I'll keep this short! Inspired by the characters presented in the BBC show Sherlock, written by both Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I never thought I would love a show more than Firefly or Doctor Who… And yet, those guys changed my mind! (maybe with a little help from the wonders of Cumberbatch and Freeman, amoungst a few!) I give them all full credits from this story. I wish it was something I owned, but sadly, I do not…

This story is dedicated to a friend who I kinda hate, but really I just totally love because they have gotten me completely addicted to everything amazing in this world. I hope they like this story (And you do to!)

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All murder stories start with a death. This death was of a man, with a bullet hole in his head, and the blood having dripped down onto his business suit. Found wedged in between a rusted old fridge, and the mould-infested wall of an abandoned apartment block, Detective Inspector Lestrade took one look at the man before ordering someone to get a hold of his consulting detective. This one was going to require a little help.

So that was how Sherlock Holmes came to be crouched over the man, his face a mare 2 inches from the body. John Watson was close by, watching his friend do what he does best, while trying to be as helpful as possible. Apparently, that required holding Sherlock's phone. Despite not quite understanding why, he did as he was asked, and waited patiently.

Being that is was well past midnight, Sergeant Sally Donovan had been called from her sleep to help on the case, a fact which Sherlock had shared with them all from glancing at her hair upon his own arrival. Despite this, Donovan didn't seem annoyed to be there. She merely waited patiently by the door, her arms crossed over, indicating that she was comfortable, and had no intensions of leaving.
"Have you found anything, freak?" she shot across the room, in the direction of the body. Despite the words sounding familiar, the tone was not, and Sherlock looked back at her before deciding how to answer it.
"He was murdered."
"How do you know that? Maybe it was suicide?"
"And he dumped his down lifeless body in the corner? No. Murder. That much is obvious. As for who did it, that is yet to be determined. Look at his fingers," Sherlock ordered, more for John than anybody else. "What do you see?" John leant down a little closer.
"Not a lot. I mean, he obviously fought someone but-"
"He didn't fight very hard," Sherlock finished for him.

"What does that mean?" Donavan asked, and again, Sherlock looked at her confused as he waited for the insult that he had identified as undoubtedly missing from her question. After a while, with Donovan yet to add any afterthoughts to her question, Sherlock gave up and simply answered it.
"It means that this man didn't realise they were in danger until it was too late. Look around. This place doesn't exactly extrude safety. Automatically, one would be on edge in a place that looks condemned. Which means he came here often."

John was looking around at the place, rather confused by this notion.
"Why would anyone want to come here?" he asked, but Sherlock was no longer listening to him. He was back to watching Donovan once again. And she was not making any sense at all.

Working alongside Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock had been around Sally Donovan long enough to realised that she was never going to like the idea of him working on their cases. She openly despised him, his knack to overwrite everything she says, and his openness to ignore the rules and regulations that defines exactly how she views herself. Her displeasure in his complete existence was fine with Sherlock. He understood how she ticked, what she hated about him, and therefore he knew exactly where he stood. It made her easy to understand.

However, Sally Donovan was acting a little strange. No longer did she loudly express concerns that Sherlock was disrupting their progress, or complain that he was ruining their evidence. Actually, apart from the name calling, and even that was rare, recently Donovan seemed to have nothing bad thing to say about Sherlock, or his partner. Now, instead of being angry at him, she would just watch from a distance, and let him do what he needed to do be doing.

Donovan, and her unusual way of treating him, had been causing Sherlock serious confusion for a while now. Infact, it was ever since that day she was shot.

And tonight, even with the new body in front of them, she was still acting so strangely. Donovan stood on the sidelines, waiting patiently in a way that was so uncharacteristic for her. From his position, standing in between John Watson, and the man's body, Sherlock stood watching her. From here, he could clearly see the smile that were playing at her lips. And if possible, it made even less sense to Sherlock than the way she was acting.

It was reaching a point of frustration for Sherlock. Unable to understand, he watched her more closely, observing how her eyes would flicker over them all, as they stood tucked in their little corner. Her mouth would be almost twitching, as though desperate to keep the secret that was trapped and hidden away. But occasionally it would break, and that smile would creep through, before she was able to control herself once more.

Sherlock knew what the smile meant, but instead of answering his questions, and putting him at ease, it just made him more alarmed. Because it was more than Fascination… it was Infatuation. But Sherlock couldn't tell who is was that Donovan was infatuated with. If actions were anything to go by, if clearly wasn't him. Or John, for that matter. And being infatuated with a dead body just seemed unlikely.

The door to the room was a little broken, so instead of swinging open and announcing the return of Detective Inspector Lestrade, it was more of a scrapping along the floor than anything else.
"What have we got?" He asked, as he surveyed the members of his crew that were present.
"A murder." Donovan was the first to reply – Sherlock was far to busy trying to piece things together in his head, to even hear the question.
"Damn," muttered Lestrade. He wandered over to the doorway that lead into the side room, and stood next to Donovan.

Sherlock could hear them discussing the body, could catch glimpses of words that Donovan were saying, as she repeated all that he had told her. Lestrade nodded his head, taking in all that she said.

And then their voices changed. Their conversation becomes quieter, more private. Nolonger able to hear what they are saying, Sherlock was tempted to move closer to them, to hear their conversation, but he could see John looking at him, and knew that he couldn't sneak over without causing a scene. So he reluctantly stood where he was, and saw as the two of them look over in his direction, with that same bloody smile on both their faces.

It was apparently contagious, whatever it was.

"Sherlock. Have you seen this guy's coat?" John called out. This reminded Sherlock Holmes that he had a more pressing case, rather than the idioticy of his fellow workers. By promising himself that he would decipher Donovan's, and now Lestrade's actions at the soonest convenience. But for now, he had to return his astonishing intelligence back to the body before them.