Hello all. Sorry I'm a little behind on the update. I have to say I'm not very happy about this chapter, it feels something is missing but after some times I just accepted I won't be able to improve it just now. Hope you like it nonetheless.

As usual I don't own anything.

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As Sherlock and John arrived on site, their first observation of the slaughterhouse was a bit unexpected. When one imagined a secluded slaughterhouse who staged as the kill site of a gruesome serial killer, one expected a bleak, threatening dark mass of a building. What one surely didn't expect was a bright, well-tended farm that could have easily been remodelled by hipsters in a desire to try for a more country-like lifestyle. And yet. Both men shared a determined look, knowing what a horrible sight was waiting for them. After all, the text had been clear. There was a dead body inside.

While John surveyed around in case anyone was coming, Sherlock opened the door to the house. They both slipped in silently, trying to mind their steps so as not to mess with the forensics. They flicked the light on and bright whiteness blinded them for an instant. The scene before them was truly horrific. The woman's body was slaughtered as a pig and the reality of it was even more slashing in the harsh light of the spots. Where the others had been cleaned off, this one was still entirely covered in blood. Sherlock's mind started spouting facts after facts. Hurried steps away from the body. The killer had been interrupted – most probably by one of the irregulars – and fled. So not too OCD as to keep on his dismemberment. Also, despite the plastic that had covered his shoes, he hadn't taken the time to disguise his footprints. Clearly, he'd been spooked – another sign of his relative novelty to killing. Yes, someone young definitely and he could deduce from the markings that he had been sporting sneakers. Now, with the plastic covers, he wouldn't be able to deduce the brand.

Sherlock looked at the corpse. John has got to it, maybe to see if there was still something to do for the woman but at his shaking head, Sherlock knew that the woman was dead. Might have been the better option too. He didn't know if one could really recover having one's chest opened up. He came to have a look at the body. The look of horror on the woman's face was unmistakable – and hadn't been cleared up by body rigidity yet. So he was right about them being alive for the opening of the chest bit. He looked at the insides. The heart was still there but one of its string had been cut, causing another haemorrhage. The killer must have been drenched in blood. Maybe he had left some clothes there to get changed? Or maybe he'd been covered in disposable paper suit. Yes, this was the most probable option. Easiest solution and most convenient. Sherlock bent down, trying to clear his nose from the smell of blood to try and catch if anything else was there. He had difficulty as the metallic odour was so powerful he could almost taste it on his tongue. There was also some acrid scent most probably from fear and sweat – even paralysed, there were some things that the body couldn't help. He surveyed once more the length of the body but had to admit defeat. Too much blood wasn't better than thoroughly bleached cleanliness. And he wasn't dumb enough to tamper with the body before forensics had been able to document everything they needed about it.

Finally he took a step back and went to John's side. They both took the scene in once more. Then Sherlock said:

"Phone Lestrade, tell him we have found the primary location of the murders. Tell him to get his best forensic team." Sherlock's voice was emotionless and John's face was set up in a hard mask. John called the DI. They went outside the house to wait up for reinforcement and for once, their friendly banter had dried up.

A few hours after, the police had wrapped up the crime scene but Sherlock and John had been kept close by, in case they were needed to clarify were they'd been. Not that it was really necessary. Sherlock had explained everything at length and John had retraced his steps more than once. But Lestrade was furious that they came into the slaughterhouse before the police even got there. He'd shouted abuse at them explaining thoroughly how their presence could tamper with evidence and lead to a mistrial. Their punishment had been to wait in the cold until the forensic team had collected all the evidence. Finally, Lestrade emerged from the building and cut straight to them.

"So, what can you tell us?" he asked, still pissed off.

John looked at Sherlock who looked somewhat lost in his thoughts. But the detective shook his head and his eyes focused on Lestrade:

"It's someone young. Probably a teenager or young adult. Look at whoever know this place well." Said Sherlock, for once keeping his answers to a minimum.

But Lestrade was having none of it and he looked at the dark haired man with more than irritation in his eyes:

"Sherlock, please don't feel the need to detail your deductions so much now. It's not like you've diverted my resources into fruitless avenues, nor almost contaminated the crime scene. If you think I'll take anything you say at face value…"

"The killer is easily frightened, as he fled the scene in the middle of it. He wore sneakers…"

"Yes, but grown men wear sneakers too." Countered Lestrade.

"Yes, but look around you. Small puddles of half-smoked cigarettes near that tree, bottles of cheap breezers mixed with stronger alcohols next to the walls. If there weren't so many police cars, I'm sure that we'd see some underage couples sneaking around to snog." Explained Sherlock as he gestured at the clues cluttered around. "As you can see, the place is a known among teenagers as a deserted place away from grown-ups. They surely would have noticed if a strange man had started sneaking around at odd times. Moreover, an adult wouldn't have known about the habits of the youngsters, so he would have been discovered much sooner."

"OK, so now, you tell me that we'll have to bring in half the teenage population that leaves around this place. Not really helpful Sherlock." Grumbled Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not! I said take in the teenagers that know the place well! Have you seen inside? It's neat and spotless, it means that the owners do come once in a while to make sure squatters haven't invaded the place. Also, the windows and doors are well secured and nothing suggest that there was an illicit way in. Most probably, the killer knew the owners a way or another and managed to duplicate the keys. Like this, he would have had the perfect place to commit the murders and well aware of the habits of both the other teenagers and the rightful owners, he would have known of the times when to do so." Finished Sherlock.

Lestrade noted the deductions on his black book. He then shot a withering look at both Sherlock and John and gestured to his officers to let them leave. The detective and his blogger left and as they made their way to John turned to Sherlock:

"Well that was led in a roundabout manner. Meaning that you'll have to show up to the baby shower tomorrow." Said John looking expectantly at his silent friend.

"Sorry what?" asked the detective but his face showed poor interest in the conversation.

"The baby shower, you know, for your goddaughter?" replied John. After all the involvement of the detective in his wedding's preparation, the blogger had expected the same regarding his daughter but the man with the Belstaff didn't look very much interested.

"For what I know, your infant has not yet been delivered, I don't see how to you can expect to give it a bath, least of all a shower." Replied absent-mindedly Sherlock.

"It's not… It's a party, for the baby… Where people we love come and celebrate with us the joy we feel at being parents…I thought that Molly told you about it." Tried to explain calmly John. Sherlock wasn't well versed in those sorts of things. And yet, it was somehow hurtful to see him so poorly interested in his future goddaughter.

"Ahhh… That. Yes, Molly told me about an event where we showered you and Mary with gifts for your future child. Well, it'd be more fitting to call it the tax on our future affection toward your offspring, in my opinion." Said Sherlock, shrugging slightly. At the sputtering coming from next to him, he also remembered the look Molly shot him when he'd said the same "Ah, yes… She told me also not to tell you or Mary that. Most of all, Mary." He shook his head at it. "Hmmm. I'll be glad to join you and celebrate the next generation of Watson's in the world?" he said as if remembering something told to him.

John was flabbergasted. Not only what Molly told Sherlock did seem to register in his mind – which was no small feat in itself. But it seemed that she was even able to actually maintain some levels of discussion that did not revolve around cases. And make him sort of apologise when he said something a bit not good. OK, then, thought John. And yet, he couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy of the influence of the pathologist on his friend. Strangely, whereas his priorities had slightly shifted and Sherlock took a less important place in his life, he hadn't even considered that the reverse might actually happen.

"Thank you Sherlock. I can't wait for the gift." He murmured sarcastically as his mind roved over the information and he tried to sort out his feelings.

"Don't worry, it's in the most capable hands." Replied truthfully Sherlock.