A Name

Chapter 9

"Wait, wait, wait," John spoke when they were both comfortably inside the cab, "how do you know she has a guitar instructor? How do you know any of this?"

Sherlock pulled what looked like a business card from the inside pocket of his coat and extended it for John to see.

"All right, so she has a business card from a guitar shop, doesn't really mean anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the obliviousness of his boyfriend. "Her hands." he said as if that explained anything. "Her hands had calluses, so she's constantly working with them. But these calluses were only on her fingertips, never see that on a construction worker or any other labor job. So, she must play an instrument; a string instrument." he shoved his hand in John's face to point out the calluses on his own fingertips, "But she's a beginner seeing as the calluses are fairly new. Guitar was just a guess going by the length of the nails on the other hand, she would need the nails to strum, you see. And yet she had no guitar in her room or anywhere in her house, so where exactly is she practicing? Then we find this." he pulled up the business card again, "He must be her instructor, probably lends her a guitar form the shop every now and then."

"Brilliant."

"This is mainly speculation, you know."

"No. It's brilliant." John corrected, "Do you do that with everyone?"

"What, deduce? You've seen me do it countless times."

"Okay, let me rephrase that: what can you deduce from my hands?"

"Oh. Uh-"

John thrusted his right hand at him, dangling it like a prize of meat before a lion's eyes, "Go on then."

Sherlock hesitates then grasps John's sturdy hand, entertwining their fingers. He clears his throat, "Um...scars." his eyebrows twitch, as if he has found a tresure, "Scars from fights and punches, old and faded, though, so they're from your younger years."

"Harry." John explained.

His fingers roamed higher, to John's wrists. He smiles, "There's faded bite marks on your wrist: four incisors, one canine, top and bottom," the smile turns into a smirk, "carefully concealed by the cuff of your jumper. Don't know why you'd try to hide it, I worked so had to make it." he tuts, "Don't worry, I'll make many more." he feigns a pout and moves on when he knows John has begun to blush, "There's a hangnail on your middle finger; you've been picking at it, indications of anxiety." he looks up at John's eyes at this, "Indications of anxiety. Indications of anxiety. Depression."

"What?"

"Most murder-suicides are fueled by depression." his eyebrows made a 'v', "She had no indicaitons of that. No anti-depressants, no drugs whatsoever actually. Not even signs of anxiety."

"You don't think she's the-you think someone else killed them both."

Sherlock smiled at this, "No, she did it. But why? She had no motive. I'd need t-"

Sherlock was interrupted by a rather rude cabbie clearing his throat. He gave a pointed look at the rearview mirror before realising the cab had stopped-when had they arrived? They scooted out of the car and Sherlock threw some money at the rude driver. In front of them stood a small guitar shop. 'Gale's Guitars' shone proudly above it.

"Let's go."

~~~~

Inside the guitar shop ensued the most insipid conversation both Sherlock and John had ever participated in, if it could even be considered conversation. It really consisted of 'G', as Gale prefered to be called, staring at them through half-lidded eyes, repeating the questions they had just asked. Two hours wasted trying to get information off the guy who was so blatantly high.