"Bored."

John sighed into his newspaper and answered distractedly, "Lestrade said that if anything came up, he would text, just be patient Sherlock."

"I don't want just any case, John," Sherlock rolled off the couch and gestured grandly at the air, "I need a case that would put my mind to good use, one that strains my mental capacities and demands my attention for more than a measly second or two."

"Right, right," John flipped a page, "You'll get one soon, Sherlock, just calm down."

"You don't understand, John," Sherlock shot at the wall, creating another hole for Mrs. Hudson scold him about.

"My god, Sherlock," John jumped up, "Is that my revolver?"

"Yes it is, John," he threw it without a second thought.

John fumbled as he caught the fire arm and complained, "Don't do that, you could end up killing someone."

"I might if it would rid me of this dreaded boredom."

Although John doubted that he would, such a joke wasn't funny from a self-proclaimed sociopath. Fortunately, a ring erupted from Sherlock's phone at that very moment.

"Look, that's probably Lestrade now."

Sherlock grabbed his coat after reading the message, "He wants us on-site now. Come on, John."

John grabbed his coat and phone, "Right behind you."

The crime scene was half an hour away, a fairly large house with neighbors far enough for the privacy each household paid for. The investigation team was swarming the house like fire ants, Lestrade was outside shouting commands. He nodded at the two as they got out the cabbie.

"Lestrade," Sherlock overtook the man in three long strides, "What do you have?"

"A rich couple found dead, both in separate rooms, no signs of a struggle, cause of death unknown, and a daughter who is taking the news remarkably well. The servants all leave around nine, no one hung around simply because there's was no reason to. The doors and windows were locked and no one had any keys except for the head servant and the family."

John asked sympathetically, "How old is the daughter?"

"Fourteen, according to the maids. We couldn't get her to answer any of our questions."

John and Sherlock glanced at each other before Sherlock stated, "First I'll have a look at the bodies and crime scene, then I'll talk to the daughter."

Lestrade snorted, "Good luck with both, Anderson couldn't do a thing and the daughter may grow up to be as odd as you are, Sherlock."

Sherlock and John's eyes met again before they entered the house. The house was just like the outside, mildly luxuriant yet lacking any real life in it. There were artwork and vases of flowers laying around the hallway like nondescript ornaments despite the skill behind the craft. They dodged a few of Lestrade's men as they made their way to the scene of the first murder, the study.

Here, the dead wife was still sitting in the same chair where she had been killed, across from her husband's desk. The plump woman was white as a sheet with her fingers laying stiff on her lap. She had been wearing an ivory dress that night with a cotton brown sweater and stockings but no shoes. Her finger nails were newly manicured into a simple French tip and her feet matched. No jewelry whatsoever.

He and Watson took the time to put on gloves before walking in and Sherlock asked, "Where was the husband found?"

Anderson glared from the wall as he watched Holmes inspect the crime scene, "he was found in the garage, in his car."

"What was the time period between deaths?"

"There was a thirty second difference."

Sherlock inspected the body silently, his gaze becoming more intent by the second. He looked over the desk, chair and windows, his eyes cutting and pasting every detail into his mental records then analyzing. Abruptly, he left the room, barking for Lestrade to guide him to the garage. Watson tossed a final glance at the woman before following suit. It was rare for Sherlock to not take samples immediately.

The same happened at the garage. Sherlock didn't take a single sample, rather, he inspected the place wordlessly.

He asked Anderson urgently, "Did you take blood samples?"

Anderson nodded.

"Good, let me know the results. Where is the daughter?"

Lestrade answered, "She's in front yard."

Sherlock left the room without a word of thanks and strode through the house to the front yard. Watson followed close after, his concern growing with Sherlock's silence.

The daughter, a brunette with thick-rimmed glasses and almost black eyes, was sitting on the shock blanket, reading a thick book with a fixed concentration. Her concentration didn't waver for a moment even when Sherlock greeted her in the most upbeat voice he could muster. He called a couple more times before Watson gave it a try.

He called gently, "Ms. Quinn?"

She slammed the book shut with a sigh, "So you are talking to me." She finally looked up but when she did, something in her facial expression shifted and a wry grin made its way up to her mouth. She stood, dropping the book on the blanket, and held out a hand, "If it isn't Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you."

She shook hands with the both of them, her eyes traveling as actively as Holmes's.

Hesitantly, Watson asked, "Could you hear Sherlock calling you?

She nodded, her smile not dimming a bit, "But there are so many occasions where someone is calling in my general direction, I've learned to ignore it until I'm addressed by name so as to not needlessly cease reading." She didn't apologize for ignoring them. "So," she addressed Sherlock, "Is there any new developments in the case, Mr. Holmes?"

He inspected her suspiciously before answering, "None that I care to share as of now. First, I would like to ask you a few questions."

"I have to ask you a question first," she smiled frivolously as her gaze shifted to Watson, "How possible is it for me to squat with you and Mr. Holmes until the killer is caught?"

Before Watson could register the question, Holmes stated firmly, "Absolutely not, it's impossible."

"Please, Mr. Holmes," her smile didn't change, "I don't want the murderers coming for me too."

Sherlock waved off her asserted worries, "If they really wanted to kill you then they would have last night."

Her smiled remained, "Please, Dr. Watson."

Watson paused thoughtfully before relenting, "Sure, you can stay with us."

"John," Sherlock exclaimed, scandalized, "I said no."

John sighed, "Sherlock, if there's anything I've learned from you, Moriarty, Ms. Adler and Mycroft, it's that there's always something we don't know."

"What could we possibly not know, oh," Sherlock froze and spun on his heels to point an accusing finger at Quinn, "You weren't here last night."

She turned her head away but a playful smile tingled on her lips, "I'm unable to deny that statement."

Sherlock frowned, "By why us? Isn't this something for witness protection? And why would you think that they would come back for you anyway?"

"I always sleep with my door closed at night," she explained, "But when I came back this morning, it was open. What do you make of that?"

"Perhaps your parents came to check on you or one of the servants," John offered.

"And not make a fuss when they see her missing?" Sherlock scoffed, "Don't be daft, John, she was also a target but when the murderers failed to find her in her bed, they withdrew for the night." There was a painful pause before he announced, "We have no choice but to keep you with us for the time being, in case they do come back for you."

"Really?" Her smile suddenly brightened, her eyes came alive behind her black glasses, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Now if you'd like, I could show you something that would help the investigation significantly." She spun around and fluttered away towards the house, leaving the Sherlock and Watson to follow, unsure of exactly who they were following.

She opened the door to her room and floated over to her desk. A pool of stray papers, notebooks and books laid across it, she pushed some of it away to get to her laptop underneath but while she did that, she said to Sherlock, "Why don't you examine my bed and see what you'll find there?"

Sherlock was already rotating around the floral blanket and at her prompt, tore the blanket off and dropped it on the ground. There, almost disappearing into a bundle of sheets made to look like a human, was a miniscule needle. Sherlock had tweezers and a bag out in a blink of the eye and extracted the needle with surgeon-like precision. Watson watched, fascinated.

Watson asked the girl, "How on earth did you see that?" then added as an afterthought, "Quinn."

"When I discovered my door open, I knew that something was wrong," She explained patiently, "I guess you can say I played a 'what's wrong with this picture' game with my room and found what was wrong. When I contributed that little tidbit to the fact that my parents are now dead, I figured it was more than an odd coincidence. You've seen their bodies, right? No blood or anything, right?" She was moving around the room, throwing things in a large pink and black school bag.

Watson answered the question with a quizzical, "You've seen the bodies?"

"Yes, I was there before the police were. After one of the maids found my mother, I came and gave her a brief inspection and I was the one who found my father. I figured they had gotten into an argument so he was leaving to find his mistress but was killed before he could even start the car. He never bothered with his mistress unless he was angry at mother."

"You must have not slept at all last night," Sherlock was looking at her oddly, "Yet you seem perfectly functional right now, why is that?"

"My sleeping pattern is not exactly set in stone, Mr. Holmes, I managed an hour or two while I was out last night so I should be perfectly fine for the rest of the day."

Watson asked, "Have you eaten?"

"I've had tea."

"Not tea, actual food."

"Not quite."

Watson chuckled, "No sleep, no food, a high-functioning mind, sounds oddly familiar, huh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned at him, "I'm sorry, John, I don't share the sentiment."

"You will after a few days of living with her. Do you play any instruments, Quinn?"

She returned to her desk and reached into a drawer and pulled out a long silver flute. "It helps me think when I play. You wouldn't mind if I brought it along?"

"Not if you can play well," Watson grinned at Sherlock who just rolled his eyes.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Please, call me John."