AN: Hey guys. New story up :) I've been sitting on this one for a while, and it will be quite a long story line going, so favorite to keep updated :D Thank you for all the positive reviews on all my other stories, and adding to your favorites :) Much love,

Lily Joanne Potter xxx

John

"But that's poppy-cock. Ghosts and premonitions? It just doesn't happen!" No matter how many times this will happen, Sherlock and his tactics never fail to amaze me. What Lestrade was implying was impossible – ghosts didn't exist. So surely, Sherlock even entertaining the idea, with himself being a 'real thinker', was beyond belief.

Lestrade turned his attention to me, shaking his head. "This girl is traumatised and she's the only evidence we have left. The least you can do is talk to her." Oh he was ignorant. If anything, say that to Sherlock, not me! I didn't say this of course, but I couldn't have been more right if he was going to be his usual self.

"Greg," once Holmes started that was it. I prepared myself for a rant on something along the lines of 'there is always evidence', but his response surprised me. "I understand she was the one having the premonitions?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw Donovan smirk from next to Greg. "She's mad. In the mental part of the hospital. You're all wasting your time. I couldn't get a word out of her."

Sally never liked Sherlock, that was clear, but the gesture behind her warning sounded to me as if she was only trying to help. Sherlock on the other hand wanted to pick her to pieces as normal. "Oh, SHE IS in the mental part?" he huffed. Now there was the consulting detective I knew. "You're not trying hard enough. Show us the way, Lestrade."

"You should feel right at home in a mental hospital." Sally shouted at their backs.

The walk in the hospital to where the poor girl was being held was further than I had thought. There were moments when I thought Lestrade was lost himself, from the humming and ah's at branching off corridors, but finally we reached a single door. Behind the locked door, I casted my eyes around the place – I hadn't been here before, and by the look on Sherlock's face, neither had he. It had the same layout to the upper level of the hospital, but this was hidden and well-guarded like a fortress. To the right, a small terrified whimper filled my ear drums as we passed another brightly lit room smelling of pungent disinfectant. All around me there were lost souls. I can't explain it any more than that, except for the blank vacant look that occupied each and every surrounding face.

"In here." I wondered whether Lestrade was keeping his voice down to be polite, or if he was just as uncomfortable in this place as I was. Needless to say, Sherlock looked pleased already, with a small smile on his face.

Rude, I thought, and gave him a quick nudge into the room. "Sherlock, be sensitive. If you can even manage that."

Sherlock

I didn't think it was necessary to argue with John – after all, this was a case and not the flat. In front of me was the girl. Her name wasn't important, (but judging by her finger nails and her blinking pattern, I'd say it was either Jessica or Katie), and neither was her age, height, whether she was an ice skater nor that she had size 7 feet (which was quite large for an ice skater but Katie/Jessica had obviously won a few medals); it was all unimportant. The information however, could be proved to be useful. Maybe. All hospital chairs give me the uneasy feeling and numbness in my thighs and buttocks even after the shortest amount of time, so I chose to stand.

John gave me a warning look, the one he's so fond of, before sitting himself down. I took it that standing was probably considered rude, but there was no time to count our manners. Information was what I needed, not approval from John.

"Tell me the address of the house you stayed in." As soon as I said it the girl's face darkens, and the gormless look is replaced with one of fear. It felt right, instructing her to do so, if I – sorry, John and I – were going to get anything out of her. Making her confront fear was the best way to get everything out of her. The simple task of telling the address was just a baby step in this.

It's not hard to see the uncertainty on John's features, nor miss the subconscious scratch of his head hinting at how awkward he was finding this experience. The girl on the other hand shifts her weight a little. "I don't know it." Definitely Jessica. Her voice was how I expected it to be. Hoarse, weak and shaky, but with a softer side too. On her desk side there was nothing but a paper cup. It wasn't that these patients weren't allowed cards or flowers, although that was true, it was that Jessica didn't seem as mad as the others screaming and complaining in their cells; an exception to the rest when it came to 'get well soon' cards. She was alone in the world, all family gone, perhaps.

John leans over to me, and mumbles in my ear "What're you doing? We already know the address."

I decided to try again, wording my questions a little more carefully. "Who does the house belong to? Relative? It isn't yours if you don't remember the address."

This time it took her a while to reply "It's not mine. It belonged to my aunt." An obvious lie. Hesitation, slight tremor in her hand as she answered and a quick glance to the left. Outside, Lestrade peeked through the window to check on me – not John though; he could be 'trusted'.

"Sherlock," John stands and gave me another warning with his eyes. I wasn't being harsh. It was Jessica that wasn't giving me details.

But I heeded the warning all the same, yet rather than follow my usual theory of getting out information, I had to cut out the dull drivel. "I need to find out what happened to help you. Without knowing what you know, I know nothing. Let's try again. Who does the house belong to? Tell me everything that happened the day you arrived at the house to the day you left. I need details." My voice was enough to make John and Lestrade give me deathly looks. No reply from Jessica still. I felt my time was being wasted – as much as I hated to admit that Donovan was right – and turned on my heel to leave.

"Everything?" Her squeak stopped me in my tracks as my hand fell still on the door handle.

I turned my head to look over my shoulder. "Everything."

Jessica paused, and then continued "I don't want him here," signalling to John. I found the expression on his face somewhat amusing. He was trying hard not to look offended, but nevertheless left the room with a kicked-puppy feeling about him. For a grown man, it weirdly suited John.

John

After what felt like an hour and three poorly made teas later, Sherlock emerged from the room, a sort of sullen look about him. "What was all that about?" I ask Sherlock, once out of earshot of the girl's room. In all honesty I was surprised when she asked me to leave. If anything I thought she'd refuse to tell Sherlock.

Sherlock's sullen look was quickly replaced with a smirk. "Jessica could tell you're a doctor, John. She's a real thinker."

To Sherlock's right, Lestrade frowned. "Oh God, not another one. What did she say? What happened?"

I nod in agreement, wondering what the girl had said. "Her name's Jessica, that's a start I s'pose. And did she tell you everything she can remember?" It's almost possible to see the cogs turning in Sherlock's head, processing everything like clockwork to tell us only the 'important' details.

"No, she didn't. A few details she left out, but it's obvious what pieces she failed to mention. But..!" Sherlock exclaimed and clapped his hands together with a grin. "I'd rather show you what happened, at the scene. Now, where are the clothes she was found in?"

Lestrade cocked his head, and gave a confused huff. "Her clothes? I think her clothes were thrown out. Too bloodied and tattered."

The news made Sherlock groan and shake his head disappointedly at Greg. "You're supposed to be Scotland Yard's finest, and I'm assuming it was her carers, yes?" Lestrade nodded, a little taken back, "You let her carers just throw away evidence, just like that! I need them back, as soon as possible."

"Sherlock, that still doesn't explain why you need her clothes. And chances are they're gone now." I warn him. He was being rude and arrogant as usual and that was expected, but Lestrade didn't deserve it.

Sherlock huffed through his slightly crooked nose, looking back to me. "I'll explain later, and it only happened two days ago. Chances are they're still in the bin outside. Right now we need to head for the hostel." We reached the end of another corridor, where Donovan was waiting with a smirk. "Donovan, be useful for once and get people looking for the clothes Jessica was wearing when she was found."

"Jessica? And her clothes?" Sally folded her arms as if waiting for an answer, but Sherlock, Lestrade and I were already speed walking away, giving Sherlock the perfect excuse to ignore her.

I kept close behind Sherlock, waiting for his next words to act on. He must be confident about this case to be able to show us what happened rather than explain. Lestrade on the other side of Sherlock glanced over to me questioningly. "How far is this hostel?" I ask.

"Just by the coast so not too far. But it's still rather solitary. Good place for a murder, actually." Greg gave a short huff, as if to say 'what're the chances, eh?'

By my side, I could see Sherlock grinning. "Exactly; it's too good for a murder. These weren't spontaneous killings. Lestrade when you get the time, get on the phone to Bart's. I'll need to see the bodies there, rather than the local hospital they're at. Molly will sort out the rest. She is still working there, isn't she?"

Greg looks a little taken back, but I answer with a curt nod. "If you hadn't left for three years, then maybe you'd know." There was a bit of venom in my tone, which is what Sherlock deserved when talking about his disappearance.

"It was necessary," Sherlock hisses back to me, adding "how many times do I have to tell you this, John? Did I not receive enough punishment?"

Sherlock's last comment makes Greg laugh and turn a little red in his cheeks – obviously thinking of something rude by his awkward posture. I too go red in the face, embarrassed of having to explain myself. "I broke his nose the moment he showed up at the flat." I mumble, and see Greg squint at Sherlock's nose.

I shake my head, a little in disbelief. "Look, doesn't matter. Let's just get to the hostel."