"Beep"

Sherlock glanced at his mobile, slightly surprised. It was 3:30 in the morning, John was away on holiday, there were no cases to be solved, and his frustration was rapidly building over the lack of activity that enveloped his time. He was bored. Even when he disappeared into his mind palace he was bored. He picked up the phone to see who the message was from, and cracked a smile.

Need your help. We found something you might be interested in. - lestrade

He raised his eyebrows and jumped up from his seat searching for his coat and began to text back.

Rate? - SH

He paced across the room back and forth until he received the text.

7. I sent a police car to pick you up, it should be on its way now - lestrade

A smile broke across his face as he made a small leap for joy.

Finally, a case. It didn't even have to be an interesting case for all that he cared, as long as it was something that needed to be solved. Weeks of repetitious cases of scorned lovers, or of thieving employees (all very mundane) drove Sherlock into a very disgruntled and bitter mood.

He finished tying the knot of his scarf, and with one final glance at his flat, he grinned and bustled out the door, galloping down the stairs.

No need, I'll be taking a cab. Send me the address. - SH

~~~~~~~~~~
After paying the driver, he stepped out of the cab and observed the scene before him. The address he received lead to a suburban neighborhood where most, if not all, the houses looked exactly the same. There were two police vehicles parked in the driveway, one next to the pathway, and an ambulance parked in front of it. He hurriedly walked towards the scene, anticipation building with every step he took. He lifted the yellow tape that contained the crime scene and lurched underneath it and onto the other side.

"Sherlock, over here!" Hollered DI Lestrade.

Donovan was sitting at the doorstep with a pale stricken woman in a nightgown sobbing over her shoulder. The woman was around her late fifties, unemployed, but still well off by the look of her clothes and front yard; freshly cut grass, trimmed garden and 's never done any kind of labour in her life, so the yard work was professionally executed. Obvious. She's a housewife married (unhappily?) to a man with a high paying job; a man of business. Sally caught sight of him and glared, recognizing that look on his face and knowing exactly what he was doing after witnessing it on many occasions. He arched an eyebrow and walked past her and the woman in crying hysterics.

"Where is it?" He asked. He tried not to sound too earnest, although he might have let it slip in his voice, given by the look Lestrade gave him.

"Follow me." Lestrade beckoned with a wave of his hand.

The detective inspector led him inside a small portable canopy made of blue tarp just outside of the house. Anderson and few others were inside hovering over something that lay on the ground. It was something rather small from what he could tell. A limb? Or some small fragment of a body? He inhaled deeply, sniffing for any scents like a bloodhound. Was that a lingering smell of blood? No, it was rust. He stepped closer to where everyone was huddled, and smirked.

'A seven, indeed,' Sherlock concluded. He snapped back to attention and raised his voice, "Everyone, out. I need to focus."

Anderson gawked at Lestrade, looking thwarted.

"Lestrade, he can't just-"

Greg glanced over at the consulting detective, who was crouched down, analysing the scene.

"-No, don't start, Anderson. Just do as he says..."

"B-but-" sputtered Anderson, making wild arm movements in Sherlock's direction.

"-That's an order!" He said sternly, "Move out, you lot!" He barked one last time.

Anderson rolled his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and groaned.

Sherlock squatted down to the ground to observe the sight before him. Interesting. He put on a pair of latex marigolds and began his routine.

On the wet pavement sat what once was a delicately gift wrapped box with the lid lying next to it. Inside was a pair of aged earrings made of brass, a copper ring, and one 18 karat gold ring.

Lestrade watched the consulting detective as he absorbed the details of the sight. He picked up the items, bringing them close to his face.

"Torch." he demanded, in his usual phlegmatic way. Lestrade brought out a torch from his coat pocket, and handed it to him carefully. The detective shined the light of the torch on each piece of jewelry. His eyes moved rapidly over the items, inspecting every detail while muttering to himself. Greg could only catch a few words here and there, like female, cheap metal, and engaged.

"So, what've you got?"

Sherlock stood up, and snapped off a marigold with an all too pleased look on his face.

"These belonged to a woman, a young woman in fact. I'd say around the age of twenty-three or twenty-four. However, these pieces of jewelry are from a different era; The late 80's I'm assuming from the size and style of the earrings, which were a particularly popular fashion trend then. She has one copper ring and one gold ring; The copper ring is two sizes too big for her finger, she must have bought it from a pound shop, going by the cheap metal. The other ring is obviously an engagement ring. Not too difficult to figure out..."

"Yeah, we know all that already."

Sherlock shot his head up, and frowned, "You do?"

Lestrade folded his arms, and shrugged a bit, "W-well not all of that, but we know that these things belonged to Virginia Hempstead." He scrunched his nose, and sniffed, "Went missing twenty-two years ago. A severed foot was mailed to her parents, her right hand was sent to her fiancé, and the other foot was sent to Scotland yard. A year later her body was discovered in an open ditch."

"Ah, yes, I remember the case. She was one of the victims of Oedipus." His eyes flickered back to the ominous box that sat still on the wet pavement "Not the most 'fascinating' serial killer, but definitely an intriguing one. He had a peculiar pattern of collecting mothers that shared very distinct features, and he would then send their dismembered parts to very specific administrators. Always a foot or a hand, stamped with his scorched mark, with a consistent clean cut- what?" He paused midway through his exposition at the strange expression that Lestrade wore.

"That was back in '84."

"Indeed, it was."

"That means you were, like..." He thought for a moment, "...eight."

Sherlock blinked, "Yes. Your point?"

"You were investigating Oedipus killings ...when you were eight?"

"I kept track of them via telly and the newspaper; you're asking the wrong questions, Detective Inspector. Why would someone bring her belongings here, after all this time? Whoever did this wanted to make a point."

"This is her parents' house." Lestrade replied, "- I'm trying to think of who would play some sick joke like this, because these were the jewelry pieces Virginia was wearing the day she vanished...and I can only think of one person who could do this and please tell me that I'm wrong, because- "

"You're wrong. He's been inactive for more than 20 years, and the only reason a serial killer ever stops killing is either because he's been caught or he's dead. This is someone else's work; he's probably a fan of Oedipus-"

"-Or she." remarked Lestrade.

"95% of serial killers are male, so I believe it's safe to say that we're dealing with a he. The real question is how did he come into possession of Miss Virginia Hempstead's belongings?" He murmured, mostly speaking to himself.

"I'll take the box to Bart's lab to run a further in-depth analysis. I'll text you when it's done."

"Right now? It's four o'clock in the bloody morning, why would-" he paused mid-sentence and rolled his eyes, "I don't even know why I still question anything you do. Go on, go!"

Sherlock used his gloved hand to carefully dispense the materials into a plastic bag, when he heard yelling coming from outside the tarp.

It was a young man's voice, somewhere around the age of 25. This house belongs to his grandparents, seeing as he just shouted "Gran". He's obviously just received word of the unsettling discovery of his mother's belongings.

Sherlock stepped out of the tent and observed how the young man stormed through the scene with a quick pace. Red strained eyes, jittery hands, a heavy bag (most likely filled with books) strapped over his shoulder. He's wearing a wrinkled white dress shirt and dress pants that would normally be crisply ironed and ready to impress...not his boss, some other type of authority figure, so a professor. And from his attire, he's not just any uni student, he's a law student. He's spent the last three hours at his flat studying and finishing up an essay when he was interrupted by an alarming phone call from his grandmother, and that lead him here.

"Gran! Are you all right?!" He bent down, embracing the woman, and kissed her on the cheek, "I tried to get here as fast as I could." The woman was still in crying hysterics and it made it difficult to understand what she was saying, so the young man turned his head towards Sergeant Donovan, who had her arm around the other woman and asked her where the Detective Inspector was.

"I'm right here, Mr. Hempstead," Announced Lestrade, coming from behind the man.

Mr. Hempstead straightened up and approached him. "Detective Inspector, my grandmother informed me that she was awoken by the doorbell, and that she had found my..." He hesitated before saying the next word; as if it physically pained him to say it.

"... Mother's belongings on the doorstep. Who do you suspect could have done a thing like this?"

"We have nothing stable to go on just yet, Mr. Hempstead. This could very well be someone playing a sick joke, but I assure you, we'll do our best to get to the bottom of this occurrence. I've got my best people on the job."

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself with one hand to shield away from the chill morning air, while the other hand gripped the plastic protected evidence . He migrated away from the crowd and over by the street where a cabbie was parked waiting for him. Once he was inside the vehicle, he pulled out his phone and started a text. When finished typing said text, he spoke to the cab driver, negligently scrolling through his mobile.

"Take me to St. Bart's."

~~~~~~~~~~
Molly silently rummaged through the unrecognizable flat for her blouse; once found, she drowsily put an arm through one hole before letting out a loud hiccup. She immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, afraid that the sound of her hiccup might awaken the wheezing naked man lying on the bed that she had just escaped from. She could hear his still heavy breathing and took that as sign that he was still asleep.

She had found her trousers and managed to get one leg through. She was standing on one foot trying to get the other leg in when she teetered sideways and started to hop around the room trying to regain her balance. 'Shit, no, no, no! Please don't fall! Please.'

Luck was not on her side, for at that moment she unknowingly stepped on a rug that slid against the hardwood floor. With a small yelp, she slipped and landed hard on her arse.

'Well that was subtle. Really, really, graceful, Molls.'

"Where are you heading off to, cutie?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the heat in her face rise.

'Fuck.'

She opened one eye to peek at the man lying on his side with his elbow propped up to support his chin. He looked fairly amused at the sight of her, and she couldn't blame him. She was on the floor with half her trousers on, blouse inside out, not buttoned properly, and her hair was tied up in a horridly messy ponytail.

"Not trying to sneak off, are you?"

She gaped up at him with her mouth hanging open, trying to get words out.

"I-I was just called into work. Well, texted, really. It's quite important, and..."

Her sentence died off, as she was distracted by the undeniably fantastic sculpted abdomen of the young man that lay comfortably on the bed. She tried to recall when she had met him last night, but to be honest with herself; most of last night had been a huge blur.

He certainly was attractive; auburn hair, nice brawny build, an adorable dimpled smile, although not really her type. He looked quite young...early twenties, perhaps?

'God, how much did I drink last night?'

He sat up on the bed, shifting the sheets as he did, so that his bare muscular thigh was exposed. Brawny Boy made a disappointed little pout.
"Oh, I see..." Then like a click of a switch, his eyes lit up. "Well maybe we could do this again, sometime?"

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and scoff, so instead she smiled politely at him, nodded, and pulled up her trousers as she did. "Yeah, maybe."

She bent over to pick up her bag and shoes, and headed towards the door to find the exit to the flat.

"Wait, do you want me to call you a cab?" He bellowed after her, "And what's your name, again?"

Goodbye, Brawny Boy.

She ran out of there as fast as possible, while trying to zip up her pants.

When she finally got inside a cab, she fixed her clothes and her hair, and sprayed a light scented perfume over herself, hoping to make it seem less obvious that she was trying to cover something up. Like the smell of someone's cologne all over her body, for one. She was preparing herself for the deductions of a certain famous detective that would most certainly occur the moment he saw her.

'There's nothing to be ashamed of, Molly,' she told herself, 'It was just a one-nightstand. That's it.'
A nagging voice taunted her, 'Right before meeting with Sherlock? Molly, Molly, Molly.'

In an instant, a strong tide of anger washed over her.

'Why should I worry about what he thinks, anymore? It's not as if I'm in love with the prat.'
She winced as she felt a sharp pain shoot through her head and moved her hands to her temples.

'Just try and get through with whatever he wants you to do, and then go straight home and take a long needed nap.'

~~~~~~~~~~
"Ah, Molly. Finally here..."

She could feel his eyes running over her disheveled look as soon as she entered the lab, and before he could utter a word about it, she beat him to it.

"Yes, I didn't come here from home, yes, I spent the night at a stranger's flat, and yes, I am slightly hung over." She threw on the lab coat that was hanging off the crook of her arm. "Anything else?" She challenged him with an arched brow.

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "I wasn't going to say anything." He turned on his heel, avoiding her glower. He hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

"I see you're still upset..."

Molly scoffed, "Excellent deduction, Holmes; let's move on, shall we?"

Sherlock glanced at her with his peripheral vision. She snapped on medical gloves wearing a hard expression. 'Holmes?' She was more upset than he had originally anticipated.

He cleared his throat, and proceeded to take the evidence out of the evidence bag.

"I need you to assist me with running DNA tests on each of these items. I need to see if there's any chance that the suspect was clumsy enough to leave something behind."

"Who's the suspect?"

"It's not clear...yet." He muttered under his breath, concentrating on the box.

Molly stood next to him, watching as he removed the lid of the small box sheathed in gift wrapping paper that she assumed was once silver but had turned into a faded beige colour over time. He, very delicately, opened the container and she frowned when she saw what was inside. Those earrings.

Sherlock turned his head to look at her and studied her face.

"You recognize these items." It wasn't a question, he was stating it as a fact. He had read her body language and deduced that she had seen these before.

She scrunched her forehead, trying to recall any memory that could explain why it felt like she had seen these things before.

"I'm not sure... I mean, I feel like I do, but I can't seem to remember how-"

"Are you familiar with the name 'Virginia Hempstead'?"

She stopped at the mention of that name. Virginia Hempstead. She did know that name. She knew that name very well.

"I didn't know her personally, I just heard of her from watching the telly. Saw her picture being broadcasted, and..." She delicately handled one of the pieces of jewellery in her hands, and examined it closely; taking in the details, " ... I remember she was wearing these outlandish earrings in the picture."

He observed the young pathologist ogling at the evidence. "Most children wouldn't watch the news on their own accord."

She looked at him for a moment, before replying. "Yeah, you're right." She placed the earrings back gently in the box. "I watched it because of my mum and dad. They were really into watching news reports."

Sherlock kept his eyes on her, and muttered,"Mmm."

"I'm just curious, but where was this discovered?"

"It was found sitting on the doorstep of Virginia's parents' home, earlier this morning."

'Found...' She looked at the intricate box. It was very well preserved, besides the change of the colouring. '….Like this?'

They worked together in silence, with a still chill in the air. She did everything he requested of her without hesitation. She hardly spoke a word to him unless he asked her a question to do with the progress of the results. She would respond with an edge to her voice which left him with an uneasy, awkward feeling on how to respond, so he murmured or nodded instead.

They had finally finished running tests on all pieces of evidence, when Molly peeled off her lab coat.

"The results should be in tomorrow, so I suppose we're done here, for now."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to where she stood. He kicked his feet off the desk, and stood up as well. He watched as she washed her hands, gathered her things together, and was heading out the door. He abruptly spoke before she reached it.

"Molly." He spoke in a low voice. She turned around with a stone cold glare.

"I wanted to say that, I..." He swallowed, preparing his next words.

Her glare softened a bit . "Yes?" She asked, with a smidge of curiosity. She had a feeling about what he was going to say; and if he did say what she thought he was going to say, she'd probably think she was dreaming.

"- I need fresh body parts to use for my experiments. Nothing in particular."

Her face instantly fell when he uttered the rest of his sentence.

She shook her head, with a look of disappointment. "Sure. Whatever you need, Sherlock."

And with that, she turned around and stepped out of the lab.