So... This is my first Fan Fiction on here! Please, please, please review; it would be much appreciated! I hope to update at least once or twice a month. For now, anyways. Well, enjoy!

"Sherlock!"

The name was voiced by a short man-John Watson-when he called to his flatmate after emerging from the streets. The army doctor traveled up the stairs and found the dark, curly-haired detective draped over one of the two armchairs next to the fireplace.

"I've got groceries-"

The consulting detective was grasping what appeared to be a small and loaded gun; a British Army Browning L9A1. Unsurprisingly, freshly made bullet holes were prominent against the black and white wallpaper. Not raising his immensely blasé gaze from the weapon, Sherlock sighed and responded, "Bored!"

John dropped the plastic bags he had been carrying and quickly yanked the gun away from the consulting detective's grasp. He emptied the magazine of it's ammunition and pointedly ignored Sherlock's answer. After securely stowing the firearm out of sight, the blonde man finally said, "Lestrade phoned me earlier; said he wants us to meet him at Greenwhich Park? Apparently there's a body-"

"Oh, there's a body?" Sherlock interjected, scoffing at his close friend, "Oh, yes! So he thinks just a simple body can get me fascinated. People die all the time, that doesn't mean they're all interesting-"

"That's linked to a series of murders in the 1880's." John interrupted, talking over Sherlock's babbling "That were never solved. Apparently a copy cat of 'Jack the Ripper', the infamous serial killer from-"

"The 'Jack the Ripper'?" Sherlock asked curiously as his head swiveled upwards and his eyes locked with John's. All traces of previous boredom were quickly wiped away from the detective's countenance. A gleeful grin sprang onto Sherlock's lips as he pushed himself off of the couch.

"A copy-cat, hm? Interesting... Haven't had that in a while," the detective said. "John, get my coat!"

"Get the damn coat yourself," John muttered.

The charming duo arrived at the park shortly after the affair in the flat. They had promptly seen that it was filled with news reporters and bystanders just kept at bay by the yellow police tape. Sherlock made a sound of irritation and discontent at the sight of them; especially towards the babbling reporters. He had been recently getting quite a lot of attention from those individuals-from unnecessary tabloids to articles in the newspaper-as John had so graciously told him.

Many the bystanders standing by the scene revealed themselves as fans once they noticed "the great Sherlock Holmes" entering their peripheral view. Some began to shout and point frantically, others even going as far as pushing through the crowd to try and get close. This, of course, alerted the anchorpeople and they began to call out questions to both John and Sherlock. A vein throbbed threateningly in the detective's temple, and his features began to contort into a rather sour and aggravated expression.

A grey haired man with a grim expression quickly appeared at the two men's side; ultimately rescuing Sherlock from committing mass genocide. He led them through into the crime scene and away from the now disorderly (as well as loud) mass of people.

Lestrade raised an inquiring brow at the seemingly undoing excitement Sherlock Holmes and even John Watson proved to bring about themselves. Sherlock pretended to ignore his gesture and stared straight ahead, clenching his jaw. Lestrade moved his gaze to John, who mumbled, "Sherlock's... Sherlock's got some... fans."

The army doctor cleared his throat and turned his head away from both of the others; painfully aware of the mounting awkward tension filling the air. Lestrade pursed his lips and looked down, muttering, "So I've heard..."

"The body was called in last night. Anonymously, of course," the Chief Inspector said, deciding to proceed to the details of the crime and dropping the subject of Sherlock and his... fans.

"It's been completely mutilated with a few internal organs out of place and everything else scattered across the body. The victim has been identified as a woman, and all of it is corresponding to the 'Jack the Ripper' murders from the 1800s," he went on, "There have been copies of 'Jack' before... But this time there's a note."

Sherlock's demeanor now held an air of excitement and enthusiasm. "Hm, copy cats are usually a bit... predictable," he said, "Though this one... He seems rather intriguing. Quite bold to leave a note"

John sighed and rubbed his face; already used to the consulting detective's lack of empathy in times like these.

"Yes, fine. Where's the body, Lestrade?"

Lestrade pressed his lips together and responded, "I'd might like to warn you boys... It's not a pretty sight. Most of the policemen on duty haven't held together nicely." As if on cue, the sound of dry heaving and liquid splattering on cement was heard-no doubt belonging to the policemen in charge of the crime scene. Sherlock rolled his vibrant optics and muttered something under his breath as he walked towards the dead body. John sighed again and followed close behind.

Sherlock's profile was in it's usual stoic and unrevealing expression as the mutilated body came into peripheral view. John, however, had turned completely pale with a slight hint of green. The consulting detective kneeled next to the body and studied it intensely. John, instead cleared his throat and gulped in an attempt to withhold whatever contents he had in his stomach. Not looking up, Sherlock addressed him, "John, if you're feeling sick, try not to get it all over the crime scene."

John took a deep breath and responded, "Ah, no. No, Sherlock. I-I'm fine."

"Good"

Sherlock carefully inspected the lining of the dead woman's coat, as well as the pockets and sleeves. He found a fine, white powder lightly dusting the areas of the garment. After gazing at the body for a while longer, Sherlock took out his Blackberry and began typing. John blinked and said, "Er... Sherlock? What did you find on the body?"

Sherlock simply glanced at John and then at the victim; indicating he wanted the doctor to asses the cause of death of the woman. John sighed, again clearing his throat as he peered over at the grotesque figure. "Uh... There's massive damage around the pelvic area... That's probably where the killer dissected her first... Oh, but wait. That's not her cause of death," he stated as he moved the coat collar of the woman's coat out of the way, "Two slices to the throat. She was killed instantly."

"Yes, that's right," Sherlock said, "That's how 'Jack' killed all of his victims. But there's something wrong about this picture. What is it, John?"

"Ha ha, well, Sherlock. There's a mutilated body in a Royal Park of London"

"Yes, that is correct"

John did something that resembled a double take. "Wait... You mean that's actually it?"

"Yes. The body is in the park," Sherlock repeated. He looked up from his phone and smirked. "All of 'Jack the Ripper's victims were found on streets; places where they would be found quickly," the consulting detective stated, "This one was found in a park half-hidden by the shrubbery. Only an anonymous tip-off was what brought the body to the attention of the police. I suppose it brings a bit of uniqueness to the killer's signature."

John nodded, deciding not to push it further. "Alright, good... Good... What else did you figure out?"

"She's in around her mid-fourties, judging by the current state of her complexion and stature. She is also single, living alone and without the usual stains, hairs, and tears from children and pets. Looks quite wealthy by the quality of her clothes and slightly under-weight by the lack of muscle on her arms and legs. Probably because of her depression, which is evident if you can see the crease lines and shadows around her eyes. Unemployed-obviously, she's rich-, very anti-social, and probably spends most of her days inside and out of sight. With all of that, the white powder substance I found in and on her clothes, and the raw state of her nostrils, I can deduce this woman is also been inhaling cocaine"

Sherlock smirked once again, looking at the screen of his phone before gazing back at John. "Sarah Williams, 46. Involved in an illicit relationship with a minor twenty years ago but had a decent enough lawyer to get her out of a long sentence. However, she has been out of the public eye ever since. Sarah used to be a big influence in politics, but was practically banned from any sort of political matters after people started talking. Tried her best to keep the scandal out of the media, but you know the internet. Always finds a way to share private information"

John stared at him, Sherlock shrugging and finishing, "Her name was engraved on the backside of her watch."

John opened his mouth to respond, but was cut-off by Lestrade.

"Oi, are you two done here? You have another crime scene to get to,"

"Another crime scene?"

"Her house. She was killed in her house"

"Obviously, but how do you know that?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and responded, "We're not all idiots, Sherlock. Scotland Yard has another... "helping hand" I suppose you could say; a volunteer. Told us we should search her house because that's apparently where you can find the most information."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the Chief Inspector and shot back, "You don't have to be a genius to know at least that much, Lestrade. Oh Lord, I detest new recruits. I already have to deal with Anderson, that's enough to put me off."

John ignored Sherlock and said to Lestrade, "Alright, where's her house?"

Sherlock brushed past John, but tossed his phone back to the doctor . The Blackberry's illuminated screen was flickering with Sarah William's current address. The consulting detective was already half-way towards the street when he called back to John, "Aren't you coming?"

John and Sherlock arrived at the victim's house only a few minutes later. Lestrade had followed close behind their taxi and stepped out to lead them inside. Sgt. Donovan and Anderson were inside by the stairs and talking quietly. Their heads swiveled towards Sherlock and they smirked-though they remained silent.

Sherlock snorted before sneered at the two, "The wife still out of town, Anderson? I see Sergeant Donovan has been cleaning your floors again; her knees are in quite a dreadful state."

His comment did not seem to offend them much, as Donovan responded, "I hear you're finally going to be replaced, freak. Quite the charming one, she is. Compared to you, anyways."

Sherlock swiveled at Donovan's comment and faced Lestrade, his face holding an unpleasant look. "She?" he asked icily, "She, Lestrade? Tell me, did your funny little brain decide it was best to withhold this information? For heaven's sakes, have you not seen my ignorant little fans lately? They've been finding me in places like bathrooms to do God knows what. They're as slow as Anderson, and just as stupid! Next thing you know, you're going to decide to tell me she's an American-"

Lestrade bit his lip nervously and averted his gaze from the detective. Sherlock's countenance fell and he threw his head back, sighing heavily. "No, no, no, no, no. She's an American? Oh, hell!"

"Sherlock... Sherlock," Lestrade said as he tried to calm the detective down. "Just... Go upstairs and meet the girl, will you? And try not to get yourself punched."

Sherlock snorted and turned away, muttering something that sounded much like "I'd like to see her try". John sighed heavily, saying, "I'll attempt to keep him from doing something stupid... Not like that ever works."

The two walked up the spiraling steps leading towards the top floor of the mansion, which was apparently where Sarah Williams' bedroom was. Sherlock came up to the only door partially ajar and pushed through.

Every object-from the lamps to the bedside table books-were in complete organization; with the exception of two photos knocked facedown onto the floor and a single drawer open. There were small pools and droplets of blood dabbling the otherwise immaculate floor and ceiling; the only prominent pigmentation in the otherwise white room. Standing in the center of the space was a girl with her back facing both Sherlock and John.

The female physique was dressed in a Burberry Purple Cottonwill Trench Coat, dark washed jeans held together by a chocolate colored leather belt, black suspenders hanging loosely against her thighs, and brown Ralph Lauren Cookie Boots. Her complexion was a light tan, judging by her exposed phalanges poking out from the sleeves of her burgundy coat. A sigh escaped her lips, and she said in a voice that held a sadistic laziness, "I suppose we have to push through introductions, hm? How tedious."

"I'm guessing a Californian, by the sound of your accent; at least somewhere by the west of the United States," Sherlock began, "You're tan, but not very tan, so you must be from around the northern area of California."

"You aren't concerned about money, as I can see by the pricing of your outfit and the fact you currently do not receive a disappointing paycheck from this job. Even after the transition from one country to the other," he continued, "You're most likely in your early-to-mid twenties, and judging by the way you hold yourself, you aren't the kind to be shy or insecure; but rather confident. Even though this confidence proves that you're for the most part unconcerned about things such as your appearance, you keep yourself in good physicality; the toning of your legs and arms suggest you are in-shape, your hair is clean and well brushed, and I believe your face is just as well-kept. So, you like to keep things-in some respects-'polished'."

"Ah yes, and by the nimbleness and strength of your fingers-not to mention the small callouses on your fingertips-I see you spend hours each week playing the piano and the violin. Perhaps even the guitar. To put simply you have quite a bit of time on your hands since you've moved from America to Britain only a few months ago, and you need to occupy yourself on numerous occasions to avoid boredom. A job like this most likely appeared attractive to you for it's amount of attention and energy required, but you're obviously uninterested in the pay," Sherlock finally concluded.

John rubbed his face during the duration of Sherlock's monologue; tempted to interrupt and bring Sherlock's 'presentation' to an end. Though he refrained, as he knew most of it would be in vain... and that Sherlock would simply insult him.

"Impressive," the girl said, finally turning to face both John and Sherlock. "But I would be more impressed if you told me something about myself I didn't know"

The female's face was now acquirable to perceive; brightened by the light filtering in from a nearby window. Her irises were colored an intense blue, surrounded by a ring of black and framed by a thick set of dark lashes. Her full lips were naturally pigmented pink, which were elegantly placed upon her heart-shaped face and resting beneath her thin nose. Her tresses ended at the finish of her bust, and were dominantly noted as a dark brunette. However-upon closer inspection-lighter shades ranging from gold to red where visible in some areas.

She stepped forward to both of the men and smiled somewhat deviously. "The name's Cara Truman. It's a pleasure to finally meet the infamous John Watson and Sherlock Holmes," she said with a touch of slyness, "And don't worry, Holmes. I'm not your fan."

John's eyebrows shot up, and he couldn't hide the amused twitch of his lips. Sherlock's eye's fluttered in annoyance and he sighed sharply; deciding to ignore Cara's introduction. He then simply proceeded to step deeper into Sarah Williams' bedroom, letting his eyes brush over the scene once more.

"I'm guessing you have the note, Truman?"

"Cara, please. And yes, of course I have the note"

She pulled on a pair of white leather gloves, slipped a piece of folded paper out of her coat pocket, and tossed it to Sherlock. He easily caught the note and unfolded it. It appeared to be regular parchment, the text inked with a black fountain pen in neat and curly handwriting.

Hello, Mr. Holmes and Company,

I'm hoping I find you well today. As of late, I am certain you've heard of Mr. Jack the Ripper; a lovely man who terrorized England in the 1800s who I am a dear fan of. Though however wonderful, his marvelous game ended once he fled to the land of America. As you may have heard, Mr. Ripper was never seen nor heard again.

I'm simply here to make sure he will never be forgotten.

Good Day

-The Little Ripper

"Oh, so he calls himself the 'Little Ripper'? How quaint," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, yes, it's very cute-I know. We'll tend to that later. But we have Sarah's house to evaluate," Cara retorted. A small smirk flashed across her lips as she said, "Since you did such a great job reading me over, I'd like to hear what you observed when you stepped into the house."

"What makes you think I'd tell you?"

"You like to show off"

Sherlock sighed in irritation, knowing what she had said was true. "There was no sign of forced entry, so Sarah obviously knew the killer," Sherlock began, "Even without seeing the blood in her room, you could tell she was murdered in her house."

"The doormat," Cara replied, nodding.

John furrowed his brows in confusion, moving his eyes from Sherlock to Cara and back again. "The doormat? What about the doormat?" he asked.

"Of course you didn't notice, the point is there was no doormat, John! The entire front area was dirty and grimy, but there was a patch of completely clean and spotless pavement. It's about the exact width and length of the average doormat found in England," Sherlock answered

"... That still doesn't explain how you knew she was killed here"

Sherlock made a sound of irritated exasperation. "Did you not see anything when we walked through that door? The entire house is coated in a rather thick layer of dust; indicating Sarah Williams did not have a housekeeper, nor bothered to clean anything herself," Sherlock continued to explain, "However, there is a disturbance leading from the second floor-starting here-to the front door. The doormat must have soaked up some of the blood from the victim when he was transporting her from the house to outside... As for why he would take it, exactly, is probably a sign of his organization. He likes to keep things in certain places; hence the need to have the blood in one area rather than just leaving it wherever."

John nodded, not saying anything. The whole thing was making him uncomfortable; a grotesque murder and Sherlock is admiring the killer's efficiency.

Cara locked eyes with John, smiling sympathetically. She nodded her head to him before moving her gaze back to Sherlock.

"There's also something else to take note of, and it's staring us right in the face," she said, "He killed her here, cleaned up, drove her to Greenwhich-which is about a five minute drive from here-and then proceeded to dissect her. But as seen on the pelvis, the massive damage indicates he opened her up little after he killed her..." Cara bit her bottom lip in contemplation as her brows furrowed in puzzlement. "We've missed something," she muttered.

"We know there was a slight disturbance before she was killed-the knocked over photos and open drawer are indicators of that," Cara continued, "Inside that drawer was a small box of money... She was going to pay for something..."

"He must of posed as a dealer; pretending to sell her cocaine in her own house," Sherlock said, "Sarah Williams must have been desperate, letting a drug dealer enter her mansion. Or simply an idiot of a woman."

"Yes, yes, that's all fine, but we're still missing something, Sherlock. The timeline is off."

"Of course it's off. We still haven't seen the whole of the house"

Sherlock briskly exited the bedroom, Cara immediately stepping behind him and John bringing up the rear. Lestrade stopped them once they reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes traveling over the three. He looked as if he were about to ask about the introduction between Cara and Sherlock, but instead asked, "What happened, did you get everything?" Lestrade glanced at his watch. "And under five minutes, too. Are you really done?"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and snapped, "No, of course I'm not done. I take it you've secured the perimeter and found nothing notable, correct?"

Lestrade looked curiously at Sherlock before slowly responding, "Yes."

"Rubbish. You haven't looked thoroughly"

The Chief Inspector opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock had already brushed past him and found his way to the den. Cara and John had of course followed close behind, and it was Lestrade who reluctantly decided to see what the hell Sherlock was on about.

The detective was tapping his knuckles against a plaster wall covered in wallpaper, pressing his ear against it and listening intently. "Sarah Williams was a cocaine addict, that we know. But the only traces of such a substance were found in her clothes; not inside or even around the house," Sherlock murmured, "It's doubtful she would snort the drug outside, as she keeps out of the public eye as much as possible and doesn't want to risk being seen. I'm guessing Sarah must have had somewhere safe to do what she needed... In the comfort of her own home, and away from her furniture and carpet; so no 'guests' would ever suspect anything."

"Like a secret bunker?" John asked

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed. "I see a disturbance in the dust along this wall, but it's too far away from where she was murdered to be written off as part of the cleaning job."

He ran his hand along the pale blue and white surface, saying, "It sounds hollow as well, so there most definitely must be something concealed behind here"

Cara was the one that stepped forwards, brandishing a small, red Swiss Army Knife. She briefly rapped the section of the wall Sherlock had with her own knuckles, before slicing the blade through the wallpaper. She then proceeded to remove it, thus revealing a door with a missing knob. Cara didn't bother to ask if anyone had see it, as she backed up and kicked the door down. It gave way under her boot and fell to the ground with a loud crash.

What the wallpaper had been concealing was now evident; a spiraling set of stairs leading down to what appeared to be a basement.

John and Lestrade were staring at Cara, who simply smiled and followed Sherlock down the stairs.

It smelled dank and rotten; as if something had recently died. There was a hint of a metallic odor, which reeked much like the blood of an animal. Lestrade pushed past John, Cara, and Sherlock and brandished his gun in a way that said, "Just in case". He slowly stepped off of the stairs, turning the corner while steadily pointing the gun straight ahead. A grimace flashed over Lestrade's countenance as he lowered the firearm and placed it back into it's holster. John, Sherlock, and Cara stepped forwards to lay their eyes upon the seemingly distressing scene.

Well, Sherlock had been right; Sarah Williams had had a secret place to inhale her cocaine. There was a small table and a single chair littered with small cocaine bags that reached and piled the damp floor. Old and tattered news clippings of the scandal between Sarah Williams and the minor were pinned against a wall. Books and random objects were also carelessly placed on shelves and the floor; from lamps to purses to old and broken china. A single, flickering bulb was hanging from the ceiling in danger of burning out and plunging the basement into total darkness. Hanging next to that little lightbulb was a bloody body of a male.

"The accomplice"

Well, that was the first chapter! I know, Cara didn't really make much of an impression, but it's still just the first chapter. She'll do much more damage in the next entries... promise.