"You're a doctor." John looked up abruptly from the newspaper. I had reminded Sherlock that it would not do for John to be left in the flat alone. When Sherlock seemed doubtful, I told him that John could move his skull or contaminate some of his belongings. I had to run up the stairs to keep up with the detective. His entrance was silent, however. Sherlock was pulling on his gloves. "In fact, you're an Army doctor." John put the newspaper down and got to his feet with his crutch.
"Yes." He said and cleared his throat.
"Any good?" John looked at Sherlock with indignation and sarcasm.
"Very good." Was his somewhat cynical reply. Interesting…
Sherlock and I surveyed him. "Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." I spoke up, stepping further into the room and past Sherlock. Both of them looked to me. I approached John and I'm a little happy to say that I was taller than him. "Well, yes." John replied, surprised at my forward nature.
"Bit of trouble too, I bet." I muttered and stared at him in the eye. John did not back down. Yes, I was feeling rather fond of the doctor already.
"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much." I waited for a moment.
"Want to see some more?" The reply was instant.
"Oh, God, yes." He mumbled and I turned away from him, marching over to Sherlock, John on my tail. Sherlock nodded at me with approval and I couldn't help but grin proudly. We thundered down the stairs.
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." John called from behind me and Sherlock. I was leading the way, for once. Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway behind me since her voice was easy to hear and not muffled by doors or walls. "All three of you?" She inquired, almost disappointed in the lack of company. Poor woman. I would keep her company later.
Both Sherlock and I turned abruptly and stalked over to the landlady. "Impossible suicides?" Sherlock began.
"Four of them?" I continued.
"No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock finished, his hands on Mrs Hudson's shoulders. He kissed her on the cheek and Mrs Hudson blushed a little with a giddy smile. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." She slapped him playfully on the arm.
We all began to walk to the door. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" Sherlock said rather dramatically and we exited 221B Baker Street. Sherlock came to a stop at the kerb. He looked right and then left. "Taxi!" He shouted, his hand in the air. And it actually came to a stop for us. I had awful luck when hailing cabs. "Damn, how do you do that?" I questioned though mostly to myself. He did not respond as the car came to a stop. Sherlock opened the door and got in first, me second and John last. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The detective said and the driver nodded, pulling away from 221B and we were on our way.
It was dark by now and we were still in the taxi. Traffic was terrible and the driver was a very patient fellow when it came to allowing cars before him and waiting at a junction. We didn't have any rush, however. John was currently looking out the window and Sherlock was on his phone, looking at the recent news page on the suicides. I, however, was meditating. It's very relaxing and therapeutic. God, I love that word. Therapeutic. So when Sherlock spoke suddenly, I flinched a little and my eyes flew open.
"Okay, you've got questions…" Sherlock announced. It took me a moment in my disoriented state to realize that he was talking to John.
"Yeah, where are we going?" He said earlier, John. I thought tiredly. I had had a long day and I couldn't wait to get back to that couch…
"Crime scene. Next?" Sherlock replied.
"Who are you? What do you do?" John asked curiously.
"What do you think?" Sherlock retorted with another question. John and Sherlock speaking made me amused. They seemed to banter but really John, bless his heart, had no idea how to respond to most of Sherlock's come-backs. "I'd say… private detective…"
"But…?" John then looked back at Sherlock from the window.
"But the police don't go to private detectives." Well done, John. Well done.
"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job." Not quite.
"I thought I was the only one as well." I spoke up. Both men looked at me. It would appear that they did not know I was conscious. Sherlock did not speak. He only observed me silently. It was unnerving but exciting. "What does that mean?" John asked, completely clueless as to what a consulting detective was, poor man.
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult Sherlock or I. In this case, both of us." And then John said something blindingly stupid.
"The police don't consult amateurs." John said with an amused grin. Oh, really?
"When we met you for the first time yesterday, we said 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. You looked surprised." Sherlock said casually while looking out of the window. Lucky men on either side of me had windows to look out of. I had a grubby windscreen in front. "Yes, how did you know?" I frowned for a moment.
"John, we didn't know, we saw. And I've already told you how." I reminded him. John shrugged a little.
"That was how you saw it. How did Sherlock know?" I had a feeling it would be exactly the same so I closed my eyes.
"Wake me when we arrive." Sherlock hummed in agreement and I disconnected myself from the world.
"Natalia." I groaned slightly. "Natalia." Who on earth is insistent on waking me up? "Natalia, we've arrived." That deep voice is very nice. I like it a lot. Who does it belong to? "Natalia!" My eyes snapped open and I inhaled sharply, gulping. I was still seated in the taxi but John was out. Sherlock was sitting beside me. I blinked for a moment and then shook my head. "Must have gotten too absorbed. My apologies." I said a little croakily. Sherlock nodded and then exited the taxi, keeping the door open for me. I copied him and then cricked my neck. Again, John looked at me with concern but I ignored him.
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked out of the blue and I figured he was speaking to John again. John was hobbling on my left and Sherlock stalking on my right. "Harry and me don't get on, never have." John explained, "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker." Sherlock's face was slightly surprised.
"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."
"Harry's short for Harriet." John continued and Sherlock stopped, his mind at work once more.
"Harry's your sister." Sherlock basically repeated what John said. I sighed and checked my watch.
"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked, a little put out. I shrugged at him and he flexed his fingers on his left hand. Sherlock seemed to be insulting himself inwardly. "Sister!" He hissed.
"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John asked again. Sherlock ignored him.
"There's always something." Sherlock muttered and we came to a police car.
"Hello, freak. Oh, and there's the other one." I had always hated Sally Donovan. She was just full of contempt for anyone different. Funnily enough, she had despised me from the moment I had brought up the dismal state of her knees one day. Scrubbing the floors, of course. "Have you two gotten together? After a day? Bloody hell, psychopaths sure do stick together, don't they?" Sociopath. Not psychopath. Honestly. Sherlock took no notice of her greeting while I stared her down. "We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Why?" She sneered. Sherlock stopped for a moment.
"We were invited."
"Why?" Sally's voice got more 'superior'. The idea of her being superior was laughable. Sherlock took on sarcasm. Oh sarcasm, how I do love you. "I think he wants us to take a look." Sally's face was getting very unfriendly and I sincerely wanted to shoot it off of her. But I'm a sociopath. Not a psychopath. After all, there is a difference.
"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Sally spoke with an irritating tone. I rolled my eyes.
"Always, Sally." Both Sherlock and I said, Sherlock ducked under the tape and he pulled it up for me to walk under as well. Then we both stopped. Sally's scent hit me and it reminded me of one slimy man who we would have to meet soon. Anderson. "We even know you didn't make it home last night." I said as though coming to an epiphany. Sally looked at me in shock and anger and then John tried to enter as well. To get off of the subject, Sally put her arm out to bar John's way.
"Er… who's this?" She questioned with annoyance. I thrust my hands in my pockets.
"Colleague of ours: Dr Watson. Dr Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." I introduced them both with a nod of my head. Sally looked at us both disbelief. "Old friend." I muttered under my breath.
"A colleague? How did you two get a colleague?" Sally scowled, "Did they follow you home?" She then turned to John. John seemed to be fed up by now.
"Would it be better if I just waited…?"
"No." Was Sherlock's instant reply and he lifted the tape once more. Sally rolled her eyes and walked away, taking out her radio. "Freak's here. Bringing him in." She said irritably and no doubt to Lestrade.
We followed her across the street and Sherlock and I spun around, surveying the road and the house, looking for any hitches that could give us any clues. Unfortunately, when I stopped observing, Anderson was walking through the garden gate of the house and glaring at Sherlock, removing rubber gloves. His face still repelled me and he turned his nose up at my partner. Partner? Yes, that was correct, I think. We were officially partners now. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock came to a stop in front of the forensics scientist.
"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson sneered, a trait both he and Sally had in common. Sherlock did not insult him in any way, as much I wanted to.
"Quite clear." He said crisply and I nodded to John as we moved closer to the house, hinting to Sherlock we needed to get inside. It was, after all, rather cold outside. Unfortunately, it attracted Anderson's attention. "Ah, Natalia, nice to see you again." Anderson spoke with a 'lovely' smile. I returned it with a sickly sweet tone.
"As ever, Anderson, it's such a pleasure to see you. Wife is out of town, I see." He frowned for a moment. "No wedding ring but still mismatched skin on your finger." I explained it as though speaking to a child. He ignored it. He often ignored my criticisms. Apparently having sex with me was higher on his priorities list than insulting me.
"Why not ditch the freak and come inside with me? I'll give you a proper welcoming." He winked and raised his eyebrow. That was the most forward that Anderson had ever been, if I'm honest.
"You're simply too vulgar for my tastes, Anderson. Sherlock at least has the decency to… well, Sherlock has decency. Oh, and I've no doubt you enjoyed last night with Sally." I added. I could pretty much feel Sherlock's smugness increasing by the second. Anderson spluttered and it was very amusing.
"Wife away for long?" Sherlock asked, his posture now even more straight with pride simply rolling off of him. Anderson shook his head in irritation. "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that. Natalia implied it just now." The forensics scientist snapped and I rolled my eyes.
"Your deodorant told me that." Ah, I see, he was going for the more subtle approach rather than the mismatched tones on his finger. Anderson frowned. "My deodorant?" He said, unconvinced.
"What do you notice about it, Natalia?" Sherlock asked me with slight mirth.
"It's for men." I replied with sarcasm. Anderson was failing to understand the simplicity of it.
"Well, of course it's for men – I'm wearing it."
"So's Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock responded and then sniffed, "Ooh… I think it just vaporised. May we go in?" It still surprised me whenever Sally or Anderson tried to insult Sherlock and I. They've yet to win a fight but they just carry on anyway. You'd think they'd learn. Apparently not. "Now, look, whatever you're trying to imply…" Anderson warned, even waggling his finger a little.
"We're not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." I spoke up and moved past them, Sherlock and John following, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." I smirked and walked right in, triumph in my eyes. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to find Sherlock looking straight ahead with no expression. I frowned momentarily. What was he doing? He then glanced down at me and I saw the amusement in his eyes. "Very nice." Was all he said and then he passed me.
"You'll need to wear one of these." Lestrade 'greeted' us while shrugging himself into a blue suit. Really? No. Lestrade then noticed John limping behind us, the poor fellow. "Who's this?" He asked in surprise, looking at Sherlock and I.
"He's with us." Sherlock said while adjusting his gloves.
"But who is he?" Lestrade pressed.
"I said he's with us." Sherlock's tone meant it was final. I watched in faint disdain as Lestrade and John pulled on the suits. There wasn't really a point to wearing them. I had never liked them. "Aren't you two going to put one on?" Sherlock glanced at me and then we looked at John silently. He shrugged and continued to put it on.
"So where are we?" Sherlock asked lowly. Damn his voice, it was so deep. When he was speaking quietly it was just… Hehe, maybe I should remain quiet. "Upstairs." Lestrade replied, zipping up his suit and grabbing gloves.
Just looking at the stairs made my legs ache. They looked interesting and decaying but walking up them… Ugh, I hated stairs. "I can give you two minutes." Lestrade informed us as we began to climb them.
"May need longer." Sherlock said, looking up to the top.
"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." Ouch, they'll be having nightmares for a while. We continued up the stairs as I went through the information again in my head and then categorised it. That's how I view my brain. It's one big database. If it's not needed, it's deleted.
Lestrade entered the room first, then Sherlock, thirdly me and then John. Immediately I noticed the victim's colour co-ordination (pink all over) and messy hair. She appeared to be in her late thirties and her skin was slightly mottled. I also noticed the mud on her left leg but not her right. A small travel case or a suitcase must have been dragged. Even her nails were pink.
"Shut up." Sherlock said suddenly. Lestrade looked at him in confusion.
"I didn't say anything." Lestrade said incredously. Sherlock didn't seem to care.
"You were thinking. It's annoying." He replied.
"Would you like me to stop thinking, then?" I queried with an eyebrow raised. Sherlock looked at me with his hands behind his back. He always stood so tall and straight. Damn his posture. "Of course not. You're a quiet thinker, despite the levels of your intelligence." As insulting as that sounded, it was not one. It was a compliment. From Mr Sherlock Holmes. Don't get many of those.
Slowly, I approached the woman. Rache… It was scratched into the floorboards. Jennifer's left hand was beside it and her nails were splintered and cracked because of it. Left handed. Rache… German for Revenge. Sounds too cliché. Esperanto for Race. A race? Hmm… Haitian Creole for Out. Out? Interesting. Not very likely however. Portuguese for Split. Unlikely. Latin for Rachis. Highly doubt it. Perhaps… Rachel? A daughter? A sister? Definitely female. Perhaps they had an argument and she was seeking redemption. Or perhaps Rachel died… Most likely lost her daughter to a disease or a miscarriage of some kind.
Sherlock bent over and swept his gloved hand over Jennifer's back. It came up with moisture. Wet. "Umbrella?" I noted quietly. He reached over to my side and took the umbrella out of the pocket. Dry. We shared a glance. I then put my own fingers under her collar. Wet. She was only making a short journey in the rain. She must have turned her collar up to shield herself against the rain. Sherlock began checking her jewellery while I inspected her hair and legs. Mud was only on one leg and her hair was damp because of the rain however it was messy, despite the mild winds here in London. Another town then. Jennifer's clothing was practical; she was practical and she enjoyed looking it. Must have been a very short journey for her not to bother with her hair.
"Anything on the jewellery?" I muttered to Sherlock.
"All jewellery clean, save for her wedding ring. Unhappily married… 10 or more years." He then slid the ring off of her finger and inspected it. He then handed it to me and I peered at it. Grimy on the outside, clean on the inside. Regularly removed. Definitely unhappily married. Removed it at social gatherings? No, she saw other men. Crafty. This woman was leaving us clues. Oh, we would have been great friends.
"Got anything?" Lestrade said from behind us. We both smirked at each other.
"Not much." We said in synchronicity.
"She's German." Damn it, when did that worm get here? Anderson stood in the door with his arms crossed and looking exceedingly pleased with himself. "Rache. It's German for revenge."
"Yes, and it's also Esperanto for race, Haitian Creole for out, Portuguese for split and Latin for rachis." I cut across him, not looking at him, instead removing my gloves.
"My offer still stands, Natalia. I can show you a better time than that freak." Sherlock appeared to be tired of his company. "In any case, she could be trying to tell us-." Sherlock walked up to the door.
"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock said simply and shut the door in his face. Sherlock and Natalia – 2. Anderson – 0.
"So, she's German?" Lestrade recapped. I rolled my eyes. Sherlock was on his phone, checking avidly on some sort of website. "Weather?" I asked him shortly and he nodded, taking his eyes off of his phone for a moment to glance at me. It would seem that he still wasn't used to being around someone of the same intelligence. He then showed me the phone. Cardiff - Weather: Heavy rain, heavy wind, stormy… It fits. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff – so far, so obvious." I answered Lestrade's stupid question.
"Sorry, obvious?" John piped up, still trying to keep up.
"What about the message, though?" Lestrade inquired. I ignored him and looked at John intently.
"Dr Watson, what do you think?" I asked him. He looked at Lestrade for a moment and then back to me.
"Of the message?" He questioned.
"Of the body. You're a medical man." Sherlock continued for me.
"We have a whole team outside." Lestrade said in slight disbelief that we brought our own doctor.
"They won't work with us." Sherlock replied bluntly.
"I'm breaking every rule letting you two in here." Lestrade attempted for some sort of compassion. It didn't really work. Did he really expect compassion from a pair of sociopaths? It would appear so. How stupid of a Detective Inspector. "Yes, because you need us." I retorted.
"Yes, I do." Lestrade replied grudgingly. He then looked down at the body. "God help me."
"Dr Watson." Sherlock said a little louder. John looked up from Jennifer to the other consulting detective. "Hm?" John was reluctant to agree to Sherlock's orders and he glanced at Lestrade just in case. Lestrade shook his head and closed his eyes. "Oh, do as they say. Help yourself." He gave in and left the room. I heard him vaguely speak to Anderson but I ignored it.
John limped over to the right side of the body and pushed his leg down so that he could crouch. "Well?" Sherlock asked a little impatiently.
"What am I doing here?" John mumbled.
"Helping us make a point." Sherlock whispered back. I shut the door after Lestrade left but still they only spoke lowly. John didn't seem to like what his new 'job' was now. "I'm supposed to help you pay the rent." He reminded him.
"This is more fun." I mumbled as I knelt beside Sherlock.
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." John said monotonously, as though we couldn't see that for ourselves.
"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." Sherlock admitted. The door then opened and in popped Lestrade again. Looking at the expression on his face, he was in no mood for our sociopathic antics. I shifted in my position so that I was no longer on my knees, but merely crouched down, the whole of my feet placed on the floor. I don't understand how some people can't do that. Instead, they just crouch and balance on their toes. I mean, balancing on toes is easy but why is it so difficult for them to use the whole of their feet? Never mind.
John altered his leg so that he was kneeling as I had done before and he inspected her. I raised my hands into a 'praying position' and watched the examination intently. After a few moments, John already had results. "Yeah." He straightened up a bit so that he was back to he was before, "Asphyxiation… probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit." Interesting… Definitely ingested poison of some sort. "Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."
"You know what it was, you've read the papers." I commented lowly. John seemed a little confused.
"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth…?" I was about to remark on the manner of death when Lestrade spoke over me.
"Sherlock, Natalia, two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got." I was tempted to get him to beg but I decided not to. He needed a break.
"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink." Sherlock gave an almost indecipherable nod to me and I continued.
"Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night from the size of her suitcase." Sherlock looked at me sharply.
"Suitcase?" Both he and Lestrade repeated. I nodded and carried on.
"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."
"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…" Lestrade seemed to regret raising his voice at me. He knew that I didn't like loud voices yet he was, shouting. I managed to ignore it.
"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, so it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or who does she remove her rings for?" Sherlock continued after that.
"Not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time so most likely a string of them. Simple."
"That's brilliant." John said in awe. We looked at him in confusion. "Sorry." He said and looked at the body again.
"Cardiff?" Lestrade repeated, arms still crossed defiantly.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock mumbled. Damn his voice.
"It's not obvious to me." John spoke up with a slightly nervous tone. Poor man. Sherlock looked at him and then at Lestrade, as if in shock. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains?"
"It must be so boring." I said in the same tone and then quickly moved on, "Her coat – it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours – no rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind." I demonstrated a little with my own coat.
"She's got an umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried."
"So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" Sherlock took out his phone, the screen on the weather page, "Cardiff." He showed it to us all. Again, John could not keep his mouth shut.
"That's fantastic." John seemed simply awestruck. Was it really that incredible? I couldn't see how. Just a keen eye and an open mind are needed for it really. "Do you know you do that out loud?" I muttered to him.
"Sorry, I'll shut up." John assured us.
"No, it's… fine." Sherlock replied.
"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked from behind us. Sherlock looked at me with such an intense gaze, I think I melted.
"Yes, why do you keep mentioning a suitcase?" He stepped closer to me, our proximity making it difficult for me to breathe. I could smell his cologne from where I was. It was subtle but it smelled good. No, it wasn't cologne; it wasn't potent enough. It was merely the scent of Sherlock. I allowed myself to inhale the musty aroma of books, old wood and gunpowder and then returned to my normal state. "In due time, Sherlock." I said quietly and then began searching for it. "Yes, where is the suitcase?" I inquired to Lestrade. "She must have had a phone or an organiser." I muttered to myself.
"Find out who Rachel is." Sherlock said from behind me, still watching me moving around and thinking.
"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade said in disbelief. I wasn't really listening; the cogs in my brain were whirring around. Damn, this was an interesting case. "No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" Sherlock said sarcastically, "Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be." I turned around and surveyed the scene. Dead woman, string of lovers, lost someone called Rachel, scratches their name in wood, causing pain, suffering and agony. Why? Why would she do that? I voiced these thoughts. "Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Lestrade still had not figured out the suitcase and apparently, neither had Sherlock.
"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked, his patience wearing thin. Once more, Sherlock span to look at me, his eyes demanding an answer. "Look, tiny splash marks on her right heel and calf not present, are so on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way." I explained and then looked up at Sherlock who had not looked away from me, "Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious – could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?" I once again began searching, ignoring the men's penetrating gazes on me. And then Lestrade replied to my requests oh so casually. "There wasn't a case."
I looked up slowly and stared at him. "Say that again." I dared him, wondering if I had heard him correctly. If he was lying, so help me, I would just shoot him. Simple as. "There wasn't a case. There never was any suitcase." Lestrade responded, repeating it again in case I failed to hear it a second time. I jumped to my feet and pushed past both Lestrade and John. Sherlock had easily caught on by now. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Sherlock shouted, his voice easily being heard throughout the house.
"Sherlock, Natalia, there was no case!" Lestrade followed us through the door, arms still crossed. He still seemed unconvinced, the bastard. I shook my head in disbelief and looked at him from where I was standing on the stairs. "But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!" I retorted angrily. For God's sake, they can be so incredibly thick sometimes! Lestrade didn't seem too bothered by my unusual outburst. "Right, yeah, thanks, and?" Lestrade called down as Sherlock and I disappeared down the staircase. We stopped and looked up at the Detective Inspector and our Army doctor.
"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how." Sherlock said rather quietly despite the distance between us and Lestrade, "But they're not suicides, they're killings, they're serial killings." Sherlock then clapped his hands. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. Love those. There's always something to look forward too." He said enthusiastically and we began our descent once more.
"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade yelled. Oh for God's sake…
"Her case!" I shouted back up, "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case." And then the epiphany hit me. "So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case was in the car." I muttered lowly and now only Sherlock could hear me. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines as me. Of course he was, he was a genius. "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John spoke for the first time in a few minutes. It was the loudest I had heard him speak.
"No, she never got to the hotel." Sherlock said, "Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…" EPIPHANY! "Oh…" We both had come to the same conclusion. "Oh!" Sherlock clapped his hands together as I raised my hands, index fingers extended. I vaguely noticed Lestrade lean over the bannister and call our names. Why didn't we think of it before? It was obvious! Pink clothes, pink shoes, pink nails, pink lipstick, pink CASE. No… Oh! Phone! She had left her phone in her case, leaving it behind intentionally so that we could catch the killer. Oh, she was crafty!
"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock muttered to himself and I agreed.
"We can't just wait!" Lestrade seemed appalled at the idea of waiting another minute. Of course, this was Lestrade we're talking about. Lestrade was never a very patient man. "Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" I shouted and we ran off quickly.
"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?" Lestrade shrieked angrily. Oh damn it, damn his patience. Sherlock and I ran back to the entrance to the stairs.
"PINK!" And off we rushed to find the nearest skips.
This one was about 10 pages on my Microsoft Word. Longest chapter I've done for any of my stories, I think. Hopefully it wasn't too boring. I let Natalia's intelligence really surface here and I hope you don't mind! I love all of my faithful reviewers for all of my other stories so hopefully, this one will be fine. Cheers folks. Adios.
Luna