Chapter Two what up!

So...I find myself having a SUPER hard time writing these boys. Could you maybe send me a review of your favorite thing about any of them? Whether that be a memory from the show or a character trait or really anything about any of them? I would SO appreciate it!

Now...to the story! Eden shows up! (obscure references to...things...heheheh)

Disclaimer: Sherlock (Le BBC version) does not belong to me. Eden is mine! A few others as well! But mostly, thank Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and their wonderful creative team that has brought Sherlock to life. Thank you, Gatiss, for introducing me to Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. For that, I owe you my undying gratitude.

Mycroft's favor, Sherlock grumbled to himself, was supposed to be a case. One case, maybe two, with a cake thrown in purely out of spite. It wasn't supposed to be a babysitting job. Sherlock curled his lip at the petite young woman that stood next Inspector Lestrade. She was Native American in color and studious in character; Sherlock could tell by the notebook she clutched tightly in her hand. Mycroft's favor wasn't supposed to be this "Intern" as he'd called her; and the bloody favor wasn't supposed to last an entire week before he could get his hands on the files. She was bright eyed and nervous, as she shook John's hand and greeted Sherlock with a quiet nod. Sherlock simply sniffed and ordered the young woman to a corner of the room, threatening unmentionable horrors if she dared to distract him. The young woman simply smiled and nodded, retreating to the corner Sherlock had indicated, opening her notebook and eyeing the three men silently, but eagerly.

It took Sherlock less than a minute to become fully immersed in the case, and less than ten to solve it. The case itself was, on a surface level, intriguing. An entire family of five had been slaughtered in their brownstone, each family member killed using a different method, all of them murdered during the day. Once Sherlock observed the house though, the case became suddenly, horribly, dull.

He sighed heavily and shot Inspector Lestrade a dry look. "I'm consistently surprised at how your force seems incapable of using what little brain power they have, but this, Lestrade, is a new low."

Lestrade furrowed a brow. "I'm not following."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This case is so horrendously simple, I am in shock at the inability of the yard to solve it themselves!

"Simple?" Lestrade looked insulted. "It's an entire family slaughter,"

"Oh use your brain, Lestrade; I'm quite sure you have one! Look at this place; look at the facts!" Sherlock turned to the intern, who'd stood quietly, as per her instructions, the entire time. "You! You've been taking notes, read to these simpletons what you have written down."

The intern jerked at Sherlock's sudden attention, dark brown eyes wide.

"Well?" Sherlock snapped.

The intern winced visibly. "They're not notes per say," she hedged, but Sherlock huffed and snapped at her;

"Just show us what you have!"

The intern bit her lip but did as she was bid. John and Lestrade leaned forward and Sherlock squinted his eyes.

"What is it?" John asked slowly.

"It's a dragon." The intern explained, letting loose a low, "Rawwr."

"And er, what's that by the dragon's foot?" Lestrade pointed helpfully to where he meant, and the Intern smiled a bit bashfully.

"It's a hobbit."

"What's a hobbit?"

"Enough!" Sherlock snapped, interrupting John's question. "Never mind the drawing. Were you even paying attention?"

Instead of looking cowed, as Sherlock had thought she would do, the intern simply shrugged. "I sort of tuned out after I figured out that the killer was the husband's brother."

Sherlock, Lestrade, and John eyed her curiously.

"The brother?" Lestrade considered that option, then turned to Sherlock. "You agree?"

Sherlock sniffed. "I was getting there."

John snorted, grimacing when Sherlock directed a growl at him. "How'd you figure?" John asked the intern, but she was already shaking her head.

"I'm not the consultant here. I'm just" The intern gestured to her drawing, "you know..."

"No, I would also love to know how you reached such a conclusion," Sherlock added coldly, and the interns shyness slid away, replaced with a smirked.

"Well. If you want to know; a quick look through the house tells us that the family's very picturesque; the mother used to be in pageants," The intern pointed to various pictures displayed throughout the house, "Father was a football star, the eldest daughter a cheerleader, the youngest a piano prodigy. But there are no photos of the middle child, the son, which is all explanation for how each family member died. The mother was killed with a kitchen knife, in deference to her housewife status, the eldest was killed via snapped neck, an injury not uncommon in cheer incidents; the youngest child was smothered with a pillow consistent with the way a youngest is often coddled and smothered by parents; but the middle was injected with euthanasia, you can tell by the smell lingering in the sons room, he went peacefully in his sleep, by far the least painful means of death, indicating that the killer must have sympathized with the boy, meaning he also felt ostracized and out of touch in his own family. Keeping that in mind, despite the fact that the murder seem brutal and chaotic, the house seems spotless and untouched barring the photo of the husbands family, which looks as if it was thrown on the ground and stepped on. If you observe the photo further, you'll see a family much like this one, and you'll also observe the middle son stands a few feet away from the rest of his family, nearly cut out of the frame. Add in the fact that the husband's death was the most brutal and the postcard that is ripped in pieces in the trash bin with the message, see you soon written on it and is signed Uncle Robbie, and you have yourself a killer."

Lestrade groaned loudly. "Wonderful. There's another one." He moved to find one of his detectives, and John chuckled. "That was great. Don't you think, Sherlock?" He queried with a smirk.

Sherlock sniffed. "At least someone out here is moderately intelligent enough to keep up with me."

John shook his head.

Sherlock eyed the intern more thoroughly than before.

"American." He began.

"British." She responded promptly.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Obviously semi-intelligent and observant, well-educated from a good home, though you've been on your own for a while, you've only been in London for less than a month and you've suffered many changes throughout the past year." It was a vague assessment for Sherlock, but it was all he was capable of, which was more than a little surprising.

The intern neither confirmed nor denied, simply beginning an analysis of her own.

"Insanely intelligent, and well aware of that fact, raised in a slightly dysfunctional family, causing your current issues with social interactions and leading to a life mostly of solitude before becoming flat-mates, I would guess about six months ago with the doctor, whom is able to curb your standoffish nature but only slightly, you pretend to tolerate it though you seem to greatly appreciate him but not so for myself, whom you seem baffled by, and that angers you because its been a long time since you've been really, truly, baffled. Do not worry sir, you are not the only one I've been able to baffle recently.

Sherlock cocked a brow, well and truly impressed, irritated and slightly intrigued, in spite of himself. "Where did Mycroft find you?"

The intern laughed. "Oh no. I found him."

Sherlock thought that through, then held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. You'll do."

The intern smiled and took his hand. "Thanks…I think. I'm Eden. Just Eden."

This chick is very well not just EDEN...what a buttface!

Next chapter we see how Sherlock does being stuck with a baby for a full week! Does it even make it that long? Does he ever get his files? Stay tuned!

Favorites/Follows/Reviews are very simple ways to show/tell me how you're enjoying the story! And the mean the world to me!

~CLC~