CHAPTER 1:

2 p.m., Wednesday

Tom and Ben, the grave-diggers at Highgate Cemetery, wiped their hands and faces in satisfaction. In December, the ground was harder than a witch's teat, and was always a bitch to dig, but the machine and the two-man crew got the job done.

It was sad business, burying someone just before Christmas.

The two men split the final bits of their chore; Tom, an older man of about sixty, drove the digger back up onto the lorry, while his grandson, Ben—a younger, ginger-haired lad of about twenty—checked the awning they'd erected over the gaping hole, and the braces for the casket. When the hole was covered by a tarp—which they'd roll away as the hearse arrived with the casket the following morning—they looked at each other, glad they could go back to the main building to get some hot coffee to warm up before their shift was over.

They felt sorry for the short, sandy-haired bloke standing military-style over a nearby grave; the flowers clutched in his hand appeared strangled. He looked cold.

ooooooooooooo

9 a.m., Thursday

Millicent MacGregor's family had planned a 10 a.m. graveside service.

Millie, as she had been affectionately known to her friends and loved ones, had gone missing just after Guy Fawkes Night. The family had put up flyers with her picture—a fair-haired girl with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose; her blue eyes shining brightly—and her mates helped in the search. Her parents had gone to the police, initially, but the officials believed she had run off with a secret boyfriend.

Her father said she was a good girl, studying Dentistry at Queen Mary; it was impossible that their daughter would just run off; she didn't even have a boyfriend!

Millie's friends contradicted this story slightly; Millie had snuck off to meet with someone twice before she disappeared. The police wondered if Millie was a drug user.

Her mother had cried on the telly, pleading for Millie to return, that whatever kind of trouble she was in, it would be all right and they would help her solve it.

But it was all for naught; Scotland Yard found Millie's body along a bank under the Southwark Bridge. She had been beaten around her face—and it was so bad, her right eye and six teeth were missing—sexually assaulted, and strangled, but there were several needle marks in her arm. This confirmed the police's suspicion; Millie was a user, probably prostituting herself for her next hit, and she was killed in a deal gone wrong.

Her parents blatantly refused to believe this; they felt their daughter had been kidnapped and killed, but without sufficient evidence—and the police's disinterest, since the body had now been found—there was nothing they could do.

So they buried their only daughter in Highgate Cemetery, beside her grandparents.

The casket arrived around 9 a.m., and the officials at the cemetery had a checklist to run through before allowing the casket to go to the grave. This took about twenty minutes; they had an excellent record of not mixing up bodies, and they weren't going to smudge that with one Millicent MacGregor.

Tom and Ben, the two grave-diggers who'd dug Millicent's final resting place, led the hearse over to the site. They went straight to the tarp, as the funeral home folks unloaded the casket. When they grasped one end to begin rolling it up, Ben stopped, a look of horror on his face. Tom noticed his grandson wasn't rolling in sync with him, and stopped, too, to look askance at him. Ben looked a bit green. He followed the lad's gaze down into the hole, and gasped, dropping the tarp with a great leap backward.

"Jay-sus Christ! WOT THE HELL?" Tom shouted in alarm.

The assistant to the funeral director ran over. "What's wrong?" he asked, worriedly.

Ben turned away and threw up in some nearby bushes. Tom pointed down into the hole. The third man peered in, and sighed heavily.

"Sir!" He called behind him. "We've got a problem."

The funeral director looked alarmed. "What kind?"

The assistant sighed again. "A dead female problem—and I don't mean Miss MacGregor. " He paused. "It's bad. Call Scotland Yard."

ooooooooooooo

11:45 a.m., Thursday

DI Greg Lestrade hadn't been home in nearly sixteen hours, and just wanted to crawl into bed. There were still three doughnuts left in the bakery box he'd picked up yesterday, and he wanted to finish them. Maybe he'd wash them down with a glass of brandy.

Even a good, strong coffee would be great, really; it sure beat standing around in a cold a graveyard, with a lousy cup of brew. The cemetery office had made a pot, but it was crap.

He looked over at Sgt. Donovan; her tired expression reflected his own. She was making sure the family that had gathered—for the funeral of the woman who was supposed to go in the hole—weren't crossing the yellow tape. It was proving difficult, because all ready two people had ducked under and tried to rush into get pictures. Who takes photos at a funeral? Lestrade thought with disgust.

He ordered Anderson to step aside for three minutes—because, really, wasn't it all Sherlock needed?—to give Donovan a hand. Anderson protested, of course; the forensic scientist had not quite completed his job and did not want Sherlock Holmes—who had just arrived, having received a text from the Detective Inspector—to muck up 'his' crime scene. Lestrade did not care one iota; Anderson would just have to get over it.

Sherlock Holmes's opinion, however odd it was, was important to DI Greg Lestrade—and his cases.

Doctor John Watson had been in tow, looking even more tired than Lestrade felt; Sherlock must have been keeping John awake with that blasted violin, again. Lestrade almost felt sorry for John; he extended his hand, and the Army doctor took it, nodding his head in greeting.

But Lestrade noticed that John's gaze strayed past his shoulder. He turned to see what John was looking at, but all Lestrade saw were a collection of headstones. "Everything okay?" he asked.

John's eyes shifted back to the Detective Inspector. "What? Oh, right. Yes. Fine."

"You're not going to tell me you saw a ghost, are you?" Lestrade joked, with a half smile.

"God, no!" John blanched.

Sherlock watched this exchange in silence, as he loomed over the hole and began inspecting the area. He needed to mentally collect all the clues at his disposal, before making a deduction.

When the Sherlock's silence stretched too long, DI Lestrade spoke up. "Her name is Carrie Gramble. Twenty-four. Lives in Hallfield. Waitress at the Lounge Bar at Thistle Hyde Park Hotel. Father lives in Newbury. Mother deceased. Sister lives in Cardiff," Lestrade rattled off. "Father reported her missing on Saturday. Miss Gramble has an ex-boyfriend, one Mark Johnston, who works at Billingsgate Market—and has a prior arrest record for distributing drugs. Miss Gramble also had no-contact order against him. She was last seen by co-workers on Friday."

She was naked, covered with bruises—one side of her face, the right side, was smashed in, the eye missing—with cigarette and match burns encompassing a large portion of her form. There was a very unusual mark on her hand, and she had rope burns around her neck and there were red patches on her wrists. Her hair had been savagely butchered, leaving dark brown roots with small patches of blonde ends, and her heart had been pierced once, but it went clean through to her back—but there was little to no blood around the wound.

Someone was obviously very angry with this woman—and had tortured her so horribly for it.

"Gotta say," Lestrade remarked, "that her facial injuries seem familiar; I remember a report DI Carter filed about a girl who washed up under the Southwark with the same damage to the right side of the face."

"Could they be related, then?" John asked. "What was the other girl's name?"

"MacGregor. Mary or Melissa, or something."

Sherlock whipped around to face Lestrade, his coat making a rustling sound. "Millicent MacGregor?"

"Yes, that's it."

"As in the Millicent MacGregor who should be in this grave?"

Lestrade gaped at him. "Of course, why didn't I—?" He walked away to talk to Donovan. Sherlock called out Lestrade he'd like to see the files. The Detective Inspector waved his hand and nodded his consent.

"He needs sleep," Sherlock remarked, watching Lestrade's retreating back. "He wouldn't have overlooked that fact, otherwise."

He turned back to the dead woman before him, leaning in to look at the victim's belongings, which had been folded neatly in a pile, and placed in the hole next to the body. A purple wallet lay on top, a name badge pinned to a white shirt, a black apron and skirt. Her sturdy black shoes had been wiped clean, but he turned them over anyway, and really inspected them. He wasn't disappointed; there was a very tiny white rock stuck in the tread of the right heel. He removed that and placed it in a plastic bag. Sherlock set them aside, and looked at the name badge. Something was stuck to it. It looked like two flecks of carpeting. He gingerly lifted one away and placed it in another plastic bag extracted from his overcoat.

"What do you have there?" John asked in a low tone, from behind him. Sherlock said nothing, taking out his camera and photographing the woman and her injuries. He peered closely at her head wound; there were some splinters embedded in the skin.

Sherlock took a few of them and bagged them up, too.

John looked over at Lestrade; one of his men had approached him and Donovan, and gestured to the crowd, who was supposed to be mourning, but now had turned angry. The funeral director, his assistant, Tom, Ben, and one of the people from the cemetery office were trying to calm the crowd of fifty, but it wasn't doing much good. One of Miss MacGregor's female family members had started shouting. The Detective Inspector made an annoyed noise and stalked off to where Anderson, and another officer were now dealing with the noisy MacGregor family members—and not well, either; Anderson had begun to raise his voice.

"Anderson's an idiot," Sherlock announced.

"Sherlock," came John's warning.

Sherlock held up the plastic bags. "Wood splinters and a piece of carpet." He stood up and showed John what he'd collected. "One from her head, and the other was stuck to her name badge."

"Which one came from her head?" John asked, feigning innocence. Sherlock gave him a look that clearly meant he was not amused. So he said: "Anderson's going to be quite put out that you found those so quickly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I left some for him, although I don't know why. Anderson's a moron and wouldn't be able to find a clue, even if that strange, blue puppy waved one in his face."

"Crap telly, again, Sherlock?" John snickered.

"Shut up, John." Sherlock ordered. He looked around at the ground surrounding the grave. He saw several set of footprints, after looking at the shoes of all the people standing around, he realized that all were accounted for. There were no footprints that didn't belong. He spun circles as he scanned the area; something wasn't right.

He found it then. There were scrape marks on the freshly-dug ground. Someone had taken a rake to the earth to cover their tracks. He scooped a little of the dirt into another little bag, and nodded to John. He stood up and strolled towards to Lestrade, who had now turned away from the crowd to catch Sherlock to get his opinion.

Sherlock did not waste any time summing up his findings.

"Her wrists were bound with duct tape, but there was a mark on her palm," he stated. "Electrical burn. There are no electric fences in this area. So, she was not murdered here in the cemetery. She had either walked—or had been dragged—across an area made up of crushed stone. I must do an analysis to determine what sort of stone it is: Possibly slate, limestone, quartz. The carpet fiber is similar in color and design that many builders have installed in new homes."

Lestrade nodded; when he and his wife had bought their house, they'd had to deal with some crap carpeting; it was soft, but it was hard to keep clean. His wife had it all removed—at several hundred quid, which really annoyed the DI—and replaced it with hardwood flooring.

"You know about carpet fibers, yet don't know the name of our Prime Minister," John snarked.

Sherlock glared at his friend, but continued. "Her hair was butchered off, but there are no traces of cut hair on the ground, the hole, or her clothes. The burns had been applied by two people; the pressure and size applied to them are not similar—and the circles are not of the same size. One of them had a cigar. She was beaten with a piece of wood. Her hair color isn't natural, obviously. She doesn't have any fish odors lingering in her hair or clothing, so I suspect she hasn't come into contact with the ex-boyfriend in quite some time, which means he has been abiding the no-contact order, and therefore didn't kill her. He has a history of peddling drugs and been missing for a while, so, the person—or people—he owed money to took the girl and tortured her for information on his whereabouts, then dumped her in the hole. Find the ex-boyfriend, and you may get the name of his dealer—and the murderer."

"Is that all?" Lestrade asked; he was still amazed at how much Sherlock could deduce from just a few minutes at a crime scene.

"For now," Sherlock put his magnifying glass—and the samples he'd collected—into his pocket, and looked at the doctor. "Don't forget about those files, Lestrade; I want to see them." He turned to his friend. "Come, John! Lots to do!" The two slipped under the yellow tape, evaded questions from reporters, and hailed a cab.

ooooooooooooo

7 p.m., Thursday

For many hours, the flat was silent. The only sounds came from the street below or the occasional tapping of keys as a computer was used, or clinking of glass as Sherlock fiddled with his kitchen lab equipment. He spent some time sitting very still, thinking, accessing his mind palace for information pertaining to the dead woman.

Lestrade was true to his word; he sent over the box of files on Millicent MacGregor via a courier to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had poured over them, as well as the photographs he'd taken of Miss Gramble and the crime scene.

John had gone out for milk, picked up some take-away from the Chinese restaurant down the street, and had tea with Mrs. Hudson. When he felt he had done everything that needed doing, he took this time to close his eyes. He was tired, not having a decent amount of sleep since Tuesday night.

He recalled what had happened:

Sherlock had returned from St. Bart's on Wednesday evening, his face in a pout and he'd flung himself onto the sofa and tapped his fingers angrily on the arm. He had sighed, rather loudly, three times before John chose to take the bait and look up from his computer to ask what was wrong.

"She brought a man in tonight," Sherlock had bit out distastefully.

John had looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry, who?"

"Molly."

Molly Hooper was the friendly pathologist at St. Bart's who often gave Sherlock the body parts he wanted for experiments; there were a bag of fingers and a container of eyeballs in their refrigerator as proof.

Sherlock had sounded put out. That had struck John as odd. "Oh, was she working on a cadaver?" John had asked.

"No." Sherlock growled.

Understanding was immediate. "Ah, a live one."

"Yes," Sherlock bit out. "His name is Jim." The name sounded as if it had left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth. "He works in IT. They thought it was so amusing that both had online profiles on the same dating site, so they got together for a meal in Saint Bart's cafeteria to discuss it and then had nerve to disturb me in the lab while keeping their conversation going."

"Oh. Well, good for her," John had said with a little smile.

Sherlock look disgusted. "No, it's not. He distracted her and she couldn't help me finish checking the skin samples from the case we worked on last week." He had crossed his arms moodily.

"You mean 'The Speckled Blonde'?" John had queried.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "No matter how many times you say it, it still sounds stupid, but, yes, that one." At this point, he kicked his shoes off and flung them across the room; they crashed into the table next to his chair, and knocked over an empty glass on top. He had slammed his feet on the low table in front of him, jarring the paperwork and magazines. John had sighed and rose from his seat to retrieve all the fallen objects. Even as he walked into the kitchen to drop the drinkware into the sink, Sherlock had rambled on.

"Molly was simpering and giggling… it was ridiculous, and grated my nerves. I had to do all the work alone." He had frowned even further.

"Imagine that." John had murmured as he sat down again.

Sherlock had huffed, obviously hearing, but continued. "She introduced him to me. I took one look at him, and told her he was gay. She took exception to this, but, for the life of me, I don't know why. He left, making some paltry excuse—and, god, there was more giggling. As soon as the door shut, she asked for an explanation." Sherlock had waved his hand dismissively. "As if one was required! Am I really the only one who really observes?"

John had shaken his head in disbelief. "I'm going to regret asking, but… what was wrong with the guy—besides him being a distraction to Molly and your work?"

Sherlock had wrinkled his face. "His clothes. The exposed underwear was the obvious first clue, then the color—neon, really? And the excessive hair product—"

"Hey, I wear hair product!" John had interjected, offended.

"Yes, but you wash your hair regularly, John," Sherlock had replied. "This Jim also left his phone number under a tray next to my elbow."

John had guffawed at this. "Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock's lips had pursed in distaste. "But did Molly thank me for sparing her from such ridiculousness? Oh, no," again, he made a disgusted face. "She scolded me—something about spoiling things and told me to get out of her lab!" Sherlock had stood up at this, and ripped his coat off, throwing it on the sofa. "I was only trying to save her from being embarrassed later!"

"Yeah, well, you went about it all wrong. That was not good, Sherlock. Not at all." John scolded.

"It wasn't?"

John had seen his friend's slight brow furrow; the genius was truly confused. "No, it really wasn't. Molly's a nice girl, and your words—while, technically, helpful—were out of line. Sometimes, people want to find out things on their own."

"That's stupid."

"That's called being human. Seems you've forgotten about that."

"Oh." Sherlock had looked away, suddenly looking very deflated.

And for the rest of the evening, Sherlock had said nothing. He had changed into his pyjamas and lay across the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin, for about an hour. Around 1 a.m., John had finished writing in his blog, downed the remainder his tea, and switched off the lights, leaving Sherlock in complete darkness.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John had said.

"Mmm," Sherlock had responded absently.

John had shuffled off to his bedroom upstairs, readied himself for bed, and had just laid his head on the pillow, when a few strands of music floated up the steps. Sherlock was playing his violin. It was a slow, sad melody, and John smiled in the darkness. Something was bothering Sherlock, and if John was a betting man, he would have placed money on it being Molly Hooper.

He had closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, but—suddenly, it seemed—he was awoken by a horrid screeching sound. He had leapt from his bed—an automatic reaction from his days as a soldier—ready to do battle. It had taken him a moment, but John realized it was Sherlock playing rather badly. His friend was frustrated.

John had looked at the clock. He had slept for only two hours!

"Dammit, Sherlock! Yes, you were thrown out of Bart's, but you don't need to torture the entire street!" John hollered down the stairs.

Sherlock had only increased the tempo. John had heard voices in the street below bellowing for Sherlock to knock it off, but everyone in the area knew it would do no good; Sherlock Holmes, once in a mood, took a very long time to come out of it.

John chuckled drowsily. Just before he drifted off, he wished Sherlock would just fire a gun at the wall when he was angry; at least he'd eventually run out of bullets.

ooooooooooooo

11 p.m., Thursday

The cab ride over to St. Bart's was amusing, in John's opinion—once he overlooked Sherlock's aggravating quirks.

"Sherlock," John began, "are you sure Molly will be okay with us just showing up?"

"She'll be fine." Sherlock said simply.

"You sound quite certain."

"Yes, I used your phone to text her; I asked her if I could come in and get some work done, and she said yes."

"YOU USED—?" John felt his eyes bulge out. "You're joking." He looked closely at Sherlock. "You aren't, are you? … Of course not." He took a calming breath before uttering the next sentence, as though speaking to a child. "Why did you use my phone?"

"I couldn't find mine at the time." Sherlock replied, as though it was so obvious.

"You do realize that Molly thought I was texting her?" John asked.

"The thought crossed my mind."

"That's low, even for you."

"I have to get into that lab, John," Sherlock stated. "I'm limited on what I can do in the flat, and have to run more tests on all the samples I collected from Miss Gramble."

"You should have just apologized to Molly," John said. "Tricking her is not good. She's going to think something bad about me, now, and we're both going to get tossed out."

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied. "She likes us; she simply displayed a chemical imbalance, two nights ago."

"You're an idiot."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Just forget it," John said, after a short pause to collect his thoughts.

"So, when were you going to tell me that you had been at the crime scene on Wednesday?" Sherlock asked, still not looking at John.

"What?"

"Of course, you didn't know it was going to be a crime scene at the time, but first, you went to Hyde Park to meet up with a woman for coffee and conversation. You invited her to the Christmas party, too. A bit too soon for that, in my opinion. Afterward, you picked up some flowers and went to Highgate to leave them at a Grace Watson's grave. Mother?"

"Grandmother," John replied automatically. Realization hit him and he sat up straighter in the seat. "Hang on," John said warily. "Did you follow me?"

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance before looking out the cab's window. "I was bored and decided to go out; it just happened to be the same route you took." Sherlock looked out the window, clearly bored again. "I had been wondering when you were going to tell me you'd been to Highgate."

"Well, I guess I didn't really need to, since you followed me."

"Mmm," Sherlock responded absently.

"Jeanette." John suddenly blurted, desperate to keep his sanity.

"What?" Sherlock glanced at John.

"Her name is Jeanette," John replied, "Met her online about three weeks ago, started seeing her in person about two weeks back."

"Two weeks, John? How come I wasn't informed of this sooner?"

"Well, I just assumed you knew," John replied tartly. "Apparently, you know everything else that goes on—and, yes, I did invite her."

"Wonderful," Sherlock remarked flatly. "Another dull person to add to the equally dull conversation we'll undoubtedly have that dull evening."

"It won't be 'dull', Sherlock," John ground out, "if the lot of us don't have to worry about offending you in some way."

"The party itself is offending. I hate the holidays; such tedious business."

"Oh, Sherlock, do lighten up," John chuckled. "At least for Mrs. Hudson's sake; she loves this time of the year." It was true; when he visited her for tea, she enlisted John's help to set up and decorate her tree, place lights in the windows, and tack up gaudy gold garland from her ceiling. Sherlock hated it, but refrained from saying so in front of their landlady; he really did care about her, and if the tacky decorations made her happy, Sherlock wasn't going to burst her bubble.

Sherlock looked at John; he knew what the doctor was thinking of, of course. He sighed resignedly. "Fine. For Mrs. Hudson, then. But I'm not wearing those stupid antlers, again."