A Study in Pink: Part One
She stood back, finding it easier to let him work with plenty of space, her back came to rest on the storage cases for the other cadavers in St. Bartholomew's Hospital Morgue.
"How fresh?" Sherlock asked Molly, a Pathologist at Bart's who had nothing short of a teenage infatuation of the man in front of her.
"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." If that was the woman's idea of small talk she might as well give up now. She sighed internally, this was all so dull.
"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." Sherlock's voice pulled her out of her mind ever so slightly. She felt herself grin as Molly went to get the fore mentioned tool.
"Any excuse to get the riding crop out for you isn't it, Sherlock?" He turned, registering her for the first time in about an hour, not that she minded that much, she was a big girl, and she could entertain herself.
"You're still here; I would have thought you had left by now."
"I'd be bored no matter what I was doing; at least if I'm within your proximity and I get into trouble I can say I'm working on a case." He tilted his head to the side regarding her slightly; sometimes she forgot that despite her age he was all rather new to this. He didn't say anything further as Molly returned with the riding crop. She resumed her pensive state, leaning against the wall.
-Break Line- POV Change - Break Line-
He was still unsure of what he was doing here, being lead through the corridors of Bart's – to the lab of all places – by his old class mate. John Watson followed Mike through a set of swinging double doors and was met by two people working. Well they were working, until they had entered.
The young girl (she couldn't have been more than sixteen, seventeen) looked up first, nodding at the both of them in acknowledgement, clearing her throat enough to disturb her colleague's – an older man, early to mid-thirties at a guess – concentration. He glanced up.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." The man asked quickly.
"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.
"I prefer to text." The other man supplied without looking up from whatever he was studying in the microscope, "Come take over for me will you? This should keep you busy, for a while at least."
He seemed to be talking to the teen, this was confirmed when she abandoned the work at her station without a word and sat on the stool her companion had just left in order to do what she had been asked.
John thought he caught the glimpse of a smirk on her face as Mike shook his head slightly, "Sorry, mate, mine's in my coat pocket."
Without hesitation John went to the back pocket of his jeans, fished out his phone and offered it to the other man, "Er, here. Use mine."
"Oh." He sounded happy enough as he took the phone from John's outstretched hand, "Thank you."
"John Watson is an old friend of mine." Mike clarified for the other two, as the girl stopped what she was doing in order to get a better look at John.
"Nice to meet you John," She turned to her partner after a brief pause and continued, "What do you think, Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"I'm sorry what?" John asked stunned.
"Where did you serve, Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asked.
John looked at Mike for any sort of tip off, but he got nothing more than a smug, knowing smile. Getting nothing from anyone he decided to answer the question, "Afghanistan, but how on earth…?" He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
A second young woman entered the room then, carrying a single coffee cup, "Ah, Molly, perfect thank you." Ignoring John for the moment the man took the cup and put it to his lips, turning away from Molly and back to the younger of the two women. She was still sat on her bar stool, observing the scene quietly instead of looking into the microscope like she was meant to.
"Are you sure I can't get you one?" John heard the second women ask the girl kindly.
"Thank you Molly, but no thank you." There was another pause. "You know the shade of lipstick you were wearing, it was nice, it suited you."
It was the first time John had heard the young girl say anything substantial, there was something about her voice that was so sophisticated, far beyond the level of any other teen her age, but then he reasoned, what teen would elect to spend their time in a hospital lab?
"I don't know to be honest; I don't think it was working as well as I'd have liked it to." The woman called Molly stuttered, looking at the younger girl.
"Not at all. I agree. It looked good, for instance without it on your mouth looks too small now." The girl's comrade commented.
"Okay." Molly said quietly. John felt quiet bad for the young woman as she turned tail and left the room dejected.
The remaining girl sighed, "Do you remember what I told you about at least trying to be nice to her?" John looked back over at Mike, a disbelieving huff escaping his throat, she sounded like a mother scolding her young child.
"I'm working; as are you, there shouldn't be time for 'nice'." She sighed again, rolling her eyes before looking right at John and apologising to him.
"I'm sorry about him," She rolled her eyes, "and he's meant to be the guardian of the relationship, would you believe?" So that was it, she wasn't an intern; she was in fact related to this man.
Disregarding the girls comment entirely the man asked off handily, "The violin, does it bother you?"
Realising that the man was in fact talking to him, John asked, "Sorry, what I don't…?"
"Him," The girl pointed to her relative, "playing the violin, would it bother you?" He found himself caught in her gaze as she focused intently on him, ice blue eyes boring into his.
"I play," The man tapped on the John's tiny phone keyboard, "especially when I'm thinking. We can both also become very reclusive, not speak to anyone for days on end. Would this be a problem for you? I feel it's important to get a person's flaws out into the open quiet quickly, especially if we'll all be living together as flatmates."
"You," John paused, looking back at Mike in wonder, "you told them about me?"
"Not a word." Mike chuckled honestly, that knowing smirk was back.
The man walked towards the doors, putting on a grey military style coat as the girl slid off her bar stool, grabbed her coat that had laid nearby - a fifties style beige detective coat – put it on and pulled her hair out from underneath the collar, her brown wavy locks swinging frantically as a result.
"I told Mike this morning that I – we – but primarily I, must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an 'old friend', clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan."
"In other words, it wasn't that difficult a leap to make." The girl concluded to the room at large as she headed toward the rooms only exit.
"How did you know about Afghanistan though?" They both ignored his question as the man focused intently on the phone, typing something again. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it, ideal for the three of us, just the right size." He went to make a quick exit when the girl scoffed.
"You left the riding crop in the morgue again, didn't you?"
He waved his hand causally in response, "Semantics."
"You did, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Oh gosh…"
"Regardless!" He pressed on; stepping towards John, brushing past the girl to do so. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. The flat, I mean."
John shook himself slightly awakening from his daze, "Wow, no, hold on, what? I've only just met you both and now we're looking at flats together?"
"Is that a problem for you?" The girl asked, to his utter astonishment John found himself smiling.
"Sorry, not to be rude or anything, but the three of us don't know each other, I don't know where we're meeting… I don't even know your names!"
The other man's eyes narrowed slightly and the girl was smirking again as the man said, "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."
John sifted his weight awkwardly, "All in all," finished the girl, "I think that's enough to be getting on with for now." They both walk out of the door without another word, only for the man to back track into the room a few seconds later.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes," He waved his hand in the direction of the teenager, "my niece-"
"Scarlett Holmes." The girl – Scarlett – gave him a nod.
"–and the address you're looking for is Two-Two-One-B Baker Street." Sherlock finished.
"Have a good afternoon!" Scarlett called through the swinging door as she too walked through them, following the man called Sherlock. The door finally halted again and John looked back at Mike, feeling shell-shocked, a term, considering his history, he didn't use lightly.
"Yeah, they're always like that." Mike said with a grin.
-Break Line- POV Change - Break Line-
"Well, I think this is going to go well, I like him at any rate." Scarlett found herself saying to Sherlock as they turned into Baker Street.
"Yes I do too. He's Ex-Army; he'll need something to give him that rush of adrenaline. He won't be able to cope with civilian life that well otherwise."
Sherlock then leant forward in his seat poking his head out of the window of the cab as they approached the flat in Baker Street. Getting out she heard him say hello, presumably to John.
"I'll pay then." She said as she too exited the cab, righting himself Sherlock turned back, and paid the cabbie.
"Hi, John." She ran her slim fingers through her fringe pulling it back over her head to remove it from her pale, sharp featured face. "Gland you could make it." She stepped forward, shaking his hand.
"Ah, Scarlett," He took her hand in his; she noted he had a firm grip. He let go and shook Sherlock's hand, "Mr Holmes."
"Please, call me Sherlock." Sherlock insisted as they all walked towards the door.
"It looks expensive, and it is being right in the heart of London," Sherlock continued, "but the landlady, Mrs Hudson, she owes me a favour. Her husband was on a murder charge a few years ago in America, I leant a hand."
John looked amazed, "You saved him?"
"No, he secured his sentence," Scarlett found herself saying, she turned back to Sherlock, "one day you'll have to tell me about that case fully."
"When you're older." He promised.
"I'm nearly eighteen, Sherlock."
"Nearly but not quiet, so you're still seventeen." Sherlock replied evenly.
She repeated what Sherlock had said earlier with a wave of her hand, "Semantics." She caught John looking and smiled.
The front door to the apartment opened to reveal a middle aged woman, "Sherlock, Scarlett!" She walked forward and embraced them both briefly.
"Dr John Watson met Mrs Hudson, our landlady." Sherlock introduced the pair.
"How do?" John walked forward and shook her hand, she smiled happily.
"Let's get you all in then." And they all followed her into the apartment and up the stairs.
When the door to the apartment was opened Scarlett went right ahead and sat herself down in her chair by the window. She took the time to watch John look around, "Very nice," He said, "very nice I think it could work. Once we de-clutter the place."
"This is our stuff John, we already moved in." Scarlett revealed.
"Oh..."
"Indeed." Sherlock, she could tell by the look on his face, was trying to figure out what John thought what was wrong with the apartment.
"What's that?" John asked quickly in an attempt bypass any awkwardness in the room. He was pointing to the skull on the mantel piece with his stick while Sherlock skewered a letter with a knife to said mantel piece.
"A friend, well, I say a friend..." Sherlock trailed off.
"Right."
"Well Doctor Watson, what do you think? Scarlett's got the bedroom upstairs, there's a box room up there as well if you'll need it."
"Actually Mrs Hudson, I'll be taking the box room, John can have the bedroom. I don't need that much space." She knew that Mrs Hudson had mistakenly taken Sherlock and John for a couple.
"Either way," Mrs Hudson continued, "I don't mind, next door is renting out to married ones."
Scarlett shook her head in silent laughter at the openness of the woman. Her amusement only increased when she spotted Sherlock's vain attempt at cleaning the apartment in an attempt to appease John.
The older woman went to clean the kitchen after Sherlock had part way destroyed it the night before. She gestured to one of the chairs next to her, inviting John to sit, which he did after fluffing one of the cushions.
"So… I looked you both up last night… found your website, 'The Science of Deduction'."
"What did you think?" She asked John at the same time as Sherlock. They both gave him their full attention, eager to hear what he thought. She and Sherlock were very proud of the site, it had taken a while to prefect, neither of them liked messing around, both preferring to get straight to the point.
He looked doubtful and her face instantly fell, wondering where they had gone wrong. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."
"That's right. We could also read your military career in your face and leg, and what else?" Sherlock looked expectantly at Scarlett; he did so like to test her...
"And you're brother's drinking habits by the state of your phone." Scarlett concluded.
Before anymore could be said on the matter Mrs Hudson returned from the kitchen, starting to talk about three similar suicides that she thought Sherlock and Scarlett would be interested in. Which of course they were, but no one had consulted them yet. Well she said yet.
Scarlett happened to look out of the window at that moment and, spotting a police car she announced to the room at large, "There's been a fourth, but something's different this time."
Just then a D.I Lestrade walked into the room, obviously in a hurry, "Where?" Sherlock demanded of the man impatiently.
He instantly replied. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?"
Scarlett looked at the Detective Inspector seriously, "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get us if there wasn't something different."
"You know how they never leave notes?" Sherlock and Scarlett both nodded, momentarily forgetting everyone else in the room.
"Yeah."
"Of course."
"Well, this one did. Are you in?" There was a pause in which Sherlock considered the invitation.
"Who's on forensics?"
"It's Anderson." Lestrade answered Sherlock's question, he clearly didn't like that however and she caught him visibly grimace, she had to admit Anderson wasn't her favourite person either. "He won't work with me though, and I need an assistant."
"I'm right over here you know." She usually went on cases with Sherlock anyway, and she was anything short of his assistant, she was his understudy. Scarlett knew when he said assistant he meant someone of 'average' intelligence.
"You know that's not what I meant. We'll be there; we'll follow in a cab." Happy with this Lestrade nodded and walked down the stairs and out of the apartment.
"Finally!" Scarlett exclaimed as she jumped from her seat and grabbed her coat.
"I know!" She laughed as Sherlock actually jumped around on the spot and punched the air. "Four serial suicides and now a note! It's Christmas!"
"I'm guessing we'll be out late?"
"Of course, now come. John, you stay here, keep your feet up, have some tea, maybe a biscuit. I'm sure Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind making you one. Don't wait up!"
"I'm not your house keeper dear!" Mrs Hudson protested.
They both dashed out of the apartment, racing to reach the front door first in excitement. "He's not staying is he?" She asked disbelievingly as they got outside and stood by the curb.
"He better not be, hold on." She watched Sherlock dash back into the building. Only for him to reappear with John a few short minutes later. She yelled for a taxi, the adrenaline already taking hold of her system.
The three of them climbed into the cab while Scarlett gave the address, she sat opposite Sherlock on one of the fold down chairs. "Okay John, you've got questions I'm guessing." She asked after she deemed the ex-army doctor to have been looking out of the window for too long. She was far too impatient for her own good sometimes.
"Yeah a few now you mention it, the first being where are we going?" He looked at her and then at Sherlock.
"Crime scene. Next?" Sherlock replied.
"Okay, who are you? What do you do?"
"What do you think we do John?" Sherlock asked already sounding bored.
"I want to say private detective..."
"But..?" He pressed.
"But the police don't go to…"
"Private detectives?" She cut in; slightly irritated that he wasn't picking this up quickly, "No, you're right. Sherlock is not a private detective; he's not the police either, obviously." Scarlett finished.
"I'm a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job. Scarlett here is my understudy." Sherlock supplied in way of explanation.
"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult Sherlock and I tag along." She smiled, satisfied before looking out of the window.
"The police don't consult amateurs though." John stated bluntly. Scarlett couldn't help but be offended by this comment and she turned back from the window and glared at him.
"When I first met you yesterday I couldn't decide between Afghanistan and Iraq, when I asked you, you looked shocked." She told him tersely.
"How did you know?" John asked, puzzled.
"She didn't know, John, she noticed. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room gave the impression that you had previously worked at Bart's. So Army doctor then."
"You're tanned, you're face and hands at least, but when you passed Sherlock your phone your shirt sleeve shifted, revealing that you have a tan line. You've recently been abroad, but not on holiday, you were constantly covered." Scarlett continued.
"A bad limp that you forget about when you stop walking has to be partly psychosomatic at least. Meaning the original circumstance of your injury was – obviously – traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." Sherlock concluded finally.
"You knew I have a therapist." John finally said, slightly stunned.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist." Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Then there's your brother."
"Hmm? What about him?" John asked curiously.
Scarlett reached out her hand towards John, "Your phone, may I?"
"Uh, yes, yeah sure." He handed it over quickly, clearly keen to observe more consulting work.
"Expensive, e-mail enabled, built in MP3 player – music choice could be better, the brother's I'm guessing? I doubt you would have changed any of it – and yet you're looking for a flat share? No, this was a gift then; you wouldn't waste your money on this in any other circumstance."
She handed the phone to Sherlock who took it, examining the charger port quickly as well as giving the phone a general once over. "Lots of scratches, all over, kept in a pocket with change and keys then. If you had paid out for such a phone you would have been sure to take better care of it. This indicates a previous owner. We know it's your brother because…"
He flipped the phone over to reveal the engraving:
Harry Watson
From Clara
xxx
"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone." Scarlett picked up from where Sherlock had left off. "Not your father, this is a young man's phone. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not ones you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses - romantic attachment then. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away."
Sherlock carried on, "If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" The doctor asked more than a little bewildered.
Sherlock smiled happily as he handed John the phone back, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuffs marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them."
"See you were right. The police don't consult amateurs." Scarlett said, feeling impassive.
"That was… amazing!" He exclaimed after a momentary pause in which she and Sherlock watched him nervously, their face simultaneously turned to one of surprise.
"Not, not many people say that." Scarlett said taken aback.
"No? What do they normally say?" John asked looking at her again.
Sherlock, who was now looking out of the window, replied for her, "Piss off!"
They all sit there for a moment grinning before John relaxed back into his seat asked the question she'd been waiting for. People always asked it in the end:
"So… What's the story behind you two then, you're his niece, I got that…"
"I'm not his niece." Scarlett interrupted, "We just tell people that, it's easier. I mean we already look alike so, you know if the shoe fits."
"So who…?"
"She's my daughter, John."
"D-daughter?!" The doctor spluttered.
"Adopted, of course." Scarlett tagged on quickly, she could see him trying to count the years back and that he was clearly finding it difficult to wrap his head around.
"Of course." He said stunned and clearly just as confused as before, if not more.
The cab arrived at Brixton, stopping in front of a building with a couple of cop cars.
"Just out of curiosity, did we miss anything?" Sherlock questioned John as he got out of the cab, "I always get it right but there's always a snag, something I miss."
"You did miss something, Harry. Short for Harriet."
Sherlock stopped so suddenly that Scarlett actually walked into his back as she headed toward the building, "Sister!" He shouted annoyed.
"Never mind, Sherlock, you can't get them all." She comforted her mentor earnestly.
He turned to her, "His sister, though!" He cried flailing his hands around reminding her of a child having a hissy fit.
"I know, I know." She said, patting his back and walking towards the police tap, "Come on then, John."
Sergeant Donovan was there to greet them and she didn't bother to hide her grimace. Sally Donovan couldn't stand either her or Sherlock and the woman's low I.Q meant that Scarlett rarely spoke to her directly on the grounds that she didn't want to be constantly irritated. This didn't stop Donovan calling her childish names and poking fun at her every opportunity she got however.
Very mature for a woman in her mid-twenties to be making fun of a late teenager. She often thought to herself, although she would always be content in the knowledge that she held the high ground.
"Hello freaks." She emphasised the S at the end of her sentence.
"The three of us are here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Said Sherlock shortly, he too had little patience with the woman.
"Why?" She knew why, she was just being awkward.
"I think he wants us to look at a crimey scene." Scarlett replied in a deliberately slow baby voice.
"You know what I think, don't you?" She asked as the three of them ducked under the tape albeit if John did so cautiously.
"Regrettably yes, Donovan." Scarlett called over her shoulder.
"I like the fact that you didn't go home last night. With Anderson again were you? It can't be that much longer until his wife gets back surely." Sherlock questioned, she didn't need to turn around to see the look of shock of the other woman's face she knew would be there.
Scarlett couldn't help herself, "And your knees Sally! Did you scrub his floors as well last night?"
The three of them entered the house, Scarlett rather smugly she had to admit, heading up to the crime scene while John put on one of those ridiculous plastic suits with the blue shoe coverings.
Once they were upstairs Lestrade looked at Scarlett, who was closest to him and then back over her head to Sherlock, "Two minutes, that's all I can give you."
"I need more, I'm meant to be teaching, how can I teach under such time pressure?" Sherlock almost sounded like he was sulking which made her smile.
"You're not teaching me." She said shortly, "I don't need teaching, I know most of it."
"Surprisingly most of you generation seem to think so, they are of course in fact wrong." He stated matter of faculty but in a slight sing-song tone that made her shake her head in amusement.
Scarlett looked at him blankly, getting ready to open the door to the apartment, "I'm not like most of my generation though, am I?"
"No," A genuine smile crossed over his features, one she rarely saw. "You're not... And I wasn't actually talking about you." He continued after a second as she opened the door to the room they were stood outside, "Come on John."
They all walked into the room as Lestrade filled them in, "Jennifer Wilson. Trying to get contact details for relatives through her credit cards. Some kids on the property found her, she hasn't been here long."
John was standing on the outskirts leaning on his stick but not complaining. She scanned the room, it was completely bare, and no one could have lived here prior to this woman's death. She was careful not to trip on the wires that trailed behind the portable lights set up by the workers as she went to lean on the scaffolding that held the roof up in several places.
The woman she observed - lying face down- wore practically all pink, a heavy coat, weighed down by rain, pink heels, sheer tights, immaculately done nails bar two, her fore and middle finger are both chipped and broken from where she had carved something into the floor. The message:
'Rache'
"Shut up." Sherlock shushed everyone, although no one had spoken.
Jumping slightly Lestrade said, "But we didn't say anything."
"Your thoughts alone are enough to put me off."
"Charming." John scoffed, Sherlock ignored him.
"Scarlett, come here." She did as she was told leaning down, automatically running her hands over the woman's coat, confirming it was in fact rain that covered her.
She left Sherlock to figure out 'Rache' - German for 'revenge' she knew, but that wasn't significant, a dying woman wouldn't waste precious time by writing that. She felt down the woman's body, pulling a beige umbrella from her pocket:
Dry.
She was in enough rain to get her soaked, to windy to use her umbrella perhaps? She wasn't soaked all the way through though, her blouse was still dry meaning at some point she had got in a car. Seeing as there hadn't been any rain in London for almost an entire day she must have been travelling to London from somewhere else. This was confirmed by the splash back on her right leg:
Travel bag with wheels, enough for one night.
She reached for the wedding and engagement rings on the woman's left hand just as Sherlock reached it with his magnifier, they both studied the mental bands. In contrast to the rest of her jewellery the outside was dirty. They both look at each other over the body, each knowing the other had the answer. This answer was only conformed when Sherlock worked the wedding band off of her finger and revealed the inside of the ring:
Clean.
Serial adulterer.
They smiled at each other.
"Got anything?" Lestrade questioned, almost desperate.
Scarlett stood up and smiled at him; she tipped her head slightly, "Not much."
She walked back over towards John and stood still as Sherlock got up and began typing on his phone.
"She's German. 'Rache' is revenge in German; I think she's trying to say some..." Anderson was saying until Sherlock gave her 'the signal'. She strolled casually across the remaining length of the room and slammed the door in his face.
"Better." Sherlock acknowledged.
"I think so."
"So she is German then?" Lestrade asked, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, not sure what to do with himself. Sherlock slid his phone away, satisfied with whatever he had found.
"No of course not." Sherlock said shortly, "She's from out of town though, staying for the night before going home to Cardiff..."
Scarlett scoffed at herself for not spotting it earlier, "It's obvious."
"Sorry," John said confused, "obvious?"
"Hmmm... Yes." She pressed her lips together, sucking on them slightly, creating a thin, tight line.
"The message though?" Lestrade pressed, "That's the whole reason I brought you both in."
"And there's me thinking you did all this just so you'd have an excuse to see me." She looked at him and smiled, which he returned after a second.
"I can cope with you better than him." Lestrade shrugged.
"Still. In. Room." Sherlock grit out.
Scarlett looked back at Sherlock who was pacing, waiting for all attention to be on him. "We know." She commented nonchalantly.
"The message though?" Lestrade asked again, she noted that he sounded more than a little bit stressed.
"John, I need a medical man's opinion, what do you think?" Scarlett could tell John didn't want to intrude any more than he already had and she watched as he silently asked Lestrade for permission.
"I'm breaking every rule letting the three of you in here, so go ahead, two minutes." She felt a tiny little bit guilty as Lestrade waited inside the rooms door frame.
"Because you need me." Sherlock stated simply.
"God help me yes I do." He looked around helplessly.
"Doctor Watson, you heard the man, two minutes. You should get looking." Scarlett gestured down at the dead women.
She watched him lower himself painfully down on the one knee, now level with Sherlock she heard him whisper, "What am I doing here?"
"Helping us make a point."
"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent." John replied.
"Yeah, well, this is more fun."
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead!" John stressed.
She decided to leave them too it. She left quietly, sliding passed Lestrade who was waiting in the corridor, "Done already?" He sounded surprised.
"In a manner of speaking, yeah. See you soon, Lestrade."
"Yeah, see you Scarlett."
As she was leaving the house she made a point of asking those working on the property whether anyone had picked up a suitcase, she made an educated guess in saying it was most likely to be pink. No one had seen such a case, which frustrated her to no end.
She got out her phone and began texting:
'Working in Brixton, potential serial killer. Think he drove her here in a car. Victim left suitcase in vehicle. Suitcase missing, disposed of. Check all skips and bins in alley ways big enough a car in within a mile radius. Stay in touch.
Sc. Holmes'
She sent the message knowing it would get to the top three in the homeless network, who Sherlock had supplied with pay-as-you-go phones; she also knew that they would get the word out like wild fire.
She kept her phone in her hand as she ducked back under the police tap and came face-to-face with Donovan.
"Well if it isn't mini freak. Running from a crime scene are we? Not like you." She said nastily, she sounded like a spoiled ten-year-old jealous of another child.
"Not running, expanding the crime scene, seeing as you are too incompetent to search for a vital piece of evidence it's left to us." She added over her shoulder as she walked away, "Have fun scrubbing Anderson's floor again tonight."
She left a gob-smacked Donovan behind as she walked down the darkening street. Before she put the phone away she typed:
'All eyes out for the case, 1 mile radius, possible increase if nothing is found.
Sc. Holmes'
She hit send and knowing Sherlock would receive and read it in under a minute she began her own hunt for this mysterious disappearing case.
Her heeled ankle boots hit the dampening pavement with rhythmic clicks as she followed her charted course of all the back alleys in the Brixton area.
Having no luck as of yet in the search for the missing case Scarlett was deliberating whether to return to Baker Street when the public telephone she was just passing started to ring. She rolled her eyes, knowing that despite the late hour it was for her. She knew every phone like it she passed would ring until she answered one. So she just got it out of the way, walked into the booth and answered.
"What?"
A black, sleek car rolled up behind her, stopped on the pavement and waited for her with an open door.
"I could just walk away you know."
"You won't though will you." The male voice replied. Scarlett hated the fact that it was a statement and not a question. When she stood there smirking at the open car door, unmoving he got stern.
"Get. In."
Hi!
I'd like to welcome you to my new Fanfic! A Sherlock Series One Rewrite. Sadly, I don't own the show I do own Scarlett though. I would just like to point out that this Fic would not have been possible without 'ArianeDevere' over at Live Journal who has dedicated a lot of time to transcribe ALL the Sherlock episodes. I really wouldn't have the patients!
Anyway, please tell me what you think, I have the entire first season ready to be published so if you want me to continue comment and let me know!
Thanks for reading,
HH