Deductions, and Sage's Perdicament

Moments later, Sherlock, John and I were sitting in a taxi on the way to the crime scene; with myself in the front seat next to the cabbie, and John and Sherlock in the back. "Ok, you've got questions." Sherlock said to John. "Yeah, where are we going?" Asked John. "Crime scene. Next." I said."Who-" he paused. "Who are you? What do you two do?" "Guesses?" Asked Sherlock. I turned in my seat to face them as John speculated."Well, I'd say private detective." "But?" "The police don't go to private detectives." "I'm a consulting detective." Said Sherlock, attempting and failing to conceal his pride. "Only one in the world. He invented the job." I put in, doing nothing to help his ego. "And what does it mean?" Asked John. "It means when the police are clueless and need assistance which is always..." "They come to him." I finished Sherlock's sentence for him. John scoffed and I glared at him. "The police don't consult amateurs." He said, either ignoring or not noticing my glare. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked to me. That was his deducing face. He turned to John, rattling off everything he could."Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. And your words as you walked in the room said trained at Bart's. Army doctor, obviously." Said Sherlock. Ha. So I had been right. "Your limp is bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. Which would mean that the circumstances of the original injury were traumatic: wounded in action." John was silent for a good few seconds, probably processing everything Sherlock had just rambled off. "You said I had a therapist." I attempted not to scoff as I said:"No offense Doctor Watson, but you've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you have a therapist." I thought Sherlock was done with his deductions, but presumed wrong, as he continued. He then deduced that John had a recently divorced, alcoholic brother, who didn't get along that well with him, or John didn't approve of because of his drinking. Oh, and all this was (correctly, mind you) observed from John's mobile phone. When Sherlock was done, John just stared at him."That-" said John, "was amazing." Sherlock thought this over a minute. "You really think so?" He asked."Of course it was." Replied John. Yep, defiantly doing nothing for Sherlock's ego. "It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." Seriously John, stop now. "That's not what people normally say." Remarked Sherlock. "What do people normally say?" "Usually 'piss off'" I replied. --------------We arrived at a tall, unkept looking building. There were police cars and lights all about, and a line of caution tape dividing us from most of the action. I followed Sherlock over to the caution tape with John closely behind. Sherlock suddenly turned to John. "Did I get anything wrong?" He asked. Oh please, were we still on this? "Harry and me don't get on." said John. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago, they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker. And Harry's short for Harriet." "Oh, sister! Damn." "You were close." I said, patting his shoulder sarcastically. If one can even do that. Just assume I do everything sarcastically, really. "Look, what exactly am I doing here?" Said John. And then it was I spotted my favorite person in the face of the earth. (Sarcasm!)"Hello, Freak! Oh, look you've got your shadow with you. And another one too?" She clicked her tongue. "Hello, Donovan." I spat. "That's Sergeant Donovan to you." She replied just as hatefully. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Said Sherlock, cutting us off. "Why?" "We were invited." I said matter of factly. "Why?" Said Sally, her voice laced with a hint of menace. "He wants me to take a look." Said Sherlock, looking down on her. "Well you know what I think, don't you?" "Yeah, and I don't give a damn." "Always, Sally." Sherlock and I replied at the same time. Guess who said what. Donovan rolled her eyes and let us underneath the caution tape. "I even know you didn't make it home last night." "I don't-wait, who's this?" She stammered as John started to duck under the tape. "A colleague, Dr. Watson." Sally scoffed. "Another one? You starting a collection now, or what?" God, I hate her. "John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan.""Did he follow you home like the brat?" Sally further questioned. Ouch, that hurt. "Freak's here bringing him in." Sally spoke into her walkie-talkie as Sherlock held up the tape for John. We followed her into the building, but not until after bumping into Anderson? who ordered us not to contaminant his crime scene, and Sherlock accused him and Sally of sleeping with each other. Excuse we while I go vomit my brains out. Lestrade lead us up a long, winding staircase to a small room where a body was lying face down. From first glance, I noted that she was wearing all pink and had scratched R-A-C-H-E into the wood floor with her finger nails. But once Sherlock had his way for a minute or so, we'd probably know her life story.

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Sherlock inspected the body, taking less than two minutes. "Got anything?" Inquired Lestrade."Not much." Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "We know one thing." A voice from the doorway said. Everyone but Sherlock turned to the speaker, my other favorite person in the world...Anderson. (Now THAT was sarcasm.) "She's German." I started blankly. He pointed to the words scratched out in the wood of the floor. "Rache. German for revenge." I scoffed as Sherlock strode across the room and closed the door in Anderson's face. "Yes, thank you for your input." He said sarcastically. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started looking something up. "So she's German?" Asked Lestrade. "No, of course not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night..." He pocketed his phone. "...before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious." "Sorry, obvious?" John said. "What about the message, though?" I asked. Sherlock ignored me and addressed John. "Doctor Watson, what do you think of the body?"John knelt down and inspected the body. "Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. 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." Sherlock said."What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth ...?""Sherlock - two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got." Lestrade reminded him. " Sage, pay attention." He said. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase.""Suitcase?" Lestrade and I asked simultaneously."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." John was staring in utter disbelief. "This is of course obvious with a close look at 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 - that means 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 rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple." He glanced at me smugly."That's brilliant." John said. We all looked at him. "Sorry." He added apologetically. Sherlock then explained how he knew she was from Cardiff. "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. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand 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-""Sherlock...." I tried interrupting him. A useless feat. "-so she must have come a decent distance 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?" He g0t his phone from his pocket and showed a web page displaying weather for the southern part of Britain. "Cardiff.""That's fantastic!" Said John. "D'you know you do that out loud?" I asked him. "Sorry. I'll shut up." He said, slightly embarrassed. "No, it's ... fine." Said Sherlock, and I rolled my eyes. Of course it was. "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade finally asked. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.""She was writing 'Rachel'?" I asked. "No, she was leaving an angry note in German Of course she was writing Rachel." We rub off on each other a lot, I guess. "How d'you know she had a suitcase?" I asked, ignoring his sarcastic remark. He po need to the body. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. 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?" He directed his question to Lestrade."There wasn't a case." The D.I. answered simply. Sherlock raised his head and frowned up at Lestrade."Say that again.""There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." Immediately, Sherlock bound d out of the room.m"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" He shouted. Lestrade, John and I followed him out to the landing at the top of the stairs. Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade repeated. Sherlock started down the stairs muttering. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them." He said the last part loud enough for us to hear clearly."Right, yeah, thanks. And?" Lestrade asked. "It's murder, all of them." Said Sherlock looking up at us. "I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings - serial killings. Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case." He started muttering again. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car." "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case." I suggested."No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." Woah, Sherlock Holmes Fashion Police on the scene. "Oh." He said, his eyes widening. "oh!" "Sherlock?" Said John. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Said Sherlock smiling. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake." He dashed down the stairs. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from view. "Sherlock!" I called. "Sage! I'll text you an address. Get a cab and meet me there! I'll need your help!" He shouted before getting out of earshot. I looked at John and Lestrade and shrugged, before starting to bound down the stairs. Suddenly realizing John was still at the top of the stairs, I stopped and turner on my heel. "Care to join me, Doctor Watson?" I hopped back up the first few stairs. "Erm, yeah." He replied, starting to awkwardly make his way down the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane. I waited patiently until he caught up to me, and then allowed him to go in front of me. "So, Sage," he said. "That's my name." I replied."What's the deal you and Sherlock have?" "Well, it's not one that we have exactly...actually, it's more of a conspiracy." We reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs. "How so?" "Well, my guardian- Sherlock's brother...we fight a lot over University. I-" I cut off abruptly. "I'm very interested in the arts. Not painting and stuff, but singing and dancing and, I positively ADORE writing, and...gosh I probably sound really stupid." We reached the door, and John shook his head. "No, not at all." I smiled brightly. "Well, Sherlock's brother-and I think Sherlock too, though he doesn't voice it- want me to study sensible, practical, admirable things." We were outside the building now, the night air chilly. "Like what?" John asked."Oh, anything but theatre and music and english. Chemistry, psychology, statistics...writing is a very poor paying job, and apparently doesn't take brains." We crossed the police tape. "Well, it just takes a different kind of cleverness than Sherlock is used to. I'd like to see him write something worth reading. His latest website post is about identifying tobacco ash!" John replied. I giggled. "Oh, there's a taxi!" I exclaimed, as a cab came around the corner. I hailed it, and he pulled over. "Shall we?" I asked John, but he shook his head. "I don't want to slow and Sherlock you down.""Oh, nonsense!" I said. "You get this one, I'll wait for another one and head back to the flat." He said. "Alright, if you're absolutely sure." He nodded, and closed the door to the cab. As the cabbie started driving down the street, and I checked my phone to see Sherlock's text with the address. I gave it to the cabbie, and we drove for 15 minutes or so. Hoping I had enough money to cover the fare, I realized we were headed in the totally opposite direction of where we should have been driving. "Excuse me, sir?" I said hesitantly. "I believe you've made a wrong turn." The cabbie didn't say anything. "Sir? I said again. "Oh no, miss. We're going exactly where we're supposed to." I glanced out the window. Yup, we were definitely going the wrong way. "You heard the address correctly, right? Because-""Miss, we're going to a location of my choosing."