Glass: After the Storm

Scarlet

John stepped out of the quaint terraced house. He closed the front door behind him and exhaled slowly. He glanced across the front garden to the discarded Christmas tree lying by the bins; at the flecks of tinsel still caught in the brown, shrivelling branches. He pushed his hands into his pockets and began to walk down the street, his body tensing in the bitter January wind.

A black cab turned the corner at the top of the road, slowing as it approached him.

"John!"

He turned to see Sherlock peering out of the back window, ushering him over.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked as he climbed in the taxi.

"I made a deduction," said Sherlock as he typed on his phone. "Did she take it well?" 

John sighed. "Break-ups are never easy. She took it better than most." He looked out of the window as they drove into the city. "Where are we going, by the way?"

"Lestrade called. Judging by the tone of his voice, I'm either in trouble, or desperately needed."

"So, what am I? Moral support?"

"Something like that."

*

They made their way through a horde of vans and police cars, pushing past groups of uniformed officers and crime scene investigators in their white, papery overalls. Greg Lestrade stood on the doorstep of an unkempt house. Sherlock glanced around it quickly, taking mental photographs and storing them away: the garden path was broken and uneven, the brown flagstones discoloured by algae and weeds growing between the cracks. The front of the house was pebble-dashed – Sherlock grimaced – there were chunks that had fallen off to reveal the mouldy concrete beneath. The murky windows had grown cloudy and the railing on the doorstep was loose and rusty.

"I'm guessing it's unoccupied," said John as they approached the front door.

"We got in touch with the landlord. He lives abroad, said the last tenants did a runner and he couldn't be bothered re-letting it." Greg opened the door with his gloved hand and let them inside. "So, we've got a white female, no ID, not sure of age but she looks to be in her thirties," Greg began as they climbed the stairs.

"Murdered?" asked John.

"Probably? There's no obvious injuries, no missing person's reports. Forensics are doing an evidence sweep now but it doesn't look like they're gonna find anything."

"But you've called me," said Sherlock. "So clearly there's more to it. Or are you simply commissioning me to do your job now?"

Greg stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to him. "Take a look for yourself." He gestured to the door at the end of the landing where a forensics team filed out of the room. "Go on," he said. "Go and see what you make of it."

Sherlock walked down the landing and stepped into the room. He felt a spur in his mind; like the snipping of a lighter, electricity pouring from his brain to the tips of his fingers. On the floor in the middle of the room lay a woman. She was dead, face down on the bare floorboards with her hair covering her face.

"What the..." said John as he walked in beside him.

Her shoes were pink, her coat was pink, even her fingernails were the same shade of vibrant cerise.

"Deja vu?" asked Greg. "Yeah. Now you know why I called you."

Sherlock's face was blank. Yet just behind the blank expression was a layer of utter confusion, and behind that, a spark of excitement. He walked over to the body and crouched beside it, pulling on a latex glove and checking for clues.