Hello all, this is my first published fic, at least part of it anyway. I do hope any and all who real like it and if you could leave reviews that would be much appreciated. There will eventually be Johnlock, just you wait ;)

"Beautiful…just beautiful."
"Sorry, what? Beautiful?"
"Yes John, beautiful. Brilliant. Marvellous. Don't you see?" Sherlock was bent almost adoringly over the recently deceased woman, who looked somewhat familiar. How could a half-naked corpse sprawled out in a car park with no signs of injury ever be beautiful? Depends what you like I suppose.
"Oh I always see but never observe, remember?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at his companion and hauled himself off the ground and turned swiftly to face Lestrade.
"Anything?"
"Of course, why else would I be here?" The heavy sighs resonated off the concrete walls, "What? What did I say this time?"
"Sherlock, it's what you didn't say you utter bell-"
"From what we can see there is no visible physical trauma that could've resulted in her death, but there is slight bruising around her wrists, meaning that she was obviously forced. However by the look of them they occurred after her death, so she was killed, then moved to a random location where friends and relatives wouldn't go to look for her…including her lover. She was on the way to visit her lover."
"And how did you get that?" Lestrade scoffed and folded his arms across his chest, growing tired of Sherlock's showing-off.
"Very rarely will you find a female wearing lace underwear, matching, without them going to visit someone with a promise of…certain relations. We can eliminate the possibility of her cheating on her boyfriend due to the fact that she has an engagement ring, and an expensive one at that. Engaged for a while, given by how long the indent on her ring finger stays present when the ring is removed. Usually jewellery worn for that long would tarnish but she has obviously given it a lot of care and attention given by how polished it is and the residue left on her fingers. So, she was on the way to her fiancé, but was assaulted and killed. Oh but she was a fighter this one. Her nails, manicured at least once a fortnight, however a few nails have been damaged and even ripped off. She was fighting back, holding on to something, and the bloody residue and…oak? Underneath her nails suggest she was scratching at her attacker, and holding onto something wooden that was being taken from her. These are the only signs of an assault that are outwardly visible, so the only way she could've been damaged is internal. She was drugged. She had something valuable, personal. Probably something to do with her fiancé. To find our killer we need to find her fiancé."
"Amazing…" John muttered. No matter how many times John accompanied Sherlock on these cases, his improbable intelligence never ceased to amaze and bewilder him.
"Uh, yes John, thank you for your input," Sherlock nodded and smiled briefly at him before turning again to face Lestrade, "you know where to find me." The formidable detective strutted away from the scene, painted with a fairly smug expression that was hidden from everyone else, leaving his flatmate to try and catch up with his long, confident strides.

The atmosphere at Baker Street was, in a word, gauche. John had reclined to his armchair and Sherlock to his. The silence was almost too tangible to bear, despite there almost always being some sort of comfortable silence, on this occasion it seemed to be unwarranted. John had a few questions concerning the dead woman, and Sherlock was aware of this. However he refused to speak, both of them. There was something different about this case, it appeared to be somehow. There wasn't a question of whether or not Sherlock could solve it, everyone knows that he is more than capable. So what was it? The painful silence was soon broken by Sherlock plucking a soft melody on his violin. John sighed and decided that this would be a good moment to begin a new blog entry, seeing as the sound of him typing wouldn't disturb either of them any more than the persistent string-picking.

A Lonely Fiancée

For a few days everything at Baker Street has been quiet, everything of course but Sherlock. For days no cases above a level "6" had come a cropper so I've had to endure hours upon hours on intelligible mumbling and pacing back and forth. Thankfully all of this changed when our favourite Detective Inspector-

"Lestrade"
"Sorry?" John looked up to see his flatmate standing by the window, his brow was furrowed; something was up.
"Lestrade. He's found something. Or not, judging by his facial expression." He sits back down on his chair and waits for the detective (if you could call him that) inspector's heavy footsteps on the stairs after Mrs Hudson lets him in. John looks over and smiles at him as he enters the room, and stands up to greet him.
"Greg, how can we help?" They shake hands, and Lestrade remains standing, presumably to wait for Sherlock's attention.
"Who's Greg?"
"His name is Greg, Sherlock how many times?" The consulting detective looks up at the two men, confused. A second later he waves by his ear as if throwing away the name like everything else he deems useless. He rises to his feet, brushes himself off and walks over to join them, looking down on them all the while. Does he have to always do that…John ponders, as he does often.
"So, what is it?"
"Her fiancé,"
"Oh, you've found him?" He raises his eyebrows in surprise, an expression rarely seen in Sherlock.
"No, there isn't one. You were wrong."