The Reality That Doesn't Exist

((Sorry am I jumping in or was Sherlock just going to go on???)) Again, the deductions he had done were making me lost for words. And he just said it was obvious, frankly I couldn't see how. I wanted to say something, I wanted to know more, but I was afraid to. Then I looked over at the note myself, it was very odd to say the least. It did just say "RACHE", but the A was marked with... "The note..." I said out loud, not really meaning to.

(( No, it's fine ))


Sherlock cast a quick glare at Lestrade as he began to interupt, then at John. "Yes, the note," he nodded, waving his arm for the two of them to come closer.

"Rache does mean 'revenge' in German, but it seems more likely she was writing something in English, maybe Rachel, but the lettering is...odd. This A here, obviously written in blood."

((ERR... That would be the A. Sorry! I don't mean to correct you, but...)) I did move closer when he waved his arm. "Revenge would be more for a murder and not a suicide." I said agreeing. "Scratched out with her fingernails, so it was important, right?"

"She had nothing else to use," Greg said. "So what was she trying for, do you think? What did she want to tell us?"

Then suddenly an idea came to my mind, because of the A, but I kept quiet about that. "It's like there's a part of it missing. Rachel. It's the only thing that makes sense. But who is Rachel?" I did say and paused. "What else can you tell us, Sherlock?"

(( Whoops sorry, I edited it ))


"Rachel seems the most likely, yes," Sherlock nodded, standing up and brushing himself down. "Need to run checks on that blood. Find out who it belongs to."

"Aside from the obvious facts that she works in the media, has been unhappily married for over ten years and had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married, I can tell you very little." He sighed.

"We know she was only staying one night because of the size of her suitcase," he explained. "If we look in there we might find some kind of phone or organiser, find out who Rachel is."

"Suitcase?" Greg was nonplussed. "There was no suitcase. We looked."

((It's okay. I'm not The Grammar... Oh wait, that's a lie. But I'm not quite as insistent about it as Sherlock. And hey, even HE gets it wrong sometimes.)) Then as Lestrade mentioned there was no suitcase, I had... well what I thought was a brilliant deduction. "If Sherlock says there was then there HAS to be one. Sherlock, how did you know she had one?" I said trying to get more info before I revealed it.

Sherlock gave a small smile and cast John a look of surprise mixed with pride. They'd known each other for a mere twenty four hours and already she had more faith in him than most of Scotland Yard. He had to admit he was impressed.

It actually took him a moment to recover before snapping right back into it. "The suitcase, yes," he muttered, moving to stand by the victims feet. "Tiny little splashback on her legs where she walked through a puddle, dragging it behind her. Small case, judging by the size of the spread, an overnight bag, so we know she was staying for one night."

"So where is it?" Greg asked. "She didn't have it with her, the house is empty. You reckon she checked into a hotel?"

"No, no. Trust me. If she was really into fashion and looking nice, she wouldn't have checked into a hotel with her hair like THAT. It's obvious she coordinates her lipstick, shoes, and clothes to match. So. That's what I was going to say, Sherlock. Is that the suitcase would ALSO match." I said, knowing some sense of fashion as a female.

Sherlock was about to dismiss and most likely insult the Inspector when John spoke.

He stared at her for a moment, open mouthed and completely blown away, undoubtedly impressed and unable to hide it.

"That's...that's...exactly what I was going to say," he muttered, still unable to tear his eyes away from her. He realised he'd been looking for a little too long and turned away, his cheeks feeling flushed and warm.

"You're...you're quite right," he said quietly. "We need to look for a pink case. And if she didn't have it here with her and she didn't check into a hotel, there's really only one explanation. She was murdered. These aren't suicides, they're killings. Serial killings."

"Bloody Hell, Sherlock. Would you explain to me how? I need evidence. Where's this mythical case then? Where in hell do we look?" Greg was impressed by the doctor's observations, and it was clear they had impressed Sherlock too which was next to impossibe to do. Greg wondered at this new-found partnership they seemed to have going and couldn't help wondering exactly what the woman saw in the lanky git. When it came to women, Greg Lestrade was nothing if not Alpha Male and had seen no hint of anything, gay or straight, from the consulting detective, other than to hear him fend off someone's misplaced interest by saying he was married to his work. "Okay then," Greg said, almost pleading (except that he absolutely did not plead, ever, and certainly not to Sherlock Holmes). "Please indulge my infinitely sluggish and unworthy brain by telling me how you can conclusively prove these deaths are murders."

"The question is, Inspector," Sherlock snapped, always finding it frustrating when people weren't as quick as him. "Where is the case now? Did she eat it? The murderer drove her here and the murderer took the case."

"We've already established that it's most probably pink, which would undoubtedly attract attention to the murderer, statistically more likely to be male so he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. All we have to do is find it."

((Okay now we do want him to just run off and leave John there so she can meet Mycroft. Oh dear, may be dreading THAT. )) I moved directly towards Sherlock, facing him. "But Sherlock. HOW could he have driven her HERE? If anyone had seen an unrecognized car, they would have said something about it. Unless..." I said and paused, then it hit me. "Unless he drove her in a cab."

"A cab? We talking about a cab driver here?" Greg frowned, his eyes taking in the small spatter of mud up the woman's leg now Sherlock pointed it out. "So we find a cabby with a pink case in his car and we've found our killer? Wish it would be so easy."

((Sherlock right now. Makes me smile so much. I swear he's THIS close to marrying her right then and there. And I'm just letting you know. We HAVE to do the sheet when it comes time. Because it hit me. I'm like "Oh my god the SHEET! If FEMALE John is there when Mycroft steps on it and it starts to come off, she's going to DIE." So, that IS what's going to happen. John is going to die from the sheet coming off and Sherlock can just be like "Oh my god, I killed her! John! John, please don't die!" I will be so happy.))

"The suitcase wouldn't be in the car. Again, Sherlock is right. The driver would have gotten rid of it the moment he noticed it was in the cab. Probably wouldn't have taken him that long to notice it was there, right?" I said.

"As he drove off, I presume," Greg offered. "That narrows it down to two possible ways he could have gone. Lauriston Gardens is a loop around the central small park area, with an exit to east and west. So... which way do you pick? How long do you suppose he had the case until he dumped it? This is impossible, Sherlock. It could be anywhere. I'll put out a message for people to look out for an abandoned case, a small pink overnight bag with wheels. That's as much as I can do unless you know more."

For a moment, Sherlock just stood there staring at John. It was as if she'd just spoken exactly what he was thinking. No one had ever been able to do that before. No one had ever come even remotely close to his level of intelligence, but John, John was a contender. My gosh, he thought to himself, she was quite incredible.

He brought himself back to the moment and tried to make himself focus on the interchange between John and Lestrade, their conversation helping him to spark new ideas.

The Inspector was looking at him expectantly, but without saying another word he darted out of the room, pushing past them both as he took off down the stairs, purposely pushing into Anderson on his way out of the front door.

((Yay! Thank you, dear!)) What the bloody hell was THAT?! He just ran out and pushed pass me! Well. Shows what he thought of me. I sighed and watched Lestrade walk past me up the stairs, I went down in silence. Why did he do that? I must really be stupid. Soon, I was out of the building and I started walking over to where Sally was. "He's gone off." she said.

"Sherlock Holmes." I said, like it could have been anyone else. "Yeah. He does that." she said passively. "Hmm. And he didn't look like he was coming back?" I said. "No." she answered. Right. "Do you know where I could get a cab? It's my leg." I said, indicating. She stirred a little, then lifted the crime scene tape. "The main road." she said. "Thank you." I said ducking under.

"But you aren't his friend. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. So who are you?" she said as I was walking. "Me? I'm no one. I've only just met him." I said, knowing it was the truth. "All right then. Take my advice and stay away from him." she said firmly. "Why?" I asked, starting to be curious. "What he really came here for. He's not paid for it. He likes murder. He gets off on it. The stranger the crime, the more he likes it. And one day, just solving crimes won't be enough for him. One day, we'll all be standing around a body and he'll be the one who put it there." she said.

I shuddered a little, thinking that was quite harsh. "And why would do that?" I asked. "He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored." she said. No. He wasn't... HE couldn't be. I was sure he wasn't. Or was I? On her walkie I hear "Donovan, get in here now." She goes and starts to walk towards the building. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." she said before she finally went in.

I was a little shook up by what she'd said about him. It wasn't true, it couldn't be. Was he really like that? I didn't think so. Not really knowing what I was doing, I walked all the way to the main road, where I tried to get a cab, but I couldn't. As I was going on my way, several phones in phone boxes rang and one in a shop. Then, as I passed another one the phone rang.

I stepped inside and picked up the phone. "Hello?" I said. ((MYCROFT TIME!!! Unless you think I moved too fast. Did I??? I'll fix it if I did...))

Mycroft sat in his office, eyeing the CCTV footage as the cameras tracked the doctor on her way to find a taxi. Sherlock had disappeared, hot on the trail of whatever it was he was looking for, something pertaining to the case Lestrade had presented him with, obviously. Mycroft knew where he was, half a mile away on a roof top looking for god knows what...and while the cat's away... It was time for Mycroft to play.

Not that the use of such a phrase whould imply that he was a mouse, God, no. In no way, shape or form. In truth he was far more the coiled snake; patient, silent, poised to strike. Mycroft fancied himself a Fer de Lance perhaps, sartorially marked and very deadly. He speed dialled his IT operative and the man picked up almost immediately.
"Sir?"
"Briggs, get up here, on the double. I require the phone numbers of all the call boxes along the route Dr Watson is taking, this minute. While you're about it, have someone freeze the traffic lights at all the junctions in proximity to the location, if you will."
"Yes, sir."

Mycroft rang off, hoping the action would delay the appearance of any cabs and thus stop the good doctor from catching one before he could get the car in position. He speed dialled again and Anthea picked up on the first ring.
"Hello, my dear. ETA?"
"Two minutes, sir."
"Thank you, proceed as planned. Destination Alpha."
"Yes, sir."

Third time lucky, Mycroft thought as he watched the doctor finally pick up the ringing phone. He had called them all, as the doctor passed by. One she could ignore. Two was a bit of a coinsidence but three? The doctor's curiosity had eventually won out.
"There is a security camera on the building to your left," Mycroft said after John had greeted him. "Do you see it?" He ignored the repeated request for him to reveal his identity and said "Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?" Finally, the woman agreed that she could. Mycroft smiled. He so enjoyed this bit. The show of power, of strength, of omnipotence. "Watch..." he said and nodded to Briggs who toggled a small joystick connected to his own laptop, and the camera swivelled. "There is another camera on the building opposite to you. Do you see it?" Mycroft asked, voice neutral. Again the woman murmured an affirmative. On cue, Briggs made that one move as well. "And finally, at the top of the building to your right." With his inate love of manipulation and challenge, Mycroft liked moving people out of their comfort zone. He liked the implications of that particular term, despite hating the words themselves. When John asked how he was doing this, it was rather empowering. Mycroft wasn't about to reveal anything though. The CCTV image showed that Anthea had arrived. The dark car glided along the kerb and halted next to the call box. "Get into the car, Dr. Watson." Mycroft purred. "I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you."

((There you go, hope you enjoy))

I shuddered at the words that there was a camera and if I saw it. I looked, found it, so I said yes cautiously. And it turned out there were two more. This man, it was obviously male, was watching me. And also the car. My situation. Right. I hung up, exited the box, and got into the car. There was a female, texting. I kept silent, because I didn't know what to say. "You must keep busy, texting that much. I could never text that much, even if I had friends." I said finally, attempting to at least make conversation.

Anthea glanced over but said nothing, offering no more than a look, neutral, neither curious nor encouraging. She thought that this one might be a prattler. Then, they usually were. Very few people were simply happy to stay quiet. Nervousness came out in wanting to talk, to fill the void. Anthea, practiced at remaining silent in the face of chatter, had no trouble in saying nothing at all. Her phone pinged softly.

I suspect Dr Watson is fullfilling all expectations.
MH

She certainly is following accepted norms, sir.
AB

ETA?

Traffic being what it is, approximately fifteen minutes. Roadworks again.

I really should speak to Boris. It is frankly unacceptable for all the maintenance work to be carried out in such a tight window.

Wouldn't do any good, sir. Bee in his bonnet about making sure the place is fit for tourists

Mycroft shook his head at the reply. Minor officialdom causing a rukus again. He would have to put a word in the right ears about priorities. It would not do to have his plans thwarted by tourism. Tourists, much like terrorists in their way, came, spent money, caused a fuss and then left. It would be a cold day in hell when Mycroft Holmes allowed intransients to interfere with his plans.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to prattle." I said, slightly embarassed, then shut up. Eventually the car stopped and John got out. There was a man, holding an umbrella. She hadn't ever seen him, didn't know who he was, or why he was watching her. She intended to find out.

"Have a seat, John," Mycroft offered, gesturing to a plain office chair with his umbrella. It wasn't a comfortable chair, there was absolutely no point in spoiling the guest, she wouldn't be here long. Mycroft watched her limp toward him, stubborn streak a mile wide. He leaned on his umbrella again and observed her. It was perhaps a good job that Sherlock did not know about this little meeting.