Lestrade sat in his office looking at the collection of images that covered his desk: A wine glass. Three parallel lines. A set of folded clothes. A student's dissecting scalpel. He stared at them so engrossed that he didn't notice the flashing light on his phone indicating that he had messages. There was a knock on the door. He glanced up to see Anne. He smiled,"Anne, do ya need something?"

"I just came by to see how the case was coming along. Haven't you filed it yet? Simple suicide isn't it?"

"It should be simple, but there's something wrong with it, I can't put my finger on it. Slit his wrist, but not in the usual way. Usually there's just one cut, but this person did three on each wrist. Expert job too. Parallel lines. But that fits his profile. He's a biology student considering a career in medical research. The dissecting kit had never been opened though. Found the plastic wrapper in the trash. Did he buy it especially for tonight? If so, where's the receipt? He probably bought it at the beginning of term. The question is why kill himself now? There was no suicide note. No one noticed anything different about him, and he apparently had no friends. Came over from the states to go to school. Quickly rose to the top of his class and stayed there. What drives a man to despair when he has everything he always wanted."

"Maybe he was under pressure from his parents. Expectations?"

"His parents were in another country. Called once a month if that. He didn't go home for vacations. I called this afternoon to inform them. The father said that this was all his idea. They had wanted him to stay near home, but he had insisted. This is his dream, not theirs. They have no idea why this happened. Last they heard from him was a week ago when term ended. He was up for an award of some kind. Very prestigious. He would have traveled the world, worked with the best people, all completely paid. He was finalist. And now this. Something's not right."

"I can see that this has got you completely captivated, but I came to tell you. Your wife has been trying to call you for the last two hours. Something about a piano recital."

"Oh bloody hell, Lily's concert's tonight. It totally slipped my mind. Thanks Anne, good night." he rose and rushed out of the office.

'

The next morning, early, he went to the library to talk to Robert's boss, Simone Bryant. She was a tall, thin woman with hair so pale that it looked as if she had no eyebrows. She stood very straight. Lestrade said, "I'm sorry to have to be the one to inform you that your assistant, Robert Vaughn, is dead."

"Thank you for your concern, Detective Lestrade, but I heard from Joseph yesterday. I called again to check up on things and he told me about the suicide."

"Assumed suicide," Lestrade said. "Do know of any reason why Robert Vaughn would want to take his own life?"

The woman frowned. "None whatsoever. He seemed a very stable boy. Someone with a real future. I don't understand it."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"No. He was very quiet, polite. He wasn't the sort to make enemies. He was one of the best assistants that I've ever had. I offered him a permanent position here last year, but he refused. He said that it was his dream to go into research. He was so excited about his fellowship application."

"Yes, can you tell me about that? What is this Fellowship?" Lestrade asked.

"The Selton-Wallace Memorial Research Fellowship. It is a competitive award for a student close to graduation. It pays them a salary to visit three different research establishments and study their techniques before starting their own research. It is one of the most prestigious awards that a student in the biological sciences can attain, and the money is good. The award was to be announced today. The Dean called me yesterday, and he was very distressed to find that Robert Vaughn was dead. When I checked on the website. It says that the decision for the fellowship has been delayed until further notice, but I know what that means. It means that Robert won the award, and now that he's dead they don't know what to do with it. Robert's death is a terrible tragedy. He could have done such great things. I'm devastated by it."

"I'm sorry for your loss. Can you please tell me where he worked? Did he have a desk? There may be a note to indicate why this happened."

"Yes of course," she said pointing. "Go down the stairs to the lowest level. He had a desk in the stacks, near the elevators."

"Thank you," Lestrade said. He walked down the stairs and into the part of the library known as the stacks. There were rows of books in all direction with desks hidden in odd places and near the corners. There were no windows, and apparently no students. It looked like some ancient catacombs only with walls of books instead of stone.

He walked through row upon row of identical bookshelves until he realized that he had no idea where he was going. He came out from one set of shelves and turned to the right only to crash into a tower of books. He fell to his hands and knees, books crashing around him. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't see you there."

There was a young man lying on the floor an open book covering his face. He picked up the book and sat up. His face was long and angular, sharp cheekbones and grey eyes below a set of messy black curls. He wore a black suit that seemed a size too small for his thin frame, and a white shirt with no tie.

Lestrade climbed to his feet and reached out a hand to help the lad up. "Sorry about that," he said. "Didn't see ya there. Are you alright?"

The young man brushed the dust off of his thighs, and then looked over Lestrade from top to bottom. "Yes, I'm perfectly fine. I wasn't expecting to see a police detective here in the stacks. Has there been a crime? Theft of a rare book perhaps? If so, you're in the wrong place. Rare books are housed on the top floor."

"Excuse me, who are you, and how did you know that I was a police detective?"

"It's obvious. Your wallet has fallen out of your pocket. It is decorated with police insignia, therefore it houses your warrant card. That, and your general bearing, as well as the coffee stain on your shirt suggests police."

"But how did you know that I was a detective?"

Sherlock sighed, "You're not wearing a uniform. Honestly if this is the state of detectives at Scotland Yard today, I fear for the country." He bent over then and began retrieving his books.

Lestrade wrinkled his brow. "My name is Detective Sergeant Lestrade, and you are?" He held out his hand, but Sherlock, whose hands were again full of books, simply stared down at it with derision until Lestrade nervously put it, and the wallet back into his pocket.

The young man walked a few paces and placed his stack of books on a desk. Then he turned back around and thrust out a hand. Lestrade fished his hand out of his pocket and shook it. "Sherlock Holmes," the man said.

"Pleased to meet ya. That's quite an assortment of books you have there: Dead bodies. Modern forensic science. Advanced physical chemistry. The Egyptian book of the dead. You must be studying medicine."

"No," Sherlock said.

"Then what are you studying?"

"I am not a student at this university. I was a student at Cambridge, but I have ...left that institution."

"Really? What happened at Cambridge?"

"A tiny disagreement over an exploded laboratory. Luckily, my student ID is still honored in this library due to an exchange agreement."

"I see," Lestrade said. "You could try another school. There's bound to be someplace for a curious young man like yourself."

"Well, my family has agreed that I should spend this time pursuing my independent interests."

"And you are interested in dead bodies?"

"Obviously."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then Sherlock breathed in sharply and picked up his books, "Well, if you'll excuse me."

"Mr Holmes," Lestrade said, "can ya show me to the assistant librarian's desk, please?"

Sherlock looked over at Lestrade and raised his eyebrow, then he nodded. Carrying his books a bit more carefully than before, he walked through the stacks to the service elevator. There was a small desk with a computer against the wall. "Thank you," Lestrade said and walked behind the desk to search it.

Sherlock placed his stack of books on a table and sat down facing Lestrade. He opened the Egyptian Book of the Dead and began to read.

Lestrade searched each drawer. He found pens and pencils all neatly arranged. He pulled out a sheet of paper from the stack in the bottom drawer and held it up. There was a watermark on it. 'Champion' it said. There was a stamp with a date on it that had clearly not been used in years. Oh yes, it was all computerized now. Perhaps he had written something on the computer.

Lestrade put his hands on the keyboard. Computers were not his area. He knew his way around a word processor well enough to write a report, and he filed his taxes on the computer, (that is his wife did) but mostly he left the computer work to others. He looked at the screen. It was asking for a password. He glanced around for the librarian, realizing that he would have to find his way back up to her desk, when he noticed someone at his shoulder. It was Sherlock Holmes.

"You'll need a username and password to log on to his computer."

Lestrade shifted his chair over a few inches. He hadn't even heard the man approach. "I can see that," he said.

"Would you like me to...?"

"Please," Lestrade said pushing himself up from the chair.

The young man sat down and logged in. "What is it that you're looking for?"

"Anythin' written in the last week or so," he said.

Sherlock pulled up a window and searched, opening file after file and arranging them in neat rows. Then he turned and looked over his shoulder. "This is all that I could find. Is there anything specific that you are searching for?"

"A note. It would have been obvious. He would have wanted someone to find it."

Sherlock tilted his head. "You mean... a suicide note? Did he kill himself?"

"Well, I'm not at liberty to say at this time."

" Can I see the body?"

"Wha?"

"You have remarked yourself on my interest in forensics. I thought that my intentions would be obvious. I've helped you access his files. You have the power to allow me access to his body, so...?"

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes, but this is an ongoing investigation. It is not open for...idle curiosity."

"Perhaps another time then." Sherlock rose to his feet. He pulled a notebook and pen from a pocket inside his coat and wrote down his name and phone number. "I have an apartment on Montague street. If you happen to change your mind, please call." He handed the paper to Lestrade and then strolled gracefully over to his stack of books, and was off and up the stairs before Lestrade could think of another word to say.

Lestrade snorted and then sat down at the computer ready to go through the files one by one.