"Don't worry, he'll be able to figure it," Greg Lestrade tried to calm a near hysterical girl, as he drove a little bit faster than was probably necessary. Nearly an hour ago he'd found her wandering the streets, a crazed look in her eye. Greg had stopped her, for he thought she was under the influence. It was dark, and a young, beautiful girl did not need to be wandering the streets alone, especially if she was drunk or high.

It turned out, however, that she was neither. No, in fact, she was lost. Lost and confused. The girl had no recollection of who she was, whatsoever. She didn't know her name, her age, where she lived, if she had any living relatives. Nothing. Really, all the girl knew was that she'd woken up on the sidewalk, in front of a very fancy hotel.

"Look, we're here, it's going to be alright," he told her, hopping out of his car, the young girl following suit. She was of average height and had a full head of blonde hair. She had vibrant green eyes, and freckles lightly dusted her face and arms. It was hard to make out any more features than this on the girl, however, because of how dark it was out.

"I'm still confused. You're a detective, shouldn't you be investigating this?" Her voice was soft, yet commanding, although you couldn't really tell due to the panic laced in her words.

"Sherlock's well, he's something of a genius—don't tell him I said that, he'll never shut up, egotistical prat. I'll be working on your case, but it's tricky because we don't have anything to go on. He might be able to give us something."

"Right," she nodded, following Greg up the steps to 221B.

"Sherlock," Greg called out, knocking on the door, before just entering. "Oh, hello, John," he greeted the other man, who was currently sitting in his chair typing something on his blog. "This is, well...You see we don't know who this is. Where's Sherlock?"

"Here," a voiced announced from the kitchen, "What could you possibly need at this hour, Lestrade?" The other man asked, pretending to be irritated. Although, Sherlock didn't really care what time it was. A good case was a good case, whether it was one in the morning, or five in the evening, Sherlock didn't care.

Greg rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore Sherlock's comment. Guiding the girl to the couch, he sat down next to her. "I was driving home when I saw her," Greg told Sherlock, pointing at the girl.

"Yes, yes. You thought she was high or drunk, picked her up to make sure she didn't get receive unwanted male attention, why you brought her here is beyond me."

"I'm here because I'm none of those things," the girl finally spoke up, "I woke up a couple of hours ago on the sidewalk. I can't remember anything. I don't know my name. I don't know who I am. It's all gone. I can't remember anything."

"Nothing?" Sherlock inquired, softly.

"Nothing."

"Liar." Looking at the girl carefully, she seemed almost offended, he elaborated, "You remember something. What is it?"

The girl let out a sigh, "Alright, yes. I do remember something. I just...I figured it wasn't important to mention."

"Everything is important," John piped up, "Hell, what colour socks you were wearing could bust the whole case wide open." Truthfully, Sherlock did deduce and solve crimes with less than that to go on.

"Right," the girl eyed him, carefully, "I remember a man. He wasn't too tall, dark hair...I remember his eyes. They were brown. A normal colour, but they looked...So...Insane. From what I remember, he was. Certifiable. Completely off his rocker."

"Interesting," Sherlock commented, moving about the room, not even looking at the girl. "Do you remember a name?"

"You expect me to remember the name of some man, when I can't even remember my own?" She exclaimed, and all he did in return was look at her expectantly. "Yes, alright. I think it was something with a J. John, no. Jimmy. Hmm no. James. I think that's it. James. But I'm not sure."

Sherlock shared a look with John. James. It couldn't be...Could it? Shaking his head in thought, Sherlock stood on his chair, staring the girl down. "You seem to believe you're right. That's probably his name then. Was he well dressed? When you see him in your mind, is he wearing a nice suit?"

"Yes, actually. How'd you know that?"

John groaned, just what they needed. Just what they bloody needed. James Moriarty actually alive and kicking. Oh weren't they lucky. "Lestrade this case definitely interests me. I need you to get a picture of this girl. Scan her face in all the data bases. Until then, she can stay here."

"Sherlock, do you think that's wise?" Greg asked, not sure if he should leave this poor girl here. "She should probably get some medical attention. I don't know why I brought her here first, that was silly of me. You'll have to let me take her to the hospital first."

"No," Sherlock replied, firmly. "John's a doctor, he'll look over her."

"Sherlock, I have to insist-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "When you hear the name James, what comes to mind, Lestrade? Or maybe the name Jim might jog your memory." Sherlock stared intently at Lestrade, waiting for him to put two and two together.

"Wait. You don't think..."

"Yes, I do think. In fact, I'm quite positive. All evidence points to Jim. We can't let her go to a hospital. I don't know why she lived, but we can't risk having her disappear under our noses. John will look after her."

"Right. I can do that. Don't worry, Greg, she'll be fine. I'll take good care of her. You should get home," John convinced him, "I've got it all under control. If anything is questionable, I'll take her to a hospital, immediately. Trust us on this one."

"I can handle myself," the girl promised, not at all concerned with the idea of being left at 221B with virtual strangers. Suspicious,Sherlock thought.

"Fine. I'm not too chuffed about this, but fine. Just, Sherlock...Be nice," and with that, he waved goodbye to the girl, and exited 221B.

"Oh, excellent," Sherlock beamed, rubbing his hands together, "What fun." Sherlock's happiness was overtly obvious. In John's opinion, Sherlock really shouldn't be quite so happy to hear that James was back in action. No one should be happy to hear that, let alone excited. And that's exactly what Sherlock was, excited. The game was on. Sherlock loved the game, he didn't care who was murdered.

"Where did you say you woke up?" Sherlock inquired, picking up his violin.

"Outside of this really fancy hotel. It was called The Dorchester, if I remember correctly..." she pondered it for a moment, "Yes, definitely The Dorchester."

"That hotel is extravagant!" John exclaimed, "It's nearly 2,000 a night, if not more."

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock interjected, beginning to play his violin. Thinking then, John realized. He was too deep in thought to pay attention to whatever else John had to say, so he instead turned his attention to the girl.

"My name is John, by the way. In case you didn't catch it in all of this madness. And that's Sherlock," he smiled at her, trying to make her feel welcome, knowing that Sherlock would make it difficult enough. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, yes that would be lovely," she smiled at John sweetly, and followed him into the kitchen.

"We'll have to figure something out to call you," he realized out loud. "Pick a name for yourself."

She looked around the flat, and her eyes fell on a bunch of lilies that were currently occupying the table. John noticed that Sherlock had definitely been experimenting on them. "Lily," she announced after a brief moment.

John nodded, "That'll do nicely, and it will give us something to call you instead of just 'Hey, you.'"

"Is he going to be able to help me?" she asked, after they had settled at the table with their tea. Her eyes were on Sherlock, who was still playing the violin, in a world of his own.

"I think he should be able to clear some things up for you, yes. He can't, of course, bring your memory back. But he should be able to give you bits and pieces," John gave her a smile, "He wants to solve this case, especially since Moriarty's involved. You're insanely lucky. He might've not been interested if it weren't for that bit."

"Right. Moriarty? You think the man I mentioned is this Moriarty bloke?" she asked, curiously.

"I'm sure of it," Sherlock said, traipsing into the kitchen, "All evidence points toward it."