Glass: After the Storm

Come September

Eight frosted glass perfume bottles sat in a row on the kitchen table. Beside each one was a photograph of a different woman. Sherlock was leaning forward, his eyes narrowed as he looked at each one, rolling a sprig of the poisonous plant between his fingers. Through the glass, he could see John sitting at the other side of the table sifting through a thick manila folder.

Sherlock sat up straight, pointing at each bottle one after another.

"Dead, dead, sick, dead, sick, sick, sick, dead."

John's eyes darted between the folder and the perfumes. "You're spot on. How did you–"

"The amount of liquid left in each bottle determines how often the person used the perfume. More frequent use equates to a quicker death."

"Right. Of course."

"Have you searched the batch codes on the bottles?"

John turned to the laptop. "Yep. All different. Some were made years ago."

"Which means they weren't laced with the poison during manufacturing, distribution or sale. They've been targeted deliberately. The culprit has somehow gotten close enough to each of them to tamper with their perfume."

"Well great, you're getting somewhere."

"No."

"No?"

"Every person possesses a multitude of connections to others. Even per day, they have so many interactions."

"Well you can narrow them down, cross-reference. Isn't that what you did with the Mayfly Man? You kept going until you finally found the one thing all of those women had in common?"

"Yes, but that's what I'm saying, John. These eight women have a lot in common. These two share the same hairdresser, these three went to the same college, she ran the London marathon last year and this woman was in the crowd. But why can't I find a common denominator between all of them?"

"Just give it some time, we don't know all the details yet."

"No, you're right we don't. Neither did Margaux's friend at Scotland Yard. So how did he make the correlation?"

Sherlock stood up and walked into the living room where the wall had been strewn with photographs, clues and evidence. He stepped up onto the couch, his shoes pressing into the soft leather.

"I am looking at the victims, lined up and presented to me like a gift. Yet I still can't see how they are connected."

John followed him into the room, taking a startled step back as Sherlock charged across the room, sliding a dagger from his pocket and slamming it into the mantle.

"How!?" Sherlock shouted.

"It doesn't matter how. What matters is that now you know; you're taking a case with a head start, that's brilliant."

"No! It's not."

Sherlock stormed out of the flat as John followed close behind.

*

Margaux sat at work, her face falling naturally into a frown as she looked over the photographs pinned to her desk; Vaughan as a baby, her and Mary at Rosie's Christening, Sherlock and Vaughan play-fighting on the couch – her frown turned into a smile. She took two new pictures from her bag and pinned them up; one from their wedding and one from Paris – her frown returned.

"Aww look at that," said Greg as he leaned over shoulder. "So how was the city of love?"

"It was good for all of the five minutes we were there."