"Why did the body have to be in the middle of nowhere?" Sherlock glared at the muddy hems of his trousers. John, in comparison, had his jeans tucked into a sensible pair of wellies.
"Dimmock did warn you, Sherlock. It's not his fault, or the victim's, that you chose to dress like that."
Sherlock scowled as they approached the middle of the field, cordoned off by police tape.
"Why did you call us in here for a body dump? Surely your team can handle something this simple?"
"Shut it, Sherlock. I don't know how Lestrade puts up with you. Come see. This isn't just any body dump."
The first thing John noticed was how peaceful the body looked. She'd been laid out in a circle of wildflowers, almost as if she was sleeping. Often when people staged bodies after a violent crime, they looked stiff and posed. This young woman's hands were curled gently at her sides, not crossed across her chest - which always ended up looking contrived. Her legs were slightly bent, ankles overlapped. The one thing, though, that made it very obvious she'd been laid here with great care and forethought were her eyes. They'd been closed, John wasn't sure if that was peri- or post-mortem yet. On each closed eyelid, someone had placed one pristine red begonia.
In the language of flowers, one of the interpretations of begonias is "beware"