Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter XXVIII - Sleep With One Eye Open

-Millie-

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"They're getting worse," says John, looking down, grim in the face of this new observation. He turns to Lestrade. "You have no leads on this man?"

"We don't know if it is a man-"

"It is," says Sherlock, crouching down and examining the swanlike curve of her neck, head tipped back, grace in death. "It has to be."

The street is busy, but not with the usual crush of pedestrians pressed for time and hurried businessmen; it is packed with forensics and police officers, all fluorescent yellow and sterile white, strips of cautionary tape fluttering with each breath of sweet, morning-flushed wind.

Lestrade clears his throat. "And?"

Sherlock looks up from the bloodied source of his fascination. "And...?"

"What can you tell us about him?"

"Very little."

"Funny," Lestrade laughs, uncomfortable. "Now, if we could move this along a bit, that would be brilliant – I've got two more scenes to-"

"I'm not being funny," says Sherlock, quite seriously, "I can give you the basics. She is – was – a drug user, come into sudden wealth. They're not her clothes, clearly. They're far too big for her. Too expensive for her. She's not long dead. Two days at most. Blood loss and shock. Knifed. He's got an unusual taste in blade. Not metal. Polished bone? Ivory?" He pockets his slide magnifying glass. "I have cause to believe this is the man who chooses to express his sentiments after his victim's death. The blood around her mouth. Look closely."

"It's smudged," says John, frowning.

"Lip prints. Quite the romantic."

"That's-"

"Fascinating."

"Disgusting."

"But what can you deduce about him?" presses Lestrade.

Sherlock's mouth twists, as if the very words are acidic to his taste. "I can't. There's nothing to go by."

I steel myself for another glance down at the corpse. We recognised the body immediately as the homeless woman under the bus shelter with her fierce contempt for Sherlock and for me. She is lying on the pavement, barefoot and barelegged, her borrowed skirt saturated with dried blood at the waistline and blouse sliced at the stomach, revealing a vicious wound in the shape of a smile, carved from hip to hip, the pale pink of exposed organs very visible against the interior of her internal cavity.

It is not the wound that sickens me. It isn't the flies gathering at the frayed edges of her skin, or the unshakable smell of decomposition, that makes me wish I had never left the security of Baker Street this morning.

It is the flowers – the budding, white irises – studding her hair, brushed meticulously and arranged behind her head in black waves against the concrete. Her head has been tilted back, chin up, her eyes closed and lips parted, her hands manipulated, her fingers laced together. Gory beauty. Sick delicacy.

"Ma'am, you can't be here. This is a crime scene. Miss-"

I look up at the noise. The crowds are being forcibly parted, people are being pushed back, authorities ignored.

It takes me a long second to recognise her.

She looks healthier, fuller, still in her fitted skirt and tie – but her face is very pale, the deep ochre of her skin drained and replaced by something grey, her eyes wild as she forces her way to the inner circle surrounding the body.