I have DeanandSam and DrinkinOuttaCups to thanks for this idea. :-)
Blunt force trauma, first struck on temple (left-handed swing), which knocked her unconscious upon impact. Not immediate cause of death. Was rolled over onto back and struck two… no, three more times in the face. Someone practically bashed her head in. Object obviously heavy; it didn't require much force to cause an incredible amount of damage. Left wrist bruised and broken; obviously grabbed forcefully by her assailant. She tried to wriggle free of his grasp; cause of break. Residue on right hand appears to be from pepper spray. She defended herself then, only succeeding in forcing her attacker to back off…
Sherlock straightened himself up from where he had been crouching on the floor and snapped off the latex gloves he was currently wearing.
"Anything?" Lestrade asked as he walked up behind the detective.
"Who have you got in questioning?" the detective asked as he continued to stare at the body.
"The boyfriend, Thomas. He says he's got nothing to do with it, though," Lestrade said with a huff. "That's what they all say."
"Of course they all say that, Inspector. Most men prefer it if they can avoid prison at all costs. It isn't exactly what one would call 'paradise'."
Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Right. So, what have you got?"
"Blunt force trauma, first knocked unconscious by a left-handed swing to the right temple, then the rest of her face was bashed in three times before the murderer retreated."
The inspector nodded.
"Yeah… we've kind of gathered that. Anything else?"
"Yes. The man had a strong grip, due to the fact that the simple act of the victim trying to free herself caused a severe break in her wrist. I found pepper spray residue on her right fingertips, suggesting she had the chance to defend herself, but obviously only succeeded in warding off her attacker briefly."
Lestrade nodded.
"And that's what convinced the guy to murder her?"
"Yes."
"Any idea what the murder weapon was?" John finally piped up from behind the two men.
Sherlock craned his neck to look at his flat-mate.
"Heavy," he retorted.
John gave a mocking laugh.
"Thank you, Sherlock, for that enlightening deduction. You know what I meant."
The detective shrugged.
"Well, if these damned cameras would kindly vacate the room," he said, turning his attention particularly in Anderson's direction, causing the forensics specialist to glare in return, "Perhaps I could get a better look around."
Lestrade sighed and ordered all other officers in the room to step outside, earning muffled complaints from the small group. When it was just the three of them left, Sherlock began carefully walking about the room, appearing to inspect every square-inch of the space. John and Lestrade watched in silence as the detective proceeded with his work, marvelling at how much he seemed to resemble a bloodhound trailing the scent of a woodland animal.
"The yoga mat on the floor, John," Sherlock said after a few moments.
"Yeah? What about it?"
"What does it suggest?"
The detective was obviously trying to give his partner a chance to show off (or make himself look better, which was probably more likely), causing the doctor to stumble a bit over his words.
"Ah… she liked yoga?" John finally managed to get out, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.
"Besides that, John, think!" Sherlock told him.
John took a minute to ponder the deeper meaning of the yoga mat (which was a sentence he thought he would never piece together inside his head), his mind seeming to get stuck on kale and medicine balls.
Running, sit-ups, weights…
"Weights?" John said without even meaning to.
Sherlock looked a bit surprised at the statement.
"Ahead of me I see, John. Yes. That's what I was driving at."
John could have sworn he saw the slightest bit of pride in his friend's expression.
"Wait, what? Weights?" Lestrade asked, obviously lost in the exchange.
"Did you not notice the state of her arms, Lestrade? I should have thought of it immediately. Stupid," the detective muttered to himself. "She lifts weights, Lestrade."
"And?" the inspector asked, still quite confused.
"That was the murder weapon!" John exclaimed, snapping his fingers when he came to the conclusion.
Sherlock smiled.
"Correct, John. Excellent."
Lestrade nodded in understanding.
"Right. Okay. But my people didn't find any weights anywhere around the flat."
Sherlock tightened his lips.
"They couldn't have been too heavy, considering her form. I'd say a mere four to five kilograms." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "No training tapes in her collection of DVDs. Where'd she train, then?"
"She could have learned a few techniques online," John said with a shrug.
Without much of a warning, Sherlock darted into the bathroom. He was only gone for about a minute before he emitted a loud 'Aha!' and came back out into the main living area.
"Here," he said, holding up an empty can of Lynx body spray for both men to see.
John raised an eyebrow.
"And what exactly did you have to go through to find that?"
"Let's just say Amanda recently finished her cycle," Sherlock said, twisting his mouth in disgust.
Both Lestrade and John groaned.
"Didn't need to know that," the inspector said. "What does a bottle of Lynx tell you, anyway?"
"What did Thomas smell like?" Sherlock asked, suddenly.
"Excuse me?"
"What did he smell like when you arrested him? Describe the scent in as much detail as possible."
Lestrade cleared his throat.
"Ah, well… he smelled like shampoo, I guess."
"What kind of shampoo?"
"Coconut, I guess. Why does this matter, again?"
Sherlock smirked.
"Do you really think a man who uses coconut shampoo would ever wear Lynx?"
Lestrade went to say something, but stopped himself when he did.
"Good point."
John nodded in agreement.
"So Amanda was cheating on Thomas."
"Precisely."
"Which gives Thomas all the more incentive to kill her," Lestrade said.
Sherlock gave him an are-you-honestly-that-stupid look and sighed.
"The man who killed her has a strong grip, Lestrade. I don't have to meet Thomas to know that he is as weak as they come."
"Who killed her, then?"
"Her trainer."
"Trainer?" John and Lestrade asked almost simultaneously.
"The lack of weight-training DVDs, the affair, the body-spray; it all adds up."
"Right. Because Lynx has 'perverted sweaty guy' written all over it," John said with an eye-roll.
"Check her contacts, voicemails, emails; anything that might give us a clue as to who this man is. John and I will be back at the flat. Message John with whatever you find," Sherlock said as he slipped on his leather gloves.
"I'm not your secretary, Sherlock, " John told him as he buttoned his coat.
"You're my assistant, John. It's what you do."
"Along with paying the bloody rent, apparently," the doctor mumbled. "Thanks, Greg," he said to inspector as he followed Sherlock out the door.
Lestrade nodded in response and looked back down at the body, sighing at the thought of the paperwork that would need done.
John set down his novel with a small sigh and rubbed at his eyes. He pulled out his phone, quickly checking the time, and discovered that it was already six o'clock.
"Got late quickly, didn't it?" he said, directing the remark at his flat-mate.
Unsurprisingly, John didn't get a response. He looked over at the man in front of him and noticed that he hadn't changed the position he had settled into about three hours beforehand; eyes closed, legs crossed, hands steepled beneath his chin; the usual.
John cleared his throat.
"Sherlock?"
No answer.
"Sherlock, I think I might make myself some tea. Do you want a cup?"
Again, nothing.
John shook his head and stood up from his chair, taking a moment to stretch out his legs and neck, both of which had become pretty stiff from the position he had been sitting in for the past three hours while he read. He rolled his neck as he walked into the kitchen and grabbed his favourite kettle from beneath the sink, setting it down in the basin and turning on the water. It didn't take long for the kettle to fill and for John to get the water boiling. And, before he knew it, he had two mugs ready to serve. He chuckled to himself as he realized he had practically mastered the art of making tea.
He walked back into the sitting room, placing his mug beside his chair and the other beside Sherlock's.
"Whenever you decide to snap out of it," he said as he sat back down in his armchair, "There's some tea for you to drink, alright? I don't want it going cold."
He picked up the steaming mug of tea and took a long sip, his entire body warming at the feeling of the hot liquid making its way down his throat. His eyes fixated on Sherlock's somewhat still form, mostly noting the rapid movements beneath the man's lids. The sight made him smile. John always adored how full of life his flat-mate was, even when he was seemingly motionless.
Just then, Sherlock's eyes opened, and the detective blinked a few times.
"John," he said, acknowledging the doctor's presence with a nod.
He looked beside him at the mug of tea on the table and graciously picked it up, downing a few sips of the drink.
"You're welcome, by the way," John said with an annoyed frown.
"Has Lestrade texted you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes looking a bit distant.
John shook his head and set his mug down.
"Nope. Not yet. He'll probably send me something soon, though."
"As soon as he does, we're paying a visit to this trainer."
"Not at this time of night, we're not," John protested.
Right on cue, a text tone sounded in the room.
"I believe that's for you," Sherlock said with a smirk.
John gave him an annoyed look and checked the message.
"Bern. 'The Fifth Zone' on Bulstrode," he said, reading aloud the text.
Sherlock quickly typed in the name of what he supposed was the gym and found contact information on it.
"Apparently a highly reviewed gym."
"How many stars?"
"Four and a half."
"Hm. Not too shabby," John said with a nod.
"I'm assuming Bern is the nickname of our murderer?"
John shrugged.
"Your guess is as good as mine. Now, you're sure this is the guy we're looking for?"
"Amanda obviously tried to cut off the affair. He wasn't too happy about it."
"So he murdered her?"
"These are barbaric times, John."
The doctor sighed.
"Let's just call him a suspect for now, yeah? Until we have concrete evidence?"
"I'm not sure exactly what more evidence you could possibly hope for, but fine. Whatever makes you feel most comfortable."
Sherlock got up from his chair and made his way over to the coatrack, grabbing his Belstaff from the topmost peg and slipping it on.
"Sherlock…" John warned.
"Get your coat on, John."
"But Sherlock-"
"It's cold outside. I suggest you wear a pair of gloves." With a grand flourish, Sherlock threw on his scarf and promptly tightened it. "I'll hail a cab."
Before John could even try to protest, the detective was already down the stairs.
"Shit," John muttered as he grabbed his brown gloves from the kitchen table.
He then hurried out the door after his flat-mate.
Sherlock opened the glass door of the gym, exposing him and John to the overpowering scent of sweat.
"Well that's pungent," John said with a deep breath.
Despite the smell, it was rather warm inside. It was a pleasant feeling compared to bitter cold outside.
Sherlock ignored his comment and walked up to the front desk, prepared to confront the buff woman behind it.
"We're closing, mate," she said, licking her fingers and flipping through a health magazine.
"Police," Sherlock said, holding up Lestrade's badge and earning a small groan from John.
The receptionist sighed and shut the magazine, tossing it behind her and scrutinizing the detective.
"Sure don't look it."
"Undercover work," Sherlock said with a mocking tone.
The woman narrowed her eyes.
"What do you want?"
John stepped up beside Sherlock.
"We're looking for an employee of yours by the name of Bern. Could you direct us to him?"
The receptionist hesitated before answering.
"Why? What did he do?"
Sherlock went to tell her, but stopped when John firmly pinched his coat sleeve.
"We just have a few routine questions for him," the doctor said with a small smile.
The woman nodded.
"He should be in the weight room," she said, pointing down the hall.
"Thank you very much," John said.
Sherlock sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose, his eyes conveying a large amount of skepticism. "If you don't mind my asking, do you wear cologne?"
The receptionist tensed.
"I thought you were asking Bern the questions. Not me."
John laughed.
"Sorry about him. He's new."
And he started down the hallway, dragging Sherlock with him.
"It was her?" he whispered hurriedly.
Sherlock nodded.
"She's a trainer as well. Lesbian, apparently. Amanda must have been bisexual."
John bit the inside of his cheek.
"Shit. What are we going to do now?"
"Act natural."
When the two flat-mates entered the weight room, they saw an large man with dirty brown hair doing bicep curls, grunting as he did so.
"Looking good, Rambo," John remarked.
The man dropped his dumbbells and turned to face the doctor.
"And who might you be?"
"My partner, John Watson," Sherlock said. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, here about the murder of Amanda Schmidt."
The man cocked his head slightly.
"Who?"
"A woman your co-worker had been having an affair with and summarily murdered."
"No need to sugar-coat it," John mumbled under his breath.
"Bern?" the bigger man asked, his brow knitted in confusion and concern.
Sherlock and John nodded.
The man looked taken aback.
"Not Bernie?"
John stepped forward.
"She's more than your co-worker, isn't she?"
"Yeah, my sister," the man said, sitting down on a nearby bench. "You don't think she…?"
"She's perfectly capable of murder," Sherlock said.
The man put his head in his hands.
"You're kidding me."
"Hardly."
"What do I do?"
John walked over to the man and put a hand on his shoulder.
"What's your name?"
"Donald."
"Alright, Donald. I want you to do something for me."
Donald looked at him and nodded.
"Grab your things and leave. Don't make a big fuss about it, okay? Sherlock and I will do the same and we'll get some reinforcement from Scotland Yard."
Donald took a deep breath and stood up.
"Okay. Will Bernie be alright?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Well, considering she'll be convicted for murder, I can't imagine-"
"Sherlock!" John hissed at him. He smiled back at Donald. "We'll make sure she gets treated fairly."
"I don't think so," a deep, feminine voice said from behind him, followed by the sound of a gun's safety clicking off.
Sherlock and John turned around to face the woman.
"No one's arresting me," she said, the gun firmly gripped in her hand.
"Wrong," Sherlock said. "Where is the weight hidden?"
Bernie growled.
"None of your business."
"It is my business."
"Not when I'm the one with the gun in my hand." She glanced at her brother.
"Don, step aside."
Donald stood his ground.
"Bernie, no. Listen to John here. Put the gun down and we can sort things out."
She frowned.
"Little brother, I'm warning you…"
Donald didn't move.
"I don't think you'll kill me," he said.
Bernie's expression hardened.
"You're right. But that doesn't mean I won't shoot you."
The gun went off and Don went down, clutching his arm in pain.
Almost as fast as the bullet had been, John lunged at Bern, shoving Sherlock out of harm's way as he did so. He firmly grabbed the woman's wrist, trying to wrestle the gun from her tight grip, and it went clattering to the floor.
"Grab it, Sherlock!" he cried out.
The detective did as he was told, immediately scooping up the gun and aiming it at the two wrestling.
"Sherlock, no! Wait until you've… agh!... got a clear shot!" John shouted as he tried to worm his way out of Bern's grip.
"John-"
"You might kill her!"
Bern snarled as she got behind him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. With the force of a rhinoceros, she rammed John face-first into a large rack of weights. She let go as John fell to the floor and groaned. John flopped onto his back and made to get up when Bern pushed the rack of weights over. With a sickening crash, the rack landed on top of John, followed by the sound of his cracking bones and a soundless intake of air.
"John!" Sherlock shouted.
The detective glared at Bern and narrowed his eyes. The trainer met his gaze for a brief moment before sprinting out the door, and Sherlock ran after her, shouting a number of curses at her as he did so. Unfortunately, as soon as Sherlock followed her outside, he lost track of her. He would have continued searching if he hadn't remembered his injured flat-mate.
"John," he said breathlessly.
He ran back into the gym and into the weight room to find Donald sitting next to John while holding his own bleeding shoulder.
"I called an ambulance," the trainer said, gesturing to his cell phone lying on the floor.
Without a single word of acknowledgment, Sherlock slid onto his knees next to an unconscious and trapped John.
"John, please tell me you're alive," he pleaded.
John opened his eyes weakly and gasped for air.
"Sherl… oh God!" he grimaced in pain and started hyperventilating. "Sherl… I can't…"
"Shh, shh, it's alright, John, I'm here," Sherlock said, placing a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. "There's an ambulance on the way. Tell me where it hurts. And don't say everywhere, because we both know that's a lazy answer."
John's breath rattled in his chest as he forced himself to calm down.
"Right arm's c-crushed… broken ribs… dunno how many… I-" He violently coughed, blood speckling his chin. "P-punctured lung, then…"
Sherlock whipped off his scarf and wiped away the blood from John's face, subsequently tossing the garment to the side.
"Okay, John, good."
Even through his half-closed lids, Sherlock could make out the annoyed look in his eyes.
"You know what I meant, John," he said, trying not to let concern dominate his voice.
"H-how's… Don…?" John wheezed.
Sherlock looked up at Donald who, despite looking a bit pale from blood loss, nodded to confirm that he was okay.
"He's fine," Sherlock told John. "The paramedics will take care of him."
"B-Bern?"
"I lost her," Sherlock said. "But I'll let Lestrade know that she's on the loose."
John nodded and closed his eyes.
"John?" Sherlock called. "John, no, don't go to sleep. Wake up." He shook John's shoulder. "Wake up. Stay with me."
John's lids weakly fluttered.
"Hm?"
"Stay awake, John. The ambulance will be here soon." He looked back at Donald. "Can you help me lift this off of him?"
"I think so," the man confirmed, turning his thoughts away from his shoulder.
Sherlock rocked back onto his haunches and took hold of one side of the rack.
"No…" John whimpered.
"John, we need to release the pressure from your body. It's only making things worse."
John tightened his lips and closed his eyes tightly.
"Don't drop it," Sherlock warned Donald.
"On three?" Don asked.
"On three."
"One, two, three!"
As the two men lifted, John gasped and cried out in pain, mixing with Don's own pained grunts. With a bit of effort, Don and Sherlock managed to set the rack upright, completely freeing John. The detective fell again to his knees and gently rested John's head in his lap.
"B-better," the doctor slurred.
"Just don't move, John," Sherlock said.
"Wasn't… p-planning on it."
Sirens echoed loudly outside.
"You'll be alright, John. You'll be alright," Sherlock soothed, keeping a hand on John's cheek. "Help is here."
Sherlock stared down at John with a disapproving look in his eyes, hardly missing the small tube branching off into either nostril and the cast on his arm.
"Will he make a full recovery?" he heard Lestrade ask behind him.
The doctor nodded.
"He'll have to go easy on the arm for a few weeks and he'll probably be a bit short of breath for a while, but in a few months, he'll be as good as new."
Lestrade emitted a relieved-sounding sigh.
"Good. Thanks doc."
"Call if you need anything," the doctor said with a smile before exiting the room.
"How are you doing, Sherlock?" the inspector asked.
Sherlock glared at the wrap around John's damaged ribcage.
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
Lestrade helped himself to a chair across the room.
"Poor bloke," he mumbled, looking pitifully at John. "You know, Sherlock, this wouldn't have happened if you two had waited until tomorrow."
"I realize."
"Idiots, both of you."
Sherlock ignored him and pulled up a second chair beside John's bed and sitting himself down, not once pulling his gaze from his flat-mate.
"What happened back there, anyway?" Lestrade asked.
"Did you release Thomas?"
"Answer my question, Sherlock."
"I will once you answer mine."
"Well I asked first."
Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh and slumped in his chair.
"Upon having only a short exchange with the receptionist, I discovered that it was her who was sexually active with Amanda behind Thomas's back, based on the fact that she reeked of Lynx, whilst her brother only smelled of dandruff shampoo. She was strong enough to dominate Amanda, considering her immense size and likely steroid abuse. I never once considered the possibility that a woman could be responsible for such a brutal crime, especially given the misleading evidence."
Lestrade nodded.
"Explain to me what happened to John, then."
"John and I were taking care to warn Donald of his sister's homicidal tendencies when the woman came up behind us and pulled out a gun. She first shot Donald in the shoulder, which I immediately judged to be a non-lethal wound, giving John room to work the gun from her grip. I had the chance to shoot her, and I should have taken it. But John insisted I not take the chance of killing her. Before I could even comprehend the full extent of the situation, she had smashed John's head into a pair of eighteen kilogram weights and sent the rest of the rack crashing on top of him. She ran before I could shoot. I lost her."
Lestrade finished scribbling a few things down on his notepad and closed it.
"Well, thanks for being cooperative for once in your life. This will actually be very useful."
As he stood up and straightened his coat, Sherlock spoke again.
"It's your turn to answer my question, Inspector."
Lestrade sniffed.
"Right. Yes, we released Thomas. Alright?"
Sherlock simply hummed in response.
"Okay." Lestrade patted John on the shoulder. "Wake up soon, mate. We can only keep this bastard calm for so long." And he left, leaving Sherlock with his own thoughts and worries.
About a day and a half later, the doctors were confident in removing the breathing tube and allowing John to breathe independently while he was closely monitored. Although his breaths were a bit restricted due to his sore lung and broken ribs, he was cleared to be left alone to rest.
As soon as he awoke, his head started throbbing and his throat felt as if it were on fire.
"Sherlock…" he whispered hoarsely.
Without a word, Sherlock grabbed a small paper cup with ice chips and spoon-fed his flat-mate a few. John greedily sucked at and swallowed the chips, thankful for the coolness it left behind.
"Thanks," he said with a smile, his voice still a bit croaky. "How long was I out?"
"Not long," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. "Only about two days. I'm afraid you'll be forced to stay here for a few more, however, until the doctors are sure you'll manage on your own."
John groaned.
"Great."
"Hardly."
John narrowed his eyes.
"Sarcasm."
"Ah."
Sherlock's text tone went off.
"I think that's for you," John winked.
Sherlock smirked and checked the message.
'Found 'Bern'/Bernadette Krebs. Also found weapon hidden in her office. Come down to station ASAP. Don't bring weapons.'
"Let me see," John said, grabbing the phone from Sherlock's readily outstretched arm.
He snorted as he finished reading the text.
""Don't bring weapons"?"
"A legitimate concern. If I went into the Yard armed, Lestrade might find himself with another dead woman on his hands."
John rolled his eyes.
"My God, you really are a drama queen, aren't you?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"I suppose it's what I'm best at."
There was a moment of silence.
"I shouldn't have dragged you out there, John."
John scoffed.
"No shit."
"I'll readily take the blame."
The injured doctor nodded.
"I'll let you. After all, I did tell you we should have waited until we were absolutely sure-"
"I know."
"You nearly got Don and me killed."
"I know. I'm sorry."
John sighed.
"I just wish you'd listen to me."
Sherlock looked down at the floor.
"I'm sorry."
"Fine. S'fine. Let's just forget about it. Any word on Donald?"
The detective nodded.
"He dropped by yesterday. His left arm is currently in a sling, but it will be mobile within at least two weeks."
"Not too much blood loss?"
"A bit, but obviously not a worrying amount. He sends his "best wishes". His words, not mine, obviously."
"How's he been holding up?"
"He's decided to stay with his friend in Dublin while things are sorted out here."
"What about the gym?"
"Closed down until further notice."
John nodded.
"Fantastic. We solved a murder, shut down a business, and ruined a young man's life in one bloody night. Two, if you count Amanda's boyfriend. I think that's a new record."
"I've done better."
John chuckled.
"I'm sure you have; but I'd rather not hear those stories. They might make me think less of you. If such a thing is possible." He yawned. "God, I'm tired."
"Sleep, then. I need to pay Lestrade a visit, anyway."
"I'll see you soon?"
Sherlock placed John's cell next to the cup of ice chips.
"Text me if you need anything and I'll promptly show."
John nestled into his pillow.
"Thanks."
"Of course, John."
"Good luck," John called as Sherlock picked up his things and started to walk out of the room.
The detective turned to look over his shoulder.
"Oh, I assure you, John, I won't be needing it." He slipped on his coat and walked down the hallway. "Ms. Krebs, on the other hand, will be praying for a miracle," he muttered to himself.