Sherlock Holmes and the Womb Raider of London

The Hunt

"SCOTLAND YARD IS LOOKING FOR THE WOMB RAIDER, and thanks to Sherlock Holmes, we've managed to come up with a description," Lestrade informed the press.

     John was back at flat 221B, watching the news on the tele. He hoped they would catch the culprit before they struck again. Sherlock was in the kitchen doing God knows what. Most likely he was wondering how long it would take a human tongue to burn. Either way, John didn't really want to know.

     "The killer is a woman between the ages of thirty-four and thirty-eight. She is said to have red hair and green eyes. Most likely she's a veterinarian in London, who's suffered a loss of a young child, most likely female. This killer is said to be quite short, roughly five foot four inches, or shorter. They wear a baggy white sweatshirt with black wings on the back of it," Lestrade continued.

     "So please," begged Lestrade, "if you have any information call the numbers below, or contact us directly at Scotland Yard, or 221B on Baker Street. Thank you."

     After Lestrade had finished speaking, John turned off the tele and took a sip of tea. On the small coffee table were the six letters the killer had left. Just reading them made John sick to his stomach. It seemed that the killer had a delusion that by killing those innocent babies it would save them from their irresponsible mother. As it turned out, all the mother's did have issues, like how Haylee Casper was a drug addicted pharmacist, and how Veronica Storm was a prostitute, but none of it justified the terrible murders.

     "D'you think anyone will come?" John asked. 

 

     "Probably," Sherlock called. "Human emotions tend to make people act expectedly, especially something as brutal as this. It's bound to make people come forward."

     From the way Sherlock spoke, it was like he didn't refer himself as human. The man was almost like a machine, cold and emotionless, but John knew otherwise. Sure, Sherlock was very cold and seemingly ruthless, but under all that was still the wisest and bravest person John ever knew. He had faked his own death to save those he cared about. What sort of machine would do that?

     "And how long do you think that'll ta-" before John could get the rest of his question out, Sherlock's phone buzzed noisily on the table in front of him.

     "Answer that, John. I'm too busy recording how long it takes to engulf a human tongue in flames."

     With a small shake of his head at Sherlock's strange ways, he answered the phone, "John Watson speaking."

     "A-are you friends with mis-mister Sherlock Holm-Holmes?" a small and nervous voice stuttered. 

 

     "Why yes, I am. Is there something we can help you with?" John asked. Maybe this woman knew something about the case. 

 

     "I-I just saw the evening new-news, I think I can hel-help you."

      Now that really caught John's attention, "What-what do you mean?" 

     On the other end of the phone, he heard the woman take a deep and nervous breath, "I-I think I may kn-know the killer you're talk-talking about."