Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's office, pouring over case files and autopsy reports when he got Kairi's first message about being late. Though the last few weeks were tenuous and he was becoming very hopeful towards the coming nuptials. Almost everything was under control, except of course the beloveds themselves, who had turned from self-sufficient adults into infants in the wake of their ceremonial profession of love. With list after list of things to accomplish, he could barely wait until the damned thing was over with. Though he was genuinely happy for John and Molly, he had to admit the fuss being made was horribly tedious. If Kairi ever agreed to marry him, he was adamant that they would most likely elope — neither of them were comfortable sharing their most personal feelings with the public.
He decided to distract himself from those thoughts and it wasn't until hours and hours later and he was still nostril deep in the case when Lestrade blundered in with the piss poor coffee of Scotland Yard.
"Any luck?" Lestrade motioned with a coffee cup in hand, leaning in to peek at what Sherlock was working on.
Sherlock reached out and took the proffered cup, ignoring the DCI's question and sipping on the scalding liquid. He winced and looked at the cup with vehemence, "I take sugar." He scowled at the detective.
Lestrade frowned, "Oh, sorry. This is yours." They switched cups and began sipping, happier with their desired brews. "So, recap?"
Sherlock sighed, exhausted, "Very well. The Sandman has killed three people now. First, the retired officer. Second, the trauma nurse. Third, the social worker." He ticked them off his long, slender fingers and stood abruptly. "What we know about The Sandman and his methods, is that he is efficient and brutal. He abducts people, specific people, in the night hours in order to remain unnoticed."
"And that helps us how?" Lestrade muttered.
Sherlock glowered and sipped his coffee, "The man is a sadist —,"
Lestrade snorted softly which interrupted Sherlock's speech, "Kairi making you watch Criminal Minds now?" Lestrade interjected, humor heavy in his voice.
Sherlock scowled, "Where I learn my information doesn't matter, but for your information, I did just happen to know what a sadist is prior to that," he snapped and Lestrade tried not to giggle, "the knowledge we have comes from the murders and how he takes his victims. We haven't been able to connect the victims, but they were all murdered just the same, with barely any deviation to his process — aside from the last killing. This means he is methodical, trained, a perfectionist. He has a steely control over his life and everyone in it — if he has anyone at all. The last murder must have been interrupted by something of great import if it derailed him from his usual routine."
"Okay, so how does that help us? His crime scenes are clean. We need evidence to link him, not conjecture." Lestrade sat sharply and stared at the files littering his desk.
Sherlock practically snarled at him, "Lestrade, you are being incomprehensibly idiotic."
Lestrade smiled wide, "That just happens to be my best division."
Sherlock rose a cold eyebrow, "Yes, I'm well aware of that."
Lestrade gave him a tight, appreciative smile, "Right then, what else?"
"His victims are eviscerated, skillfully and without hesitation," Sherlock glanced at the autopsy report again, smiling, "We know he has some sort of training, something that prepared him for this. People, even psychopaths, don't tend to just jump into murdering a bunch of people and slicing them up with such finesse and no hesitation."
"Right, well, that's true." Lestrade sighed and found a chair, "But you ruled out anyone in the medical profession."
Sherlock nodded and sighed, feeling dejected, "Correct. I did."
