John raced after Sherlock, easily keeping up despite Sherlock having longer legs, as they ran down the bumpy backstreets of London. The medical student would never know what compeled Sherlock to run when they could get a cab, and often wondered why he didn't just meet him at wherever they were going. It might have been the traffic, but John always assumed it was for dramatic effect.

"Where are we going?" he asked desperately, despite the feeling his dorm mate wouldn't answer, as usual. His fears were confirmed when Sherlock merely grunted, casting John a glance as he continued with the pace that seemed almost a jog to him.

John sighed; Sherlock was more stubborn than a hundred year old oak tree trying to be ripped down. It occured to him that he didn't know his friend's exact age, an that Sherlock might be older than the stars. He figured he'd better ask later, for fear of living with some kind of immortal freakish creep.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped and held out an arm for John to run into, his way of telling the blond to stop. Another thing John didn't know was how, when he ran into such a thin, delicate, arm at full speed, his muscular build easily able to overpower Sherlock, the arm didn't move an inch. It stopped him as fast as falling in a pit without ever wavering.

Maybe he was living with an alien of some sort. That would explain most of the black haired man's habits and behavior quite easily, actually. John's eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's, who was looking down on John like he knew exactly what John was thinking and wasn't thrilled with it.

Sherlock turned and walked up the cracked stairs to a litte house, probably rented, with a thin brown door and an orange, glowing door bell. He tapped the button, and John could hear the ringing from inside the house from where he stood next to the street. A young man of only about eighteen opened the door, and his eyes lit up.

He had sad, deep set green eyes and mud brown hair that was styled into many little spikes. When he spoke, it was with intense sorrow and a little bit of hope. "They wrote it off as a suicide," he whispered, confusing John instantly.

"We know better," Sherlock replied solemly, taking John by his arm and pulling him inside the unorganized, cramped place. The only place to sit was on the couch, and on the table in front of it were pictures of a girl about the same age as the young man who brought them in.

John slowly came to the realization that it was his girlfriend, perhaps wife, as he listened to Sherlock talk with him. Friends were discussed, as well as family and living conditions. John couldn't think of anyone with a motive instantly, except he knew the wheels in his dorm mate's head were turning.

Sherlock suddenly froze and put his hands to his head. He stood up and walked around, eyes closed, stumbling. One hand moved in front of him warily. "She said the one who had forgotten her... Quick, was there anyone who wasn't at the funeral?"

The boy's eyes widened as he searched his memory as fast as he could. "Uh, there was only Tracy, from what I remember, but she said she had a doctor's appointment-"

"The police will find that to be false. And the day Jill was found dead, where was this Tracy?" Sherlock opened his eyes, glaring at their client menacingly.

"She said she was out of town-"

"And she flirted with you often before then, correct? Perhaps she was jealous?"

"Tracy did not kill her!" the green eyed Brit shouted, jumping up, turning reddish in the face. "Tracy was her best friend and-"

"You had an affair with her. Out of complete shame, she stayed home from the funeral and hid from the world, not sure she could bear to see Jill's body know that she had helped you devise the plan to put it there. Yes, she's telling me this now, and believe me, she's angry." Sherlock grabbed his head and pulled at his own hair, rocking back and forth. "So very, very angry.

"With all rights to be, I'd say! Considering that you shot her, then ran her hand across the gun and placed it in her own hands, not worrying about fingerprints because you were wearing gloves."

John looked around, wondering where Sherlock had gotten the gloves from, then spying a pair with just a tiny drop of blood on them in the trash can next to the couch. They were white and woolen, not the plastic the police would use, and seemed feminine and too small for the murderer; they were probably Tracy's.

"You had a solid alibi for that night, because you were with Tracy, calming her down and telling her it was alright, that the crime would go off without a hitch; you two went to the theatre so you could say you were alone and had the part of the ticket to prove it. And it would have, if you didn't now want to get her father locked up for murder, as he's getting suspicous of you."

The young man fell back into his seat and stared at Sherlock, then started crying. "How?" he whispered. "How did you know?"

"John, phone the police and tell them we need them here. I'll fill them in when they arrive." Sherlock turned back to the murderer with a smile. "Because I'm psychic, that's how."