The Science of Deduction
Chapter One can be found on the Short Story of the Month Page
The cab slowed to a stop at the red light. Camie glanced at Sherlock who was staring out the window.
"So you're on the forensics team?" Camie asked.
Sherlock glanced at her then back out the window. "I'm not. I am a Consulting Detective. When the police are out of their depth, the consult me."
"Hello, freak. Lestrade invite you?" Sally raised the yellow tape so Sherlock could walk under. She stopped Camie. "Who is this? A girlfriend of yours?"
"A colleague. Doctor Camie Greer."
Sally put her hand on her hip "Doctor of what exactly?"
"Deduction and psychology." She smiled. "I was invited, too."
Sherlock smirked as Sally let Camie through. Camie took a deep breath. "Have fun on your date last night?"
Sherlock laughed at took Camie's arm. He lead her to the doorway and nodded at the guard.
"That was quite good." They walked across the wide marble floor around the indoor fountain.
"Really, you think so?"
"Course. It was brilliant." Sherlock lead Camie up the stairs of the abandoned hotel. Blue crime scene lights lined the steps. "What gave it away?"
"She smelled like man." Camie let go of his arm as they reached the top. Police men and investigators in blue containment suits hurried every which way.
The man from Sherlock's apartment, Lestrade, was waiting. Sherlock pulled two pairs of while gloves out of his pockets and handed a pair to Camie. "Where is it?"
"In the ballroom. I can give you ten minutes before you are questioned." Lestrade started walking down the hall.
"Good - wait, questioned?"
"Yes, the whole team seems to believe that you murdered her."
"I'll just have to proved them wrong." He glanced at Camie behind him who had taken off her coat and put her hair up. "Ever seen a dead body?"
"Would you like to see more?"
"Would I be here if I didn't?"
Lestrade opened the doors and let them in. A man laid in the middle of the room, sprawled out with a pool of watery blood around his head. "Victim's name is Mark Bitterpool, age twenty-three, works as a personal assistant at the national bank. Found this morning by two women and a retailer looking to buy this place."
"Why do you think I killed her?" Sherlock never took his eyes off the body. Lestrade sighed and went back to the doors. He shut them as Sherlock and Camie watched. Written across the door in red was SHERLOCK. "Hmm. Interesting. When was she killed?"
"About twenty-four hours ago."
"Good. I didn't do it. I was stuck inside all day bored. As Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock turned back to the body. "Now, Miss Greer, what do you think?"
Camie gave Sherlock her coat, who immediately gave it to Lestrade. She picked up both of the dead man's hands and looked them over. "Detective Inspector why did you think he was murdered?"
Sherlock smiled at her and Lestrade only stared blankly. "Sorry, what?"
"Do you think this man was murdered?" Camie stood up.
"Er... Yes, I do."
Camie peeled off her white gloves and took her coat from Lestrade. "Then you are partially correct. Bitterpool killed himself."
"What are you talking about?"
Camie pointed at the door. "Look, letters on the door written in blood. A cut on his wrist, his right wrist because he was left handed. How can I tell? There are ink smudges on the side of his palm. When he wrote, his hand dragged across the paper. Never see a lefty without it. But, if he's left handed, how come there's no blood on his hand from writing Sherlock? Conclusion. He was kidnapped on his way home from work, the murderer force Bitterpool to cut himself and write Sherlock on the door with a paint brush. As soon as bitter pool was done, the murderer slit Mar's throat, took the knife and the paint brush, and bathed Mark in bleach to kill any biological evidence."
"I'm not done yet Detective Inspector. Now a man like this on his way home from work would have had a coat, a briefcase, and a smartphone at least. Look at the ground. It's covered in footprints. You told us not to contaminate evidence. I think your people should also take that advise. If people had been more careful, you might have noticed footsteps leading to the fire place. You will find all of Bitterpool's missing processions in there."
"Is there anything else you would like to tell me Doctor Greer?" Lestrade looked away from the fireplace. He couldn't hide the look of annoyance on his face. He had just realized that he had yet another Sherlock to deal with.
"Yes, there is one more thing. There will be more murders. More perfect murders. Why, you ask?" Camie looked straight at Sherlock. "Who ever did this wants Sherlock's attention. They're trying to send a message."
Lestrade turned to Sherlock also. "Is she serious?"
Sherlock cleared his throat, wiping the surprise off of his face. "Course she is. I think we're done here. Don't forget to check the fire place.
When Camie came back from the restroom, she found her Sherlock laying on the couch, eyes closed, fingertips touching, and one sleeved rolled up. Three skin colored nicotine patches laid on his skin. She sat in a chair by the fire and picked up the violin laying on the ground. She glanced at Sherlock who seemed to be lost in thought then slowly started playing. Camie stared off into space thinking about Sherlock. Maybe it would work out and she wouldn't be so lonely anymore. He was just as smart as her. She's been craving for someone who could understand her, actually see the connections. All those nights, sitting in the dorm alone because her roommates thought she was a freak, studying a major that she invented. Professor Young was nice, he offered to pose as the Professor teaching her made up classes for almost eight whole years. He was handsome, but he could never quite keep up with her. Sherlock could. Camie could feel it. Maybe she found a friend.
Camie's phone vibrated in her coat pocket. She abruptly came back down to Earth and stopped playing. She couldn't remember is she had kept playing that whole time. The text was from Rosalie, wondering where she was. Camie thought about running home, but then remembered she had no cash and her Oyster card was at home.
"Sherlock, could I stay the night?"
His eyes flashed open. "Yes. I might need you. John's bedroom is down the hall."
Long time since I wrote this. Hope you enjoyed some Sherlock fan fiction!