15. Numbered / Ticket / Gun - Sherlock BBC

15. Numbered / Ticket / Gun – Sherlock BBC

John came downstairs to find Sherlock tuning his violin and suppressed a groan.

Tuning now meant he would be playing later.

He went into the kitchen. If he had to deal with that damn screeching, he would rather have some tea in him. Even the tuning was a pitiful whine in the back of his head.

As he waited for the water to boil, he hummed an old tune and tried to ignore the suffering of the instrument, along with the pile of washing up next to the sink. He would have to tackle that at some point. He did most of the washing up, but he refused to touch anything Sherlock had been 'experimenting' in.

There had been the time he had come home to find finely sliced meat in the fridge with rock salt next to it. The meat, he had later discovered, was human flesh. He still didn't know what the rock salt had been for. Sherlock had washed the plate once, but he had scrubbed it another couple of times for good measure.

It was because Sherlock was bored again. No killers on the loose meant there were no games for him to play. Perhaps daytime television had been good for something. He should get Sherlock to watch Murder She Wrote, see if he guessed it before Jessica Fletcher revealed who the killer was.

Luckily for John's sanity, just as his tea was ready and Sherlock was poised to start playing, his phone rang.

John recognised that look of gleeful anticipation. Lestrade was calling. They had a case, thank God.

“Where are we going?” He asked, as he sipped his tea.

Sherlock grinned as he took off his robe and pulled on his scarf, “Westminster.”

Lestrade was standing at the police tape, waiting for Sherlock and the doctor while Donovan was telling him they didn't need the freak.

“We can solve it on our own. We don't even know it's murder yet. He's not official police staff and neither is his doctor colleague. We don't need him!”

“Of course you need me,” said Sherlock, holding up the white and blue tape to let John through, “Don't be stupid.”

She sneered at him, “Piss off, freak, we can handle this one.”
“Oh,” said Sherlock, “you're being more vehement and bitchy than usual. Is your mother in town?”

“Holmes,” Lestrade interrupted, “wouldn't you prefer to look at the woman in high heels lying in the ditch over there?”

They walked over to where the Forensics team were working. They moved away as Sherlock approached, weary of the all-seeing eyes.

“Who is she?” Asked John.

Lestrade shook his head, “Jane Doe for now. We're going to have to put her prints through the system once we get her back to the morgue, her purse was stolen, along with any ID, her jewellery and her phone.”

Sherlock walked around the woman's body, taking the details, as he did. Except he called it 'observing'.

Lestrade handed them rubber gloves, “Female, Hispanic, in her mid thirties.”

“Obviously.” Muttered Sherlock.

She was pretty, with an olive complexion and black hair which was half fanned out and half crumpled beneath her. Her ear had been torn and there was a little bit of blood where one of her earrings had been torn off post-mortem.

Her clothes were business-like, a suit, and her high heels were black and polished, as were her nails.

“Well, what can you tell us, freak?” Demanded Donovan, tapping her foot.

Sherlock went through the contents of her bag, “Patience, Donovan, is a virtue.”

She gave a shriek of frustration and walked away, heels clicking on the pavement.

“Sherlock, whatever you can tell us about this woman would be useful.”

He looked up at them and gave John a calculating look.

“John? What do you see?”

He knelt down next to the woman and examined her.
Her shoes were obviously worn, but over a long period of time rather than her suddenly running anyway from someone. Her hands were unblemished, as were the visible parts of her arms, now that Sherlock had removed her jacket, and legs. Her ring finger had a tan line.

In fact, she seemed fine, apart from the fact that there was a bullet between her collarbone and her chest.

“She didn't put up a fight, so she was either comfortable around her future killer or she didn't notice them until it was too late. She is married, but someone stole her wedding ring – she has a tan line where it should be, and her skin is a much lighter shade, meaning she's been wearing it for a long time.”

Sherlock seemed almost proud, “Very good, John.”

Lestrade nodded at him, “What else?”

“It was not a mugging. A mugger wouldn't leave her bag behind while taking everything of value.” Sherlock put her bag down, “She was an interpreter for Spanish, French and English, her fields of expertise being socio-economics and marketing, but she had recently branched out into associated technology. All she has in that bag are notebooks and notes, and all the notebooks contain are words – glossaries into English and French. Classic tool of simultaneous interpreting. The language she didn't write down is her mother tongue.”

Lestrade folded his arms together, “Why Spanish?”

“Because the flight she booked, the printed confirmation of which is strangely still in her bag instead of in the hands of whoever took her purse and jewellery, is for the Madrid Barajas airport, the return part of her plane ticket.” He pulled out his phone and typed something. “She has regular contact with London and Paris – if you look in the front pocket of her bag, she has a compartment with an Oyster card, seven tickets for the Paris metro and a season ticket for the Madrid one. The scuffs on the soles of her shoes indicate that she has been walking around all day, the fact that they are still on her feet despite being around grass means that she is used to high heels. Look at her coat, her jacket, her skirt – business suit, means she has to present herself in a certain way at work. The shirt under the jacket is older and has a stain on one side, but she doesn't need to worry about showing that because she has her jacket and she will look better if it is on and buttoned up. She is dressed in dark grey, a shade used to blend in, but the heels mean she is confident. She has a powerful presence in the room, but has to be invisible during her job.”

He showed them his phone in triumph, “She was working for the Spanish company that made her notebooks. They are guests at this year's TFM&A conference.”

At Lestrade's confused look he exclaimed, “Technology for Marketing and Advertising. Happens in Earl's Court.”

“That's not far away,” said Lestrade, “three or four stops by tube, maybe?”

“There you go. Find the Spanish people at the conference who are struggling without their interpreter and you have found out who she is.”

“Excellent work.” Said Lestrade, motioning Donovan over to give her the details of the company and the conference.

“What about her killer?”

Sherlock smiled and arched an eyebrow, “Patience, John. I wasn't finished.”

Lestrade shook his head, giving instructions to Donovan.

Sherlock turned to point at the building opposite, then began walking in the opposite direction, “We're in Westminster. There is no way that building doesn't have a camera covering this angle. But if it doesn't, you can probably get a fingerprint off her blouse from where he took her necklace.”

John moved in closer to the body again. A portion of what he had thought was spatter from an inexpertly delivered shot was actually a partial fingerprint.

“And over here we have a shoe print. If your forensics team does its job properly, you should be able to get an idea of this man's height and weight, as well as the brand of shoes he wears.”

Lestrade nodded, “Anything else?”

“Yes. When you've done that, hand the case over to the Spanish police so they can investigate her husband's last few calls. According to her day planner she had been in and out of London on a regular basis since December, and her husband thinks she has a lover here. He's wrong,” he continued casually, “the person who took her ring had to struggle to get it off her and she's wearing tights.”

John was taken aback,“What?”

“She is wearing tights. When women want to seduce someone, correct me if I'm wrong Donovan, but I doubt it, they do not wear tights. They either wear stockings or they don't cover their legs.”

Donovan nodded reluctantly.

“Which is why Donovan wasn't wearing tights the first night you met her, John.”

She reacted badly, which made Sherlock happy, “Shut it, freak, you don't know what you're on about.”

John could almost see the waves of smugness radiating off Sherlock. Sometimes he acted like a child.

“Oh, but I do. That's why I'm so good at what I do.”

“Sherlock, good work, John, nice to see you – we've got work to do.”

“Of course.”

John and Sherlock made their way back to the edge of the crime scene.

“Do you think they'll keep you in the loop?”

Sherlock pulled the tape up to let John through – this was becoming a habit, one that John wasn't sure he enjoyed; it reminded him of a damsel in distress, and he was not a damsel. Nor was he in distress, for that matter. Although one was never fully relaxed around Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock shrugged elegantly, though how he managed to do so was beyond John, “I don't know, and to be honest I don't really care.”

“But she was a case.”

“I believe they call it an open-and-close case. Easy.”

“Don't you want to know if it was the husband?”

Sherlock directed them towards the main street, “Not particularly. I am likely to be right. And if I am not, it isn't my job to take care of this case but that of a joint force of British and Spanish police officers. I'm sure they will do a fine job of catching her killer. It is no longer interesting for me. At least for now.”

John didn't know what to say to that, so he hummed an agreement and looked around for a cab. None would stop for them. That was what they got for being out at twelve in the business centre of London. Perhaps they should just take the Underground home.

“Well, John, I don't know about you, but I could use some lunch. Home or Chinese food?”

John thought of the washing up he still had to do, “Chinese, definitely Chinese.”