Major Pieces

"Ye-es," Sherlock conceded. "But that one with the pedantic cannibal was ridiculous." Sherlock also had not been impressed with Saw, but to be fair neither had John. He'd really liked Psycho, had spent an entire afternoon researching Ed Gein on the internet instead of shooting holes in the wall or whinging, and John had been planning to show him Zodiac next. But Sweeney Todd, come on.

John snapped his laptop out of Sherlock's hands and set it firmly on the book-platform. Sherlock made a protesting noise, but didn't stir toward his own laptop, which was half-hidden under the coffee table. "Well, what's it about then?" he said grudgingly. John had learned to hold these exercises in cinema appreciation on days when Sherlock had just come off a case and was therefore feeling sated and indulgent, not yet succumbing to boredom.

John thought for a moment. "It's like The Count of Monte Cristo, but with serial murder." Sherlock looked blank. "Alexandre Dumas? Didn't you ever study literature?"

"I did but-"

"I deleted it," they both said together. Sherlock frowned in annoyance.

John popped the DVD in the drive and clicked his way into the video player. "We're watching this," he said decisively. "Besides, it has Johnny Depp. Everyone likes Johnny Depp."

"I don't."

"Only because you don't know who he is." John clicked play and flopped onto the sofa next to Sherlock. Evidently it was a hit, because Sherlock was relatively quiet for the first thirty minutes or so. (Other than an agonized, "Oh god, it's a musical.") The restraint lasted until Judge Turpin showed up at Todd's barber shop, and Sherlock began ranting, "Why does no one in this ridiculous film recognize anyone else?" Sherlock's mobile went off at that point, and he ignored it while it rang four times, which was a clear sign that he had become interested in the film despite himself. Then John's mobile, upstairs in the bedroom, rang four times. Sherlock's mobile immediately went off again, and Sherlock scrabbled in the sofa cushions for it, because that was Lestrade's signal for Pick up the phone, you lazy sod.

John hit pause and closed the laptop while Sherlock answered, because he knew from experience that it would be less than five minutes before Sherlock was fully dressed and ready to whirl out the door on whatever case Lestrade had dug up.

"Ah," Sherlock sighed in bliss, pocketing his phone. "We have another serial murderer. A non-fictional one."

"Best put this away then," John said, sticking the DVD back in the case. "I expect you won't have time to look at it for a while."

Chapter 1: Opening Gambit

The main thing is to develop the pieces quickly. Get them into play as fast as you can. -José Raúl Capablanca, Chess Fundamentals

As per usual, by the time John had navigated the milling crowd and the police cordon, Sherlock had already bulled his way into the house where London's latest serial killer had been plying his trade. When John stepped into the blood-spattered bedroom, Sherlock was on one knee beside the dead woman, examining the soles of her feet with his magnifier. John ran his eyes over the corpse: she was naked, no jewelry even, and her face had been mutilated beyond all recognition. The formerly-ivory carpet was spongy with her blood and he could hear the underpadding squish beneath his trainers as he moved out of the doorway. Sherlock seemed oblivious as he moved on to examine the woman's calves.

Lestrade stood back against the far wall, hands in pockets, with an expression of unease plain on his face.

"So, death by exsanguination. What else have we got?" said John.

He could hear a string of late nights and grueling press conferences in Lestrade's answer. "Second death this week by spectacular bleeding, both with similar mutilation of the face, both found nude in their bedrooms, no witnesses, no motives, no suspects. The first victim also had a series of cuts to her genitals, ah- internally."