Chapter One: The Young Shadow

Two people entered St. Bartholomew's Hospital Morgue on a seemingly normal day in London, England. The first was a man. He looked to be in his early thirties or late twenties. His curled hair was a dark shade of brown and his eyes were a blue greenish hue that made them look like they were made out of glass. He wore a normal suit with a thick, black coat over it and a blue scarf was tied around his neck.

The second was a girl, no older than ten, and was following the man like a shadow. Her hair was a darker shade than the man's and was pulled out of her face in a ponytail, with the exception of the few strands in her face. Her eyes were a dark color, midnight blue to be more specific. She wore a white dress shirt, a navy jumper with thin red stripes on the hems and neckline, a black skirt that went down to her knees where a pair of white socks picked up from there and ended with a pair of black Mary Jane shoes. Her coat was a dark blue also, and she had a worn out, old looking messenger bag slung across her chest. Both of them had paper white skin, and both of them were very much different, yet alike.

The two walked briskly into the morgue and calmly approached a table with a body bag laying on it.

Sherlock Holmes unzipped the body bag lying on the table and peered at the corpse inside. He sniffed the air released from the action.

"How fresh?" He asked as one of the pathologists, Molly Hooper, walked over.

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes," Molly answered. "He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." Zipping the bag up again, Sherlock straightened up, turned to her and smiled falsely.

"Fine," Sherlock said as he turned to his shadow, "Alice, hand me the riding crop. We'll start with that."

Shortly afterwards, the body had been removed from the bag and was lying on its back on the table. Alice handed the riding crop to Sherlock and took a step back away from him. She watched silently, and even flinched a little, while Sherlock flogged the body repeatedly and violently with the riding crop. Molly ended up walking back into the room, which she had exited earlier, and as he finished and straightened up, breathless, she went over to him.

"So, bad day, was it?" Molly asked. Sherlock ignored her banter as Alice handed him a notebook and he started writing in it. Molly turned to Alice for an answer. The ten year old nodded.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," said Sherlock as he wrote. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen, I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished..." Molly's voice trailed off at the end. Sherlock glanced across to Molly as he was writing, then did a double-take and frowned at her.

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." Alice took a closer, unnoticed look. Molly was wearing lipstick.

"I...er...I refreshed it a bit." Molly smiled at him flirtatiously. Alice rolled her dark eyes as Sherlock gave Molly a long oblivious look, then went back to writing in his notebook.

"Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," Molly said while gazing at him intently. Sherlock gave his notebook to Alice, who put it in her bag.

"Black, two sugars, please. We'll be upstairs." He walked away, his shadow following close behind.

The pair went upstairs to a chemistry lab, where Sherlock got quickly to work. He was standing at the far end of the lab using a pipette to squeeze a few drops of liquid onto a Petri dish as Alice watched him with great curiosity. There was a knock at the door and two men entered. Alice recognized the first as Mike, a man she and Sherlock had run into earlier. The second man was who caught her infamous curiosity. She began to stare at the blonde intently. Sherlock had glanced across at them briefly before looking back at his work again. The blonde limped into the room, looking around at all the equipment as a pair of sparkling dark eyes scanned him.

"Well, bit different from my day," said the man.

"You've no idea!" Mike said with a laugh.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked as he sat down, "There's no signal on mine or Alice's."

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry. It's in my coat." The blonde fished into his back pocket and took out his own phone.

"Er...here," the man said. "Use mine."

"Oh. Thank you," Sherlock replied. Glancing briefly at Mike, Sherlock stood up and walked towards the man.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," said Mike. Sherlock reached out to John and took his phone from him. Turning partially away from him, he flipped open the keypad and started to type on it.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked while Alice smirked. John frowned, however. John looked at Sherlock as he continued to type.

"Sorry?" John said, a little bit confused.

"Where was it that you served– Afghanistan or Iraq?" echoed Alice. Sherlock briefly raised his eyes to Alice's and then to John's before looking back to the phone. John hesitated, then looked across to Mike, confused.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?" Sherlock looked up as Molly came into the room holding a mug of coffee. Alice rolled her eyes again.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you," said Sherlock as he shut down John's phone and handed it back as Molly brought the mug over to him. Both of the darkly dressed duo looked closely at her as he took the mug. Her mouth was paler again. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me," Molly answered uncomfortably.

"Really?" Alice said, "I thought it was a really big improvement. Your mouth looks far too small now." Sherlock turned and walked back to his station, taking a sip from the mug, grimacing at the taste and shooting an unnoticeable glance at his shadow, which only Alice noticed.

"...Okay," said Molly as she turned and headed back towards the door.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked as Alice smirked again. John looked around at Molly, but she was on her way out the door. He glanced at Mike, who was smiling smugly, and finally realised that Sherlock was talking to him.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Alice is very curious and will often pry too deep into something personal. And sometimes I don't talk for days on end," said Sherlock as he typed on a laptop keyboard. He looked round at John. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He threw a hideously false smile at John, who looked at him blankly for a moment then looked across to Mike.

"Oh, you...you told them about me?" John asked.

"Not a word," Mike answered. John turned to Sherlock again.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" Sherlock picked up his greatcoat and put it on. He handed Alice her own coat, and she slid it on.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that we must be very difficult people to find a flatmate for," Sherlock said, "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" Sherlock ignored the question, wrapped his scarf around his neck, then picked up his mobile and checked it. Alice kept her mouth sealed when John looked at her for an answer, she only laughed a bit in response though.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it," Sherlock said as he and his shadow walked toward John.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think Alice left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"I did," said Alice after briefly checking the contents of her bag. Putting his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, Sherlock walked past John and headed for the door. John turned to look at them.

"Is that it?" Sherlock turned back from the door and strolled closer to John again.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met, and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?" John smiled in disbelief, as Alice shook her head and grinned. Sherlock was going to do it again.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." Sherlock looked closely at John for a moment before speaking.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan." Sherlock said quickly as he began to tell John his own life story, "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." John looked down at his leg and cane and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock turned back towards his shadow and walked to the door again, opened it and went through.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes and I am Alice Liddell." Sherlock's shadow said before following the taller one, "The address is 221B Baker Street." She smiled at John, then looked round at Mike.

"Alice!"

"See you tomorrow!" The shadow quickly left, following her partner.

The next day, the pair caught a cab over to 221B Baker Street. John was already waiting for them. Sherlock got out of the cab and Alice followed.

"Hello," the young girl said as she greeted Dr. Watson. Sherlock reached in through the window of the cab and handed some money to the cab driver.

"Thank you," Sherlock said as John turned towards him as he walked over.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John said as he extended his hand.

"Sherlock, please. Alice already calls me that enough," Sherlock said as the men shook hands. Alice's dark eyes darted to the ground for a moment.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive," John said as he observed the building.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no. He ensured that Mr. Hudson was killed," Alice said as she smiled at John, who responded by giving her a weird look. The front door was opened by Mrs. Hudson, an elderly looking woman, who opened her arms to the younger man.

"Sherlock, Alice, hello," greeted Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock turned and walked into her arms, hugging her briefly, then stepped back and presented John to her.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock said, introducing the two.

"Hello."

"How do?" John replied.

"Come in." Mrs. Hudson gestured the small trio inside.

"Thank you."

"Shall we?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah," Mrs. Hudson said as the trio went inside, and she closed the door.

Alice sprinted up the stairs to the first floor, followed by Sherlock, who had trotted up the stairs after her, but then paused and waited for John to hobble upstairs. As John reached the top of the stairs, Alice opened the door ahead of them and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. John and Sherlock followed her in, and John looked around the room and at all the possessions and boxes scattered around it.

"Well, this could be very nice," said the former solider, "Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," Sherlock agreed as he looked around the flat happily. "So we went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..." John said simultaneously. "Oh." He paused, embarrassed, as he realised what Sherlock was saying. "So this is all..."

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." Sherlock walked across the room and made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box and then took some apparently unopened envelopes across to the fireplace where he put them onto the mantelpiece and then stabbed a multi-tool knife into them. John had noticed something else on the mantelpiece and lifted his cane to point at it.

"That's a skull," said John.

"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'..." Sherlock drifted off mid-sentence when he saw that Mrs. Hudson had followed them into the room. She picked up a cup and saucer as Sherlock took off his coat and scarf. Alice, however, had her eyes drifting out the window at the view outside. But she still listened to the conversation.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two. But don't you think that three would have been-" John said before Alice cut him off.

"I can sleep out here, Dr. Watson," The dark haired girl interrupted. "Believe me, I don't mind."

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here," Mrs. Hudson said before she lowered her voice to a whisper only John and Sherlock could hear. John looked across to Sherlock once Mrs. Hudson was finished speaking to him, as expecting him to confirm something, but Sherlock appeared oblivious to what was said. Mrs. Hudson walked across to the kitchen, then turned back and frowned at Sherlock.

"Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." As she went into the kitchen and started tidying up, John walked over to one of the two armchairs, plumped up a cushion on the chair and then dropped heavily down into it. He looked across to Sherlock who was still tidying up a little and Alice glanced briefly at them both before looking back out at the window.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John said after a moment's silence.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock said, turning to John.

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." Sherlock smiled proudly.

"What did you think?" John threw him a "you have got to be kidding me" type of look. Sherlock looked hurt.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"That's because he can," Alice cut in before Sherlock could answer. "He can read your military career just by looking at your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits by looking at your mobile phone. I'm still trying to learn."

"You did it again," Sherlock said sharply.

"Sorry." Alice turned back to her window.

"How?" asked John. Sherlock smiled and turned away. Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen reading the newspaper.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Alice's eyes caught something pull up on the street next to the flat. She straightened up.

"Four," said Alice, "There has been a fourth suicide." Sherlock walked over to the window where Alice was sitting. He looked down at a car as someone got out of it. The vehicle was a police car with its lights flashing on the roof. "And that means that there must something different this time around."

"A fourth?" Sherlock turned as D.I. Lestrade, a young man with peppered hair, trotted up the stairs and came into the living room.

"Where?" Sherlock asked.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade answered.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get us if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yes...?" Alice said suspiciously.

"This one did," Lestrade said, "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked.

"It's Anderson." Alice made an audibly loud groan, which caused Sherlock to look at her before brushing it off. Neither one of them particularly liked Anderson.

"Anderson won't work with either of us."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I already have an assistant." Sherlock gestured towards the girl at the window. Alice waved a little bit.

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. We'll be right behind. Alice, grab your coat."

"I'm already wearing it." Alice answered, pulling on her collar.

"Thank you," Lestrade said. After looking round at John and Mrs Hudson for a moment, he turned and hurried off down the stairs. Both Sherlock and Alice waited until he had reached the front door. As they heard the front door slam shut, Sherlock twirled Alice in the air before placing her on the ground and clenched his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock grinned, "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" Picking up his scarf and coat, Sherlock started to put them on as he headed for the kitchen. Alice leapt after him with a slight grin on her face.

"Mrs. Hudson, We'll be late," she said, "We might need some food later on when we get back."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson said.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock said, picking up where Alice left off. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home."

"Don't wait up!" The pair said in unison. Grabbing a small leather pouch from the kitchen table, Sherlock opened the kitchen door and the duo disappeared from view. Halfway down the stairs, Sherlock stopped. Alice turned to him.

"You want to bring Dr. Watson along, don't you?" She asked.

"Yes I do." Sherlock turned and walked back up a few of the stairs before turning to his assistant. "Wait outside."

"You know I hate being outside alone."

"Then wait in the front hall." Sherlock walked back up the stairs as Alice went down the opposite way. once she reached the bottom, Alice leaned against the wall for a moment before Sherlock and John came down.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea," John called out to Mrs. Hudson, "Off out."

"All three of you?" Mrs. Hudson said as she walked to the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock had almost reached the front door but now turned and walked back towards her.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock said with a grin, "There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He took Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders and kissed her noisily on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." Mrs. Hudson smiled, though, as he turned away and headed for the front door again.

"Who truly cares about being decent? I'm not decent! Decent makes life not worth living," said Alice with a now fully formed grin on her pale face.

"The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" said Sherlock as he walked out of the flat. Alice walked out onto the street after Sherlock, who hailed an approaching black cab.

"Taxi!" Sherlock shouted. The taxi pulled up alongside and he, Alice and John get in, then the car drove off again and headed for Brixton.

The trio sat in silence for a long time while Sherlock sat with his eyes fixed on his smartphone, and John kept stealing nervous glances at him. Finally Sherlock lowered his phone, especially after Alice nudged him a bit.

"Okay, you've got questions," said Sherlock. John looked over at him.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked.

"Obviously, we're going to a crime scene. Next?" Alice said before Sherlock.

"Alice," Sherlock said towards to younger girl.

"You were too slow."

"Who are you two?" John asked after the pair's argument finished. "What do you do?"

"What do you think?" Alice asked.

"I'd say private detective and assistant..." John said slowly while hesitating.

"But?" picked up Sherlock

"...but the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job. And Alice is my...assistant of sorts, yes."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is nearly close to always, they go to him," Alice explained, "I however, am just there to observe so I can take over the job when he retires." Sherlock shot her a look.

"The police don't consult amateurs." Alice smirked. Here we go again. Sherlock threw him the same look he gave Alice.

"When we met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised," The detective explained.

"Yes, how did you know?" The doctor asked.

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious," Sherlock said, recalling John his life story, "Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." He loudly clicked the 'k' sound at the end of the final word.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist."

"You forgot about his brother," Alice added.

"Hmm?" John hummed, a little confused by the manner of their speech. Alice held out her hand.

"Your phone, if you don't mind." John put the mobile in her hand, and the girl began to twirl it in her fingers. "It's expensive by the looks of it, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you definitely wouldn't waste money on something like this. It had to have been a gift, then." She turned it over and looked at it again as she spoke.

"There are scratches. Not just one scratch, many of them from over time. It has been in the same pocket as keys and coins and other such things I am not allowed to know about. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it had to have had a previous owner. Next bit is easy. You know it already."

"The engraving." Alice held up the phone to reveal an engraving on the back. It read: "Harry Watson From Clara xxx"

"Harry Watson is absolutely and quite clearly a family member who has given you his old phone." Alice continued, "It can't be your father because this is a young man's gadget. However, it could be from a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. It's very unlikely that you've got an extended family, and certainly not one you are close to anyway, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Just who is Clara? The three kisses say it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone clearly says wife and not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently because, if I remember correctly, this model is only six months old. Their marriage was in trouble then because it was six months on he's just gave it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. Most people do, sentimental values and all of that nonsense, but no, he wanted to get rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, and that says he wants you to stay in touch. Now, back to the subject. You, Dr. Watson, are looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help which says that you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though," Sherlock said, taking the phone away from Alice, who just gaped there in surprise. "Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." He handed the phone back to John. "There you go, you see – you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?" said John, slightly less more confused then before.

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock looked out of the side window, biting his lip nervously as he awaited John's reaction.

"That ... was amazing," John said, stunned. Sherlock looked round, apparently so surprised that he couldn't even reply for the next four seconds. So Alice did.

"Do you truly think so?" said Alice with a smug grin.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock finally responded.

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!" The detective and his assistant said in unison. Sherlock smiled briefly at John, who grinned and turned away to look out of the window as the journey continued. Alice just laughed.

The cab soon arrived at Lauriston Gardens and Sherlock, Alice and John got out and walked towards the police tape strung across the road.

"Did we get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have," John confirmed. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker." Sherlock looked impressed with himself.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect we'd be right about everything."

"And Harry's short for Harriet," Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"Harry's your sister." Alice suppressed a laugh as she and John continued onwards.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked.

"Sister!" Sherlock exclaimed furiously through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" Sherlock, exasperated, started to walk again

"There's always something, you got to remember that!" Alice said. They approached the police tape where they were met by Sergeant Donovan, a woman with curly dark hair.

"Hello, freak. Oh, look. Your little shadow's here too," Donovan said as she greeted Sherlock and Alice.

"Shadow?" whispered John.

"I've followed Sherlock around since I first met him five years ago," explained Alice, "I repeated nearly his every movement back then, so they called me his shadow. The name stuck." John nodded.

"We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said as he completely ignored the two behind him.

"Why?" Donovan asked.

"We were invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants us to take a look at the crime scene," Alice said sarcastically. Despite her age, Alice was surprisingly mature...most of the time.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Donovan said smugly. Sherlock lifted the tape and ducked underneath it.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock said. He held the tape up longer as Alice walked underneath. He breathed in through his nose. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't..." Donovan stuttered before she looked at John. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, turning to John. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." The last few words reeked with sarcasm.

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?! What, did he follow you home? Just like your shadow?" Alice stuffed her hands furiously in the pockets of her coat, to conceal the fists they were now balling into.

"Would it be better if Alice and I just waited and..." John said as Sherlock lifted the tape for him.

"No," Sherlock said, "As for Alice, she has always come to a crime scene with me for the past five years." As John walked under the tape, his mouth open in shock, Donovan lifted a radio to her mouth.

"Freak and Shadow are here. Bringing them in," Donovan said into the radio. She lead the trio towards the house. Sherlock looked all around the area and at the ground as they approached. As they reached the pavement, a man dressed in a coverall came out of the house.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock said with poison his voice. Anderson looked at him and then to Alice with certain distaste.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated, especially by children," Anderson said. Alice briefly stuck her tongue out at him before Sherlock noticed. Like I said, she may have been mature, but Alice was still a child. "Are we clear on that?" Sherlock took in another deep breath through his nose.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" The man asked.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told him that," Alice said smugly. "Wasn't that clear, Anderson?"

"My deodorant?" Alice grinned with flames in her eyes.

"It was made for men."

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"If I recall, Sergeant Donovan is also wearing it, too." Alice suppressed her large urge to laugh, but ended up losing to that when she laughed quietly and evilly under her breath. Sherlock shot her a look but didn't stop her. Anderson looked round in shock at Donovan. Sherlock sniffed pointedly.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May we go in?" Sherlock said. He tapped Alice on the shoulder, which got her to stop laughing. Anderson turned back and pointed at her angrily.

"Now look, little girl: whatever you're trying to imply..."

"She's not implying anything," Sherlock said quickly as he headed past Donovan toward the front door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over-" He turned back- "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror. He and Alice smiled smugly, then Sherlock turned and went into the house. John and Alice walked past Donovan, and John, briefly but pointedly looking down to her knees, then followed Sherlock inside. Sherlock lead them into a room on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting on a coverall. Sherlock pointed to a pile of similar items.

"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock instructed. Lestrade pointed to Alice.

"Are you sure that bringing a child to a crime scene is a good idea?" Lestrade asked.

"She's seen more gruesome things before and handled it perfectly fine. And I never go anywhere without my shadow." Lestrade made a slightly audible sigh before turning to John. Alice grinned. Seeing this, Sherlock placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned in.

"Alice," he said in a voice only she could hear. "We are at a crime scene. Try to behave." Hearing this, Alice stopped grinning and returned to her mature state. Sherlock took his hands off her shoulders.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, gesturing over to John.

"He's with us," said Sherlock as he removed his gloves.

"But who is he?"

"I said he's with us." John took his jacket off and picked up a coverall. He looked at Sherlock, who had picked up a pair of latex gloves.

"Aren't you two gonna put one on?" John asked, referring to the coveralls. Sherlock and Alice just looked at him sternly. John shook his head as if to say, 'Silly me. What was I thinking?!'

"So where are we?" Sherlock said to Lestrade. Lestrade picked up another pair of latex gloves.

"Upstairs."