Chapter Five: Pink!

As they exited the cab, there was a new question on the tip of the detectives tongue. Had he gotten everything right? John hadn't disputed his deductions but Sherlock would rather be sure. "Did I get anything wrong?" John closely followed Sherlock, wincing as his leg hit the pavement. "Harry and me don't get on, never have" Sherlock ticked an imaginary box. "Clara and Harry split up, three months ago and they're getting a divorce" Another check, so far so good. John winced again. "Harry… is short for Harriet". This stopped Sherlock in his tracks. Harriet? Harriet? Harry was his sister! Stupid, stupid, stupid. How did he miss that? Sherlock grimaced, angry at himself for completely missing that clue.

John didn't understand why he'd been brought here. Yes he agreed, yes he was fascinated by this impossible man. But why did he need him? And why wouldn't he answer that simple question? He's off in his own little world isn't he? They approached the crime scene, a woman was waiting in front of a police car, looking upon Sherlock with disdain. What was her problem?

Great, Donavan is here too, how lovely. She never liked him, and would rather he not even be there. That much was obvious from her face alone. And she seemed to not understand why Lestrade would want him there. Perhaps it was merely her obvious stupidity, more likely the fact that she'd never liked what he was able to do and would much rather him behind bars than behind the crime scenes tape. Sherlock slipped her a knowing smile. Yes he knew what she thought. Little though there was running through her curly haired head. His mouth snarled as he proclaimed her an old "friend". He lifted the tape for John, wanting him to follow, insisting for him to follow. And wishing for Sally to shut her big mouth and to leave the new person in his life alone.

"Freaks here, bringing him in"

John didn't like this woman. Not, one, bit. For starters she showed Sherlock zero respect. No doubt she knew what he could do. Second of all she was rude. But it was the word "freak" that sealed his opinions. That was uncalled for. It was clear from looking at his face, that the detective had been called this many times. This alone was sad, but what gave this woman the right to call Sherlock a freak? He hated bullies, hated those who treated others with hatred and contempt because they were a little different. He quickly limped forward, not wanting to be left behind by his long legged flatmate.

Sherlock turned in a circle as he regarded the pavement. Searching for any clues that might be useful. But there were none. That was fine, the real fun was inside the house. But who should come out the front door? Anderson.Sherlock inwardly shuddered. He hated Anderson just as much as he hated Sally. The two of them were a pair, a match made in heaven, if it existed. Which is why they had probably begun sleeping together. Anderson was wearing the ridiculous get up that Sherlock always refused to wear at crime scenes. At least it was a hell of a lot better than that stupid talking dinosaur t-shirt he'd last scene the forensic scientist wearing. He wasted no time in deducting circles around Anderson and Sally, a little revenge for their treatment in front of someone that he was sort of, trying to impress.

"And I assumed she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees" Sherlock smirked and entered the building. John was secretly pleased that he'd gotten the pair back for the earlier comments. He couldn't resist giving Sally's knees a quick glance as he walked past either.

Sherlock had brought someone with him. He never brought people. Sherlock didnt even have people. Which was why Lestrade couldn't help but ask who he was. It couldn't be a friend, Sherlock didnt have those. He'd known him for five years and not once had he seen him with anyone. "He's with me" Sherlock replied, daring Lestrade to contradict him.

He gestured for John to put on the blue suit, even though, John noticed, that he was not planning to wear one him self. It was probably the coat. Which was of the epic sort. Like those ones he'd seen in Doctor Who. All swishy and… ok he needed to stop looking at that coat. The three of them climbed a long, winding flight of stairs leading into a small room. With a dead body. His heart was pounding. Oh god, a dead body. Ok he should be used to this by now. He smoothed his features into one of indifference and watched Sherlock get to work. "Shut up" John looked confused, Lestrade as well. "I wasn't saying anything" "You were thinking, its annoying". Lestrade couldn't believe his attitude and looked to John. Do you believe this? His eyes said. I hope you know what you've got yourself into. Poor sod.

He leaned over the corpse. Everyone else in the room simply faded into the background. All that mattered was the corpse and the secrets it held. RACHE. Scratched with fingernails on left hand, so left-handed. RACHE, Revenge? He shook his head, deleting that information from his mind. No, Rachel. Must find out who Rachel is. He knelt, sweeping back the coat and felt the fabric of hers. Wet. Pocket holds umbrella. But its dry. Rain, but she didn't use her umbrella. Conclusion, it was to wet or windy to do so. Underneath of coat collar, also wet. Turned up against the wind. Conclusions correct. Sherlock pulled out the magnifying glass. Bracelet, clean, polished. Earrings, clean, necklace clean. Wedding ring, dirty. Interesting. Conclusions, unhappily married, around 10 years. He deftly removed the ring. Inside, clean. Outside, dirty. Regularly removed. Serial adulterer.

He smiled, his deductions complete. Lestrade noticed, watching as the young man stood, removing his gloves. "Got anything?". Anything? How about everything? "Not much". Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, as Stupidity Incarnate made himself known. "She's German". Sherlock needed to get rid of him. "Rache, german for revenge. She could be trying to te-" Sherlock reached for the door and slammed it in his face. "Yes thank you for your input" Not. His fingers flew across his phone, searching for the appropriate weather forecast.

"So she's german then?" John watched Sherlock intently. "Of course not, from out of town though, intended to stay only one night, before returning home to Cardiff" John raised his eyebrows, where had he gotten that notion? And why was he on his phone? "So far, so obvious" Wait, whats obvious? He was looking at the body and he wasn't getting it. And now Sherlock wanted him to examine to body, was that why he'd been brought here then? None of the other doctors wanted to work with him. "Yes because you need me" Sherlock quipped. John turned to Lestrade to see if this was true. "Yes I do, god help me". Sherlock was calling his name again. He really needed to pay attention. He wanted John to examine the body, but surely, the police….he stole a look behind him, Lestrade quickly saying he could do whatever he liked. John sighed and limped over to the body, pulling his leg out in front of him.

Sherlock crouched beside him, as eager to watch him in action as John had been. "What am I doing here?" "Helping me make a point." "Im supposed to be helping you pay the rent." In the midst of all this it seemed John had already made his decision. "Well this is more fun". Fun? Sherlock thought this was fun? There was a bloody body on the floor between them!

"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you would go deeper" I was talking intellectual fun John. Its not about the body, its about the mystery, the case! Surely John wasn't going to be like them, refusing to see the truth behind the veiled words. He was still here though, he could have left at any time but here he was.

Lestrade returned, watching the two of them. John had leaned closer, resignation filling his features as he examined the corpse in front of him. Sherlock watched him, his pale eyes never missing a detail. Satisfied John sat back up and gave his diagnosis. "Asphyxiation, probably, passed out, chocked on her own vomit." Sherlock turned and gave Lestrade a look. See, he'd been right to bring him. Could your stupid doctors have told you the same that quickly. Johns standing in Sherlock's eyes rose a few more centimetres.

John's eyes widened as he realised this was the fourth serial suicide, he'd been reading about those. And here he was right in the thick of it. That mean, perhaps they weren't suicides at all. Lestrade was talking again. John listened as Sherlock rattled off a list of facts he couldn't possibly have known without personally knowing the victim. It was amazing. It really was. "Thats brilliant". He couldn't help it, he gave up even bothering to hide the amazement in his face. How did he do it? It was so simple, so basic once explained. But so magical without the facts.

Briliant? They'd known each other for less than a day and two compliments all ready? Sherlock couldn't believe it. He'd been far too surprised today. Fortunately Lestrade had opened his mouth so the dark detective had a good reason to not press the subject. Dear god, what was it like in the funny little heads if they couldn't grasp the obvious like he did? Must be so dull. But for their benefit, at least John's, he'd explain further.

"Her coat is 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. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused: no just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but not 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? Cardiff." He raised his phone to Lestrade and then John.

"Thats fantastic!" Really? John, just who are you? Did he fascinate and impress him that much? Sherlock was rather flattered. But he wondered if John realised how much he currently sounded like a fanboy. "You know you do that out loud?" I quite like it, don't stop.

John almost blushed. He'd embarrassed him. Great. "Sorry, Ill shut up". "No… its fine" Sherlock seemed rather pleased. John suspected he rarely received compliments or anything much in the way of positive words, if this night had been anything to go by. Minutes later, another small demonstration. Droplets on the lady's leg, stated clearly to one consulting detective that she carried a suitcase. But there wasn't a suitcase. At least not in the room.

Suitcase, suitcase, now where was it? Was it in another room? Had they taken it for evidence.. the idiots. He blamed Anderson of course. He always blamed Anderson. "There wasn't a case" What? He raised his head. No, there had to have been a case! "Say that again" "There was never any suitcase".

Sherlock was up and running from the room, yelling at the top of his voice as he sped down the stairs, rambling at the top of his voice about the suicides, no, John had been right, they were murders. Which meant a serial killer. John peered over the edge, too stunned really by everything that had happened to contemplate that he really should be following him right now.

Sherlock stopped in mid insult. They took her case. Her murder took her case! Oh he was thick! Of course! The killer had driven her here! No, no no John. Look at her hair! If she took that much care in her clothing she'd never leave with her hair in such a sta-. Oooh. Oh! Oh John you have just inspired me. Sherlock grinned, his mind exploding with delight over what he'd just realised. He clapped. He'd made a mistake, the killer had made a big mistake. He sped down the rest of the stairs, giving Lestrade orders as he went.

"But what mistake?" Sherlock turned and run up a few flights of stairs to stare up at his captive audience.

"PINK!"

The Goverment watched the young detective leave, hot on a new case, lost in his own little world. Excellent. That left the doctor alone. Unfortunately for the plan to work it would require…legwork. How nauseating. Still, the things he had to do for Sherlock. The Government, reached for his phone and textedher.