Chapter 1

"That makes three girls in a row." John put down the newspaper, reaching for his cup of morning tea as he squinted at Sherlock, who was busy at the computer. "Sherlock, are you even listening?"

"Hmm? Listening? Of course I am."

"Really?" John put down his now-empty cup. "What was I just talking about, then?"

"What does it matter, John? I'm busy, can't you see?"

John rolled his eyes. Elizabeth chuckled from the corner; the two men never bored her. "He's not listening, obviously, so let's just leave him alone. I'm surprised Scotland Yard hasn't called yet."

"Yeah, well, they don't like to call for help unless they really need it," said John.

"Just like a bunch of puppies waiting for their master," Sherlock murmured from where he was typing away on his computer. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow; Sherlock was quite possibly the rudest man she had ever met. And she had met plenty of rude men before.

A phone tinged somewhere in the flat. "I think it's yours, Sherlock," said John.

"Yes, yes, get it for me, will you?"

"Why can't you get it yourself?"

"I'm busy, like I already said!"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stood up. "Where's your phone?"

"Either in my coat pocket or charging on the desk."

Elizabeth could very clearly see the iPhone lying a mere couple of feet away from Sherlock, on the other desk to his right. But she stood up anyway to get it, knowing that Sherlock would just ignore it unless someone else read the message aloud to him.

"It's from your – "

"Delete it."

"I refuse. He seems to think something's up – and that it's important. He says – "

"Delete it."

Elizabeth lowered the phone and looked at Sherlock. "No."

"By God, just delete the stupid message!"

"He says: 'The girls are Americans. You had better get on the case before I do something about it. – MH'."

"Americans?" John piped up. "Is he talking about the murdered girls?"

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered, before slamming the lid of his laptop shut. "Give me my phone."

Elizabeth did so, smiling because Mycroft had once again gotten his rather difficult brother interested in a case. She had not been in Britain for long, and she had just recently become affiliated with the Holmes' and their associates, but she already loved every minute of it because now there were two people who were even more strange and brilliant than she had ever been.

Sherlock strode to the door and grabbed his long coat off the hook. "Let's go," he said. "Lestrade just texted me."

"Right on time," Elizabeth chirped, following him out the door as John scrambled to catch up with them. "You know, I can't wait to meet him. He must be an incredible man if he can put up with you all the time."

Sherlock stopped walking mid-step and spun around to face her. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. Then he frowned. "Never mind; that was most definitely an insult."

"You're a genius," she said sarcastically, to which he said cheerfully,

"I know!"

"They've all been killed the same way." Lestrade handed the file folder to Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows. John sighed and accepted the folder. "Knocked out first and then stabbed through the heart, relatively small blade."

"Knocked out," Sherlock repeated. "You said they were knocked out."

"There were bruises on all three victims," Lestrade explained. "Definitely strong enough hits to knock someone out. Unless they're trying to mislead us, why would anyone bother giving a dead corpse bruises?"

Elizabeth stood to the side, thinking. They're all American, Mycroft had said. A sudden chill ran through her body; was this supposed to mean anything to her? She was American, after all, from the States, and –

"Elizabeth, are you coming?"

She looked up to see Sherlock striding out the door, John gazing at her questioningly. "I apologize," she said, quickly following them, Lestrade bringing up the rear. "Where are we going?"

"To investigate!" Sherlock called back. "They've prepared a crime scene for us!"

"Wonderful." Elizabeth usually said something like that with sarcasm, but this time, she was genuinely excited. She hadn't seen a real crime scene in ages, and she was most definitely looking forward to it. Lestrade left them to fetch his police car as Sherlock called for a taxi.

"We can squeeze three," said John, gazing at the backseat of the cab. Elizabeth could tell by his body language that he didn't particularly like the idea of sitting in the middle, and so she strode past him and squeezed in next to Sherlock.

"You play an instrument," said Sherlock, out of nowhere, as John slammed the door shut and rattled off the location of the crime scene to the cabbie. "Not a string instrument, because there aren't any calluses, but perhaps a wind instrument. Well, that's what I would think, except that when you tap your finger against a desk, your fingers are curved beautifully – pianist, for sure."

"That was random," she said. "But yes. Pianist. I used to be a flautist as well, but, uh, complications arose and so I quit during high school."

"High school," John repeated. "Oh right, American. Gotcha."

She smiled. "I went through college prematurely too, got my PhD in Forensics and Civil Engineering, and never really put it to use. Learned lots of stuff, though."

"I knew it was something Forensics-related," Sherlock muttered. Elizabeth frowned.

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"You did not."

"I did; do you doubt my skills?"

She blinked at him. "Clearly."

"Okay, children, break it up," John interrupted. "So what brings you to Britain, anyway? I've been meaning to ask you, but haven't really had the chance."

She was just wondering how to answer him when Sherlock spoke up. "It must be some sort of family matter. Personally, my guess is that you have family here, or that you were born here but raised mostly in America."

"Exactly," she said. "Family issues – close enough."

The cab slowed to a stop, and Sherlock handed the cabbie a few bills before the three of them climbed out of the car. Lestrade's police car was already parked a few metres away, and they hurried toward the apartment complex, climbing up the stairs to find the correct flat, yellow caution tape everywhere. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose; she had always found that stuff annoying and unnecessary.

"She's over in this room," Lestrade said, leading them through the flat. "I can only give you five to ten minutes, so work quickly."

"That's more than enough," Sherlock said, in his usual overconfident manner. Elizabeth and John were close behind the other two men as they strode into what looked to be her bedroom.

She was lying on her back on the cold, wood-panelled floor, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Her blond hair splayed out under her head, traces of makeup beginning to disappear. She had on a formal-looking dress and a blazer, and was barefoot unless you counted the dark pantyhose she wore. From Elizabeth's best guess, she looked to be somewhere in her mid-twenties, not too far from Elizabeth herself.

And, of course, there was the bloody hole through her chest.

Sherlock had gotten straight to work, crouching down and touching little parts here and there. He took out his magnifying glass as well, examining the dead woman's fingers and bruises, as well as the stab wound. "John," he said, and the doctor approached him. "What do you think?"

"Just as they said, she appears to have been knocked out first. The bruises can't be more than four or five days old, and the stab wound looks to be around that as well. It's stopped bleeding already, so it definitely isn't fresh. But she's lying in a very natural position... perhaps too natural."

"Completely symmetrical," Elizabeth chimed in, leaning against the doorway. "And there's no puddle of blood on the floor, so the killer must have put her here after killing her. And – wait, who alerted the police to this?"

"It was an anonymous tip," said Lestrade. "I thought that was strange, too, but there was nothing we could do about it."

"What does that have to do with it?" John asked.

"You said it yourself; the murder was committed maybe a week ago. So why are we only examining the body now? The killer left her for a few days for some purpose before alerting the police to it, right?"

"Precisely," said Sherlock, standing up and putting his magnifying glass away.

"Have you found something?" Lestrade asked eagerly. Elizabeth watched Sherlock closely, as the tall man stepped back from the body.

"It's just as they said. The killer dragged her in here after having stabbed her somewhere else, and waited before calling the police. That suggests that there was some evidence that would have taken a few days to disappear; as for what, I don't know. She's got professional clothing on, but a dress rather than pants, so I'd say a secretary or some other desk job at a high-grade office. She's got on light makeup – the bare minimum, I'd say – and so she's not someone who cares so much about her beauty. In fact, the only piece of jewellery she's wearing is the ring on her right middle finger." Sherlock paused and spun around. "I'm sure Elizabeth can relate."

All eyes turned to her. Elizabeth frowned at Sherlock, but realized that he was right. "So the ring must have some sentimental meaning," she said, and he nodded, stooping down to examine it again. This time, she stepped closer, leaning over his shoulder to catch a glimpse.

It was a black ring, rather thick, with silver on the edges.

"But it's just a plain ring," said Lestrade. "How are you going to get anything from that?"

"Not scratched, so well-cared for," Sherlock murmured. Elizabeth only had to remember one of the rings hanging from her necklace before remembering something she'd done ages ago. She gently twisted the ring until a familiar symbol came into view. It was a silvery outline in the shape of the Batman symbol.

"How did you know that was there?" asked John.

"I used to something similar, back when I didn't want others to see," Elizabeth replied, absentmindedly tugging on her necklace. "See, you just have to hide the symbol on the outside of your finger, and nobody can see it from any angle."

"And if she hid it..."

"The most likely conclusion is that it represents a person," Elizabeth said, remembering her own high school days. "Someone she liked, perhaps, but she didn't want other people to know. I'd say a crush or an old friend. Maybe someone gave it to her."

"Look up all of her connections," Sherlock ordered, looking up at Lestrade. "We're looking for someone with a Batman-related nickname."

"Nickname?"

"Yes, of course, what else could it be?" Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "Elizabeth said it: a crush, most likely. But why a Batman symbol? Obviously, it's a nickname or an inside joke."

"Wonderful," Lestrade said, hurrying off.

"Well then, let's go," Sherlock said, briskly walking past them after Lestrade. "There's nothing more to see. Chinese, anyone?"

Elizabeth and John exchanged a glance before following after the "consulting detective," Elizabeth pausing just at the doorway and taking a final look at the dead woman. She strode back to the body and pulled off the ring.

Crudely engraved on the inside, as though the murderer had done it himself, were two words: My Queen.