London. Midnight. On the Hunt.

[winchester_lost]

Dean shut and locked the doors to his Impala, and then was following after Sherlock without a word. It was an easy rhythm they were starting to fall into, strangely comfortable, despite the friction, hints of challenge. Normal people usually had to be taken by the hand, but Sherlock almost seemed to know the steps as if he lived them as well. It

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[sherlock_please]

"The other deaths are all five weeks apart, give or take a day... I imagine the exposure to the water threw off the time of death, if you're imagining that the attacks were spot on five weeks," he emphasized 'attacks' in such a way that said that while the evidence lead to what he'd read in Dean's father's journal, he wasn't entirely on board just yet. The evidence wasn't conclusive, but there were obvious links, the livers were a clear tie to otherwise unrelated deaths. And all the same location on the Thames. And at such regular intervals.

Sherlock leaned in closer to the belly wound, frowning at it. This didn't look like anything done by a weapon, and it didn't look like any animal he could imagine. The marks seemed to be made from sharp, triangular shark-like teeth, but there were no sharks in the Thames.

Slowly, Sherlock was coming around to this theory. He still wouldn't fully buy into it until he saw it, but while it was improbable it was beginning to seem like the most logical explanation, given the facts at hand and the working theory they were running on.

When they'd finished looking over the body, and Sherlock had given a once over to the file, they decided to head back to 221B Baker Street and strike out early the following evening to try and catch the thing, and the evening after if nothing happened tomorrow.

They were driving back. Rather, Dean was driving and doing some obnoxious thing that Sherlock had decided wasn't worth bringing up to ask him to stop. He was tolerating it, barely, and pressed as close to the door as was humanly possible if only to try and escape the annoyance that was Dean. Sherlock was, currently, gazing out at any and every passerby, mind wandering and replaying the information as part of his brain wished he were walking home. It was then that he saw it, a couple leaning up against the bridge they were crossing, kissing and standing very close. If it weren't for the streetlamp nearby he wouldn't have seen it, the darker hems of the woman's clothes, weighing down her otherwise unremarkable, honestly plain outfit. Sherlock promptly threw an arm out, his hand catching Dean across the shoulder and chest.

"Stop the car! Dean," he grabbed a fist full of the material of Dean's jacket and shook him harder than a passenger should be shaking the driver of a car who was driving in a foreign country. "That woman. The hems of her clothes are wet, but his aren't."

And it wasn't raining, and hadn't today at all.