Title: Invitation, Ch. 5
Language: English
Characters: Sherlock / John
Type: Adventure / Romance (perhaps, someday)
"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock states, pointing to a blue clean-suit on a table. He stops walking and talking, and stands next to DI Lestrade, who is putting on one of the clean-suits. Sherlock starts to take off his leather gloves.
Lestrade looks over at me and asks, "Who's this?"
"He's with me," Sherlock replies, as he puts his leather gloves into his coat pocket and picks up a pair of latex gloves off the supply table.
Lestrade looks back at Sherlock. "But who is he?"
"I said, he's with me," Sherlock says again, pointedly, looking right at Lestrade as if daring him to object.
"Aren't you going to put one on?" I ask. Sherlock just stares at me.
"So where are we?" Sherlock asks Lestrade.
"Upstairs."
We leave the room and head up the staircase as Sherlock starts putting on his latex gloves. Lestrade is in the lead and looks over his shoulder at Sherlock as he says, "I can give you two minutes."
"I may need longer," replies Sherlock.
"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards, we're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here for long," Lestrade shoots back over his shoulder, then turns and continues talking as we reach the next landing and keep going up. "Some kids found her."
We keep going up, then stop at the doorway to a room that has a PC standing guard outside. There is a woman lying front side down on the floor. Her head is turned to the right, and her arms are up at her sides, hands palm side down and parallel with her head. She is blonde and wearing a bright pink dress suit. There is no sign of blood. Her body is almost...tidy. At least, tidy in comparison with the last ones I saw in Afghanistan. I close my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the images my mind throws up at me for comparison.
Lestrade is standing at ease to the right of the doorway, and both he and Sherlock are looking at the woman's body. Sherlock's head is tilted to the side as he contemplates what he's seeing. "Shut up," he says suddenly as he looks up and over at Lestrade. No one was saying anything.
Lestrade whips his head around to look at Sherlock and sounds startled when he says, "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking. It's annoying," was Sherlock's response. Lestrade looks at me as if to say, is he serious? I just look back at the woman's body.
Sherlock has stepped over to the body, and continued his examination. He looks at some scratches on the floor that look like letters. Then he kneels down and runs his gloved right hand across the woman's back and looks at his fingers. Next, he checks the woman's coat pockets, finds something and examines that, puts it back, runs his right hand under the coat collar and looks at his fingers again. He takes out a pocket magnifier and starts a closer examination of the woman. He checks closely at certain points on the woman's hands and neck, then pulls something off the body and holds it up to the light for a second and puts it back.
Lestrade asks, "Got anything?"
Sherlock stands and snaps his right glove off. "Not much," he murmurs, as he puts his magnifier into his coat pocket and pulls out his mobile.
"She's German," says Anderson, from behind me. I turn to look at him. He's leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Rache," he continues, pronouncing it in German. He points at the body. "It means revenge. She could be trying to tell us something." Sherlock walks over to the door as he says, "Yes, thank you for your imput," and slams it shut in Anderson's face all the while looking up something on his mobile. He turns back into the room.
"So she's German," says Lestrade.
"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in town for one night before returning home to Cardiff." He puts his mobile back into his coat pocket and turns to look at us. "So far so obvious."
"Sorry, obvious?" I ask.
"What about the message?" Lestrade inquires, pointing at the floor.
"Dr. Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock interrupts Lestrade to ask me.
"Of the message?" I turn to look at Lestrade then back at Sherlock, as he replies, "No, of the body. You're a medical man."
"Well, no, we have a whole team outside," Lestrade interjects.
Sherlock looks at him and says, "They won't work with me."
"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here!"
"Yes, because you need me." After Sherlock says this, I turn to look at Lestrade.
He's quiet for a moment, then says, "Yes, I do. God help me." He's humble and honest. Interesting.
"Dr. Watson," Sherlock continues, and looks at me.
"Hmm?" I then turn to look at Lestrade for permission.
"Oh, do as he says, help yourself," he responds, fed up. He turns to walk out of the room and I can hear him shouting to Anderson to keep everyone out of the room for a moment as Sherlock and I walk over to examine the body. I do my best to kneel down on my good knee, and look over the body at Sherlock as I put my cane down on the floorboards.
"Well?" he asks.
"What am I doing here?" It's the third time I've asked and I'm hoping to finally get an answer.
"Helping me make a point," he whispers.
"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," I respond. I don't like the idea that I'm stuck in the middle of a pissing contest.
"Yeah, well, this is more fun," he replies.
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead," and I point to her as I look at him, just in case he missed it.
"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," was his equally sarcastic response.
He smiles when I finally accede to his wish to examine the body. I tuck my sore leg under me and kneel on the floor to begin my examination as Lestrade comes back into the room and stands behind us, observing. I lean down and look at her neck, sniff the exposed skin, then lean back and pick up her right hand and examine that for a moment to check the nail beds. I put her hand back on the floor. "Yeah." I pick up my cane and kneel on my good knee. "Asphixiation. Probably passed out, choked on her own vomit." Lestrade and Sherlock exchange a look. "I don't smell any alcohol on her, could have been a seizure, possibly drugs."
"You know what it was," Sherlock says, "you've read the papers."
"What, she's one of the suicides, the four?" I ask, and look back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade.
"Alright, you've got two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got," Lestrade says.
Sherlock starts his list of deductions as I get my feet under me and stand. Mid 30s, media person, from Cardiff, overnight stay, suitcase, unhappily married 10 years, string of lovers. When Lestrade goes off on him about making it all up, Sherlock gets stroppy. He points out all of the evidence that proves his conclusions. "It's simple," Sherlock concludes.
"It's brilliant," I say. He turns to look at me. I look up and say, "Sorry," for my interruption. I look down at the body, and try to figure out what Sherlock saw that leads him to his other conclusions.
"Cardiff?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock replies, "It's obvious, isn't it?"
"It's not obvious to me," I state. I still can't figure out where he came up with Cardiff.
"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring," he mutters to himself then continues out lout with his explanation about how he deduced Cardiff from the state of the woman's coat, umbrella and suitcase. He starts up his mobile and shows us the UK weather report for the finishing touch.
That's fantastic, I enthuse to myself, or so I think, because Sherlock says, "Do you know you do that out loud?"
"Sorry, I'll shut up," I mutter.
"Yes. Fine," he responds.
Lestrade then asks about the suitcase that Sherlock keeps mentioning. I haven't seen one, but I turn around to look at the room to have a better look as Sherlock moves about and mentions the suitcase and something about her mobile or organizer, and about someone named Rachel. It turns out the letters scratched onto the floor by the woman in her last moments were supposed to spell Rachel. So much for Anderson and his German revenge. When Sherlock asks Lestrade about the whereabouts of the suitcase and Lestrade tells him there isn't one, Sherlock stops. He asks for confirmation, then darts out of the room shouting to all within hearing asking about a suitcase.
Lestrade insists there never was a suitcase. Sherlock is already halfway down this floor's flight of stairs. I limp after Lestrade to look over the railing and down at Sherlock as he deduces that the deaths are all murders but he doesn't know how yet. He states that the deaths are a result of a serial killer. Lestrade asks why, and Sherlock goes on about the suitcase and asks if Jennifer Wilson ate hers, since she is dead and it isn't there. I point out that she could have checked into a hotel and left it there. He says no due to the state of the woman's hair and clothes, then he stops again because something else just occurred to him. He looks rather stunned by it, actually. He starts muttering about how we usually have to wait for killers to make a mistake. Lestrade, rightfully, insists that we can't just wait for a mistake when Sherlock shouts that the killer has already made a mistake, and tells Lestrade to check into Jennifer Wilson's background in Cardiff to find out who Rachel is.
By this point, Sherlock has reached the ground floor and when Lestrade asks him what the mistake was, Sherlock darts back into view and up a few steps, looks up at us and shouts, "Pink!" then darts off. Lestrade mutters to himself and walks back into the room as a group of forensics people follow him in to start their procedures, and I'm left on the landing to make my way down.
I think about what Sherlock said as I limp downstairs. I try to figure out what her outfit has to do with her suitcase, but I'm frankly at a loss. I hope he'll explain it to me when I meet up with him in the changing room.
He isn't there. I change out of my clean-suit and gloves, put on my jacket, and go outside to look for him.
He isn't there either. Sgt. Donovan notices me looking about, and says, "He's gone."
"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" I ask, just in case she was referring to Anderson or Lestrade.
"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."
"Is he coming back?"
"Didn't look like it," she replies, shaking her head.
"Right." I turn to look around as Donovan turns back to speak to the PC standing next to the panda. "Right," I mutter again to myself as I just now realize that I have no idea where in London I am, or how far it is back to Baker Street. Shite, I don't even have a key to the flat. I hope Mrs. Hudson is still awake by the time I get back and will let me in. I'm obviously on my own for the time being. "Yes, sorry, where am I?" I ask Donovan.
She turns away from the PC and looks at me. "Brixton."
I look around me and ask, "Ah, do you know where I can get a cab?" I pause, then say, "It's just, ah," I look down at my cane, "well, my leg." Shite, I hate this.
She looks at me for a moment, then says, "Uh," walks over to the police tape and raises it up, "try the main road."
I limp past her and duck under the police tape. "Thanks."
"You're not his friend," she says. I stop. "He doesn't have friends," she continues, and I turn around to look at her.
"So who are you?" she asks as she looks me over.
"I'm, I'm nobody," I reply, truthfully. "I just met him."
"A bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy."
"Why?" I am curious about what reasoning she is going to come out with.
"You know why he is here?"
I look back at the doorway to the crime scene and back at her. I don't say the obvious.
"He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it." Donovan smiles. "The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there," she finishes, bitterly.
"And why would he do that?"
"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."
Lestrade steps out of the building and calls her over. "Coming!" she shouts. As she walks away, she gives me a bit of advice, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."
I turn around and head for the main road to look for a cab. I think this is one of the strangest days of my life. As if to illustrate that point, a phone box starts to ring incessantly as I walk by.