Sherlock explained the case to John in the taxi to the scene. Apparent double suicide, left a cryptic message, could be something interesting to it. They reached a house in the more suburban area of London, well-to-do families living here, largely elderly, with nothing of particular interest usually happened here. Meaning of course that the net curtains up and down the street were twitching, windows thrown open despite the chill in the air. Sherlock sighed. Cases were usually a damn site easier when the entire neighbourhood wasn't listening in. The house in question belonged to a young couple; feminist sociologist Laika Ross recently gained publicity by publishing a book on progressive feminism that had become a hit. Originally from Yorkshire, she'd moved to London to be nearer the action, so to speak. Her partner Caeris, also a sociologist, having met at university (none other than the LSE, Sherlock noted) had also published a paper on women in government. A lesbian couple, could be an "honour killing", as they say; fundamentalist families have been known to use their religions to justify murder previously. But no, this was something different.
The women were hung from the large oak tree in their back garden; a pulley system utilised the branches of the tree, meaning that little strength was required to hang the couple. Interesting. Probably a small, weaker murderer then, most likely female due to the small, high-heeled shoe prints found in the mud. The note, left under the telephone to ensure the murderer would overlook it, read "JQ24PJ UPC BDGXPGIN BTXAXP QTCCTI".
"Oh, you clever women! Smart move!" The exclamation from Sherlock surprised John, and apparently the rest of the forensic team. This had everyone stumped, but just a look and he knew? Grabbing a pen and paper, Sherlock sighed and began to fill in the lesser minds.
"A Caeser shift cipher, all the letters are fifteen spaces ahead in the alphabet, used fairly commonly, quite surprised you hadn't spotted it, in fact." Sherlock now took out his phone frantically googling after hacking on to the wifi. "Numbers are the same and give a postcode for a set of railway arches that form an industrial estate in Acton. UB2 4AU. Find it. Fan of Moriarty, needs to be dealt with swiftly. Name is Melia Bennet. That's our killer."
Sweeping out of the guarden, looking as mysterious as ever, Sherlock was pursued by John, struggling to keep up. "You're leaving them to go find her?"
Sherlock, as patronising as ever, gave John the sort of 'you must be really stupid' look he usually reserved for Anderson. Of course they weren't. Calling a taxi, Sherlock went to his mind palace to formulate a plan. They needed to speak to this Meilia before she was arrested. Find out her plans. It had not escaped Sherlock that Meilia had targeted a gay couple first; John and he were not public, but these people had a way of finding social things out. Particularly when Mycroft insisted on bugging the flat. Judging by the computer history, the couple both frequented Sherlock's website and John's blog, not stopping after his supposed death and peaking around the time that Mycroft cleared his name in the media and his return to the public life was announced. This Meilia Bennet may have been a personal acquaintance to the Ross'; likely, due to her low profile. Even the most rigorous of searches would have revealed nothing more than she had been a student at the London School of Economics at the same time as Laika and Caeris, but dropped out in the second year, and knew well enough to keep her facebook profile private.
Reaching the industrial estate, Sherlock and John wordlessly got out of the car, searching for their killer's hideout. The only abandoned section of the bridge looked fairly unkempt and was the easiest place to begin searching. They only needed to open the door before they heard the click of a safety switch on a gun going off. The sound ricocheted around the room, the acoustics definitely working in their favour. Sherlock and John could hear the click of stiletto heels on the hard concrete floor; leather boots, if Sherlock was correct. How imaginative. Yawn. John's hand twitched towards his only slightly illegal handgun in preparation for their raid, itching to draw it. Slowly, ever so slowly, they inched past the door and into the darkened workshop. Dusty tables, so she wanted everyone to think this place was unoccupied, but a clear path in the dust through the maze of work stations; regular route, taken frequently over the past week of so.
The gunshot was too fast. Almost as soon as it was heard, John was falling to the floor.