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Summary
Sherlock—who had been mostly quiet, examining the body—finally looked up, his eyes alight with interest. “She’s right.”
Lestrade frowned. “Excuse me?”
Sherlock exhaled, gesturing toward Indie with a flick of his fingers. “You asked her when she last saw him. She answered—three nights ago, returning a late book. But you didn’t bother writing it down, did you? No, because you found her irritating. She talks too much, bores you, so you dismissed her. She talks too much or perhaps it's just her overly detailed answers that irks something deep within you. And yet, in all that detail that you find just so overly irksome and frustrating, she gave you something quite important. A book. A Study in Scarlet. A book about a murder that mirrors this one—throat slit, body left to be discovered like a staged performance.” He turned toward Indie. “Did he say anything when he returned it?”
Aka the one where Sherlock falls in love (but he doesn't know it yet) with the rambling prone librarian who seems to irk everyone around her except him.