A Study in Reason

Wednesday, November 12th, 2014

I left Sherlock and John alone yesterday. No developments came to light and I had work to do. Plus, Sherlock had decided he wanted to follow something up and wouldn't let me come with him. I had the feeling that he was up to something and that worried me. So I was almost relieved when I was told to go to the address sent to my phone. Sherlock and John was waiting for me when I arrived.

"Good, you're here," he said when he saw me.

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"This one's different," he replied cryptically. I blanched.

"Another one?" Sherlock just nodded.

"Why's this one different?" he didn't reply, just indicated the body lying on the floor. Like the first two, she was dressed in a party dress and matching high heels - this turquoise green in colour. She was a brunette, but it didn't take John, who was examining the victim with latex gloves on, to tell why this one was different. There were slice marks on her arms; fresh and definitely deliberate. They weren't very deep but they would've hurt. This one's hair was more of a mess than the other two and one of the dress's seams had split down the side. On her face there was a small cut, like she had been hit in the face and instead of the usual fatal stab wound to the heart, there was a long, bloody cut across her throat. I grimaced.

"Not pretty," I said.

"Murder never is," said John. I sighed.

"You're right. But this one's on a whole new level to the other two. What do you think happened?"
John frowned. "The lacerations on her arms were made by a knife of some sort. Not self inflicted, if that's what you're thinking, they're going in the wrong direction and at the wrong angle. I... Think she was tortured."

"And the slit throat?" I asked.

"Maybe the killer got what he needed and killed her?" he suggested. I shook my head.

"If that was the case, then the killer would have stabbed her in the heart like the others."

"Exactly," Sherlock said from behind me.

"Okay, Sherlock. What do you think?" I asked.

"I think John's right. She was tortured. But she got away and was killed from behind."

"The others were chased until they managed to get themselves into a corner. This one must have escaped, and have been running when the killer caught up with her and slit her throat. That's why she wasn't stabbed in the heart," I finished. "Was she found lying face down?" I asked. John nodded.

"They turned her over for the preliminary examination."

"Okay, that's good," I said absently.

"Good?" John asked, unimpressed by my use of the word. I shrugged and continued to look around. There was a trail of blood that started just where the victim's feet were: she had been standing there when she'd was killed and just crumpled to the ground. I could see it playing in my head. I closed my eyes and tried to banish the image. Sherlock, it seemed, had decided that he'd gotten all the data he could.

"Come on boys," I called, already halfway to the cordon. "Let's catch this bastard."

The victim's name was Siobhan Delaney. She was nearly fifteen years old and had been missing for eleven days. Molly confirmed the time of death to be around five am. She, like I was, seemed to be finding it harder to stay professional with this latest and most brutal murder. We had gathered in the lab to await her report. When she walked in, she walked directly to Sherlock and told him quietly, "Sherlock? There's uh... Well there's signs of forced entry."

"Well of course, she was killed with a knife."

"No, Sherlock, the other kind." His eyes widened slightly, the only sign of emotion to reach his face before he was impassive again.

"Well that's interesting," he said quietly.

"What? What is it?" Lestrade demanded. Molly told the other two. This sent the DI into a flurry of phone calls and John just frowned and started pacing slightly.

"Look what he did to her, though," Molly was saying to Sherlock. "Who would do that?"

"A more important question is," Sherlock said, standing, fingers still steepled. "Why was there a gap?"

"Why do you mean, Sherlock?" I asked.

"The first two happened within twenty four hours then there was a gap before the third murder. I was fully expecting someone to find another body yesterday but this newest victim was only murdered this morning. Whoever's responsible is someone who has a routine. So why would he leave a gap? See, I don't think we're dealing with a serial killer." My eyes widened as I began to understand what he was saying.

"You mean..." I tried, but my voice seemed to have stuck. "He's got more? And that..." I pointed to the photos of the victim that were spread on one of the benches. "That is what he does to them?" Sherlock nodded.

"But the first two," said Lestrade. "They weren't any where near that state."

"What if..." I said. "What if he doesn't plan to kill them? He grabs them, tortures them and does... Well, that. But those three - the ones who ended up dead, what if those were the lucky ones? The ones who made a break for it and escaped?" Lestrade went pale.

"Oh, dear God," he said.

On her way back to the hotel room later that day, Clara found she was being stalked. Finally, she stopped and turned around to face the sleek black car following her and told them to cut it out. A woman got out and told her to get in.

"Not bloody likely," Clara replied. The woman smiled.

"I think you'll find, Miss Lane, you'll want to get into the car. This is a request from someone whom I'm sure you're dying to speak to, being a journalist and all, you'll want to hear both sides if the story before you go saying things that you'll later regret." In shock, Clara climbed in. Sherlock's voice from a week ago floating in behind her:

"You were followed to your hotel yesterday from the library. What were you looking up that grabbed someone's attention?"

She had underestimated him and now he wanted answers. She thought about how she could get out of this without being arrested or worse for the entire journey. She was let out in an abandoned underground parking lot. The unmistakeable silhouette of one of the country's most influential government officials was waiting for her.

"I'm not going to tell you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, Miss Lane. That would just raise his suspicions and although I may not like it sometimes, you're helpful to him."

"Why am I here then?" Clara asked confidently, walking towards the man.

"Because you need to know a few things. One, I know who you are and what you're secretly investigating. Two, revealing this information to Sherlock Holmes would be tantamount to forfeiting your life." Clara laughed.

"You'd kill me for telling your brother the truth?" She asked skeptically.

"You should know, Miss Lane, I don't make idle threats." The voice sounded so serious and so deadly, that Clara's resolve shrank in the honesty of the words.

"There is one thing you can do to ensure you live a long and happy life," Mycroft told her as if they were two chums chatting over a cup of Earl Grey. "Don't tell Sherlock and stop looking in dark corners. You shouldn't be surprised that monsters live in the dark and dangerous past of someone like Sherlock. You're just like him, you know? Before he changed into the sociopath he is now."

"Yeah, well who's fault is that?" Clara spat.

"I had no involvement in what happened," sighed Mycroft. "And I suggest you keep it that way."