A/N: Poke, review, poke, review, poke, review, I can do this all day, don't you doubt me, okay I'll shut up now. Hello and welcome to chapter three, I hope you enjoy it. :) I should have plenty of time to write because I'm on Christmas break now and I have less than nothing to do, so if you think I'm going too slow, by all means tell me to speed the hell up. I will listen. To anything. So y'all should review. ^-^


John stared at Rebecca with interest. Sherlock had mentioned one or two times a friend that he'd had growing up, but this was the first John had ever actually seen of her. She was of average height, but thin, and looked more built for speed than strength. She had the same habit as Sherlock of staring off into the distance, like she was seeing something no one else could. John had seen her face when she'd first caught sight of Sherlock, and he could have sworn that there was a tinge of sadness mixed in with the astonishment. That coupled with Sherlock's reaction, like he'd been expecting to never see her again, made John wonder what had happened the last time they'd met; he supposed it would come out with time, but then again, Sherlock was notorious for holding onto information as tight as he could. He might well never say a word about it. John shook his head to himself and cast the matter out of his mind, focusing on the dead body.

He had no form of identification and so no name yet. John crouched down in front of the John Doe and looked for any possible indicators of how he had died. He had small bruises and cuts on his hands, and larger bruises on his elbow and left temple, all several days old and from well before he died. He had been in a fistfight with somebody before he was killed, that much was certain, but there were no major injuries to his limbs or torso. There was no petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, so no strangulation. John felt his head up around his hairline, and sure enough, on the right side of his head, where it was covered by sand, was a major skull fracture.

"What have you got, John?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, he got into a fistfight with somebody before he died, but judging from the bruising it was at least a week ago. He was killed by a blow to the head, on the upper right side. You were right, Rebecca, he didn't drown. He was definitely murdered."

They processed the crime scene as fast as they could without doing anything wrong, and transported the John Doe to the St. Bartholomew's Hospital morgue. There was still no name on him and nobody reported him missing until almost six thirty that evening, three hours after his body was discovered.

"His name is Thomas Howard, forty-one, from Manchester. His girlfriend says that he was supposed to come back from work at six, but when he didn't show up or answer his phone she called the police. She's coming in to identify the body, we can talk to her then," Lestrade informed them.

Tara Sloan, Thomas' girlfriend, was a diminutive woman with brown hair. When she arrived to I.D. the body, she was visibly upset. She had brought two children of about three or four with her, a boy and a girl, who were blissfully oblivious to the true purpose of their visit.

"I'm sorry, it was so sudden, I couldn't find anyone to watch them, and-" She sounded confused, like she barely knew how to talk, and Beck cut in to help her.

"It's alright, I can watch them if you want me to." She smiled gently at Tara, who looked relieved and nodded. She bent down to speak to the children.

"Alright Jeff, Sarah, I need you to stay with this lady while I go and help the police with something. I'll be back in a few minutes, understand?" The kids nodded, barely paying attention with so much going on around them, and Beck smiled at them.

"Hello you two, my name's Rebecca," she told them. "I'm going to watch you for a bit while your mama's gone. Y'all want to play a game?" The children agreed eagerly, and Beck sat with them on the floor, playing 'guess the animal'. John couldn't help but smile at them; Rebecca seemed to have a natural way with kids, making it look as if there were nothing unusual about sitting on the floor of Scotland Yard playing guessing games. Sherlock was reading through Thomas Howard's case file, what little they knew. Middle management at a small business in central London (just as he'd thought), no criminal record to speak of, and the company had no violations of any kind. All in all, there was no obvious reason for anyone to murder him. They'd have to wait for the pathology and autopsy reports until Molly could get through, but there were no indicators that he'd been drugged or poisoned. Sherlock sighed and scowled at the report. This one was going to fight them every step of the way, he could tell.

"So is Rebecca the friend you mentioned to me a couple times?" John's voice broke into Sherlock's thoughts, and he turned to look at the smaller man.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, we knew each other years ago, back when we were still in school. Her father was in the Air Force, so they moved when he got restationed twelve years ago."

"Presumably somewhere in the south, judging by her accent," John joked. Beck had a rather strong Texas drawl that stood out like a sore thumb in England, but Sherlock shook his head, giving a small grin back.

"No, she's always had that. I knew her for almost ten years, and she never even came close to losing it; actually, she kept it deliberately. Kept saying it wasn't wierd where she came from."


"So that's what I want to do, but what about you?" she asked him, her accent pushing the last two words together so that the t and the y combined into a 'ch' sound. Sherlock frowned at the table.

"I'm not really sure right now; but I'm only seven, I have time. You talk strangely. Where are you from?" She laughed at his comment.

"I'm from Texas!" she announced proudly. "But my daddy's in the Air Force, so we moved here a few weeks ago, 'cause he got restationed. And I only talk funny here, there's a lot of people that sound like me back home. Are you from around here or somewhere else?" Sherlock stared at her, wide eyed; man, could she talk fast. She'd practically said that whole thing in one breath.

"I'm from this area. My house is out on the edge of town." Sherlock didn't elaborate; his father didn't like guests unless it was absolutely necessary, and Sherlock didn't have any friends to bring over anyway.

"Oh, that's cool. My house is outside of town, out by the base, but it's not actually on it, though. Not much of a walk from the west side of town, actually. You should come over some time."


Sherlock's attention returned to the present, and he realized that he'd spent the last thirty seconds staring off into space. Over on the other side of the floor, some stumbling drunk was being released from a one-night stint, and looked like he still had the hangover to prove it. Sherlock's thoughts turned inward again, and he shifted restlessly, trying to cast them off; a battle he had been losing for the last couple of days.

John watched Sherlock with concern. Something was definitely wrong with him, and John wished he would just tell him what. Even as he watched, Sherlock's face darkened and his eyebrows drew together, and he shifted around like he couldn't get settled. John bit the inside of his cheek and looked away abruptly as Sherlock turned, trying to make it look as if he'd been paying no attention.

Tara returned from the identification, crying hard. Lestrade looked at the two men and simply nodded before he led her into his office to calm down. Rebecca looked sad, but shook off the look and returned her attention to Jeff and Sarah, trying to keep them calm and happy. Sherlock and John followed Lestrade to his office to interview Tara.

"Before he died, did he seem… nervous, or distracted?" Lestrade asked. She shook her head.

"Not that day specifically, but he'd been upset about something for a couple of weeks, and he wouldn't tell me what was wrong when I asked. He got into a fight with someone."

"Do you know who?" She shook her head again, her crying starting to pick up steam. "Had you been having any kind of financial trouble, or any threats?"

"No, his job was going fine, and so is mine. If anyone threatened him, he certainly didn't tell me about it." Lestrade nodded slowly, then decided to cut her a break, saying,

"Okay, that's all we need to know for now, we'll call you in if we need anything more." Tara buried her face in her hands, and Lestrade looked at the two men and gestured with his head toward the hallway. "So, that's not a lot to go on. We don't know who he was fighting with, we don't know why anyone would want to kill him, and we don't even know when he died, just when he was left there." The three considered the bleak outlook at this stage of the game before John broke the silence, arching his eyebrows.

"So, where do we start first, then?"