Catch Me If You Can

Mary Ann Nicholls

It's raining when Mary Ann leaves the inn – a hard-driving, quick-soaking summer rain that splashes up from the dirty cobbles and stains Mary Ann's petticoats dark. She's wearing three sets of skirts and two blouses, a small bundle containing a knife, a cambric handkerchief and her purse tied to a string sewn to the inside of her petticoat. Everything she owns is on her back or between her legs, as she said earlier to the man at the bar. He'd laughed, but hadn't bought her a drink. Never mind. Plenty of other fish in the sea: especially with her new bonnet. Small, black and lacy it frames her small face in a way that makes her look ten years younger. She's earned her rent money four times over tonight, thought it's all spent now. Well, that's in the way of things, isn't it? Easy come, easy go.

When she reaches her hostel she puts on her friendliest smile, but doorman won't let her in without a fee. Mary Ann doesn't ever beg – she prefers to flirt her way out of trouble.Always have a smile on your face, girl,her mother used to tell her,have a bit of a joke. No one wants you when you're sad and desperate.The doorman doesn't want her either way. He folds his arms, lips pursed, unimpressionable.

So, back on the streets again. Mary Ann isn't worried, at first. She's drunk enough tonight that she doesn't feel the cold. The rain seems like a curtain soft and warm, and she sings to herself as she wanders the streets.

An hour and several rejections later, Mary Ann isn't feeling so sure of herself. The rain has driven most of the punters in, and the temperature has dropped. She's shivering now, her skirts sticking to her, black with the washed down London smog. She thinks of the women she's seen, waxy skinned and still, stiff in doorways when the morning comes. Where's a man when you need one?

A dark shape from an alleyway, brushing past her on the narrow street. A man, hands dug deep in the pockets of his coat, cap over his eyes. Head down, walking fast. Gathering herself Mary Ann, stumbles after him.

"Cold night, Sir," she says. He doesn't pause.Rum go,Mary Ann thinks, but isn't like trying hurt anyone.

"Fancy a little warmer?" she calls after him, "I know a place where we can be quite alone,"

The man does stop, this time, turning to look at her. The lamplight's in her eyes: she can't make out his face.

"How much?" His voice is hoarse, and he speaks slowly, as if being very careful of his words. Ann feels a rush of relief. She'll get to her bed tonight after all.

"You got fourpence?" she asks.

It's a steep price for the likes of her but there's something in the way he holds himself, a tension which makes Mary Ann think he might be more eager for it than she'd previously have thought. The man hesitates, then nods slowly, holding out a hand to her. Mary Ann takes it and turns, and leading her client into the dark.

Sherlock set his tray down on the table opposite Molly with a bang that made Molly's cutlery rattle on her plate, and the maraschino cherry on top of her cup of trifle give an indignant wobble. He deposited himself in the chair, and leaned towards her, elbows on the table.

"Seen any interesting bodies recently?"

"I'm reading," Molly said half-heartedly, gesturing at the novel in her hands.

"You haven't turned a page in over ten minutes,"

"You've been watching me for ten minutes?" Molly tried to sound skeptical, unfortunately she felt the beginning of a blush heating her cheeks. She considered herself largely cured of her crush on Sherlock, nevertheless there was something about the thought of that unrelenting focus, applied to her, that made rational thought fly out of the window …

"You've got a brown sauce stain on the corner of the left hand page. Last time you turned it you were part way through the beef bourguignon and judging by the rate of congealment on your plate that was at least fifteen minutes ago,"

Molly sighed. Of course. He'd deduced her. "No interesting bodies," she said.

"Damn," Sherlock slumped back in his chair, and began to drum his fingers on the edge of the table. "Any uninteresting bodies?" he asked after a moment.

Molly looked at Sherlock curiously. Sherlock popping up at her workplace and demanding access to corpses was a fairly regular occurrence in her life, but usually only when there was something specific he wanted to investigate. And while Sherlock's clothes were as immaculate as ever, but his hair was wild, as if he'd been tugging at it. The fingers drumming on the table sped up, taking on a jittery, agitated rhythm.

"Is something wrong?" Molly asked.

A year ago Molly would have been too in awe of him to ask such a personal question. But a year ago she hadn't helped the man fake his death, and frankly she thought that gave her a little more of a right to pry.

"Nothing of importance," Sherlock said, after what Molly knew was far too long a pause for that to really be true.

"Where's John?" Molly asked.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together fractionally. "Flat," he said. The fingers stopped drumming and withdrew from the table. "With a woman,"

"Ah," Molly said. "And they chucked you out?"

Sherlock glared at her. "I left of my own accord. It isn't as if I want to observe their displays of affection." He wrinkled his nose.

Molly looked at him a confused rush of sympathy, irritation and lurking hurt that was common around Sherlock.

"You know," She said. "If you have – feelings - for John – maybe you should just speak to him about it. He might even feel the same way,"

Sherlock stared at her as if she was speaking a foreign language.

It was that moment, Molly's buzzer went off in her pocket, making her start. She picked it up to look at it.

"Looks like you got your wish," Molly said, with a regretful look at the trifle cup. "A body just came in."

Molly had worked with DI Lane a few times in the past. She was a short, study looking woman, with round pink cheeks and a brisk business-like manner. She nodded at Molly as she entered, and then turned her head to look up at Sherlock, who was hovering over Molly's shoulder, eyebrows raised.

"This is Sherlock Holmes," Molly said. "My – colleague. He wants to sit in, if you don't mind."

"Yes, I've heard of you," Lane said, her eyes flicking up and down Sherlock's body, more with curiousity than hostility Molly was relieved to see. "Well, if you must,"

"Stay in the corner," Molly instructed Sherlock. She didn't mind him being around but she'd learned from experience that having him breathing down her neck was very distracting. To her surprise he obeyed her without a murmur.

Molly moved over to the autopsy table where the body had been laid. It was a woman –in her early forties at a guess, petite, with light brown hair and sightless, open pale blue eyes. Cause of death was no mystery. Her throat had been cut – two deep gashes, the second one so deep is had almost decapitated her. She must have been on the floor when it was done, Molly thought, bent forwards – there was relatively little blood on her clothes, when she ought to have been soaked in the stuff. A half formed bruise marred the skin around her mouth, and chin.

"No ID yet," Lane said. "She was found by construction workers on Durwood Street early this morning,"

"Durwood Street," Molly repeated, frowning. Why did that sound familiar? "That's in Whitechapel?"

Lane nodded.

"Hmmm," Molly cast her eyes carefully us and down the body. She'd have to cut the clothes off. She picked up a pair of scissors.

"Who was on forensics?" Sherlock asked, from the corner.

"Anderson," Lane said.

Sherlock let out his breath in a hiss. "He's missed something. Molly, remove her skirt."

Molly glanced up at him. He was staring down at the body, expression intensely serious. Molly moved to the victim' legs. She was wearing a thick shapeless tweed skirt that fell to her calves. As Molly cut into it she realised that the lining was stiff with blood. She pushed back the skirt and Lane made an abortive choking noise. The woman's midsection was dark with dried blood, gaping open from several deep jagged cuts, exposing the intestines in places. The dank smell of blood and excrement rose up to meet them.

"Jesus," Lane said.

Molly paused. She'd seem a lot of bodies in her time and a fair few that had seen violent ends. But there was something in the deep gaping cuts, the sheer force they must have involved, the brutality of it. It wasn't unlike anything she'd seen before.

And yet….. It was also somehow very, very familiar.

"It looks like the murderer did some rooting around in there," Sherlock said. He'd moved closer now, angling his head. "Pulled at that portion of intestine. Their hands would have been covered in blood, probably their clothes too. Bold, to engage in such an activities on a public street… I take it you are certain she was killed at the scene?"

"Anderson certainly seemed to think so,"

Sherlock snorted in response to that.

"Jesus," Lane repeated. "I need to have a word with my team. This - this changes things."

Lane got up to leave. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height.

"I intend to solve this case for you, Detective Inspector,"

To her credit, Lane only blinked a few times. "Right, well. I'll, er, keep you in the loop." Lane said, with a brief enquiring look at Molly. Molly only shrugged and turned her attention back to the body.

They met Lane again in the lab after Molly had concluded the initial examination.

"There's not much sign of a struggle," Molly told them. "There are finger shaped bruises on her neck and under her mouth, so he probably grabbed her around the face before cutting her throat. It would have been quick. She probably didn't have much time to react."

Lane's face was a little pale, her lips were pinched. "And the mutilation… was she alive?"

Molly shook her head. "It was all done post mortem. Confined the lower abdomen. No signs of sexual assault, no evidence of semen, or saliva. No wounds to the upper body."

Lane huffed out her breath. "That'll be something to tell the family at least. When we find them, that is. We still haven't made an ID – there was nothing on her."

"The victim was a drug addict and had most likely only recently been released from prison," Sherlock said. Molly looked up at him in surprise.

"Oh, don't look like that – surely you noticed the tattoos? And the clothes, ill fitted and ugly most assuredly not her choice. Most likely issued by an institution. I'd check halfway houses for prisoners of parole if I were you, see who has gone missing."

"Right," Lane said, ruffling a hand through her short hair. "Anything else?"

"Nothing else," Molly said.

Lane nodded briskly and left.

Sherlock was still staring at her.

"What?" she raised her eyebrows at him.

"There is something else," Sherlock said. "You were on the point of telling her, but you stopped yourself. "

"It's nothing," Molly said. She hesitated. "I need to look something up. Excuse me."

She pushed past him and went to open up her laptop. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but was interrupted by his phone buzzing. He opened it and let out a growl. Despite herself Molly couldn't help but look up.

"What is it?"

Sherlock frowned and shoved the phone at her, with a gesture as if the indignity of reading it was too much for him.

The message was from John Watson.

Kelly's cooking curry – wants you there. Don't be an arse, you still owe me .

"That's - nice?" Molly ventured.

Sherlock glowered at her.

"Well," Molly said. "If you don't want to go you could just say you were busy."

"No, I couldn't," Sherlock said. "Apparently John thinks that my having lied to him for a few months allows him an indefinite license to emotionally blackmail me."

"He still hasn't forgiven you?" Molly asked.

"Evidently not."

Molly wasn't quite sure what to say to that so she returned to the computer and began typing in to the search engine, when all of a sudden, her screen was snapped closed. Sherlock was standing in front of her.

"You can finish that in Baker Street."

Molly blinked up at him. "I didn't think I was invited,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A formality. I'm inviting you."

"I've really got a lot of work to do…"

"The lab tests won't be ready for hours," Sherlock said. "And you like curry,"

Before she could object, he'd tucked her laptop under his arm and was handing her her coat. Close to, his face was rather pale.

"Is she really that bad?" Molly asked.

"Execrable," Sherlock said, and strode to the door. "Come on, I'll call us a cab."

Inside 221B, a smell of spices wafted down from the top floor, and Molly could hear a woman singing, a high clear voice with an unmistakably Irish lilt. Sherlock's face was grim as he pushed open the door, and the singing stopped mid verse.

"Sherlock!" A small elfin-looking woman with a pretty dimpled face and short dyed crimson hair came in from the kitchen, a smile spreading across her face. "John wasn't sure you'd come. Oh, and you've brought a girl!"

"I've brought Molly," Sherlock snapped, as if that was an important distinction. Molly wondered if she ought to find that flattering or not, and then reminded herself that she wasn't supposed to care either way.

"Oh, yes of course. John's told me about you," She turned to Molly and smiled, dimples deepening, and reached out to shake her hand. "Kelly Morstan. Can I get you a glass of wine?"

"Better not," Molly said. "I have to get back to the lab later,"

Kelly made sympathetic noises, and hustled them along into the kitchen.

"I've been working on this curry all afternoon," she told them. "It's at a critical stage. I do hope you're going to eat some this time, Sherlock."

"I'm on a case," Sherlock said. "Where's John?"

"In the shower," Kelly said. "We had a bit of an accident pulverising onions. I'm sure he'll be out in a minute. Why don't you help me with the vegetables?"

"I don't…"

To Molly's amusement, Kelly has somehow managed to manoeuvre Sherlock into place by the chopping board, and put a knife in his hand .

"Nonsense, it's easy. Just – like that yes." Kelly guided Sherlock's hands to chop the carrot. Sherlock stiffened noticeably at her touch, but surprisingly, did as he was told. Molly raised her eyebrows – he really must be afraid of losing John.

"Can I help?" Molly asked.

"No, no… make yourself comfortable. You're the guest," Kelly said, and turned back to the pans on the stove, starting to hum again.

Sherlock had left her laptop on the counter, and Molly decided to open it and continue her search.

John came in from the shower about ten minutes later. Molly felt a stab of nerves on seeing him – last time they'd met had been shortly after Sherlock's return, and he'd made his anger at her part in Sherlock's deception very clear. But, thankfully, there didn't seem to be any trace of anything but pleasure on his face as he came over to greet her.

"John," Sherlock's face lit up on seeing him, and he almost vaulted over the kitchen counter in his anxiousness to get to him. "We have a case. A woman eviscerated,"

"Hey!" Kelly said. She had her hands near the saucepan as if trying to cover an imaginary pair of ears. "No murder talk while there's food cooking. You'll curdle the cream. Take it into the living room."

John leaned over to give Kelly a kiss on the cheek. "This smells amazing."

Molly glanced at Sherlock and saw him watching the pair intently, face wiped of any expression.

"So it should. And hey, look at what Sherlock's done with vegetables. They're practically works of art."

It was true, Molly noted, looking over. The vegetables had been meticulously diced and arranged by colour into a complex sort of pattern on the plate.

"John," Sherlock snapped, face still pale. "The murder."

John sighed and followed him through into the sitting room. Sherlock nudged Molly on the shoulder as he passed, which Molly could only assume was a request to follow him. She glanced at Kelly, who nodded at her. "Go ahead. I'll be done in a sec."

Sherlock launched into a description of the dead woman, her injuries and all the details they'd gained from DI Lestrade. John listened, face grave and a little pale.

"Poor woman."

"Certainly not the shiny new start one would hope for upon leaving prison," Sherlock acknowledged. "Molly has a theory about it."

"I do?" Molly said.

"You've been staring at that laptop with your eyes as wide as saucers for the past fifteen minutes," Sherlock said. "Clearly you have new information."

John looked at her enquiringly.

Molly took in a breath. "It's a little out there – but.."

"None of us are getting younger, Molly." Sherlock said.

"OK," Molly said. "OK, just – listen to this one second."

She fetched her laptop and opened it, and began to read.

"There was a bruise running along the lower part of the jaw on the right side of the face….There was a circular bruise on the left side of the face. On the left side of the neck, about 1 inch. below the jaw, was an incision about 4 inches in length. On the same side, but an inch below, and commencing about 1 inch in front of it, was a circular incision, which terminated at a point about 3 inches. below the right jaw. That incision completely severed all the tissues down to the vertebrae. There were no injuries about the body until just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. There were several incisions running across the abdomen. There were three or four similar cuts running downwards, on the right side, all of which had been caused by a knife which had been used violently and downwards."

Sherlock frowned at her. "That's the victim's autopsy report," he said. "We know all this already."

"No – that's the thing," Molly said. "It's not,"

She turned the screen around.

"This is the autopsy report of Mary Ann Nichols. She was murdered over a hundred years ago."

There was a silence as both men leaned closer to the screen.

"This is a Jack the Ripper murder," John said, looking up. "You think this is a copycat?"

"I think it could be. She was found in Whitechapel." Molly said. "Durwood Street. That's about as close as you can get to the original site of Mary Ann's death."

"Who is Jack the Ripper?" Sherlock said.

Both Molly and John turn to stare at him.

"You don't know who Jack the Ripper is?" John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "Should I?"

"He's - Jesus, Sherlock, he's only the most famous serial killer of all time."

"Must have deleted it," said Sherlock.

"You deleted Jack the Ripper," John repeated in astonishment. "You."

"I delete all unsolved crimes that occurred before 1895. Historical crimes only exist as a source of frustration. There's no reliable evidence. No witnesses. Accounts are lost, or forged or garbled. What possible relevance can they have?"

"If I'm right, someone thinks this one has relevance," Molly pointed out.

Sherlock frowned at her. "All right." He said. "Jack the Ripper." He leaned back in his armchair, steepling his fingers, and staring at her. "Tell me everything you know."

Kelly called them into the kitchen ten minutes later, and doled out the curry onto plates already heaped with saffron coloured rice.

"You said the fifth murder was different," Sherlock said, ignoring the place Kelly had set for him and seating himself cross legged on the kitchen counter instead. "Different in what way?"

"Victimology," Molly said. "Mary was almost half the age of his other victims – she was young, pretty. She had her own flat, while the rest of Jack's victims were homeless."

"A step above his pay grade,"

"You could say that. And he spent longer with the body as well. The level of mutilation was enormous… when he cut off her breasts…"

John cleared his throat loudly. "Can the graphic descriptions wait until after we've eaten?"

Molly looked up and saw him looking at Kelly, who was suddenly looking at her food with considerably less enthusiasm. "Sorry. Of course."

Sherlock made a scoffing noise, but surprisingly didn't object.

"You seem to know quite a lot about this Ripper stuff, Molly." John said.

"Oh, well. It was - sort of a hobby of mine when I was a teenager. I fancied myself a bit of a Ripperologist. I used to read up all the old newspaper reports, save up to go visit the crime scenes, that sort of thing."

Molly felt her face heating a little. Her rather odd teenaged hobby wasn't something she usually talked about. Most people didn't like the idea that, at the age most girls were putting up posters of boy bands and daydreaming about owning ponies, Molly had spent her time memorising Victorian autopsy reports and having heated email exchanges with conspiracy theorists. To their credit, John's eyebrows raised only a fraction, and Kelly smiled at her. Sherlock didn't look like he was listening at all.

"Anyway," Molly said weakly, trying to change the subject. She took a bite of the curry – it was delicious: savoury, warm and rich. "This is really good,"

"Oh I'm glad you like it. It's based it on this dish I learned when I was in Nepal, but I didn't have all the right ingredients – I had to substitute a few things."

"It's fantastic," John said, smiling at her. Behind John's head Molly could see Sherlock turn to stare at John, his expression empty.

"So, er, what were you doing in Nepal, Kelly?"

"Working. I work with Liberty, you know, the charity. We advocate for justice within the penal system, prisoners rights, legal representation, opportunities for ex-cons - that sort of thing. Of course, I'm with the London branch now, which is rather a change of pace. It's interesting, though."

They spend the rest of the meal chatting about their respective jobs, while Sherlock, clearly disgusted with them all, appropriated Molly's laptop.

Molly was just contemplating asking for a second helping, when Sherlock's phone buzzed. He leapt to his feet.

"It's Lestrade. Looks like he's been put on the case – and they've made an ID of the victim." Sherlock strode into the living room and returned with his and John's coats.

"I'm still eating, Sherlock. Can't we…"

"A woman is dead, John. If Molly is correct, others may be in serious danger." Sherlock stared at John, blue eyes icy.

"You should go," Kelly said, breaking the tension. "I'll put the rest of the curry in the fridge."

Sherlock clearly took this as permission to pull John to his feet and start to manhandle him into his coat. John was rather suspiciously still, allowing Sherlock to manoeuvre him, until Sherlock's hands reached his shoulders, pulling the jacket straight. Abruptly John reached up, knocking his hands away.

"For God's sake," he said.

Sherlock took a step back. John walked stiffly over to the kitchen counter, picked up a glass of water and drained it.

"All right," he said, stuffing balled fists into the pockets of his jacket. "I'm ready."

"I'll see you at the lab, Molly," Sherlock said. "I might need to take another look at that body."

And then with a dramatic flap of Sherlock's coat, and an apologetic look to Kelly from John, they were gone.

Lestrade flicked through file on his desk, trying to ignore the encroaching headache that was radiating from the back of his head. Funny how the headache always seemed to return right before a Sherlock Holmes case. Or perhaps not. Some people had old wounds that ached at certain times of year or when it was about to thunder. Lestrade had a headache that mysteriously returned whenever Sherlock was about to waltz back into his office. The message was the same. Trouble coming.

He leafed through the stack of crime scene photos on the desk. Rachel Hawkins. Aged 43. Conviction for possession of a Class A drug. Picked up multiple times for soliciting. Brutally murdered.

It shouldn't be his case, Lestrade thought. It wouldn't be, if it wasn't for the fact that his superiors were more concerned with grandstanding to the press than they were with actually solving crime. Since his return Sherlock Holmes had been hot property. The newly returned Reichenbach hero, risen from the dead. The public couldn't get enough of him, and suddenly neither could the metropolitan police. Desperate to salvage their image after they'd been made them look so very foolish, they were drafting him in whenever possible now, bending the rules to accommodate him. Lestrade wouldn't mind it – Sherlock was good, after all, he got things done. But somehow, somewhere along the line, word had got round that Lestrade was the only one who could handle Sherlock: every case Sherlock touched very quickly ended up on Lestrade's plate. It didn't seem to have occurred to anyone that Sherlock had lied to Lestrade just as much as he had to anyone else, and apologised just as little, and that perhaps Lestrade didn't wantto work with the bastard anymore.

"Sir," Donovan tapped on the door to his office. She was standing straight, a gleam of suppressed excitement on her face. "I've been going though the CCTV footage Durwood Street that night. I think I've found something."

The CCTV footage was grainy but distinct enough that they could make out the face of Rachel Hawkins, ambling with a slightly unsteady gait, along the street. A lorry went past blocking the view of the camera momentarily, and when they next saw Rachel she was talking to someone. A man, with his back to the camera, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands in the pocket of studded leather jacket. Rachel tipped back her head, laughing and the man stepped forward, his hand on her arm. They turned and walked off together, disappearing from the view of the camera.

"Look at the time, Sir. 2.08. Anderson put time of death between 2 and 2.30. This could be our killer." Donovan said.

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully. "Make copies of that picture," he said. "Do anything you can to enhance it. Shame we didn't get his face…. But someone might recognise the jacket. Check CCTV from surrounding area, another camera might have got a clearer glimpse of him. "

Donovan nodded, getting to her feet.

Lestrade blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair, and rubbed his hand though his hair. Well, that was progress, he thought. If they were lucky, they might not need Sherlock Holmes after all.

As it turned out, none of the cameras in the area had captured an image of anyone looking like their man – but fortunately, a friend of Rachel's seemed able to identify him. Rachel Hawkins had had no record of any family member, and little evidence of friends. The only person they'd been able to locate had been her old flatmate and sole visitor in prison, Mellie Banks. DI Lane reported that Mellie had gone silent for a full ten minutes when informed of her friend's death, but now she seemed calm enough, though her cheeks were conspicuously smudged with mascara.

"That's Imran Hussain," Mellie Banks said, as soon as she'd been shown the photo.

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked her, gently.

"The jacket. I'd know it anywhere. He's always wearing it, the bastard."

Lestrade glanced at Donovan. Not an ID that would stand up in court, but it was a good enough starting point.

"Was this man – acquainted the victim?" Lestrade asked.

"He was her dealer," Mellie says, lip curling. "Nasty piece of work. Gave Rach a really hard time, 'fore she went inside, kept saying she owed him money even when she'd paid him back a dozen times over. He knew she didn't have anyone to look out for her. Well, except me." Mellie's eyes filled with tears again. "It's definitely him," she said quietly, staring at the picture. "I'd know that jacket anywhere."

Lestrade turned to Donovan, and gave her a nod. Time to have a word with Mr Hussain.

They brought in the suspect about the same time as Sherlock and John arrived. Lestrade had to pause for a moment, the peculiar familiarity of the sight giving him a jolt. Sherlock sweeping along in that impossible coat of his, John trudging tolerantly along in his wake. One would think he'd never been gone, never played at being dead for over a year and nearly got Lestrade fired to boot.

"Well?" Sherlock said, as he drew up to Lestrade.

"Well what?" Lestrade said irritably. Sherlock's eyebrows lifted.

"Clearly you have a suspect already. Judging by the smug expression of Donovan's face she thinks she's solved it already. Care to fill us in?"

Lestrade let out a sigh, and ushered Sherlock and John into his office.

"It isn't the dealer," Sherlock said, as soon as he'd heard the story.

"We've got him on CCTV at the scene," Lestrade pointed out in what he hoped was a reasonable tone of voice.

"You've got his jacket," Sherlock said.

"He's been positively identified…"

"Dealers don't murder their customers," Sherlock said, in clipped tones. "They wouldn't make much profit if they did."

"Yeah, and they never turn out to be unreasonable violent thugs." John said, sceptically.

"The original suspect in the first Jack the Ripper murder was a man named Leather Apron," Sherlock said. "As you'd know if you'd bothered to research the subject, John. Rather a coincidence, don't you think?"

"What?" said Lestrade. "What are you on about? Jack the Ripper?"

"Sherlock thinks the murder is a copy cat," John explained, with a slight eyeroll in Lestrade's direction.

"Actually, it was Molly Hooper's idea. I suggest you consult her on it."

There was a rap on the door, and Donovan entered. "Sir, the suspect's in the interview room." Donovan said, ignoring Sherlock and John.

Lestrade sighed and nodded. "I'll be there in a minute."

"This is absurd, you know that?" he said after the door swung shut after Sally. "You can't cry copy cat on a few superficial similarities…"

"On the contrary. The evidence is compelling. Don't let your lack of imagination blind you to the facts, Lestrade."

Lestrade gritted his teeth. "You-"

"We can go over the evidence later," John interrupted. "We should let Lestrade get to his suspect first."

"Waste of time," Sherlock said. John shot him a quelling look, and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut.

Imran Hussain was younger then he'd expected, Lestrade thought looking though the one way window into the evidence room. He was a good looking boy, all said, long dark fringe flopping stylishly over his eyes, and shirt collar up, James Dean Style. He had none of the confidence of the rebel without a cause, though – he sat awkwardly in the chair, worrying away at one of the threads on his shirt sleeve.

"I want my jacket back." Hussain said as soon as Lestrade and Donovan entered the room. "It's bloody freezing in here."

"Our forensic team wants to take a look at it," Donovan said. "That's all right, isn't it? Or do you have something to hide?"

Hussain opened his mouth and then let it fall shut again.

Lestrade switched on the interview tape, stating the date and those present.

"Now, Imran, we just want to ask you a few questions. You are aware you have a right to have a lawyer present?"

Imran twitched in his seat. "I don't need any lawyers," he said. "I ain't done nothing wrong."

"Where were you last night at two a.m?"

"I dunno," Imran said. "At home? What is it to you?"

"Do you have anyone who can confirm that?"

"You want to speak to my fucking teddy bear?"

"Mr Hussain," Lestrade said, injecting a note of threat into his voice and leaning forward. "A woman has been murdered."

The boy's eyes widened. "I didn't have nothing to do with that. Who said I did?"

"Rachel Hawkins was one of your clients." Donovan said, "We know you supplied her, we have witnesses saying you threatened her…."

"I never!" The boy said. "She owed me money for a stereo, but I never supplied her with nothing, and I never laid a finger on her neither, I swear."

"We have CCTV footage showing you at the scene."

The boy's mouth fell open.

"Where were you last night at 2 am?" Lestrade repeated. "Think carefully."

The boy's eyes darted from Lestrade's face, to Donovan's, to the door, desperately. "I – I was at home," he said.

The door to the interview room swung open abruptly, hitting the back wall and making all three of them jump.

"I'd advise you to tell them the truth, Mr Hussain," Sherlock's deep voice reverberated through the interview room. "You'll save us all a great deal of time and yourself a lot of anguish if you do."

"Get out." Donovan said, rising to her feet.

"I understand you don't want word getting back to friends and family, but you can be assured of the discretion of the British police," Sherlock said, ignoring Donovan and fixing his eyes on the boy. "In any case, would you really prefer for them to think of you as a murderer?"

The boy's eyes dropped to the table.

Lestrade briefly wrestled with the urge to grab Sherlock by the collar of his ridiculous coat and throw him into the corridor, but decided that on balance getting the truth out of the subject was more important.

"Imran?" he prompted, attempting to inject a note of kindness into his tone.

"I wasn't at home," Imran said. "I was with – a friend. His name is Paul Lester. We went to a club."

"Which club?"

Imran shifted in his sheet. "The Hoist. It's on South Lambeth Road."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. The Hoist was a rather notorious gay bar known for only allowing people in if they were dressed up in rubber or such-like. Imran's cheeks had flushed dark.

"It isn't the kind of thing I usually – my dad would go mental if he heard…"

"Don't worry," Lestrade said. "We don't plan on spilling your private business to anyone, not if we can help it. Now, people saw you at this club?"

"Dozens of them, and Paul. I expect some of them'll remember, I was, uh, I was on a podium for a bit." The boy seemed to be shrinking into his James Dean collar. Lestrade cast a look at Donovan, who huffed a sigh but nodded.

"We'll need to check up on that, but in the meantime I think you're free to go. Don't go too far, we might need to talk to you again. Detective Constable, if you could show him out."

The boy nodded, relieved and scrambled to his feet, as a scowling Donovan ushered him to the door.

"I told you," Sherlock said, in a self satisfied tone.

"Yeah, thanks," Lestrade said, and rubbed his hands over his eyes. "Back to the drawing board, I guess."

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a look at that jacket." Sherlock turned and swept out of the room. Lestrade watched him go, grimacing. God, he hated it when that bastard was right. He pulled out his phone. He had a mate in Scotland Yard's archives. Maybe he'd see what he had on Jack the Ripper.