Author's Note: Well I never thought I'd be saying this, but greetings, readers! After three years of hesitation, I have finally begun my very first fanfic…ever. I absolutely love Sherlock but I can never find an OC/Sherlock pairing I completely like so that's pretty much the main reason why I'm writing my own. I think the reason most romantic Sherlock fanfictions are rarely to my satisfaction is because it's so hard to keep Sherlock in character and in love at the same time. I mean, that sounds like a paradox, right? I honestly do not believe I'm a better writer than the others; I just want to give Sherlock a try. I apologize if my OC comes off as a bit of a Mary Sue, and I apologize that the prologue has very little Sherlock in it. This chapter will take place just before "A Study in Pink" and in the next chapter I plan to bring in John.

I own nothing except my OC, Rose.

Please enjoy, and feel free to give some constructive criticism, yeah?

Prologue: Pearls

It was another boring party.

It was the eleventh she had been invited to this season and the fifth she had attended. More champagne, more pearls around more stiff necks, and more forced smiles at the (rather obtuse) jokes told by London's "finest": blue-blooded Brits who could trace their families back centuries; almost all of which dating back to nobility.

The tall, porcelain-skinned young woman in the black dress was bewildered at the fact that she was considered one of them.

Deciding she had had enough, she downed the last bit of her champagne (there was never anything stronger offered), and scouted the ballroom for the hosts of the party so that she could thank them for inviting her, do the job she came for, and get the hell out. After scanning the immaculately decorated room, she was relieved to spot the Godfreys already together, receiving some guests. She observed the aging pair with ice-colored eyes.

With permanently scrunched-up noses, pursed lips, and chins that jutted out from holding their heads so high, Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey perfectly illustrated the stereotype of the wealthy and the pompous. General Edwin Godfrey came from a long line of military leaders. In fact, he was wearing his uniform this evening: heavily adorned with badges and medals of honor, which led the young woman to wonder if this party was thrown to celebrate some sort of achievement in the General's (quite extensive) career. She wouldn't have guessed, for his wife, Edith Godfrey, seemed to throw a party for every kind of occasion—often for no reason at all.

Taking a deep breath, the young woman marched over to the couple. While Edith's face lit up at the sight of the woman, General Godfrey's expression remained virtually unchanged as he watched her with icy-blue eyes.

She supposed that was the most fortunate feature she could inherit from him.

"Rosamond, my dearest!" Edith cooed as she enfolded the woman in an insubstantial hug and flurry of air-kisses. "I was so hoping you'd show up. You've been so scarce, lately."

"Hello, Mother," Rose greeted, resisting the impulse to cringe at the use of her "official" name.

"So where is he?" Her mother demanded, peering over her shoulder as if the man in question was hiding behind her. Rose didn't have to answer, for her silence alone was enough. "Not here again?" Edith exclaimed.

"I told you, Mother, he hates these types of gatherings." Rose was very tempted to add "So do I," but held her tongue.

"But he is your husband! And I don't mean to pry, dear, but," she lowered her voice. "I don't want you giving people the wrong idea."

Rose's politeness could not win her over this time as she couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"What idea, Mother? That Sherlock doesn't exist?"

"Rosamond." Edith snapped at her thirty-two year old daughter in a way similar to how she snapped at her Pomeranian, Caesar, when he was being naughty. "All I'm saying is that when a married woman of our society attends social events without her husband, people begin to talk."

Edith was smiling, but she spoke to Rose with clenched teeth and enunciated certain words as though her daughter was slow. Nonetheless, Rose decided to continue playing nice.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she said. It's just that he's been busy. So have I; actually I was-"

Rose halted her words upon realizing that her mother had already turned to greet another guest—"Lillian, my dearest!" and a gust of air-kisses.

"Just stopping by," her words trailed. Annoyed and a bit embarrassed (but mostly annoyed), Rose turned her head to the General, who stood, as always, with his back straight and his hands folded. He made eye contact with his daughter, and gave a simple, brief nod. Understanding the thousand unsaid words of disapproval and forgiveness of Edith's, well, bitchiness, Rose nodded back, and smirked.

"You take care, Dad," she murmured, the sentence meaning much more than anyone but them could fathom.

Once again, the General neither smiled nor spoke.

Rose walked away to roam around the enormous venue her parents had rented out in the country. Shaking off the not-so-pleasant encounter with her mother, she remembered that she had work to do.

Plucking another champagne flute from the tray of one of the many caterers in the room, Rose scanned for her target, which wasn't too hard to spot.

Charles Callaghan, the silver-haired editor in chief of the London Times, was standing off-center in the ballroom, talking to another guest.

Pretending to admire the décor of the room, Rose made sure to keep a view of him without looking obvious.

All she had to do now was to wait for him to pull out his mobile.

This was something she counted on because one, he was a very busy man who probably had no qualms making calls and texts while at a party and two, he lived in the age of technology and was, therefore, a slave to it like everyone else in this room.

After finishing her champagne, Rose worried for a moment that she'd be drunk before Callaghan would ever take out his phone until—

Bingo.

Callaghan, still conversing with the guest, paused mid-sentence to take out his ringing phone.

As he was taking it out to answer it, Rose initiated phase one of her plan of attack. She walked in a direction parallel to him.

Alright, Rose. You have one shot at this. If it doesn't work you just take it and run.

As she walked past a woman to her left who was wearing (more) pearls, Rose pretended to quickly run her hand through her wavy dark hair. Her hand, which happened to have a ring on it, hit the woman on the neck.

As Rose had hoped, the ring latched on to the necklace. As though it startled her, Rose quickly pulled her hand back.

This caused the string of pearls to snap, unleashing a massacre of tiny little bullets.

Rose exclaimed to the woman an apology and spun around, as though to hurry away in embarrassment, but deliberately bumped into Callaghan. Rose didn't really have to fake tripping over the little beads. Grabbing hold of the journalist (very much out of reflex), she pulled him down with her.

Most importantly, Callaghan's phone hit the floor. And thank the Lord, it broke open, with the SIM card falling out.

"Oh, God! I'm so sorry I'm so clumsy you have no idea how often I trip over things no matter how hard I try it's like things just get in my way I'm such a klutz…" As she babbled with a rather inaudible string of apologies, Rose snatched the card, slipped it in her dress pocket, and snapped the now empty phone back together as she picked it up.

The man didn't notice a thing.

"Oh, there's no trouble at all, miss," Callaghan reassured the woman. "Pretty little thing like you can very well get away with being a little clumsy every now and then," he winked.

Swallowing down her bile at the (much) older man's flirtatiousness, Rose forced a giggle. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? We can get drinks on me." Rose immediately regretted making the offer, but now she had to play the role of an empty-headed socialite.

She was relieved, however, when the man smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid not tonight, my dear. You see, I'm Charles Callaghan."

When this didn't invoke a response from Rose, he continued. "I'm the editor in chief of the Times."

Still playing the ditzy socialite, Rose gave out a fan girl squeal. "Yes, you see, and I need to go hurry back to London and prepare for a press conference tomorrow."

Rose couldn't resist.

"A press conference? Ooh! Are you interviewing someone important?!" Rose asked, playing the role.

"Just Scotland Yard." He grinned and lowered his voice to a whisper and approached closer. "Can you keep a secret?" Rose nodded quickly, trying not to pull away from the sudden personal-space breach. "There have been a series of deaths, three, so far. All of them looked like suicide, in the same way, from the same poison."

Rose gasped, but on the inside, she was dying of laughter.

She was really enjoying this too much. "But Charles—I can call you Charles, right?" Callaghan nodded. "How can they all be the same?"

"That is PRECISELY what I thought. My theory is that these are all…murder."

That time, Rose couldn't help it. A laugh escaped from her lips. When Callaghan looked at her oddly, she covered it up with a cough.

"Well, Charles, I hope you find your answers," Rose said. "Don't worry, I'll find them." And with that, Callaghan turned on his heel to leave. Relieved he never asked for her name, Rose watched as walked away as he appeared to be having trouble with turning his phone on. Rose headed toward the opposite exit, laughing to herself.

On the way out, she passed her mother, and they made eye contact. She had clearly witnessed the pearl incident, and was now giving her a very disapproving look. Rose smirked to herself as she reached the door.

This evening had gone much better than she had hoped.

As she walked out of the main ballroom and into the hallway, her phone buzzed. She took it out of her purse and looked at the screen.

Did you get it?

-SH

She was expecting him to message her. She told him to wait an hour. Sherlock was very concise with time…when it involved something he wanted. She typed a reply:

Yes, I'm on my way to your flat and I'll synchronize it onto your phone. It's probably password-protected, so I'll unlock it when I get there, probably around 11:30.

-RGH

Rose sighed. She really had no idea why she just said she'd make even more of an effort for him. She had, after all, spent an hour among people she detested just as much as he did, and now she'd be stuck with him at his flat until well past midnight. Her phone buzzed again.

Good. Hurry up.

-SH

Classic Sherlock. She bent sown to unfasten her heels, not caring that she just reached the dark parking lot. Dangling her shoes from her right hand, she typed another response with her left.

So tell me again why you couldn't get this yourself? You had no trouble getting Lestrade's and I imagine he was more difficult. And you showing up would've gotten my mother off my back.

-RGH

Rose hit "send" just as she reached her black Mercedes. The next message came just as she got in the driver's seat.

Because journalists are loathsome parasites and you know how I hate that woman. Now hurry up.

-SH

Rose sighed once more as she put her key in the ignition. She wondered, again, why she put up with the man.

Why did she choose to endure a "marriage" not based on love but mutual benefit?

Why did she deal with people she utterly loathed just so he could have a little fun with Scotland Yard and the press?

But she knew exactly why: Because she lived for the chase, and the murderers, and the thrill.

And so did he.

And by God, nobody had a nose for it quite like Sherlock Holmes.

Still, there was an emptiness inside her; a loneliness. She knew that as long as she followed Sherlock on the chase, she would never have a normal marriage; she would never have children, or a husband who loved her, or, well, a normal life.

She looked down at the diamond ring on her left hand. It was an heirloom, belonging to the Holmes family for well over a century and the pearl incident had left it unscathed.

At least it did something for me tonight, she thought. Just as she was about to back out of the space, her phone lit up again.

Almost forgot: I'm not at my flat. I'm at St. Bart's.

-SH

Letting out a groan, Rose banged her head against the steering wheel, causing the horn to announce to the world (or at least the parking lot) that Sherlock Holmes was one day going to literally drive Rosamond Godfrey Holmes to the point of insanity.