“Rache. It’s German for ‘revenge’.”
“… So he followed her from Germany in a fit of rage to murder her, thinking she was to blame for the incident.” Sherlock waved his hand. “He left the notes around her flat so she would know he was coming, figuring it would be an innocuous enough warning. Dull, really. You hardly needed my help.”
“Yes, well, considering what the notes said and all, I thought you’d want to see.” Lestrade shrugged, glancing out of the window of his office. John was listening patiently to the story, feeling a mix of amusement and guilt for being amused. Anderson stood in the doorway, looking unbearably smug.
“Figured the criminal elements had begun reading John’s blog?” Sherlock’s voice was distasteful.
John smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Rache—that was what the notes had said. Lestrade hadn’t intended to call in Sherlock at all until the team found the pieces of paper with the hastily scratched message littering the victim’s kitchen table. There had been immediate concern about Moriarty’s influence, or a twisted murderer inspired by John’s posts of their adventures.
Anderson had just reminded everyone of the word’s translation on the scene, said this time the murderer must have been German, found out he was right, and been insufferable since.
“Are you ever going to cease your inane gloating?” Sherlock finally growled, glaring across the room at Anderson. “Your grasp of the German language is rudimentary at best, and your knowledge of the word accomplished absolutely nothing, other than inflating your self-importance.”
Anderson frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock had already crossed the room to shut the door; the portal slammed shut before he’d gotten in more than a word.
“Would it be considered poor taste to start writing the word in the bottom of his coffee cup?” Sherlock asked mildly.
John coughed to hide a giggle. “Yes, it would. Don’t do it.”