"John." Sherlock broke the silence of the cab, attempting to stir his friend from his short nap. John showed no intention of moving, or of opening his eyes for that matter. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, glancing at the sleeping man on the adjacent seat. "John." he said a bit louder, still receiving nothing more than a sleepy yawn and a bit of very slight snoring. "JOHN WATSON!" Sherlock exclaimed, causing John's eyes to snap open. He looked around anxiously, not knowing if there was any present danger nearby. His eyes met Sherlock's and immediately he knew what was happening.

"Oh," John said dismissively, "we're here." Sherlock nodded in an irritable fashion and unbuckled his seatbelt, exiting the vehicle quickly. The two men climbed up the main stairs of Scotland Yard. There was a comfortable silence amongst them in the elevator ride, and again down the main corridor leading to Lestrade's offices.

"Look who it is, Hannibal Lecter and his faithful companion Clarice Starling. What brings trouble down to Scotland Yard today?" a familiar female voice erupted as soon as the two stepped foot into the bullpen. Sherlock needed no guesses as to who the voice belonged to.

"Ah Sally.. still alive I see," he smiled sarcastically at Agent Donovan, "unfortunately..." he whispered to himself as he and John walked past her to greet Greg Lestrade. Sally glared at the pair of them, and continued working.

"Boys!" Lestrade spotted them just as he was pouring himself his third helping of coffee. He took a small sip, making sure not to burn his tongue, and set the mug down quickly, freeing his hand to shake John's and Sherlock's. Sherlock was not keen on hand-shaking, and kept his firmly at his side. Lestrade nodded awkwardly, and motioned for them to follow him into his own private office. John took a seat, while Sherlock remained standing. Lestrade took his own seat behind his desk, and opened a drawer to remove a file. He slapped it back down onto the top of the desk, and opened it swiftly.

"There have been a series of murders within the past year, all thought to be unrelated," he began, flipping through pictures of at least twenty dead bodies that were found in various places all around the United Kingdom.

"Thought to be unrelated?" John questioned, raising an eyebrow in confusion. Lestrade nodded slowly, taking out the last picture.

"Yes. There was absolutely nothing linking them to eachother.. until about a month ago." he set the picture down on the table slowly. It was a picture of the latest victim, but not his entire body.. just the back of his neck. In bold black ink there were two unfamiliar symbols followed by a three digit number. Sherlock's slender fingers ran over the markings, eyebrows knitted together as he concentrated. He had never seen symbols like those before, and therefore his mind was racing with different thoughts of what they could mean.

"And the other bodies had this marking as well?" Sherlock looked up slightly to address the Detective Inspector. Lestrade's expression changed into something Sherlock couldn't quite comprehend.

"Well.. not at first." he scratched his chin, not exactly knowing how to explain the situation.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John piped up from his seat, eyes bouncing back and forth between the picture, Lestrade, and Sherlock.

"All seventeen men that have been found were not found with this marking on the back of their neck... just this one. But the medical examiner we hired still has the body from the last killing, and he said now that he's gone back to look- he has the marking too. Different symbols and numbers, but same place and same style of lettering." he explained to the two men. John could almost hear the gears grinding in Sherlock's mind, so much he was surprised smoke wasn't flying out of his ears. "So, considering we kept all the bodies for science, I had him look at the previous bodies as well. Now, all of them have it." Lestrade shrugged, not even knowing where to begin with solving this.

"When was the last time the bodies were checked?" Sherlock interrogated.

"After a day or two of post-mortem observations they were put into the freezer. Haven't been looked at until yesterday."

"So you mean to tell me.. that these bodies were found with no strange markings.. nothing out of the ordinary.. and now they all have it?" Sherlock was clearly very perplexed by the situation, and wasn't quite sure how to go about this. He had never heard of anything like it before.. it had almost reminded him of the effects of invisible ink.

"Is it possible someone could have snuck in and done this to the bodies? Or perhaps the coroners have been very oblivious and lazy and happen to have overlooked these tattoos because they're incompetent and can't do their jobs?" Sherlock felt like the second suggestion was probably the most accurate, however he could never be sure.

"No. Neither is possible, because if you look at pictures of the bodies from behind there's nothing there.. and only a select few people know the vault code so it's highly unlikely that this was an inside job." Lestrade explained, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Sherlock pursed his lips, staring off into space while he visited his memory palace for an answer to what the strange symbols were. "And," Lestrade began, bringing Sherlock back to reality. "The strange thing is, we don't know what's killed them." this statement brought chills to John, giving him goosebumps.

"Sorry?" John questioned, looking at Lestrade with a very confused expression.

"There has been absolutely no trace of poison, none of them bled, not one had any fatal diseases, and to top it all off... no stab, blunt, or puncture wounds. Nothing. Absolutely clean. It's as if they just.. dropped.. in the most random places." he continued. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the D.I.

"If there's absolutely no evidence, how do you know these were murders?" he asked reluctantly.

"I didn't know.. until the markings appeared. Seventeen men with similar tattoos and an identical way of dying isn't a coincidence. There's more to this story than we can even begin to imagine at the moment." he told the consultant, who seemed had now taken a moment to sit back in his seat and stare off into space with his hands folded across his lips and part of his nose. His thinking pose. "Sorry to interrupt-" Lestrade's voice appeared in Sherlock's memory palace yet again, preventing him from having a deep think about the situation. Sherlock blinked in frustration.

"What? What now? Can you not see I'm trying to think?!" he exclaimed at the Detective, who was staring at Sherlock as if he'd gone mad.

"Sorry.. but I actually had a question for you. This case doesn't just involve Scotland Yard... we are not the only organization that's searching for the murderer.." Lestrade began, receiving strange looks from both men in his office. "Anyways, the other department looking into this case happens to be under the keen control of my niece.. and she's in town helping Scotland Yard figure everything out." he smiled wearily, hoping to dear God that Sherlock would do him a favor just this once.

"And your question is because, although I've never seen your flat, and since I assume you live alone you don't have enough room for her to stay with you and since she's working on the case and you've just asked me to help as well that you were wondering if she could stay in the extra room in my flat because John is married and has since moved out, leaving the room.. shall we say, 'up for grabs' is that your question?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, giving Lestrade a look of pure boredom but also one of absolute sarcasm as well as slight arrogance. Lestrade opened his mouth as if to speak, and then shut it again, simply nodding vigorously to agree with his statement. "Hmm..." Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together, pursing his lips once more.

"Oh please, Sherlock? She's very accommodating, and she will definitely follow any rules you set... please? She doesn't.." he stopped himself, a pained look beginning to show on his face. He wiped it away instantly, "she doesn't have much money.. Sherlock, please? I'll be in your debt, I'll make it up to you I promise." Lestrade was sounding more and more desperate as the seconds flew by, which made Sherlock roll his eyes and feel the need to silence the other man's rambling.

"Fine fine, she can stay at my place. But one slip and she's gone! When will she be there?"

"Uhh," Lestrade gave Sherlock a nervous smile and scratched the back of his head, "She's already there.." he shrugged, and spoke quietly.

"Already there? What do you mean she's already there? Who the bloody hell brought her there?" Sherlock demanded, standing from his seat and placing both hands on the top of Lestrade's desk. His nose was crinkled and his eyebrows were furrowed together, showing how displeased he was with Lestrade's statement. The Detective Inspector leaned back in his chair, attempting to distance himself slightly from the raging consultant facing him. Lestrade bit his lip and glanced at John, hoping to gain some support. John, however, looked down at the ground quickly to avoid eye contact with him as if to say, 'Sorry, mate. You're on your own.' Just as Lestrade was about to open his mouth to speak, Sherlock piped up once more. "Wait. Mycroft. Mycroft brought her there didn't he? Because there's more to the story than what you're telling me, isn't there? Whatever is happening with this case, it's big enough for the government to be involved. Why?" he narrowed his eyes at the D.I, who's face was that of pure anxiousness and secretiveness.

"Sh-Sherlock, Mycroft is always doing things nobody knows about. If everyone knew what the government was up to all the time, nothing would be secret and everybody would be in danger. My guess is just as good as yours as to why he would like to amalgamate Scotland Yard and the other department that my niece works for. He just wants the bloody thing solved, I assume.. and it would be best not to question it." Lestrade told him with a nervous tone- one that did not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"There were so many clues in that statement that only reveals more to me that you do in fact know more than you're telling me. You stuttered my name, you're getting defensive that I'm questioning my brothers motives, and you so cleverly used the name of Scotland Yard... but failed to, yet again, mention the name of the other organization... as if it was so secretive that even saying the name could compromise the situation. Fine. She can stay at my flat, but for your sake she better not have touched anything by the time I arrive, or so help me God I will break into your house and smash every glass item in it until it's nothing but a giant broken mess in which you will fall and injure yourself so terribly that you have to be checked into the hospital." Sherlock said monotonously, not once breaking his straight face, keeping a serious demeanor the entire time. Lestrade could only swallow the lump that had been forming in his throat, and nod quickly that he understood what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock gave a nod in approval as well, and then turned his attention to John.

"John, I'm going to need you to find a separate cab to bring you home, I must get back to Baker Street immediately. Say hello to Mary." Sherlock explained, and then bolted out of the room like a mad thief on the run from a hundred police officers. He didn't even bother waiting for the lift to arrive at the top floor. Instead, he convinced himself to sprint down the stairs and out the front doors to catch a taxi. "221 Baker Street, I'm in a bit of a hurry." he told the cabby, who just rolled his eyes and put the vehicle into drive. To Sherlock, the ride took a decade and half, when in reality it was about fifteen minutes. He rode in pure agony, hoping silently to himself that she hadn't touched anything that would potentially mess up any one of his numerous experiments. As soon as he arrived, he nearly threw the money at the driver, and ripped the door off attempting to get himself out of the car. He let out a grunt of frustration when he realized that the door knocker had been straightened out by Mycroft (purely out of OCD) and shoved himself through the door. Immediately as he stepped foot into the building, his ears were greeted with the sound of a familiar instrument.. one he had been playing for a majority of his life. Anger dropped into his stomach like a boulder, and then began to course through his entire body as he ran up the stairs- skipping a few in between his long strides. He nearly knocked the door over, and the first thing he saw inside his flat was Mycroft- seated comfortably in John's chair.

"Hello brother." he greeted Sherlock with a smirk playing on the corners of his lips. Sherlock gritted his teeth together, and his eye twitched a bit at his brother's amused face. He then turned his head slightly to see a young girl standing near the window, instrument in hand. All he could see, however, was her silhouette because of the sun shining through the glass brightly.

"Has anyone ever told you it's very rude to touch items that do not belong to you? Especially items that are very expensive and are strictly for people who have been playing them for a very long time." he stared at the girl, who only let out a scoff. She walked a bit closer, revealing her face to him. She had, loathe he admit to himself, the most gorgeous blue eyes he had ever seen on a person. They could be compared to the crystal blue water of the greek islands- a sight he and his family had seen on trips in his youth. Her nose, small and button like, was soft looking as well as her small pink lips. Her skin was absolutely flawless, and her long blonde hair was curled and pulled back into a loose ponytail that fell down to the small of her back.

"Well then," she spoke, face unmoving and expression unchanging (much like his), "it's a good thing I brought my own then, right Mister Holmes?" she twitched up the corner of her mouth ever so slightly, it almost went unnoticed by Sherlock. Almost. "I've been playing for fifteen years. I believe that gives me the right, don't you think?" her aqua eyes pierced into his, stabbing his soul like a ton of daggers. His eyes trailed down her arm, and glanced at the violin she was holding. It was very shiny, and also black.. definitely not his.. He took a very quick look at her attire, which was unlike anything he'd seen before. She wore a charcoal jacket with silver embroiders around the collar, buttons, and cuffs, as well as an unusual insignia on the left breast pocket. She wore fitted pinstripe pants and calf height black leather boots.

Plays the violin.. the deep and full sound of the notes. Obviously comes from money but otherwise does not like to appear this way.. not many people play the violin.. especially not as much as the piano.. so she wants to stand out.. be different. But why? What could she want to prove? She must not like her family very much.. if she comes from money, and went into police work (which makes little to no money) then she must not care much about how powerful or rich her family must be.

If she does police work.. why not wear a suit or formal attire like Lestrade or anyone else from Scotland Yard? She works for a less commonly known organization.. perhaps even secretive, not told about by the British Government.. Leather jacket and leather boots, which means she's in the field a lot.. and jeans- easy to move around in so she's seen quite a bit of action... Hair tied back, making sure it doesn't get in the way when she's chasing down a criminal.. obviously young, perhaps between twenty one and twenty five.. Her past-

Her past-

Her past...

Her past?

"Something the matter, Mister Holmes?" she questioned, the slightest hint of amusement in her voice. Sherlock ignored it and narrowed his eyes at her, watching her expression stay the same for a good minute and half. There was pure silence while he attempted to piece together her life.. which shouldn't have been hard... but as he looked at her face- all he could do was draw a blank. Everytime he would start over, he would get as far as her occupation and then.. nothing. Come to think of it.. he'd never psychoanalyzed Lestrade.. Sherlock didn't even know Lestrade had a niece let alone any siblings.. he had the complete demeanor of an only-child... something was definitely off about the family. Something was definitely of about her. Her past.. Her expression gave him absolutely nothing to go off of, because she stayed as still and monotone as he usually did. Bloody curse this.. he didn't even know this girl and already she was making him more and more upset with each passing moment.

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, seeing his brother's anger building feverishly. Sherlock looked down at Mycroft, who stood from John's chair. "This is Juliet Avery. She works for a private policing force headquartered down in northern England.. she's helping on the case that I assume Greg has just told you about... sorry it's a bit short notice, but she absolutely insisted on staying here. She feels as though the two of you could become very good partners on the ca-"

"Mycroft I am not mute nor inanimate, I can most certainly speak for myself." she snapped at the other Holmes brother, who did not seem phased at all by her rude statement. Sherlock was a bit taken aback by the behavior, but nonetheless his feelings for her improved very slightly by how she spoke to Mycroft.

"Mister Holmes." she held out her hand for him to shake, which he took very hesitantly. As soon as his skin touched hers, it was if the entire world had somehow changed. He felt as though a bolt of electricity or energy had surged through his fingertips, but not out of affection.. but actually. It had actually felt like there was an energy within the palm of her hand that was swirling around in his own. He had never experienced anything like this before... it was something he was very unfamiliar with. Mycroft watched his brother's strange expressions, knowing very well that Sherlock was becoming more aware of how.. different.. Juliet was.

"Well, I will leave the two of you alone.. try to get along, yeah? We have a case that needs to be solved.." Mycroft gracefully bowed himself out of the room, leaving them to their thoughts and to better acquaint themselves. Sherlock took absolutely no time in beginning to interrogate her, but little did he know that she was no stone that was easily cracked.

"So, what department do you work for and why is my brother so interested in it?" he questioned, sitting down in his sofa. She only blinked, and raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you were smarter than that, Sherlock. I didn't expect you to honestly think that you could get information simply by asking. Figure it out, if you're as clever as I've been told." she took a seat where Mycroft was previously- in John's chair.

"I am clever, my dear. More clever than you can ever imagine." he smirked with a tone of arrogance, attempting to gain the upper hand. She only returned the smirk, something that had genuinely caught Sherlock off guard.

"My imagination is quite large, Sherlock. I know so many more things than you would even dare to think of. If you are so incredibly smart, then why does your mind draw a blank when you try to read me? It's not quite working for you is it?" she countered, causing Sherlock's blood to grow cold. How could she possibly know that he couldn't read her? It wasn't as if he was showing any signs of confusion or perplexity. He did his best to keep a straight face, but it was extremely difficult at this time.

"It isn't a matter of not being able to read you.. It's a matter of problem solving.. you underestimate me. I can figure out anything.. including you. It just might take me awhile." he told her, mentally cursing at himself for even responding to her. She smiled this time, but it wasn't genuine.. it was almost malicious or deceiving.

"You have fun with that. In the meantime, I'm going to unpack my things. I thank you for being so open minded about my staying here." She stood, grabbing her violin and bags. He pointed which door was to her bedroom, and she smiled as she opened the door. She glanced in, and then turned back to him. "And I would very much appreciate it if you didn't wander into my room.. preferably ever and under no circumstances." she smiled sweetly, completely throwing him for a loop. He blinked a few times in a confused manor.

"Why? Are you expecting to shoot up drugs every night or snort cocaine on your comforter?" he questioned, only half-heartedly sarcastically. She rolled her eyes.

"No of course not.. I don't do drugs. Or smoke. I just like my privacy, and I would just appreciate it if you would respect my wishes. It would be much easier for the both of us." she placed a hand on her hip, awaiting his reply. He nodded slowly.

"Yes, yes fine. I will not go in there. I have no interest in doing so, anyways." he snorted, attempting to sound convincing, but for some strange reason he felt as though she could see right through him, almost as if he were transparent.. which was exactly the obvious of how she was to him.. she was opaque, absolutely solid.. there was no way of telling anything about her past the obvious.. He stood up, walking towards his bedroom when she heard an almost whisper coming from the spare room.

"Cresco grandior." Sherlock heard her whisper, which confused him to no end. Was that latin? He closed his eyes quickly to think about the translation.

Cresco.. Crescendo... Grow, expand, enlarge... Grandior, Grandiose, Grand.. Big. Extravagant. What on earth?