Warnings this chapter: Murder victim, including physical description.

CHAPTER 3

SCENES OF THE CRIMES

"John! Wake up!" Sherlock shouted urgently.

John woke with a start, already half out of bed and assuming a defensive posture when he asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's 4:30. Time to go."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm sleeping."

"You are clearly awake. The gymnasium awaits."

"And you are clearly a lunatic. Bloody sun's not even up," he huffed and shuffled toward the loo. "And I'm heading to the shower."

"Shower later."

"No, I'm showering now, thank you very much. Put on the kettle, will you?"

"John, we have to go now. Mycroft can only hold off the stampeding masses and the local constabulary for so long."

"Constabulary? You mean Lestrade."

"Hardly. Not his division," he said, straight-faced.

"You know as well as I do that Mycroft can hold off whoever he wants from now until Armageddon if he wants. Put on the kettle or I am seriously going to injure you. After I shower."

oOo

As promised, the gymnasium site was pristine, undisturbed from the previous night's drama. Sherlock and John entered, trailed by one of Mycroft's men, who maintained his position while the pair undertook their examination of the scene. He was purportedly there to preserve the Chain of Evidence for anything the men might find. It didn't escape their attention that the man was fully armed and part of his security team.

Standing in the doorway, Sherlock could see the streaks left by his coat when John had pulled him across the floor. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock pointed out several scuff marks.

"John, you are wearing the same shoes you wore yesterday." It wasn't a question.

John understood where that thought was going. He lined up each foot with the scuff marks and shoe prints. There was a match for tread marks and sole colour of the scuff marks.

"It was raining when you arrived?"

"No, stopped. It was just a quick shower."

"Ah. That explains the bits of mud in and around the footprints."

A single chair stood under a main light toward the side of the room.

"Did you find me in the chair?"

John shook his head emphatically. "Floor."

"So, one of the two men dragged the chair from there"—he pointed to a column of chairs stacked in a corner—"to here. Tie wraps dropped there, and there. Their immediate intentions were obvious." Sherlock watched the scene play out in his head. "Until they were interrupted."

"Wait a minute. Two men? How—"

"John, really. Even after a shower and tea?" Sherlock pointed to a separate entrance door on the east side of the room.

Eye roll.

"Obviously, I was brought in through the east door. There was mud and grass embedded in the treads of their shoes and deposited there…and there," he said, pointing emphatically. "In fact, I was half-carried without resistance. Hoisted under each arm—drag marks. You saw the state of my shoes… But they couldn't open the door whilst holding me, so at least one found it necessary to release his hold…thereby causing both of my legs to leave marks on the floor. They resumed carrying me. More weight on the inside shoes than the outer. One man was short, about your height. The other taller but not quite my height. I was too tall and too heavy for them to handle easily. See how each knee occasionally touched the floor. The shorter man weighed less than the other, judging from how often my right knee scraped along the floor. Then they dropped me, pulled over the chair, and prepared to do…whatever they had planned to do."

"Sherlock, there are more footprints—different tread patterns than the others—over here. Could have been more than two, then?"

"No traces of mud or grass, so left here before the rain had begun. Clearly, the custodian did not wash the floor last night. Or clean at all." The discarded remains of several meals were strewn about the room. "And there—an empty bottle of Fursty Ferret—God, I can smell the hops from here—spilt under the seats there. The man should be sacked."

John gestured to Mycroft's man. He conferred with him for a moment, then the security man proceeded to retrieve the food, bottle, and tie wraps, and put them into evidence bags. The man used his mobile, and within minutes someone had arrived with a bag large enough to cover the chair.

Sherlock's mobile rang. He wrinkled up his nose when he saw the display.

"Mycroft?" John deduced.

"Mycroft." He answered the call. "If you do not have information on the missing van, go away."

"I do, indeed." Mycroft's voice was edgy.

"Oh, let me guess. Judging from your tone, the van was found either at the bottom of the Thames or torched, leaving no evidence behind."

"The latter, I'm afraid… You're at the gymnasium, I assume?"

"Don't play games, Mycroft. You know very well that I'm at the gymnasium, as I'm sure your minions have reported. And they have, no doubt, reported the dearth of physical evidence."

"Pitifully small amount evidence. If we are lucky, perhaps we'll get some fingerprints."

Sherlock held out little hope for anything more.

oOo

Mrs Margaret Trevor, age 40, according to her i.d., lay on her back, fully clothed, atop her neatly made bed. She'd been dead between 24-30 hours.

Sherlock's eyes scan the room.

"How long has she been a widow?" he asked, to no-one in particular.

"Three years, auto accident." Lestrade said without losing a beat, and he didn't even bother asking how Sherlock deduced that.

The Consulting Detective and Doctor approached the body. As he always did, John bowed his head briefly: it might have been in respect, it might have been in prayer, or simply to centre himself. He never said and no one ever asked.

Her shoulder-length dark hair fanned out across her pillow like a halo, arms at her sides, in a deadly mockery of sleep. There were no blood stains. No signs of forced entry. No signs of a struggle. No signs of having been restrained. No gunshot or knife wounds. No marks on her neck or across the trachea. No signs of anything amiss. Except—

Lestrade and his team, even Anderson and Donovan, had conceded that they were stumped. It might not even be a murder scene. Mrs Trevor could have died a natural death. Except—

The first thing anyone would see was the bruising. Very odd bruising. There were large bruises in the webbing of both hands, extending from thumbs to index fingers and half-way across the hand.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the woman, then scanned the room, then returned to the woman.

"Not defensive bruises," Sherlock said with conviction. "Not offensive, either." What he was not going to say was that he had never before encountered anything remotely like that bruising pattern. It had him utterly perplexed. He did not like being perplexed.

"That's why we asked you two in. Bit of a head-scratcher, that."

To deflect his discomfort, Sherlock steered the questioning in another direction. "The bruises are the first thing you notice. What's the second thing?" Sherlock asked.

The others hesitated. "God, it's like dealing with primary schoolers. Her blouse, idiots! Look at her blouse."

Donovan—the only woman in the group—was the first to see it. "The buttons on her blouse are done up wrong. Cockeyed. They don't match up with the button holes, do they?"

The men frowned, then nodded as if they'd each had an epiphany.

"Bur that can happen to anyone, if they're rushin' about, tryin' to get ready to leave for work. Done it myself more than a few times," Donovan said.

"No doubt," Sherlock replied.

"What I mean is—"

"Look around the room, the flat. Look! It is compulsively neat. Meticulous. Every book lined up on the shelves, every thing in its place, not a stray paper, piece of mail, jewellery, clothing. Immaculately clean." He picked up her diary from the end table and flipped through it. "Every appointment for today, and every day, is given substantial travel time on either end. This is not a woman who rushes."

Lestrade glanced at his notes. "Confirms what the neighbours say. Fussy about her dress, appearance, bit of a nitpicker, yeah?"

"Compulsive. Drove everyone mental with her neatness, they said," Donovan read.

The Consulting Detective continued his observations.

"Did you find blood anywhere?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said.

"I know what caused the bruising," John said unexpectedly, and all heads turned toward him. "I just need to confirm."

John palpated the bruise on the purlicue of one hand, then compared both hands. "Bruises aren't deep… ecchymosis. Just under the surface." He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"Caused by?" Lestrade said impatiently.

"Ah, here's where it might get interesting. Sherlock, give me your lens."

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked, intrigued.

"Tell you in a mo'."

John inspected each of her hands with the lens, then unbuttoned her blouse and respectfully raised the centre gore point of her bra to examine the midline of her chest between her breasts. "Uh-huh," he said with a confirming nod.

"I'm not convinced we've got a crime scene here. But I do know what caused her bruising."

Sherlock grabbed the glass and looked.

"I don't see anything unusual." Perplexed.

A small, smug smile fought to take over John's lips. "Don't you? Hmm."

That got an eyebrow from Lestrade.

"What?" Sherlock said, totally affronted.

"Was she taking any steroids?"

"Hey, how'd you make that leap? You're beginning to sound more like Sherlock every day." Lestrade shuddered. "Positively frightening thought, yeah? Anderson, check the medicine cabinet and her purse," he ordered.

Anderson rolled his eyes and grumbled.

Sherlock leaned down and re-examined the woman. "To do with the bruising?"

"Uh-huh."

Sherlock examined the young woman's arms, neck, and face. He sniffed, he prodded, he peered. Nothing. He lifted her blouse and bra, as John had—nothing.

"Perhaps with access at the morgue?" Sherlock sighed.

"Unnecessary." John unconsciously mimicked Sherlock's clipped style, and his eyes narrowed in something akin to victory, but he was hardly going to fall into Sherlock's habit of gloating at a crime scene.

Anderson shook the bottle of pills he'd found in the woman's purse. "Prednisone." Steriods.

Lestrade looked in the top draw of her night stand and held up something. "Inhaler."

"Also a steroid. Asthma attack?" Anderson suggested.

"Think, Anderson, think! If you were having an asthma attack, a potentially fatal asthma attack, would you be lying peacefully on your bed, hands calmly at your side? No, you would be frantic, desperate for every breath. You'd have your inhaler in hand, not tucked away in a drawer."

"C'mon, give over, John." Lestrade begged.

Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. He shot John a look of pure venom, which John returned with a smile. And Lestrade found himself in the unique position of directing his questions at John.

"Any theories?" he asked.

"Just one."

"Just one?" Sherlock murmured disparagingly.

"That's one more than you have, isn't it, Smarty-pants?" John whispered as he passed Sherlock's side. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up.

"Mrs Trevor was getting acupuncture treatments." John announced.

They all looked at him they way everyone usually looked at Sherlock.

"There are minute acupuncture needle marks at points LI4 on both hands. Very common points. As is the mediastinum point under the bra—don't remember what it's called. Hard to see unless you know what you're looking for."

Sherlock brow was deeply furrowed.

The Detective Inspector let out a grunt. "Oi, John, you've been keeping secrets from us? When'd you study acupuncture?"

"Didn't study it. Picked up a thing or two from a Chinese doc in my platoon. Helped more than a few blokes when the supply line went balls up and we ran out of painkillers. Figured a good doctor ought to know a thing or two about what others are offering. Even had a few sessions myself. Very impressive." He turned his attention back to the body. "Bruising after acupuncture isn't that unusual, but when it's this extensive… Well, you can be more susceptible to bruising if you're taking steroids."

"John, that was brilliant!" Sherlock beamed.

"You know you said that out loud," John teased.

"Shut up."

"You're saying a tiny little acupuncture needle could kill her?" Lestrade asked. "Hardly good for a proper stabbing. So what are you goin' to call this on your blog? Death by Bruising?"

"So what do ya mean, then? The needles were poisoned? Is that possible?" Donovan asked.

"Possible, not probable," Sherlock said.

"Could you even put enough poison on the end of an acupuncture needle?" Lestrade asked.

"It would have to be a highly concentrated toxin," Anderson suggested. They'd all but forgotten he was even in the room. Unphased, he continued. "Inland Taipan snake, Black Mamba venom. Then again, Aconite's a good one."

Sherlock feigned shock. "Oh, my God!" Sherlock breathed. "The world as I know it is ending, shoot me now! Anderson…" he said with high drama, "is correct."

Anderson held Sherlock's stare. Interesting.

Sherlock parried. "Death stalker scorpion—Lieurus quinquestriatus—is my personal favourite, but it takes too long. Perhaps as an experiment, Anderson, I could put some in your tea and analyze the timeline?"

John intervened. "All right, boys. Any of those toxins could do the job. Bit hard to get a hold of. Not exactly on the shelf at Tesco."

"Toxicology tests, then, yeah?"

John shrugged. "Might as well, Greg, but I think you'll come up empty. Anderson's right, as far as he went, but I don't think this is poisoning. Pallor's all wrong. I'd expect more cyanosis. All I'm saying is that the bruising was caused by acupuncture. I'm still not saying she was murdered."

"But in theory you could kill with acupuncture, but you would have to know what you're doing. And the police would have to know what to look for?" Sherlock looked to John for verification. He nodded.

"If you've taken all the photographs you need from this angle," Sherlock said to Lestrade, "I need to see her back."

"Lividity's set in, Sherlock," John said. "If there was bruising on her back, you're not going to see it now."

"Looking for something else."

Rigor was dissipating and the body was somewhat pliant. Sherlock lifted her blouse. As expected, Mrs Trevor's back was flushed with the purple and blue of lividity. But that's not what drew Sherlock's attention. He pointed to her bra.

"Three hooks. Only two fastened," he explained. "It's not that difficult to fasten or unfasten a bra."

"Got a lot of experience in that area, do you?" Donovan asked.

Sherlock ignored her but Lestrade gave her a jab in the side.

"But look here," Sally continued, after they'd rolled the body back. "She's not in there right. The bra, I mean. A bra's not somethin' you just loop over and fasten, ya know? Well, you don't know, but I'm telling you, you 'ave to line yourself up, so that your sumos" — she made round circular gestures around her nipples, then leaned forward and illustrated the technique — "are front and centre. Especially if you're at least a C like her."

"Definitely a D," John said with authority.

"Jesus, I can't believe I'm listenin' to this," Lestrade said.

"Buttons askew. Bra done up wrong. 'Things' off-centre. So? How does that add up to a crime?" Anderson asked.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head in despair. "Remember, we are dealing with someone who was fastidious about her appearance. A woman like that would notice—feel it, feel the hook—if her bra were misaligned. I might be willing to accept misaligned buttons as a one-time occurrence. Incorrectly fastened bra on the same day? Stretching credibility. Off-centre nipples? Completely implausible. The conclusion is obvious. Someone else dressed her and rather hurriedly, I suspect, after her death. But only from the waist up; from the waist down, everything is done up properly. And that someone was obviously a man, unused to the nuances of putting on a bra. Regardless of the cause of death, which an autopsy will no doubt reveal, I think we have established this as a crime scene."

oOo