𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖉𝖊, sherlock holmes

EVERYTHING ALL PINK

"And who might you be?" he inquired, a smirk playing on his lips.

Elizabeth shot him a glare, uninterested in his antics. "I'm the new sergeant," she stated flatly, her tone leaving no room for further inquiry.

Unfazed, the man continued to size her up. "New sergeant, huh? Haven't seen you around before. What's your name?"

"Save the small talk, where's the body?" Elizabeth retorted, uninterested in engaging with the man.

The man, who introduced himself as Anderson, the lead on forensics, gestured towards the staircase. "Upstairs. But Lestrade hasn't arrived yet, so you'll have to wait."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the unnecessary information. "I'm not here to wait for Lestrade. Just show me where the body is."

Anderson, seemingly undeterred, attempted to flirt with her. "Has anyone told you that you are quite a beauty before?"

Ignoring his advances, Elizabeth grabbed a pair of gloves from a nearby table and swiftly ascended the long circular set of stairs. Anderson's voice trailed after her.

"Hey, you have to wait here!" but she paid him no heed.

Entering the room on the upper floor, Elizabeth took in the scene. The room lacked furniture, except for a solitary rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lighting cast harsh shadows across the bare floorboards. Scaffolding poles supported a part of the ceiling, marked by large holes knocked through one of the walls.

In the midst of this stark setting, a woman's lifeless body lay face down on the floor. The bright pink overcoat and high-heeled shoes were a stark contrast to the somber surroundings. The woman's hands were flat on the floor, positioned on either side of her head. Scratched into the floorboards near her left hand was the word "Rache."

Elizabeth professional demeanor kicked in as she approached the crime scene. Ignoring the earlier drama, she focused on the task at hand. She snapped on the gloves and began her examination, her eyes scanning the room for any clues that might unravel the mystery behind this peculiar "suicide" that she knew was murder.

Her eyes flicked to the woman's fingernails, drawn to an odd detail. Her index and middle nails were broken and ragged at the ends, the remnants of a struggle. The once immaculate pink nail polish now chipped, a stark contrast to the flawless appearance of her other nails. It was a small, personal detail that caught her attention amidst the grimness of the room.

She's left handed, clearly she carved out this message as a last ditch attempt to catch her killer. Why else would a woman like her inflict pain on herself so close to death if it wasn't murder? She thought to herself, now adamant these "suicides" aren't suicides after all.

She turns her attention to the meaning of the message.

A flicker of the Oxford Dictionary flows in her head. RACHE, German word for revenge? Question mark? Why did a question mark pop up? Wait.

Her mind seems to be running way ahead of her.

That doesn't make any sense, it cant be revenge. Her brain racks itself for the answer. Rache. Rache... RACHEL!

She basically screams out what her mind has been thinking. At the same time, a tall man with curly hair, a shorter man with gray hair and a crutch burst in, Lestrade walking in behind them.