Sorry for the little wait, but tried to research as best I could for this chapter. Also, 'c' key on my keyboard is a bit iffy. Grumbles.

Disclaimer: I don't own these marvellous characters, but I love them as much as my goldfish and Jack Daniels.

"This really isn't your proper area, is it, John?" Sherlock mused, as they stood outside the latest crime-scene, waiting for Lestrade to come up and meet them.

"How so?"

"As a doctor, the only reason you would look at bloodstains is to determine how much blood has been lost from the victim, before quickly moving on."

"True, unless I am feeling more curious," said John, fiddling with the button on his coat.

"So your knowledge of bloodstain pattern analysis is...?"

"Feeble, but not nil."

"Good," said Sherlock.

Lestrade called over, and they walked into the house, and into the living room.

Sherlock crouched down, his eyes drinking in the blood-soaked scene with cool interest. After a few minutes of silent deliberation, he cleared his throat. "The killer entered through the window; you can see the disturbances in the dust on the window sill. The victim was unaware at first, as the killer had enough time to get behind her, here-" He moved forward a few steps. "-and make his first attack... where?" He held out an expectant hand, and John hastily placed the crime-scene photographs into the detective's hand.

Sherlock considered the photograph of the corpse. "Slash to the back, from left to right, to announce his presence."

"Why left to right?" Lestrade inquired, quietly.

Sherlock fluttered the photographs impatiently. "He was right-handed, easier that way. Also, if she had noticed him before he could strike a blow and screamed, he could have easily knocked her out with a quick blow to the head. Do keep up, Lestrade." He tutted. "Where was I?"

"So, he made the first blow," Lestrade prompted, scribbling in his notebook.

"She turned, to face him. He grabbed her arms -hence the bruising- and he pushed her up against the wall; you see now why the diagonal blood-mark on the wall. They spoke; he must have wanted to speak to her, else he would have simply killed her outright." Sherlock peered closely at the wall. "Smudged. She struggled. He fell backwards, onto the floor." He knelt down on the wooden floor, and touched the tip of his finger to a black mark. "She ran for the door. He grabbed her foot. She fell on top of him."

"You're speculating," murmured Lestrade.

Sherlock turned to him sharply. "Marks from the heels of her boots," he said, indicating the marks. "Pointing towards the door. She was pulled backwards, not forwards, so it isn't the mark of an earlier trip."

Lestrade made a sour face. "Continue."

"He grabbed her hair to pull her to her feet. Held the knife to her throat. That was when he made the cuts across her cheekbones; to warn her not to scream, to mock her by making them look like tears. He wanted to scare her."

"If you attack someone, you usually want to freak them out," put-in Lestrade, grumpily.

"Quite," said Sherlock, dryly. "Then he stabbed her in the stomach. He held her as she dropped to the floor." He referred to the photograph again. "Her lipstick is smudged, mixed with blood. I think he regretted it then, touched her face with his bloody hand. Kissed her. Then-"

"Broke her neck to end her suffering," finished John, quietly.

"So, we're looking for a jealous ex," summarised Lestrade.

"Undoubtedly," said Sherlock, giving the photographs back to the police officer. "Good luck."

"Hang on!" called Lestrade.

Sherlock paused in the doorway, and turned back to face Lestrade.

"This blood-stain; did the killer cut himself or is it some splatter from her?" he inquired, indicating a cluster of four small spots near the window on the floor.

"Drips from the knife."

"Which is where, now?"

Sherlock tilted his head in a terribly enigmatic manner. "In the toilet tank or the cutlery drawer."

"Anderson!" Lestrade called, and the thorn in Sherlock's side skulked into the room. "Check the cutlery drawer and the toilet tank for the murder weapon, please."

Anderson obliged, not bothering to spare John or Sherlock a glance, and they soon heard his voice from the bathroom. "Got it."

"And the kitchen drawer?" Sherlock inquired.

Anderson put his head around the door to look at the consulting detective. He dangled the blood-stained knife at him. "What part of this isn't clear enough to you?"

"Just check the damn drawer," Lestrade requested, with a tired sigh.

Anderson disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a small, blood-stained photograph of the victim and an unknown man.

"I assume that the award congratulating my sheer brilliance is already in the post?" Sherlock inquired of Lestrade, sweetly.

"Indeed," sneered Anderson, despite the fact that he looked terribly awestruck.

Sherlock swept from the room, closely followed by John.

"John, you're a terrible influence on me," Sherlock announced, as they walked down the darkened street.

"How so?" John inquired.

"You're making me... nicer. I didn't enjoy that murder case at all."

"Good."

"John!" Sherlock chided. "This is my job! What next? Will I... faint at the sight of blood? How ridiculously annoying. I'll never be able to solve another case."

"So, how do we restore your hard-heartedness?" John inquired.

"I'm open to suggestions."

John considered. "Pint?"

Thoughts? xXx