One Foggy Day in London…...

The brooding grey clouds rolled across the sky and the waves rolled in on the shore along with the stiff breeze. It threatened to rain, but it always did in England so no one else took notice. A young woman pulled her legs in closer to her chest as she sat on the shore starring out at the tide. She buried her face into her long thick overcoat. Her face was cold and becoming dried from the breeze. Her nose and throat stung from the abuse of the onslaught, but she stayed, opting to make use of the blanket she was offered earlier.

She watched as 4 men stood over the still figure of a man in his mid to late-40s, laid out on a stretcher. He wasn't going to get any better.

They discussed and pointed all around them, trying to piece together the crime scene. Sophia Barnet sat just out earshot, and gratefully so. Honestly didn't want to think about HOW he died. She just couldn't grasp why he had died. But perhaps to understand, they must go hand in hand. She had never seen a dead body, and couldn't say there was much to be missed. He had been adrift for the night and in that time things got to him. She couldn't look at his face. She kept her reddened eyes clamped shut, even with the fog, everything was so blinding, overwhelming. She only opened them to look around as an outburst shook the crowd of policemen. Some insults, some curses and one outraged man, a pale weasel-y guy, Anderson they called him, threw his hands in the air saying, "Oh, bollocks!" The man charged towards the lead investigator, ready for a fight as two more men approached the scene.

"We don't want to hear about how your night went Anderson, go over and play in the sand now will you?" "Oh for God's sake!" "Anderson! You know the drill!" shot the lead investigator. Anderson didn't give up his fight, he just continued it in the opposite direction, cussing and lamenting his fate while throwing his hands towards the heavens, perhaps in prayer of intervention from his accursed life.

"Must you call me on every case, Lestrade?" the taller of the two newcomers continued. "Come off it, it's not EVERY case Sherlock. And this case is special, I'd really appreciate any help you've got."

Sherlock approached the body sprawled across the beach. He starred, completely unfazed as he threw on his gloves. Sherlock noted his suit, a businessman. He checked the pockets, as had the police prior, but he thought to check the inner breast pocket of the mans suit, juvenile, and they missed it. He withdrew his hand, now clutching a few soaked napkins. Most of the mans belongings we're in baggies to the right of his corpse including his wallet and phone, Sherlock deposited this new evidence into a fresh baggie and gently maneuvered it around, looking for a name or label. John leant in for a better look as Sherlock revealed their clue. "'Ben-'….'Ben-' what? I can't make out the rest." "Neither can I." Sherlock sounded disappointed, but all the same he threw it next to the other evidence and evaluated what laid there. "Bennie's is a restaurant out on the Southwark." offered John. "Good thinking. What's the girls relationship?" The last part he shouted out, making it rather uncomfortable, considering she could hear.

"You're the genius, you tell us." Anderson came back for more, much to Sherlocks disdain as he would much rather him jump off the London Bridge. "No Anderson, how about we see your wonderful detecting skills at work?" Anderson got paler than usual and pursed his lips at being put on the spot. He had been there for her interview but he wasn't paying attention, it wasn't important anyway…

He approached her, ignoring the reproachful look she gave him, he was probably use to it by this stage in his life. He took a deep breath and tried his best.

"Her eyes are bloodshot. She's been crying so they must have been very close. She holds the blanket to her subconsciously to comfort herself. " Anderson motioned with his hands about his shoulders for effect. The crowd was watching now. He circled around her and continued to study. John came to squat beside her, ever the supporter and comforter of young pretty women, or perhaps he knew how weird she thought Anderson was.

"You doin' alright?" he asked softly and placed a gentle hand on her back.

"Yea….they gave me a blanket…'Shock blanket'….it's nice." she spoke in almost a whisper and gave a weak smile. John chuckled.

"She's his sister!" was the final conclusion from Anderson.

Sherlock pulled a face that any onlooker would diagnose as nausea. "Their age difference is some 15 years and you think they're related?" Sherlock's face was incredulous and he turned to Lestrade, "Do you pay him?"

There was a chuckle all around.

"Well, lets see you do it then!" Anderson perched his hands on his hips like an irate teenage girl. "We'll they're not related. That' s why I asked." Sherlock stood before her and thrust his hands in the pockets of his pea coat. His eyes were cold and sharp as he looked at her, like this breeze, she thought and gave a small smirk at the comparison but otherwise left him to his evaluation of her.

He was silent for a long while before saying, "American businessmen here to evaluate the prospects of merging with Lerwick." Sophia Barnet's eyes widened and mouth went agape to which Sherlock took to mean he was correct. He smiled quite proudly at his success, there was some guessing involved but he proved to be correct.

Anderson made a disgruntled noise and strode off. "Now explain that one to me. I mean, I interviewed her so I knew but how did you get all that?" Sherlock's eyes flew back to the woman, still talking about her, not to her.

" If we are just evaluating her, separate from the victim and his American I.D. Card and passport, you can see that her face is dry and chapped and she has two thick jackets, probably more underneath but she's still cold. She's not used to this weather and neither is her body. She's not close to the victim, she's sick. That's why her eyes are red. Their age difference is too grate or too little for them to be able to relate on much of a level at all. So what could they be? Simple. Coworkers.

She is foreign, but from where? Well, judging by her clothing style and race, western, similar to Europe but no European weather. America. Middle to Southern region of the States."

Ms. Barnet offered some help to the mystery, "D.C."

It only helped to inflate Sherlock's pride. No sign of it was on his face but he swiveled to and fro to state his excitement, something few but John Watson noticed he regularly did.

"But she's not sick." John put in questioningly, while glancing for confirmation from the woman. Sherlock's eyes shot down to her again, almost begrudgingly, awaiting the answer. "No." "What then?" Sherlock was impatient, slightly frustrated John was right and not him, but considering he spent much of his life treating the sick, Sherlock assumed he might know one when he sees it and let the issue slide. "You have….a hangover?" John asked in a slightly tentative voice. "Yes." Sophia let loose the final bit of information, generally uncomfortable but impressed none the less.

"Well there it goes! These two went down to Bennie's for a late night toaster after a long meeting and Mr. Unlucky over here wandered off for a dip, landing him in his unfortunate state! Well! That took all of 5 minutes!" Sherlock exclaimed and turned on his heel and made towards home as swiftly as he could.

"But how did you know about Lerwick?" she asked and the rest of the crew grumbled in agreement. Sherlock turned back to face her, "Your partner. He has an underground stub going east in his wallet, along with a business card from the representative you two met with, yesterday morning I'm guessing. You must have flew in on Wednesday, least crowded day for flying." He trailed off softly but came back just as quickly. "Lerwick is also in the papers, big blow out with the President of the company. Got caught with some underage girl, and the investors are all pulling out, don't like the sentiment. They were hoping a merger would save the company. Big Business. Big enough to bring two American business people across the pond." With that Sherlock continued his flight towards the main road.

"But wait!" He didn't stop. "It wasn't an accident! He was killed!" At that his feet suddenly came to a stop in the sand.

Please let me know what you guys think! I hope it becomes an interesting mystery and if you think you know 'who-done-it' try and guess! muahahahahah! :D I apologize in advance if my take on "British-ness " is off. I'm American but it can't be respectable unless Sherlock seems natural. I'll try my best to make everyone seem genuine. Let me know which way you think the story will go! I hope you enjoy!