After yet another restless night, Jane went to the table, opened her laptop, and stared at her blog's homepage. After a few minutes of racking her brain, trying to think of something, anything to write about, she remembered what happened yesterday with the strange man she now knew was Sherlock Holmes. The thought then crossed her mind if the text he used her phone to send was still saved, or if he had deleted it. She grabbed her phone off of the table and opened her text messages, noticing one sent to a number she did not recognise. Realising that this text was the one Sherlock sent, she opened it.

If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH

How the hell did he come up with that?

Deciding to satiate her curiosity, she turned once again to her laptop, and in the search bar, she typed: Sherlock Holmes. She clicked the first link that came up, which happened to be his website: The Science of Deduction. The home page was dark grey with blue accents and a design resembling some buildings. She was honestly surprised a man like Sherlock would take that much time designing his web page. As she scrolled through the different articles and such on the website, she came across one titled: Analysis of Tobacco Ash, which thoroughly described how to differentiate between all 243 types of tobacco ash. As she continued scrolling through the website, she found an area pertaining to cases.

Is he a detective?

Looking through case files, one stuck out to Jane. "The Green Ladder." Knowing this one would pertain to the curious text he sent the day before, she read through the case. Apparently, a woman named Jane — she laughed when she saw the name — was convinced that her husband, Jack, was killed by his younger brother Keith, even though the police had believed it was an accidental death. It became obvious after reading through the case, that the substance Sherlock was looking at in the lab was gravel and he had found traces of green paint in the gravel that, because of the distance between the locations that had green paint, had to be a ladder. Keith knew that his brother was superstitious, so after sending him scotch to get him drunk, he set up the ladder in a way that would force Jack to walk around it, landing him in the pond where he drowned.

"Brilliant…" she whispered with a gasp.

She spent the better part of her afternoon reading case files from Sherlock's websites along with other, smaller cases she had found scattered about the internet. It became rather glaring after a few hours of looking him up that he was most definitely very skilled at being a detective. His "deductions" — as he liked to call them— were by far the most interesting things she had ever observed. And after several hours on the internet, it was time to go meet Sherlock at 221B Baker Street.

As she was walking up to the flat - and immensely regretting her decision to walk by that point - Sherlock was just pulling up in a taxi. She, of course, didn't see him right away, only noticing him after she had knocked on the door to the flat. She looked at Sherlock with an almost embarrassed look on her face as he walked up to the flat she assumed he'd already be in.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." Jane said, worried she wouldn't be able to afford the rent.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

Jane listened to his explanation; she had not read about this case online.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" She asked with curiosity, wanting to know the story of how it all happened.

"Oh, no. I ensured it." He replied bluntly and with a slight smile, like it was the most normal thing in the world to say. Jane was shocked, honestly; she hadn't expected that answer.

While she stood there unable to form a proper thought on what he had just said, the door to the flat opened and a kind looking older woman stepped out of the flat.

"Sherlock!" she greeted with a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Jane Watson."

"Oh hello, dear. Come in!" Mrs. Hudson said with a new enthusiasm.

"Hello," Jane said with a small smile as both she and Sherlock walked into the flat, "Thank you."

Sherlock bounded up the stairs ahead of her while she slowly but surely made her way up to the flat. It took her a bit longer to get up than Sherlock, considering she was using a cane, so when he reached the top, he waited for her to get to the door before opening the door to the flat. Jane walked in behind them and looked at the flat's common area that was nice but admittedly a bit of a mess with stuff just sort of strewn about everywhere. To her left was a fireplace with bookshelves on either side and 2 chairs. One was a more modern, black leather chair, while the other was more of an older style red chair with a London Jack pillow resting on it. Directly in front of her was a window, some sort of animal skull wearing headphones (which she found quite amusing), some boxes and a table, and to her right was a brown leather sofa.

"Well, this could be very nice," Jane admitted as she walked around to the kitchen, "very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with her, "I think so, my thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

He said this right as Jane was saying, "Soon as we get all this rubbish... cleaned... out..." she finished awkwardly. She hadn't realised all this "rubbish" was indeed Sherlock's. "So this is all..." she continued hesitantly.

"Well obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," Sherlock said as he moved around the room picking up random items and securing a piece of paper to the fireplace mantle with a knife.

Jane was watching him do this, curious as to why he'd use a knife to hold the papers to the fireplace, but she was slowly learning to adapt to Sherlock's rather odd behaviour. However, she looked over slightly from the papers to see a human skull, which was definitely odd.

"That's... a skull..." she stated slowly.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock replied. And she wasn't quite sure if he was joking or not.

"What do you think then Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

If we'll be needing two bedrooms? Of course we'd be needing two... oh.

"O-Of course we'll be needing two," Jane began, "We're not um... we're just looking to be flatmates, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, a shame. I thought Sherlock had finally found a woman who could put up with all of his nonsense," she said with a kind smile, whispering the last bit. But of course, that smile disappeared when she walked around to the kitchen and discovered the rather large chemistry set which was set up on the kitchen table. "Oh. Sherlock, the mess you've made," she said disapprovingly as she walked into the kitchen, attempting to fix it up a bit. As Mrs. Hudson was doing this, John fluffed the pillow on the red chair and sat down while Sherlock opened his laptop.

"I... looked you up on the internet last night," Jane admitted to Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?"

While she wanted to discuss literally every case she came across, she toned down her answer quite a bit in order to appear like less of a stalker than she actually was. "Found your website. The Science of Deduction?"

"What did you think?" Sherlock asked with a proud smile on his face.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" Jane, of course, had read enough cases to prove his talent, but she wanted an explanation from the man himself.

"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone." He replied rather smugly.

"How?" She asked, truly eager to hear his answer.

But, of course, instead of indulging her curiosity, he simply smiled a knowing smile and turned as Mrs. Hudson entered the room once again.

"What about these suicides then Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." As she was saying this, Sherlock refocused his gaze to the window in front of him. "Three exactly the same."

"Four," he corrected.

Jane was watching this exchange and noticed the police lights shining through the window. She had heard of the suicides after seeing a news article on the web. Apparently, they all had some similarities, but as far as Jane could recall there were only three.

Did the police believe they were actually murders? Is that why they were here? Did they need Sherlock's help?

Sherlock continued, "There's been a fourth, And there's something different this time."

As he was saying this, she heard footsteps approaching rather quickly on the stairs to the flat. A man she had never seen before, but someone she assumed was a detective of some sort with the police, walked in.

"Where?" Sherlock asked, knowing why the detective was there.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if it wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" asked the detective. Jane had even known about that after reading about it.

"Yeah?"

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on Forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock admitted begrudgingly.

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant."

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," the detective said, truly seeming grateful for Sherlock's help, and then promptly left the flat.

Sherlock stood there for a second, looking out the window and waiting for the other detective to leave before jumping up in excitement, which of course made Jane jump from the sudden action.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas," he said that last bit while literally twirling around the room, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson reminded Sherlock.

"Something cold will do," he replied, either ignoring her statement or not fully comprehending what she was saying due to his newfound excitement. Sherlock shouted as he ran out the door, "Jane, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

"Look at him, dashing about..." Mrs. Hudson directed toward Jane, "My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell."

Jane frowned at Mrs. Hudson's 'observation.' She really wasn't the sitting down type at all. And even though she was sitting right now, she was itching to run out the door and join Sherlock in his investigation.

"I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg," Mrs. Hudson continued softly.

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," Jane confirmed with a kind smile.

"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reiterated.

"Oh, um, and a couple of biscuits too... if you've got them," Jane added, not wanting to impose but also really wanting some biscuits to go with her tea.

"Not your housekeeper!"

Jane picked up a newspaper that was sitting on the small end table near the chair she was sitting in and looked at the front page. Towards the bottom of the page was a small image of the detective that came to the flat a few minutes earlier. Apparently, his last name was Lestrade and he was the Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. She was actually quite surprised that someone in a position as high as his would be coming to Sherlock for help, but at the same time she wasn't surprised at all. After all, Sherlock was a brilliant detective.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway and making Jane jump. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

She looked at him for a second before getting up from the chair and responding, "Yes?"

"Any good?"

"Very good," she replied with confidence.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths?"

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes." At this point in the conversation, she was beginning to get little flashbacks of her time in Afghanistan. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes," she replied eagerly and began to follow Sherlock out of the flat. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to have to skip the tea," she called as she was going down the staircase to the ground floor.

"Both of you?"

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock had embraced Mrs. Hudson by the end and given her an excited kiss on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she said with a disapproving look. Jane supposed she was right, getting excited over four people's suicides really was not decent. But Jane was just excited to be doing something for once, and was even more excited to see Sherlock at work.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Jane chuckled a bit as she followed behind him out of the flat and into the street. He was really just an overeager child when it came to solving puzzles. As soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk outside of the flat, Sherlock immediately hailed a cab that was driving by.

As they were in the cab on their way to, well, wherever it was they were going, Sherlock was looking his mobile. Jane looked over, attempting to sneak a peek at what he was doing on there, and Sherlock noticed her inquisitive look rather quickly.

"Okay, you've got questions," He stated.

"Yeah, where are we going?" Truthfully that was the last thing on Jane's mind and she had many other questions, but she figured she'd start there.

"Crime scene. Next." Of course, Sherlock knew she had more questions.

"Who are you, what do you do?" After all of her research, Jane still hadn't quite figured out exactly what his occupation was.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say... private detective..."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock explained with a smirk, "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

Well that was something she had never heard of before.

"What does that mean?"

"Means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," he explained. She supposed that made sense. But why consult him? Obviously he was very talented in his field, but they were the police. Why would they go to a civilian?

"The police don't consult amateurs!" Jane chuckled.

Sherlock gave her a knowing glance before explaining.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

Ah yes, finally! An explanation!

"I didn't know. I saw. The way your hair is styled and how you hold yourself says military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action then." An expression of pain flashed across her face for a brief moment as his words brought back some very unpleasant memories. But it was only for a second, as she composed herself quickly, hoping Sherlock hadn't noticed. Of course, Sherlock catches nearly everything, so her facial expression did not go unnoticed by him. He filed the information away for now, and would revisit it later, if need be. For now, though, he simply continued on with his conclusion. "Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq," Sherlock explained matter-of-factly.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock pointed out. "Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?" Jane was momentarily confused. She didn't have a brother. Then she remembered one of Sherlock's deductions was about her 'brother' being a drunk. Oh, she couldn't wait to tell him he was wrong and see the look on his face.

"Your phone. It's expensive, iPhones, in general, aren't cheap and this is one of the newest models. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving," Jane confirmed.

"'Harry Watson.' Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. 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 one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage's in trouble then, six months and he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. 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 and you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you never liked his wife, or don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark," he explained with a smile, "Good one, though. Power connection. Tiny little scuff 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. There you go. So you were right?"

"I was right? Right about what?" Jane was still processing the lengthy explanation when he popped off with that last bit, so she couldn't quite comprehend what it was she was right about.

"The police don't consult amateurs," he explained quite smugly.

"That... was..." she paused for a second to find the right word to describe exactly what that was, "amazing."

The cab was silent for a few moments. Sherlock definitely wasn't expecting Jane to say that.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite..." again she paused, looking for the right word, but the only one she could come up with was, "extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock admitted.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock confessed with a slight smile and Jane couldn't help but chuckle in response. Sure, she thought his deductions were amazing, but she could see why people would be annoyed by them.

The rest of the cab ride, which Jane noticed was actually rather long, was spent in a comfortable silence, and eventually, they arrived at the crime scene. Sherlock opened the door and got out of the cab while Jane followed directly behind.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry and me don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything," Sherlock said, though he actually didn't sound all that shocked. Oh, she couldn't wait to burst his bubble about her sister.

"Harry... is short for Harriet," she said with a smile, walking past Sherlock. He had stopped dead in his tracks, with a clearly surprised look on his face.

"...Harry's your sister..." he said, slightly disappointed in himself.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" She asked, changing the subject.

"Sister!" he exclaimed rather suddenly.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something!" Sherlock said, obviously still mulling over the fact that Harry was a woman and not a man.

"Hello, freak!" A woman shouted to Sherlock. Jane presumed it was meant for him anyway. The woman was standing next to a police car inside of the tape, meaning she must be with the police in some way.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?" It was becoming increasingly clear that this woman really did not care for Sherlock at all. Jane wondered what exactly it was that pissed her off.

"I was invited."

"Why?" She questioned him again.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock explained, rather condescendingly.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," he said as he lifted the tape and walked onto the crime scene. Jane made it a point to remember her name. No matter how much they didn't get along, it was quite clear that if Jane stuck around, they would have to encounter Sally quite often. "I even know you didn't make it home last night," Sherlock continued after smelling something.

Jane began to follow Sherlock onto the scene, but when she attempted to lift the tape, she was stopped by Sally, obviously attempting to deflect the attention.

"I don't, uh, who's this?" She asked, looking at Jane.

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson," Sherlock explained, gesturing towards Jane. "Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend," Sherlock introduced Donovan to Jane, but of course, Jane caught onto the tone that Sherlock used when he said 'friend'. It was quite obvious these two were not friends and never were.

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?" Donovan asked Sherlock with the same condescending tone he had used earlier. "Did she follow you home?"

"Uh, would it be better if I just waited?" Jane asked, not oblivious at all to the tension between the two.

"No," Sherlock replied quickly, lifting the police tape for Jane.

Donovan picked up her walkie and said, "Freak's here. Bringing him and his colleague in." She said the last bit while eyeing Jane.

Just then, a rather odd looking man exited the building that Jane assumed held the crime scene and dead body.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock said, annoyance lacing every word.

Jane recognised the name from his conversation with Lestrade a little while earlier. He must be from Forensics.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson seemed quite angry that Sherlock was here.

"Quite clear," Sherlock said calmly before adding, "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

And suddenly, Jane understood why other people were less than happy with Sherlock's deductions.

Didn't he know when to shut up?

"Ooh... I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

"Whatever you're trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," Sherlock said, walking past the both of them and into the doorway, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Jane couldn't help it; she stood, staring at the three of them with her mouth agape. And her question was answered for her. Apparently, he didn't. Following Sherlock, she hobbled past Anderson and Donovan, refusing to make eye contact with them and instead just looked at the floor. She walked into the building just behind Sherlock and entered a room with several officers and detectives, one of them being Lestrade.

"You'll need to wear one of these," Sherlock told Jane, pointing to one of the powder blue suits that Donovan and Lestrade were wearing.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, apparently not remembering her being in the flat earlier.

"She's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said she's with me."

As Sherlock said that, Lestrade looked at me in disbelief.

"Really? With him?" He asked, directing the question towards Jane.

"Oh, no, not like that. Um, we're just... colleagues."

"...Right..."

Ignoring Lestrade's shocked expression, Jane instead looked to Sherlock, asking, "Aren't you going to put one on?"

Ignoring her question, Sherlock instead asked Lestrade, "So, where are we?"

"Upstairs."

...Of course. Jane thought, annoyed.

The three of them made their way to the staircase and Jane looked up. It wrapped around the walls, going up several floors. She looked up at them warily, knowing she could make it up the stairs, it would just take her longer than everyone else, she just would rather have avoided them if possible. But she kept her complaints to herself and followed Sherlock and Detective Lestrade up the stairs.

"I can give you two minutes," he informed Sherlock.

"May need longer."

"Her name is Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long; some kids found her."

Jane continued to follow them up the stairs, really trying her best to match their pace. And after way too many flights of stairs for her taste, they finally made it to the top floor where the body was. Lestrade and Sherlock's faces were passive and unaffected by the body laying on the floor in front of them. Of course, Jane knew that was because it was an everyday thing for them, so they would be used to it by now. And for a while, Jane was used to it too. In the army, many of the soldiers were dead or nearly dead by the time Jane was able to help, and after a while she had become desensitised to it. But it had been months since she had last seen a dead body, so looking down to the floor now and seeing this young woman, lifeless, when she should have had such a long life ahead of her really hit her. She only let her emotions show for a minute though before pushing them back down like she always did.

"Shut up," Sherlock said suddenly, directing the statement towards Lestrade.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Lestrade just looked over at Jane, his eyes seemingly asking her, 'How do you put up with this man?'

Jane just shook her head with a slight smile as Sherlock walked over to the woman's body and began deducing her. She noticed how he seemed to take in every detail; looking from her hands to the word scratched into the wooden floor, and even the clothes and jewellery she was wearing. From where she was she couldn't quite make out exactly what he saw, but she could definitely tell from the look on his face when he found an interesting detail about the woman. Finally, after only a minute or so, Sherlock stood back up from the crouched position he was in.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"Not much," Sherlock replied with a smile. Jane knew of course that he was really playing down the amount of information he had gathered.

"She's German," Anderson announced, walking into the room. "Rache," he continued as Sherlock walked over to him, "It's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something."

As Anderson was finishing his statement, Sherlock slammed the door Anderson was standing outside of and sarcastically added, "Yes, thank you for your input."

"So she's German?" Lestrade asked, believing Anderson.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" Jane chimed in. That was the last thing she had expected Sherlock to discover from just looking at the body.

"What about the message though?" Lestrade attempted to ask before being interrupted by Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?" he asked.

"Of the message?" she asked, confused.

"Of the body. You're a doctor."

Oh. Yeah, that made quite a bit more sense.

"We have a while team right outside," Lestrade pointed out.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here..." Lestrade began before being interrupted by Sherlock again.

"Yes, because you need me," Sherlock pointed out, bluntly.

"...Yes, I do," Lestrade agreed after some hesitation. "God help me."

"Dr. Watson!"

"Hmm?"

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself," Lestrade relented as he left the room. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes," Jane heard Lestrade shout over to Anderson as her and Sherlock walked over to the woman's body.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"What am I doing here?"

Whispering, Sherlock responded, "Helping me make a point."

"Yeah, well I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," Jane argued. Though truthfully, she was glad to be working with him.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"...True, I suppose. But there is a woman lying here dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," he said sarcastically.

Jane responded with a small glare and began to examine the body as Lestrade walked back into the room. She took a look at the woman's neck and wrist, neither of which showed any signs of struggle or external causes. There was no scent of alcohol on the body either, so she hadn't died from alcohol poisoning, nor was her death due to being intoxicated. The only other explanation would be that she had essentially drowned in her own vomit after being rendered unconscious, most likely due to a seizure or drugs.

"Uh, asphyxiation. Probably, anyway. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs," she said, explaining her findings.

"You know what it was, you've read the papers."

"I know. She's the fourth suicide," Jane agreed.

"Sherlock, two minutes I said. I need anything you've got," Lestrade chimed in.

"Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

Jane was confused. There was no suitcase in here, and hadn't been so long as they'd been in there. How had he known there was a suitcase?

Apparently, Lestrade had the same confusion, asking, "Suitcase?"

"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock confirmed, though Jane was still unaware as to how he knew she had one. "She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up..."

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside. That means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands. So what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she's never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"Brilliant!" Jane gasped, pursing her lips out of embarrassment. She hadn't actually meant to say that out loud. "...Sorry."

"No it's... fine," Sherlock said hesitantly.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked Sherlock to clarify.

"It's obvious isn't it?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Not really, Sherlock, no," Jane admitted.

"Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Is it because of her coat?" Jane asked as she once again knelt by the body. Sherlock turned around and looked at her, surprised at her deduction. "I felt it when I was examining the body; it was damp. Hasn't rained in London since last night and she definitely hasn't been dead that long. And even if she had been caught in the London rain, she would have been dry by now." Jane looked up at Sherlock and noticed the surprised look on his face. "Oh, sorry, I just... I was watching you while you were observing the body and making your deductions. You noticed the jacket was wet as well but hadn't mentioned it yet. Figured it had to be relevant. I'll, um, I'll let you explain, sorry."

"No, actually I want to hear the rest of what you noticed. Your spot on so far, go on."

"Oh, um, okay then. I noticed you pulled out her umbrella which was dry so either she didn't care much about the rain, or there was wind strong enough to make it so she couldn't use the umbrella. I also noticed you feel along the underside of her collar, which is also wet, so she probably had it turned up to protect as much of her neck from the rain and wind as she could. You looked at your phone a few moments ago, probably checking the weather of cities within a certain radius to find heavy wind and rain and the only city that matched all the criteria was Cardiff." Sherlock still had a shocked expression on his face, so she must have been right or very close. "...Was I close?"

"My God, there's another one of you," Lestrade exclaimed, looking between Sherlock and Jane, surprised.

"Actually, I'd say you've pretty much covered all of it. There is one more thing though. I chose a travel radius of 2-3 hours based not only on the fact that her coat was still wet, but also because she had a small suitcase, meaning she had only intended to stay one night. If she was any closer to London, she most likely would have returned home that night instead of staying overnight."

"Right. But, Sherlock, there is no suitcase." Jane pointed out.

"Well, she had to have had one. And a mobile phone or an organiser of some sort. Where are they?" Sherlock asked Lestrade. "Also need to find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German," Sherlock said, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Of course she was writing Rachel, there's no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Did you figure out this one as well?" Sherlock asked Jane.

"Oh, no I didn't. Was actually wondering how you figured that one out."

"Hmm, shame. You were showing such promise. The back of her right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade attempted to tell Sherlock.

"Say that again," Sherlock requested.

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase," Lestrade repeated.

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up off the ground where he had been kneeling.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase!" he yelled as he exited the room and running down the stairs. "Was there a suitcase in this house!?"

"Sherlock, there's no case!" Lestrade yelled down the stairs to Sherlock for the third time.

"But they take the poison themselves! They chew, swallow the pills themselves! There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!" Sherlock was nearly shouting now, clearly a bit agitated.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And?" Lestrade shouted again at Sherlock who was continuing to descend the stairs.

Sherlock stopped on the landing about a floor down from where Jane and Lestrade stood. "It's murder. All of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're killings. Serial killings. We've got ourselves a serial killer. Love those! There's always something to look forward to!" Sherlock shouted again as he ran down the stairs some more.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, though Jane seemed to understand Sherlock's reasoning.

Stopping on the stairs once again, Sherlock shouted up at Lestrade, "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case!" As Jane was looking down at Sherlock - he was a few floors down now - she noticed that after that sentence, he was still speaking but too quiet for her to hear. Probably trying to work something out for himself, she realised. Though she wanted to know what he was on about. Trying to think of an explanation for the missing case that didn't involve a murderer, though she herself was pretty convinced of Sherlock's theory, she had an idea.

"Maybe she checked into a hotel, left her case there!" She yelled down at Sherlock.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." Sherlock stopped talking mid-sentence and seemed to have some sort of epiphany.

"Sherlock what is it?" Lestrade yelled down.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

Jane gasped with realisation. "Pink!"

Lestrade looked at her, confused while Sherlock looked at her almost proudly. She continued, "She colour-coordinates everything! Her shoes, her coat, her lipstick."

"And?" Lestrade asked, still not understanding.

"The suitcase is pink!" both Sherlock and Jane shouted at the same time.

"Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Wait, Sherlock, where are you going?" Jane shouted down the stairwell, though apparently he was already gone. Did he really leave her here? By herself? Oh, she was going to kill him. She slowly made her way down the stairs to take off the ridiculous blue suit she was forced to wear and eventually exited the building, muttering angrily the whole time. As she was leaving the crime scene, she realised that she had no idea at all where she was. She spotted Sally Donovan over by where she first met her, and walked over.

"Sorry, where am I?" Jane asked Donovan.

"Brixton."

"Um, do you know where I could get a cab?" She asked hesitantly.

"Try the main road," Sally offered, lifting the police tape for her.

"Thanks," Jane replied with a small, terse smile.

"But you're not his friend. He doesn't have friends," she informed Jane. "So who are you?"

"Oh, I'm.. nobody really. I just met him yesterday," Jane explained.

"Okay, a bit of advice, then. Stay away from that guy."

"Why?" Jane asked, challenging Sally. She hadn't known him for long, and she knew he had his issues socially, but that should be no reason to avoid him. Was there truly a reason?

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. In fact, he gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

"And why exactly would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

"You know what, no. Okay, no. I'll agree with you that he enjoys this. He enjoys solving crimes and the puzzles that come along with it. I can tell that after only knowing him for about 24 hours or so. But does it matter? No matter what his intentions are, he puts killers away and saves lives because he has skills that no one else here does. How many serial killers would still be out there if it wasn't for his help? He has his quirks and he has his flaws but he would never become a murderer. He's a good man. I've known him a day and I can see that. How can you not?" Honestly, Jane hadn't meant to go off on Donovan like that, but she was so fed up with this woman.

"Alright well, if your instincts are wrong and mine are right, don't say I didn't warn you."

Jane just shook her head as she walked away from the crime scene, hopefully towards the main road. She was still angry at Sherlock for leaving her there, though and continued to curse his name as she walked away, only to hear the telephone in the phone booth to her right start ringing.

That's odd, she thought as she walked away.

AN: So... this was a really long chapter. Honestly, I just wasn't sure where to end it, so I kept going. Hope you guys enjoyed it!