Major Pieces

John winced a bit, but Sherlock was of course unfazed. “Any signs of sexual assault?” Sherlock studied the woman's thighs and pelvis, and John hoped he was not about to dive in and check for himself. He could really do without that mental image.

“No, strangely.”

“Why strange?” asked John.

Lestrade opened his mouth to explain but Sherlock cut him off. “A focus on the genitalia usually suggests a killer in some way motivated by sex. But this- mutilation of the face and the interior of the vagina, but no sexual motive? Different. And, of course, fascinating.” Sherlock moved along to the woman's hands, much to John's relief.

“I wouldn't say we've ruled out a sexual motive yet,” Lestrade objected. “Our forensic psychologist-”

“Is an idiot. It's not about the sex, so let's move on.”

John flipped his little notebook out of his pocket. "Who is she, Lestrade?"

"Benjamina Potts," said detective answered.

"Wrong," Sherlock said absently, squinting at not-Benjamina's fingernails.

"Holmes, it's her room, she was dropped off here at seven last night-"

"Her room is a third floor walk-up in Bloomsbury. Unlike Miss Potts, she is a student. Literature. She waits tables at a bistro but she is still unable to pay her bills fully. She doesn't even own a computer." Sherlock managed to make his most obscure deductions sound routine, as if he was reading a menu. After long observation, John was convinced that he did this entirely on purpose, just to be irritating. "And you might as well give up on Potts' boyfriend. He couldn't possibly be the killer and he doesn't have anything useful to tell you."

"Where's Benjamina then?" Lestrade demanded.

"On her way to being victim number three, I shouldn't doubt," Sherlock said. He sounded spectacularly unconcerned, although that was hardly surprising to anyone.

"And who is this?" Lestrade pressed on.

"No idea. Go look for students recently reported missing from the Bloomsbury area. Take some fingerprints. Surely Anderson and his little drones must have training of some kind. John, come have a look."

John slipped on the pair of latex gloves Lestrade handed him, and approached the body himself. He dropped to a crouch on the opposite side from Sherlock, careful to keep his knees out of the blood. He lifted not-Benjamina's arm and felt it, then replaced it. He sniffed the air, then leaned closer to her body and sniffed again. "This body's too old."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"She was dead before 7 pm last night."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. He bent over the woman's face, apparently not bothered by the horrific state of it, and inhaled deeply. "Putrefaction!" he declared, in a tone otherwise reserved for children on Christmas morning.

"And the rigor's wrong. Her body should be stiffer than this." John prodded her arm with his fingers, puzzled.

"What about the lividity?" Lestrade asked.

John fought the urge to giggle, as he expected Lestrade would not appreciate the humor. "What lividity? All her blood's on the floor." He touched her belly and her forehead with two fingers.

"Definitely dead more than a day," Sherlock said in a thoroughly self-satisfied tone, now examining the ruin of the woman's features from less than 6 inches away with his magnifier. "Excellent. I do like a creative murderer."

"So this really can't be Benjamina, her boyfriend drove her home from work last night. Her co-workers confirm it." Lestrade grimaced. "So where the hell is she?"