Chapter I. Return of the Ripper
"What complete, utter rubbish."
John Watson was not unfamiliar with outbursts such as these. In fact, he had grown quite accustomed to such critical utterances that came from those ever so slightly pursed lips which now had a small epithelial lesion that was certainly not there earlier in the day.
"What happened, Sherlock?" John inquired whilst shifting his position on the floral couch.
"What? Now don't be absurd! It's scientifically impossible!"
For a few moments, John shifted his gaze onto the red tapestry that covered the wooden floor. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed. Resting his forehead on the knuckles of his loosely clenched fists, he spoke again.
"Sherlock. Are you arguing with the telly again?"
This created a response. Upon hearing this statement, the tall raven haired man had rapidly shifted his attention from the black box to John. Their eyes met and a long period of silence commenced.
"Don't be daft John," Sherlock finally said, breaking the eye contact and hung his coat before wandering into the kitchen.
"Of course," John muttered while rolling his eyes. "You know, it's a fictional story." He said after a while.
Sherlock poured himself some tea.
"Things that don't really happen in real life can happen in fiction," John continued.
Reappearing in the lounge with a saucer in one hand, the tea cup in the other, "I know," he said while seating himself down.
"Of course," John uttered yet again.
For a few moments, only the sound coming for the television could be heard.
"What is this show anyway?" Sherlock finally asked.
For a moment, John seemed surprised. But he shouldn't have been. He knew better than to expect Sherlock to know facts that were considered meaningless.
"Doctor Who," John replied.
"Doctor Who?" Sherlock said with question in his voice.
"That is the name of the series," John explained.
"Yes I know that of course, it was merely a statement questioning the effectiveness of such an odd title…"
He trailed off as he pulled his mobile from his pocket to read the text message that had just arrived.
"Who is it?" John asked, his attention drawn back to the screen.
"It's Lestrade, we have a murder," Sherlock replied, his tone of voice was upbeat. Clearly he was unnecessarily excited about the demise of the poor victim.
"Is this another one of the Whitechapel murders?" John asked as they both put on their coats.
"The forth one," Sherlock replied while turning up the collar of his dark coat.
John turned off the telly and followed Sherlock out of their apartment at 221B Baker Street. Doctor Who can wait for another day.
"So what happened?" John inquired yet again in the cab.
Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"That," John replied as he briefly pointed at the other man's lips.
Sherlock furrowed his brows.
"That cut," John expanded while looking at Sherlock, expectant for an answer.
Sherlock brought his slender fingers to his lips. "It's nothing," he replied as he looked ahead of him.
John nodded several times with his mouth in a thin line. "Okay," was all he said as he turned his head to look at the scenes that passed by.
Sherlock turned to glance at the back of John's head. The rest of the journey was made in silence.
"Why are you here?"
"I was called, Anderson. Why else? Must be so frustrating to have your mind where one question needs to be repeated every single time," Sherlock replied, making good use of their height difference to look down at the man.
Anderson glared as hard as he could.
John looked from the man to Sherlock and back again.
"Came here to get your daily fix freak?" said a woman's voice.
Sherlock shifted his gaze from Anderson to the woman.
"And good day to you too Sergeant Donavan," Sherlock replied.
John stood around awkwardly. Such banterer was observed on every case, yet somehow the tension they created was impossible to get used to.
"Sherlock! Come quickly! We need to have this scene cleared soon you know!" Lestrade called out upon spotting Sherlock behind the yellow tapes.
"If you'll excuse me," Sherlock said to Donavan as he ducked under the tape. John followed suit.
"What do we have?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he put on the latex gloves he had handed them.
"An Annette Chapman, forty-seven years old. She was the owner of an illegal internet brothel service," Lestrade replied. "She was found by a worker at the brewery early this morning."
Sherlock crouched down by the body covered with canvas.
"These were found around the body," Lestrade said as he handed Sherlock a couple of evidence bags. One contained a hair comb and the other, several blue pills. "No purse or valuables were found. We suspect the killer had taken them."
Sherlock inspected the two bags an equal amount of time before handing them back to Lestrade.
"Preliminary forensic report suggests that this is the work of the same killer as the previous three cases," Lestrade continued. "She was asphyxiated with something along the lines of a scarf before her throat was cut."
Sherlock uncovered the body.
John has seen a lot of things in his life. The events in Afghanistan had presented many unpleasant sights. But none was quite like what he had just witnessed.
"Nasty isn't it?" Lestrade commented. "No one deserves to die like this."
Sherlock remained silent as he studied the body.
Along with a ghastly complexion, her face was swollen due to the asphyxiation, her tongue protruding out. A bloody gash spanned from one side of her neck to the other. John could've sworn he caught a glimpse of the back of the trachea. But what was more horrifying than that was the bloody mess that originated from the woman's abdomen. With what John recognised to be the small intestines pulled out and over her shoulders, it seemed as if someone had torn her abdomen open and threw the content out and around about as if he was a child tearing open a much anticipated birthday gift.
"Her uterus is missing," Lestrade said.
Sherlock stood up.
"What can you tell us?" Lestrade asked.
"Not much," he replied. "She was once married, she was a heavy smoker trying to quit, she had three children and was a heavy drinker,"
"And that's not much?" John asked.
"No, not at all," he replied.
"Now hang on a second," Lestrade said. "I can understand how you came to the conclusion that she was once married, from the skin indentation of a wedding ring that was most likely cut to be removed. But how can you possibly have known the rest?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but was cut in by John.
"The blue pills," John stated.
"You mean these?" Lestrade questioned, holding up the evidence bag.
John nodded. "That's varenicline, a smoking cessation pills."
Lestrade glanced at the small blue pills and studied it.
"Very good," Sherlock complimented, looking at John with an approving smile on his face.
"Thank you," John replied, genuinely pleased.
"Alright then, but what about the children and the drinking?" Lestrade asked.
John looked at Sherlock.
"The comb, it's rather old. Not very expensive either and has been used for quite a while judging from the wear. Not very fitting with the rest of her expensive dress and hair. Then why does she have it with her? A sentimental attachment."
Both Lestrade and John listened with dumbfounded expressions.
"The initials scratched into the comb, E., A., J. Chapman. All the same surnames. Under what circumstances would you get a gift from three people with the same surnames? Either children or grandchildren. Her age suggests children. It was most likely a gift to their mother when they were young."
"And the drinking?" Lestrade asked.
"Cirrhosis," Sherlock replied. "It was blatantly obvious."
Lestrade glanced at John, silently asking for an explanation.
"Ah, it's the scarring of the liver," John replied. "That is commonly associated with alcohol abuse."
"The liver…" began Lestrade while in thought. "You don't mean…" He showed an expression that was an unhealthy mix of surprise and disgust.
John nodded as he gave Lestrade a look of confirmation.
Lestrade closed his eyes with his brows raised momentarily as if to relieve himself from the shock.
"Oh this is good, yes, it's very good!" Sherlock exclaimed as he cast his eyes over the body once again.
"Do you know who might have done this?" Lestrade asked.
The two set their eyes on the back of the master detective expectantly. He turned to face them with a child-like excitement gleaming in his eyes.
"This is brilliant!"
John and Lestrade exchanged puzzled looks.
"The Ripper. He's back."