up two websites owned by him. 'The Science of Deduction' which detailed to an absurd degree the specific components of things like Tabaco ash, but also its sister site, 'The Science of Magic' which seemed to John's, admittedly limited, knowledge to be a bit of an oxymoron. This site was slightly more interesting but the excessive detail and all the complicated terms and language was almost immediately off putting. John was at first surprised something like this could exist on the internet where anyone could read it, but it soon became clear why with how intimidating and dull the first page was.
While the search was mostly fruitless and offered no new insight into the man, it at least increased John's anticipation for their meeting tomorrow where he'd hopefully discover something about him.
The knowledge that tomorrow would again be unusual and interesting helped chase away John's usual nightmares, if only for one night, and he woke feeling more refreshed and awake since his blasted fever. About an hour before the scheduled meeting John left his bedsit. The flat they were seeing wasn't that far away, but he'd spent the last hour before that constantly checking his watch and decided he needed a walk before he made contact with Holmes again. He'd definitely need his wits about him if he wanted to survive the encounter.
By the time John finally took the tube and ambled his way to Baker Street he was already leaning heavier on his cane than usual. He limped up to the door of 221b, double checking the address before he reached up to knock. A car door closed behind him and he turned to see Sherlock Holmes emerge from a black taxi cab, paying the driver before he walked up to where John stood. John span to face him fully, extending his hand.
"Mr. Holmes." Much better than his encounter with Mike yesterday.
"Sherlock, please" was his response, accompanied by the same fake smile as their previous meeting. They shook hands and the door behind John opened to reveal an elderly lady.
"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, opening her arms for a hug.
The smile on the man's face became more genuine as he embraced her briefly before stepping back and gesturing to John.
"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson"
"Hello" She said smiling warmly.
John returned the smile and she waved them both inside.
"Come in, no use both of you standing out in the cold!"
John followed Sherlock through the door but before he could blink he was already up the stairs and out of sight. John shuffled a bit and glanced towards Mrs. Hudson.
"Go on up dear, have a look around, I'll follow you in a bit"
John Slowly made his way up the stairs until he came to a landing, the door to their flat already ajar. Walking in revealed a well-lit living room with a large window opposite the doorway and a familiar humming at the back of his mind. The rest of the room was however in complete disarray. Pile and piles of books, papers, actual scrolls of actual parchment, and various types of pots and containers were scattered around the room in various states of mess. The part of one wall was decorated in more of the symbols and diagrams John had seen from before. The room definitely looked equipped to practise magic. There was even a skull and the mail was pinned to the wall by an ornate silver dagger.
Sherlock stood in the thick of it all, fiddling with a pile of papers and glancing at John occasionally as he looked around the room. Clearly he was waiting for John's verdict, and equally as clearly was that all the things littered around the room belonged to him and that he had obviously already moved in. John decided to make him wait for his opinion. If he could move in just assuming John would agree to the flat, he could suffer a little. But as far as John could tell the furniture was comfortable and the location good, the stairs were maybe a bit of a drawback but nothing he couldn't handle.
"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently.
"It's nice" John eventually commented, "It's very nice. Will be even nicer if we tidied these things up a bit." It was best to get these things out of the way early, so Sherlock didn't start taking advantage.
"Oh. Um, right." Sherlock stacked a few more things together and dumped them from the table to the floor as John took a grateful seat in the armchair and massaged his leg.
"Well this is a prime spot for a flat. Must be expensive." It was all well and good if he liked the flat, but if he couldn't afford it he was out. John was not the type of person to live comfortably on another's charity, even if that someone was exceedingly interesting, and the armchair exceedingly comfortable.
"Hmm" was Sherlock's only response, engrossed in one of the scrolls he'd gathered with the intention to 'tidy up'.
John cleared his throat and Sherlock glanced up.
"Oh, Mrs. Hudson's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years ago her husband got sentenced to death. I was able to help out."
"Sorry, you stopped her husband from being executed?"
"Oh no. I ensured it." He grinned at John, with a slightly manic edge in his opinion, but he couldn't help but smile in return. As long as he didn't end up as a second skull on the mantel piece, this could work out.
Mrs Hudson entered the room then, brandishing a large silver tray with various cakes and biscuits.
"What do you think then Doctor Watson?" She placed the tray on the table, shoving over a pile of books which Sherlock eyed carefully. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two."
John willed himself not to blush. "Of course we'd be needing two." Someone like Sherlock with someone like him? Unlikely. John was far too ordinary.
"Oh don't worry dear, we get all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones, and Sherlock tells me one of them is a troll!" She was whispering dramatically by the end. "Can you imagine?!"
John looked towards Sherlock to see if he'd correct her assumption or at the very least attempt to explain away the bit about the troll, but he was once again absorbed in the scroll. Mrs. Hudson had already moved toward the kitchen anyway, tutting loudly.
"Oh Sherlock. The mess you've made."
From his viewpoint John could only see a few pieces of science equipment and a large saucepan filled with something such a vile colour John hoped it wasn't meant to be edible. But if Mrs. Hudson had felt the need to comment on the kitchen but not the state of the living room, John frankly did not want to see the rest. When the substance on the stove moved slightly he quickly turned around and blurted the first thing that came to mind.
"I looked you up on the internet last night." Probably not something he should have admitted after only one meeting with the man.
Sherlock turned towards him, "Oh? Anything interesting?"
"I found your websites. The science of deduction and magic."
Sherlock took a real interest then, actually looking up from the parchment.
"What did you think?" He smiled.
"They were very…informative. But I have a tough time believing it."
His smile dropped and his eyes narrowed so that John thought it necessary to expand.
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, reanimate a corpse, and change the colour of your skin using a penny."
"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and leg, and your brothers drinking habits from your mobile phone."
"How? By magic?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
"I hardly need magic for something so simple."
"How then?"
Sherlock simply smiles and turns towards the window.
"What about these serial suicides then Sherlock? I thought that would be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Mrs. Hudson said, wielding a newspaper she'd found god knows where as she walked back towards them from the kitchen.
Sherlock continued to stare out the window.
"Four. There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."
"A fourth?"
As if to answer Mrs. Hudson's question, several sharp knocks sounded from the door downstairs. Throwing a grin to her, Sherlock waved his hand. There was a loud click followed by a set of footsteps taking the stairs quickly.
For John's first witness of actual magic, he found it oddly anticlimactic.
A man about 40 with greying hair at his temples appeared at the doorway.
"Where?" Sherlock addressed him.
"Brixton. Lauriston Gardens."
"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me if there wasn't something new."
"You know how they never leave a note? Well this one did." He grimaced, "and well, lets just say this is your sort of case."
"Excellent"
"Will you come?"
"Who's on forensics?"
"Anderson."
It was Sherlock's turn to grimace. "Anderson won't work with me."
"Well he won't be your assistant."
"I need an assistant."
The man sighed. "Will you come?"
"Not in a police car. I'll follow from behind."
Looking round the flat briefly, the man turned and stomped back down the stairs. As soon as the door shut Sherlock leapt in the air, a cry of excitement on his lips.
"Brilliant! Four serial suicides and now a dead fae and a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"
He scribbled something down on the scroll still clutched in his hand and threw it down before grabbing his coat.
"John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"
Just like that he was gone. John was somewhat disappointed. He didn't know what he expected.
Mrs. Hudson came over and stood near John. "Look at him dashing about. My husband was just the same."
John shook his head, exasperated.
"But you're more of the sitting down type. I can tell."
Clenching his jaw, John reminded himself that it wouldn't be right to be mean to the elderly. Or his new landlady. He relaxed slightly when she left, picking up the newspaper she had discarded. It was already turned to the suicides article. The image of the lead police officers on the case accompanied it. The picture showed the same man from before, identifying him as Detective Inspector Lestrade. Why would a D.I. come to someone clearly not involved with the police for advice on a case?
John was however interrupted from his musings by a voice from the end of the room.
"You're a doctor. An army doctor."
John stood up and Sherlock re-entered the room.
"Yes."
"Any good?"
"Very good."
"Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"
"Of course yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh god yes."
They caught Mrs. Hudson on their way out, she just leaving her flat.
"Oh! Both of you off out then?"
"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when finally something fun is going on."
John couldn't help but silently agree, although fun was perhaps the wrong word.
"The game Mrs. Hudson, is on!" With a dramatic flair of his coat, Sherlock left, leaving John to hobble after him.
By the time John made it to him, he'd somehow already summoned a taxi. John hoped this hadn't involved any magic so that he could learn the trick.
The drive as spent mostly in silence as Sherlock stared fixedly at his phone, but John's head was buzzing with so many thoughts it was hard for him to sit still.
"You've got questions." Sherlock eventually broke the silence, noticing John's restlessness.
"Who are you?" Burst out of John automatically. He tried again, "what do you do?"
"What do you think?"
It took a while to narrow down John's many theories into one that was vaguely plausible.
"…I'd say private detective but…"
"But?"
"The police don't consult private detectives."
"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that when the police are out of their depth in matters of humans and not, which is always, they consult me."
"The police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock glanced sideways at John.
"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."
Finally. "Yes, how did you know?"
"I didn't know. I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the spell on the room told me as you entered that you were a healer, old friend of Mikes, so trained at Barts. Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limps really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq."
John blinked a few times.
"Then there's your brother."
"What?"
"Your phone. It's expensive, but you're looking for a flat share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then."
Sherlock held out his hand and John gave him his phone.
"Not one scratch but many. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bits easy, you know it already."
"The engraving."
"'Harry Watson', clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Unlikely you've got extended family, certainly not one you're close to because you can't find a place to live, brother it is. Now, Clara. Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, the models only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"
"Shot in the dark. Power connection has tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."
There was a pause then. As both men collected their thoughts.
"…this is of course disregarding what I learnt of you later. Your casual disregard for the words 'magic' and 'fae', not to mention not questioning Mrs. Hudson when she mentioned a troll suggests that you are yourself a fae, or at least have second sight and are yourself familiar with such things. You may just be exceedingly open-minded, but that's statistically unlikely and most would still at least comment on it. You have a faint signature of magic which suggests a fae hiding its true appearance or a magic user like myself with the knowledge on how to hide, or both. Insufficient data. I've yet to narrow down the possibilities."
Sherlock handed John back his phone.
"There you see you were right."
"Right? Right about what?" John considered checking himself for whiplash.
"The police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock turned away then, facing the window. His reflection bit its lip and looked nervous.
"That…was amazing."
Sherlock's head jerked back to John so fast that John thought he may actually need to check him for whiplash.
"You…do you think so?"
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."
Incredible, remarkable, terrific, wonderful and whatever other synonyms along those lines. All of that without the use of much or any magic? Out of all the people and beings John had met and seen over his life time, Sherlock had to be the most fantastical.
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"'Piss off'."
Sherlock smiled at John. John grinned back and turned towards the window. He was fast becoming fond of the odd creature that was Sherlock Holmes.
Climbing out the taxi at Lauriston Gardens, they quickly made their way towards the bright yellow police tape and the flashing lights of the various vehicles gathered outside the building where the crime scene presumably was.
"Did I get anything wrong?"
If Sherlock was fishing for an answer to what John was, well, Sherlock hadn't answered any of his questions to start with, and he wasn't going to make it easy for him.
"Harry's short for Harriet."
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.
"Harry's your sister."
John continued walking, ignoring the dramatics.
"Sister!" Sherlock exclaimed furiously.
John was fast approaching the police tape and suddenly felt distinctly out of his depth.
"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"
Sherlock sighed and caught up to John easily.
"There's always something."
"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"
John's unease increased tenfold as they were approached by a police officer before he could even cross the tape.
"Hello freak." How professional.
"Ah Sally." He took a deep breath, "I see you didn't make it home last night." Sherlock said, turning to raise the tape for John.
The police officer had a pretty face, with curly black hair and dark skin, but was obviously not someone John could ever get along with, with remarks like that.
"I don't…" She looked towards John, noticing that Sherlock had let him into the scene. "Oi, who's this?"
"A colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." He turned to John, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan, old friend." He said scarcatically. John smothered a grin.
"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?" She regarded John, "What, did he follow you home?"
Obviously this was an old feud and John had no desire to get involved.
"Would it be better if I just waited and-"
"No." Sherlock cut him off with an air of finality.
Donovan sighed, raising her radio. "Freaks here. Bringing him in."
She led them towards the house, Sherlock for once lagging behind as he looked all around the ground for heaven knows what.
A petite woman with short brown hair wearing blue overalls emerged from the house just ahead of them.
"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."
They regarded each other as if they were about to face off.
Anderson sneered. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. None of your hocus pocus. Are we clear on that?"
Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. "Quite clear. Is your wife away for long?"
"Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Someone told you."
"Your deodorant told me that."
She raised an over plucked eyebrow, "My deodorant?"
"It's for men."
"So? It's what I normally wear. I'm not sleeping with a guy if that's what you think. I'm gay."
"Ah but Sergeant Donovan also seems to be wear men's deodorant today. Not her usual choice and strange isn't it, that it seems to be the same brand?"
She shared a shocked looked with Donovan before rounding in on Sherlock.
"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-"
"I'm not implying anything" He pushed past her, moving towards the door. "I'm sure Sally came over for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And scrubbed the floor going by the state of her knees."
Seeing the wide eyed this garnered him, Sherlock grinned smugly and moved into the house. John followed behind, glancing pointedly at Donovan's knees as he went past.
Inside they met with the detective from before, and after he and John had donned their matching blue suits, the three of them ascended two bloody flights of stairs, Lestrade seeming to accept Sherlock's explain of 'he's with me' for John's presence. Why everyone else had to wear an overall but not Sherlock was beyond him. Sherlock seemed to be a special case in everything.
The house had clearly been abandoned for quite some time, the floors were bare, with some even caving in, and the wallpaper was ripped and ragged, with spots of graffiti here and there. At the top of the stairs they entered a room similarly bare apart from a body which lay face down in the centre.
She had matt black hair, inky tendrils splayed about her head, her clothes, a shirt and a pair of trousers, were equally as dull colours of white and grey. Combined with the pair of heavy set boots she wore, the only bits of skin visible were her hands and face, both of which were a pale green. Johns twisted his mouth, it was a shame this had happened to her.
"I can give you two minutes." Announced Lestrade when they had entered the room.
"May need a bit longer" remarked Sherlock drying, striding around the room before kneeling next to the body.
"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her debit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her. Not sure what she is but the others don't seem to agree with me on the colour of her skin."
John glanced at Lestrade, clearly he wasn't as normal as he seemed either.
After a few long seconds, Sherlock having only given the body a cursory look, announced loudly that Lestrade shut up.
He startled. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking. It's annoying." Sherlock obviously didn't have a way with people.
They watched as he felt along her shoes, trousers and shirt, shirt collar, and hair. He then moved her hair, looking for a while at her face before examining her right hand, followed by her left where he removed her wedding ring, looking at it intently. He then replaced the ring, looking at the area around her hand, and moved back to her right arm, proceeding to roll up her sleeve.
From John's point of view it looked as if something had been etched into her skin there. Sherlock gave the body a last glance and stood up, a satisfied grin on his face.
"Got anything?" asked Lestrade, pulling out a notebook and pen from his pocket.
"Not much." Like hell that was true, if the monologue in the car was anything to go by.
A voice piped up from behind them and they all turned to see Anderson leaning casually on the door frame.
"She could be German. 'Rache', its German for revenge. She obviously did this to spite someone-"
She was soundly cut off by Sherlock slamming the door shut in her face.
"Yes, thank you for your input."
"So she's German?"
"Of course she's not. Fae are remarkably set in their ways. They rarely leave the area they were born, let alone country. No, she's English. Lives just outside of London. Only came into town to meet her lover, or find a new one. So far so obvious."
"Sorry, obvious?" John remarked.
"What about the message thought?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock ignored both questions, turning to John, "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"
"About the message?" John got the feeling he would forever be lost around Sherlock Holmes.
"Of the body, you're a medical man."
"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside!" Lestrade interjected.
"They won't work with me."
"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here."
"Yes, because you need me."
Lestrade stared at him, then heaved a large sigh. "Yes I do, god help me."
"Doctor Watson" Sherlock said, gesturing to the body.
John looked towards Lestrade, silently asking for permission. Just because Sherlock got away with everything didn't mean he should.
"Oh, do what he says. Help yourself." Lestrade said, waving him off and leaving the room.
They both walked to the body, Sherlock kneeling on one side while John struggled down on the other.
"Well?" Sherlock asks immediately.
John repeats the same question he'd asked when they'd first arrived. "What am I doing here?" Sherlock clearly didn't need him.
"Helping me make a point."
"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."
"Yeah, well, this is more fun."
"Fun? There's a women lying dead."
"Perfectly, sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper." John was right, Sherlock was a colossal arse.
He heard Lestrade re-enter the room and decided to just get it over with.
He lifted her arm, inspecting her skin before looking closely at her face. This was the first clear view of it and what he saw was horrifying. Her face was frozen in a mixture of pain and fear, staring blankly ahead. The veins around her eyes stood up sharply in red, her eyes themselves bloodshot and clouded over, scarlet tears running down her face and pooling on the floor. John swallowed thickly, examining he throat, and looked toward Sherlock.
"Yeah, no obvious signs for the cause of death. I would suggest heart attack or possibly a seizure. Although that seems unlikely with the state of her face. I would suggest drugs but…"
"But?" Prompts Sherlock.
"The only outward sign and damage seems to be her eyes."
"Exactly. The last three were found to have exactly the same outward appearance. They all thought a drug was administered through the eyes yet no traces of anything was found in their systems."
"Sherlock. I said two minutes. I need anything you've got." Lestrade interrupted from the doorway.
Sherlock stood in one smooth motion while John stumbled to his own feet.
"Victim is in her late thirties. Travelled into London today intending to stay for only one night or leave late tonight, obvious by her lack of suitcase." Sherlock glanced around pointedly. "She'd also not have been able to survive for much longer than that. Married for 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, if you're making this up-"
Sherlock interrupted, pointing to her left hand.
"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her Jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of the marriage right there. 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. Too clean and too long to work with her hands. So what, or rather who, does she remove the ring for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."
"That's brilliant" escaped John before he could think.
Sherlock looked at him.
"Sorry." John said, feeling the comment maybe unwelcomed at the moment.
"Why couldn't she survive a couple of days in London?"
"It's obvious isn't it?"
"It's not to me." John replied.
"Dear god, what must it be like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." Sherlock said before launching into the next explanation.
"Her hair is damp. Not just damp but soaked through. No rain anywhere in London and both her shoes and trousers are dry, and it's been too long for her hair not to have dried had she been human. She has a distinct smell distinct smell of stagnant water. No umbrella on her despite the rain forecasted for later, therefore doesn't mind the rain. All of this leads to the conclusion that she must be some kind of water creature. The colour of her skin narrows this down considerably, as does her choice of clothing. It covers all of her except her face and hands, likely to hide the various small shells that are attached to her skin in various places, the magic contained within her jewellery only enough to conceal her skin colour from the general population, but not needed for her lover who must also be fae. It's therefore highly likely that she's a Shellycoat, who cannot survive for extended periods out of water, again demonstrated by her lack of suitcase. But her coat should prove the rest."
"That's fantastic!"
Sherlock turned to John again, speaking quietly, "You do realise you do that out loud?"
John felt he had made a fool of himself. Of course it would seem odd to praise someone he'd only just met so openly.
"Sorry. I'll shut up."
"No, it's…fine." John supposed Sherlock wouldn't be the type to lie for appearances, and felt himself relax.
"Her coat?" Queried Lestrade in an attempt to get the conversation back on track.
"Yes, where is it? She must have had some way to contact her lovers. Find out her Rachel is."
"She was writing 'Rachel'?"
"No, she was writing an angry note in German on her own arm. Question is, how'd she know she was going to die long enough in advance to be able to scratch it, or on the other hand, how long was her death? What caused it? Obviously she wrote it on her arm to hide it from the killer…"
"How do you know she had a coat?"
Sherlock scoffed, she's a Shellycoat, meaning she wears a coat of shells. They bring it with them everywhere. It has a large sentimental value so they never let it out of their sights for long. She must have magicked it to look like a regular coat but it still makes a considerable noise if you move it. Now where is it? What have you done with it?"
"There wasn't a coat."
Sherlock stopped the frantic pacing he'd started during his speech, frowning at Lestrade.
"What did you say?"
"She wasn't wearing a coat. There was never any coat."
Sherlock suddenly rushed past them to the dory, hurrying down the stairs. "Coat! Did anyone find a coat? Was there a coat in this house?" Sherlock called to the police staff on his way down.
John and Lestrade hurried onto the landing, watching him fly down the stairs.
"Sherlock, there was no coat!" Lestrade called after him.
Sherlock stopped and looked up at them.
"It's murder all of them. We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those."
"Why do you say that?" Lestrade calls back down.
"Her coat! Come on, where is it? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here and took her coat. The killer must have driven her, forgot the coat in his car."
He seemed to consider this for a short while before his face lit up and his eyes widened.
"Oh!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together in excitement.
"Sherlock?" Questioned John, obviously he'd worked something out.
"What is it? What?" Asked Lestrade, echoing John's sentiment.
"Serial killers are always difficult. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."
"We can't just wait around!"
"Oh, we're done waiting! Houston we have a mistake. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" Sherlock continued to run down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?!"
Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs, looked back up at where John and Lestrade stood two stories up.
"MAGIC!" He shouted before running out of view and, most likely, out the house, leaving John behind.
Damn Sherlock and his long legs.
Yes, I made Anderson a women, because clearly everyone must be gay!
But seriously, I thought it would be nice to have a more onscreen lesbian 'couple' than just on vaugely alluded to. Although now Sherlock's attitude may come across as a bit sexist? Idk, should I change it?