You and Sherlock

You Lower the IQ of the Whole Street

"Rachel?" The word left your mouth before you could stop it.

"Who is she?" Sherlock pressed, scrutinizing Lestrade.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

Deciding now was the perfect time to inject and flaunt his dazzling intellect, Anderson spoke up.

"Never mind that. We found the case." Anderson pointed to the pink suitcase in the living room. "According to someone," Anderson shot the most obviously pointed look you'd ever seen at Sherlock. "The murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.

"Really? It was in your kitchen?" You raised your eyebrow challengingly and Anderson made a face. You continued, "Thanks for bringing it by..." You paused, deliberately sweeping your gaze over Anderson critically. "Though, on second thought, I'm not sure you qualify as our favorite psychopath."

Anderson shot you a dirty look.

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock shot back disparagingly, a trace of defensiveness still coloring his tone. He turned back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade replied flatly, looking apprehensive. You certainly weren't expecting Sherlock response, which was an almost hissed, 

"Excellent!" Sherlock paused, whirling to Lestrade. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

Lestrade shook his head. "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

A short wave of sadness passed over you at that; the poor Pink Lady. You couldn't imagine the pain of losing a child. John, too, grimaced and turned away. But Sherlock looked confused.

"No, that's ... that's not right. How ... Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson scoffed in condescending disbelief. "Yup – sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

For one faltering moment, you thought that Sherlock might actually have lost some part of his humanity to say something like that but then you realized Sherlock focused on something else entirely -- something, to your mild dismay -- that had nothing to do with love.

"She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt."

Sherlock began pacing, pushing you out of the way of his path. 

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don't know, talks to them?" You ventured, shoving Sherlock back when he neared you. "Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock stopped and stared at you. "Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?" 

He said it so blandly, so innocently, and with a total lack of sympathy, that you could do nothing more than stare at him. Sherlock hesitated then and looked around, realizing that everyone in the flat had fallen silent. Looking awkwardly back at you, Sherlock paused, his face flicking in uncertainty.

"Not good?" he asked you. You swept your glance along the room before looking back at Sherlock.

"Bit not good, yeah," you murmured, frowning, and Sherlock shook it off, turning to look at John.