AN: Hi there! I don't own a speck of dust relating to Sherlock BBC. Reviews are really loved.

Finding a dead body isn't pleasant. Especially if it's six in the morning, your alarm clock is broken, and someone's been breaking into your apartment. Also, if you're alone and a stereotypical tall, dark, mysterious character appears right in front of you. But I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start from the beginning, and let's meet one Hanna Kent.

It was 4:29 A.M, and Hanna Kent was up. She'd been up for ten minutes already, her sharp and slightly translucent grey eyes watching the clock with the concentration of a hunter. She checked her watch on her wrist, or should I say, watches. Three watches were piled up on a slim wrist, all telling different times. Finally, the clock's green digital numbers flickered to 4:30. Hanna counted.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

She glanced at the clock. Her eyes narrowed. It was broken. It still told the correct time, she'd give the blasted thing that, but that wasn't the point. It was the alarm she wanted. Snarling quietly, Hanna flipped the clock on it's back and popped open the cover. Broken wires and unconnected cables snaked around the battery. After a moment, Hanna glanced at her door. She counted the locks.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five!

The sliding chain lock was swinging gently, while the others where all dead bolted. Again. This is the third time. I must really buy another lock. Hanna wasn't really bothered by the fact that probably someone broke into her flat and disconnected her alarm. It was the fact that they got away with it. She could care less that her clock was broken, or someone was trespassing on her property. It was more that Hanna couldn't pin who it was. And, the fact that he/she/it could get past her door. With a insolent huff, she began her day. It began with her bed.

With a throw of sheets that would have impressed a matador, Hanna removed all bedding from her mattress. In a regimented fashion, Hanna began tucking in the sheets, neatly. Within minutes, her bed was finished, hospital corners and all. After dressing, she unlocked her door.

Clockwise twist. Counterclockwise, then back. Combination: 24-09-45. Twist.

Finally, she reached the lock that was keeping her knowledge in jeopardy. Giving the inanimate object a glare, she strolled out the door, tried it, then after three flights of stairs, left the building.

Hanna was enjoying the weather in Central London. Foggy, cold, yet dry, it was a very good day in her book. She'd dressed suitably, as always. Dark navy jacket, straight black pants, and sturdy polished boots. Right at this moment, Hanna was making her way across 4 roads, 2 streets, and 5 alleyways to get to a very nice park. It didn't really count as a park, honestly, it was tiny patch of green nestled between Speedy's Sandwich Cafe and a tall, abandoned building. It was locked by a high, tall, and gothic wrought iron gate.

Extracting a simple lock pick from her pocket, Hanna approached the lock, and with a quick sideways glance, she fumbled with the lock until the lock clicked successfully.

"Aha! Result."

The gates creaked open, and Hanna slipped inside. It was then when she kicked something slightly squishy and definitely organic. Looking down, Hanna's pale hand flew to her mouth, holding in a sharp gasp. Quickly, a chain of thought flew through her head.

Do not breathe. Do not move. Look. Observe. Decomposition rate: little, body must have not been here for longer than two to three days. Victim: young male, Caucasian, young professional. No signs of blood or struggle.

After this rather...comforting chain of thought, Hanna closed her eyes. She felt paralyzed. Not by the body, but, really, by the possibility that the murderer might still be around. It was unlikely, her rational mind knew that, but some strange part of her that still dictated what little emotion left told her to run like a deer, just away, away, away. Hanna tried to think comforting thoughts.

If you know not the enemy and yourself, you win never win your battles. If you know the enemy but not yourself, you will win half your battles. If you know your enemy, and yourself, you will have victory in all your battles.

Swallowing hard, she fell towards the tall grass, hands and fingers splayed until she was at level with the corpse. Dark and wavy hair tumbled out of her jacket to meet the grassy lot. With a bare finger, she brushed the skin lightly. It was cold, the skin was 'gloving', or sloughing off with the touch of her hand.

Rigor mortis: none. Effects have worn of. Puts time of death at...

"Approximately two to three days ago, noting the rate of decomposition." drawled a lofty male voice.

Hana jumped up and put all force as she could into a sharp jab to a neck. Angrily, she pushed down the person the voice was coming from and, well, sat on the said person, wrapping hands tightly around a neck. Her breath forming steam puffs as her heart pounded furiously, Hanna began as calmly as she could.

"Who...who are you?"

The person, who now she realized was a man, looked at her with as much dignity he could manage, and after attempting to speak, he got a constrained windpipe for his trouble. Quickly releasing, Hanna's hands expertly grip the back of a neck.

The man greedily sucked in air, then gasped.

Idiot. Even a child knows that after a choking, your windpipe expands then quickly contracts before returning to normal size.

After allowing a few moments for the bastard to sputter, she tightened her grip.

"As I said before...who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes. And may I have the honour of knowing yours?"

The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

"Hanna Kent. Now, I would like to know why are you here, why did you sneak up around me, and by any chance have you been entering without my permission to my flat?"

Sherlock coughed once more, then began speaking, inserting as much contempt and arrogance as possible.

"Dead body, I couldn't resist. Another person looking at a dead body, I saw how you looked at it, no normal person would do that. And no, I have not been sneaking about your flat."

"Good. Now, I am going to let you get up. If you attempt to run, expect a sharp pain then an unexplainable memory loss."

"There's no need for threats."

"There is if you do not comply."

After a pause, Hanna slowly lifted herself up, and released her grip. Sherlock scoffed, and righted his jacket. His eyes narrowed as his looked sharply at her, then turned away, turning his attention to the body. Flipping the male around, the cause of death became obvious: more than ten deep stabs in the body where visible. His eyebrows drew together. Hanna spoke.

"There's no blood. None on the dirt, on the grass, or on the fence."

Sherlock ignored her. He quickly checked the inside of the male's arms. No puncture marks, in fact, it was impeccable. Drawing a phone for his long coat, he called.

"Found one. Two doors down. No blood. Multiple stab wounds. What? Why does he need to come? I won't work with him. Can't. With Sarah today. I'll find somebody."

Hanging up the phone, Sherlock muttered angrily. Hanna, however, had been watching him carefully. Glancing upwards, he looked at Hanna up and down.

"You'll do fine."

"Sorry, but what did you say?"

"You heard me perfectly well, and I know you heard Lestrade."

"What makes you so sure I will help you?"

Sherlock sighed with exaggerated patience. Hanna's eyes narrowed. She did not like others to treat her the way he was treating her.

"Do I have to spell it out for you? Obvious military training, lock picking case, a knife hidden in your pocket. You're desperate for anything interesting."

"Desperate? I have been called many things, but never desperate. And, I am sure you would not- wait, what was your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

Hanna grinned, a serpent mixed with a Machiavelli poker player.

"You will do fine, Mr Sherlock. You will do fine."