Written from a prompt on dA.
"Choose a scene and method of death, then write out what Sherlock would deduce if he found your body. Pick clothes you actually own, and a couple things you might have had with you. You know my methods. Apply them. It can be humorous, angsty, your choice. I just figured it'd be a fun exercise in deduction and logic. I've always wondered what he'd say if he took on my case."

"Well, now, this is a puzzle, isn't it?" Sherlock Holmes mused, skirting around the corpse that was sprawled face-down on the plush, cranberry orient rug.

"To say the least. Christ how did she manage to do this to herself?" John Watson blanched, feeling sympathetic for the victim, then wiping his hand over his face, staring at the body.

"We can't imagine." Detective Inspector Lestrade said, frowning, "The owners don't even know her."

"Or so that say." Sherlock murmured, but if the other two men in the room heard, they paid no attention to it.

"Then how did she get in?" John asked.

"And when. They were home all last night. The hired help- you know butler, and maid?- can vouch for that. No one saw or heard anything." Lestrade shook his head, "It's a right mystery. That's why I called you two."

"Any idea's, Sherlock?" Watson asked, turning to face his companion, who was walking circles around the victim. Analyzing everything.

"If you'd be quiet and let me think I could tell you." Sherlock snapped back at them.

"Right. Sorry." Lestrade quipped, intent on falling silent.

"Lestrade." Holmes glared, and to this the Detective Inspector acted on his intentions, and fell silent, watching the mad genius wildly walk 'round the corpse. His eyes moving a mile a minute, his head bent with his body tilted to the left, inward over the corpse. Watson suspected if he kept on like that he'd get dizzy and collapse.

For a long while no one spoke, the silence in the room was thick and heavy, just like the metallic tang of blood that danced around their nostrils. John and Lestrade watched him, both accustomed to his methods, waiting for the solution to spring into his mind. Eventually he would fill them in too, and John could probably get home to go on a date with Sarah before it got too late. Lately all of Sherlock's cases had been elementary. Suddenly, Sherlock threw himself to the floor, and his knee's hit the carpet with a sharp jolt that caused both the other men in the room to look startled, and come back to attention.

"The cause of death was not asphyxiation." he said, finally, his body now on all fours, looming over the corpse, his face also dangerously close to the victim's blood-spattered one, and John was glad he was a medical man and not at all squeamish or he might have vomited due to their proximity.

"Well of course it wasn't!" Lestrade gushed, flabbergasted at the suggestion which had been rolled out hours ago.

Sherlock ignored him, "What is the PMI?"

"Nearly twenty four hours." Lestrade said.

"They missed the body in their study for a whole day?" John asked, staring in shock and disbelief.

Lestrade shrugged, "Apparently this room is often locked and empty. Only used for entertaining guests, or something."

"Who was on forensics?" Sherlock asked suddenly, interrupting their discussion.

"Anderso-"

"Well, that explains why you're so shocked." Holmes sniffed, and stood suddenly, "The girl was killed eighteen hours ago, almost exactly. The effects of Rigor Mortis have begun to fade, and her eyes are particularly soft," he said, smearing something suspiciously looking like mucus, or opaque jelly off of the index finger of his glove into his handkerchief, then pocketed that.

"Just because he's not a machine like you doesn't mea-"

"Let's bicker over this later, hm? A young lady has been brutally murdered and I do not want to postpone her investigation." Sherlock waved a hand and silenced the Detective Inspector, "Now, what was found on the body?"

"A purse," Lestrade said and motioned to the orange-and-brown-tribal-looking bag that sat, opened, on the massive roll-top desk next to the corpse, "Within which there is a make up bag consisting of a compact, two cases of eye-shadow, and four viles of mascar-"

"Obviously the lady wears make-up. Look at her face, it's layered with powder. What else was in the bag?" Sherlock said, waving away the possibility of her make-up having anything to do with the murder.

"A walle-"

"Now that could yield some results." Holmes closed the space between himself and the purse in less than two strides, he jammed his hand within and came back with a green faux-leather wallet. He opened it, inspected the pastel polka-dotted interior briskly.

"Useless. Useless. Useless." he chided, flicking away cards that she'd had stuffed inside, "Ah. Her ID." he said, and pulled it out, carelessly dropping the wallet on the purse.

Watson approached to Holmes' right, and peered at the ID, "The girl in this picture hardly looks like her."

The girl in the photo had long, straight blonde hair (dyed, obviously if one took a look at the top of her head which was beginning to look a bit dark) and wide green-blue eyes, she wore a plaid shirt with the collar popped up, and obnoxious bronze feather earnings. Her hair was parted, and her bangs lay over her left eye. The girl on the floor wore a pair of faded blue jeans, and the remnants of a white t-shirt, both of which were stained with blood. Her hair was now uncontrollably curly (a perm, only three weeks old judging by the frizz cause by London weather) and the piercings in her earlobes had closed, her fingers were decorated with multiple tribal-themed rings. She was quite large, both taller than John, and easily wider than Sherlock (of course she was a bit overweight, she had a fondness for pastries, as could be told from the multiple reciepts jammed into her wallet where he money 'ought to be, but wasn't.)

"The hair may be different, John, but it is obviously the same girl. Kelsie Doyle." Sherlock nodded, eyes flickering from the corpse to the photo of the girl.

"What an odd way to spell it, don't you think?" Lestrade quipped, now on Sherlock's left.

Sherlock ignored his comment, "Well, she's perfectly ordinary."

"We ran a check on her, she's from America. She's also got Bipol-"

"That's all obvious and irrelevant, Lestrade!" Holmes scoffed, and knelt back down next to the corpse, "She's twenty-one, a student that's come abroad for recreational purposes."

"That's all very good but what is an American student doing here? In March? Shouldn't she be in school?" Lestrade asked, frowning.

Sherlock ignored him, and the room lapsed into silence again. Finally he stood, "This is an incredibly simple case. There are only a few points I have not figured out, I am sure those will be explained momentarily."

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock drew out his magnifying glass, and ran it along the blood splatters of the body, examining the inside of her fatal wound. The he stood, and turned to his flatmate, "You will see." He took a few more moments to glance at the corpse before finally looking at Lestrade, "You may remove the body, I'd like an autopsy before exposing my theories to you. I might be wrong. Come along, John."

The two men left the scene quickly. Lestrade snorted, "Right, like Sherlock Holmes is ever wrong."

~.|.~

Couldn't think of how I'd ever get over to London to be found dead though :P That was a bit tricky. I think this made it work though.

Sorry if you don't agree with herbal remedies and holistic medicine, just take this at face value for a little murder mystery. There will be heavy references to them in the next chapter. I'm a bit of a nutter when it comes to herbs. All of the information in Chapter 2 is also accurate, to my own research at least. If you can find anything to contradict it, shoot me a message and I'd be glad to amend the story.