Okay, so my first try at a proper story. Apologies for the awful deductions – difficult to write, probably include less of them in future! Enjoy. Review, or be fed to the Hound.

The footfalls made little noise upon the bare stairs. The house seemed eerily quiet, any slight noise muffled in the oppressive atmosphere. A hand reached out slowly. A door creaked open. A grating protest came from the one remaining hinge. A miasma of thick, pearly grey smoke curled out, the sudden disturbance causing a thousand little flurries to form.

Complete silence reigned.

'Hope you got the biscuits I like.'

At the sound of the calm, clipped baritone John released the breath he'd been holding. After a moments deliberation he took a step into the gloomy living area, bracing himself for the foul smell of another experiment with, as Sherlock termed it, 'Not quite optimum results.' He breathed out a sigh of relief when no entirely unpleasant odours wafted his way.

'What makes you think I've been to the shops yet?' demanded John half-heartedly. 'Also, where exactly are you?'. He peered around warily, looking round for a sign of his wayward flatmate. The smoke appeared to be heavier than air as it only came up to John's knee. But a couple of steps in were adequate to show the whole level of the flat was filled. 'Why, might I ask -' resumed John, unperturbed at Sherlock's unresponsiveness.

'Stop!'

John halted suddenly. The voice had come from directly in front of him. He watched as a figure rose, ghostly, into a sitting position, wisps of what looked to John like fog curling off him.

John raised an eyebrow.

'Experiment?'

'Of course. I hardly turned our sitting room into Dewer's Hollow for nothing. Dry ice, before you ask.'

'Results what you wanted?'

'Inconclusive' sighed Sherlock.

'Well, you can stop now regardless.'

'Need more data.'

'Your lips are going blue. That concentration of carbon dioxide will suffocate you.'

'I'm fine. Slight oxygen depletion of the blood.'

'You'll cause yourself brain damage. Reduce your IQ.'

'I have a couple points to spare, if you haven't noticed.'

'Arrogant sod. Feeling faint yet?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'Fine then.' John sat on the back of Sherlock's chair, getting as far away from the heavy gas as possible. Sherlock remained where he was. A moment passed.

'John?'

'Yes Sherlock?'

'I'd be much obliged if - if you were to open a window. I may be slightly light-headed.'

John grinned and jumped off the back of the chair, extending his hand to his prone friend and pulling him to his feet. Sherlock collapsed into his chair, pale and drawing deep breaths when he thought John was too busy struggling with the window catches to see. Outside, rain pounded the pavement and windows. The fat droplets pounded rhythmically on the open windows.

'I take it you have a case then?'

'Ninety four seconds...' murmured Sherlock ponderously, disregarding his friend's question. He turned suddenly, piercing grey eyes flashing 'Oh, cocoa powder.' he said pointedly.

'Sorry?'

'You asked me how I knew you'd been to the shops. For a start, I knew you've been away for three days - and I know you know it's doubtful I would have bothered to go to the shops in that time. So you knew the flat had no food, and the shop was on your way here from the station - it seemed the logical thing you would do. Also I heard a bag bang against the door as you opened it, likely as you supported it with the crook of your elbow and turned the key with the same hand, your own suitcase was too heavy to be held in such a way. There were two bumps, one significantly lighter, as you left your suitcase and the plastic bag at the top of the stairs, having been distracted by the broken door hinge -'

'Yes, actually, what happened there?'

'Incident with an irate waiter and an arrow yesterday. Irrelevant right now. Also, there's the cocoa powder. The checkout attendant in Tesco fancies you, a fact I gleaned from the frankly menacing glares she threw my way last time I tagged along with you -'

'That was probably because you deduced, *loudly*, how she had recently broken up with her fiancée, and had put on weight from comfort eating and thought I was your boyfriend. Before complaining you were bored and wanted to go home.'

'Yes, yes. Well, anyway, it's true. If I remember correctly, which of course I do, the cocoa powder in that shop is exactly parallel to one of the checkouts. Obviously knocked a jar of the stuff over while pretending to stack shelves just after you joined the queue, hoping you would come help her, probably feigning being worried and anxious at the same time. Sickeningly helpful as you are - don't look at me like that - you did, in the process getting some on the bottom of your left sleeve, see? You started up a conversation at the end of which she gave you her number. It's sticking out of your jacket pocket.'

'That could be a colleague's number. I am just back from a conference, Sherlock.'

'Written in pink gel pen, and with just a name and number! No, no, if it was a colleague they would have included the address of the surgery or hospital they work at, at least. That's assuming they had no business cards.' Sherlock sniffed, looking slightly grumpy at the simplicity of the deduction and still a little pale.

'Right. Well, she's nice anyway; I might give her a call.'

'Unfortunately not.'

'Excuse me?'

'Case.' Sherlock looked at John blankly. 'You asked me did I have one. I don't.' He sighed and shifted uncomfortably. 'This was just an experiment to confirm a theory about a cold case. Inconclusive, but I stick with my theory nonetheless. No way the killer used a parrot, I don't know what Scotland Yard were thinking arresting the owner of the aviary...'

'I did.'

'Hmm?'

'Get the biscuits you like.'

Sherlock grinned widely and sprang up out of his chair. He promptly paled and sank back into it. John sighed.

'Too soon, take a minute. I'll make the tea.'

Twenty minutes later John had just slipped into the kitchen to clear away their mugs when loud, distinctive footsteps pounded up the stairs, stopping short of the door.

'Come in, inspector.' Sherlock's bored voice drawled. Lestrade appeared, his customary suit jacket and white shirt soaked through. His eyes widened slightly at the last wisps of dry ice, and the corner of his mouth tugged upwards at the sight of the petulant detective curled up in his pyjamas.

'Tea, Greg?' called John.

'Please, John. Didn't know you were back, how was the conference?'

'Oh, you know. New regulations for the dispensing of acne antibiotics are hardly riveting, but that's the risks you take with general practice, I suppose.'

'Ah, right. Quiet enough, then? And, er, how was it-' the detective inspector trailed off momentarily '-with Sarah?' he completed, a sympathetic smile warming the brown eyes.

'Well it was... civil.' John smiled. Things had been awkward for a while after their break-up but it had gradually settled into a more-or-less normal working relationship. 'And quiet, yes. I don't attract trouble like some people-' a pointed glance thrown Sherlock's way '-seem to.'

Sherlock feigned an innocent expression.

'Butter wouldn't melt, I'm sure.' John snickered, handing the steaming mug to Lestrade, who was struggling out of his overcoat, and plonking himself heavily back into his chair. 'But you didn't come all the way out here in this-' he inclined his head toward the window 'for tea.'

'No, I-' began Lestrade, preparing to launch into a little speech.

'The model.' Sherlock said in a low voice.

Used to Sherlock as he was, It took Lestrade only a moment to right his slacken jaw. 'Go on then, boy wonder, entertain us.' Lestrade looked expectantly at the stationary figure and took a large gulp of his tea.

Sherlock glared at him, but was too absorbed in his own thoughts to give it any real malice. Sherlock's eyes had taken on an absent, far-away gleam and stared unseeingly past John. 'You've just come from a crime scene at a fashion show. The show hadn't opened yet, and now probably won't. You spent quite a while there, probably been there since last night, trying to work out the specifics of the circumstances of this woman's death. Unsuccessfully, obviously. You also thought the food there was rubbish and went to Speedy's for food not ten minutes ago.'

'For a start, you reek of expensive perfume. Not just one but several types - multiple rich women. You have several different types of face powder and eye shadow adhering to the sides of your suit jacket. Again, expensive types. Also there are several black hairs - not human, likely make-up brushes. Clearly an inside crime scene, if you had taken off your coat during this weather. A dressing room, probably.'

'Could possibly be a gym changing room.' interjected John.

'Again, unlikely because of the make-up. Any gym with clients rich enough to afford those brands likely would have astronomical fees, and wouldn't ever allow their changing rooms to be that much of a mess. So, we know there are multiple women heavily made-up; that rules out most normal places of work for our crime scene. Hospitals, factories, most offices - people there wouldn't bother with such a fuss. Likely the fashion end of the jobs spectrum, though maybe certain parts of the media. The outside of Lestrade's coat tells us something also. The smears of brown sauce on the arms tell us he's eaten something carelessly. In a hurry to get here. Recently, seeing as it's neither been on the coat long enough for it to properly soak in or for the rain to wash it off. Small smear of red paint on the left shoulder - Speedy's are repainting their doors that exact shade. But there's also a small piece of what appears to be seaweed on the top of your left shoe-'

John glanced down in surprise.

'Seaweed? In London? That shirt is a day old at least and you look exhausted - you were at the crime scene long enough that you would have tried to get food, unless you were too busy the whole time. You stink of cigarette smoke - tut tut, Inspector -'

Lestrade reddened at this looked guilty.

'-so you had time for multiple cigarette breaks, which meant ample time for food. So why were you eating in Speedy's? Options: there was no food, or it was not to your taste. Given that we are looking at the fashion world, plus the additional evidence of the seaweed, my money is on the latter. Sushi, I understand, is a popular choice to provide for models, virtually no fat. It's not to everyone's liking though; either the taste or the, ah, difficulty in eating it neatly -'

Sherlock again glanced at the traces of seaweed and John chucked.

'- led you to give up and instead grab a bite on the way here. So the inference is, fashion show. Had the show opened there would have been food other than sushi provided for those not themselves on the catwalk, media and the like. The fact that you ate a dish you don't like proves there was no alternative, and had there been media there at the time of a murder it wouldn't have been kept quiet and would have been on the one o' clock news. Which it wasn't. So, deduction: the models were there, the press wasn't, a fashion show yet to open.' he ended triumphantly. There was a momentary silence following Sherlock's rant.

'Show off.' John threw out light-heartedly. Sherlock took on a pained expression. 'I think I liked it better when you constantly complimented me' he pouted, pulling his dressing gown tighter around him and looking for all the world like a surly toddler.

'How'd you guess murder?' asked Lestrade quietly, toying with his mug.

'Simple. You were in a hurry, so serious crime. You came to me sooner than you usually would unless it was for a serial case, so you have little evidence to go on - no victim testimony. You made time to stop at Speedy's though; you wouldn't have stopped at all had it been a kidnapping, where time is of the essence. You have the tiniest spot of blood on your collar, not your own. Hardly a challenging leap.'

Lestrade nodded dumbly in response to this, leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose 'So, you'll come then?' he asked.

Sherlock's eyes flashed 'thought you'd never ask' he grinned, and hurtled off in the direction of his room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

Looking at Lestrade, a shard of sympathy shot through John. 'You look wrecked' he commented, not unkindly. 'Yeah, I'm properly flat out at the minute' Lestrade admitted 'though the little trip to Devon did wonders' he added with a sarcastic smirk. John smiled back. He hadn't really thought about how well he actually got on with Lestrade before, but on consideration John supposed he could comfortably call Lestrade a friend at this stage, despite only having known him for less than a year. His contemplations were interrupted by a crash and a strangled cry from Sherlock's room. He exchanged an alarmed glance with Lestrade and rose from his seat. The door flew open and Sherlock strode out, looking as imperious and haughty as ever, dressed impeccably in his usual attire. John sometimes marvelled at how quickly he could transform from lounging in his pyjamas looking like an overgrown child to the suave, together image he projected in public. 'What was that noi-' John asked looked over Sherlock's shoulder. 'Nothing' Sherlock answered, slamming the door shut quickly behind him. John stared at him in suspicion. Sherlock beamed back in a brilliant imitation of complete innocence. 'Shall we go? Lead the way inspector…' Sherlock swept out of the room in Lestrade's wake. 'Sherlock Holmes if you've lost more tarantulas in that damn room of yours…' The remainder of John's words were cut off as the front door slammed behind the three men. The house was still again.