Sherlock's eyes found the corpse immediately upon entering the flat, several seconds before the rest of his senses picked up on it. It was a 21-year-old young man, just as Lestrade had told him, definitely a journalist judging by his suit, lacking build, and shoulders that spoke of much time spent hunched over his work. There was a good deal of blood about the flat, and every drop together told him the story: the man had been stabbed first in the stomach, stumbled around, and then was sliced across the chest, at which point he had fallen over and bled to death.

"Good God," said John quietly from his side. He took the scene in as well, though much slower than Sherlock had.

"Check his laptop," Sherlock told him absently, and then bent next to the body on a stretch of unsoiled carpet. The man had fallen to land on his side, right hand over his stomach and left grasping at nothing in particular, but the body had been pushed over on its back and the jacket pockets had been searched, all based on how the body and clothes were now positioned. The killer had not found what they were looking for on the body, seeing as no pocket had been opened too wide or out-turned, but most likely found it on the-

"Sherlock, look," said John, narrowing his eyes at the screen of the journalist's laptop. Sherlock stood and went to look over the shorter man's shoulder, mind still working through the events of the murder. "There's a password-protected file here in a 'school-work' folder." The title of said file was a long string of dashes and numbers, with no other description.

"Try 'jamesflynnProsperity'," said Sherlock. "Capital 'P.'"

"How do you know that that's the password?"

He raised an eyebrow at the doctor and said impatiently, "I've done my research - it's the only recent government conspiracy that hasn't yet been brought to light; so perfect for a student in journalism to get his break."

John nodded and tried the password, and the file opened. Inside were thirty or so Word documents, all with similar titles to the folder name. "Oh, the password is the folder's real name," he said, understanding clear in his tone.

"No," said Sherlock. John turned to look at him, unphased by the close proximity. "The password is what he named the conspiracy, yes, but the numbers are still the name he intended for the folder. Notice that all the file names here are strings of numbers less than or equal to 26." The detective nodded towards the screen, then went to stand over the body again. He walked around it several times, gathering data from various angles.

"26?" said John, staring once more at the laptop. "26... Oh! 26 letters in the alphabet - so the numbers are letters?" He turned around for confirmation, but Sherlock was staring intently at the wounds on the body through his small magnifying glass. John shook his head and went on to opening the Word documents.

"The killer was female," muttered the detective, measuring the angles of the wounds.

"What's that?"

Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade entering the room, but almost immediately went back to his examination. "You're looking for a female. About 5'6."

"How do you figure that?" Lestrade asked, brows furrowed. "Don't tell me you're just guessing all this."

Sherlock sent him a dry look. "The angles in which the wounds were inflicted. The killer was allowed close enough to the man to stab him, and then slashed him across the chest with distinctly feminine form - light, premeditated, and precise - both suggesting it's a woman. The angle also very easily tells us her height."

Lestrade raised his brows and crossed his arms. "Alright. Not much to go on, but it's something, at least."

Sherlock put his magnifying glass away and stood once more. This time he turned his attention to the rest of the flat. There was blood on the carpet and a bit on the wall next to the desk where John sat, the coffee table had been turned askew and was a foot from where it had previously sat (judging by the indentions in the carpet,) and the window was open but had been previously locked. Nothing else in the flat had been disturbed.

So the killer had come in through the front door just after the man had gotten ready for the day, killed him, and then left through the window without lingering longer than was necessary to get rid of the information that she wanted removed. But how had she not left a single specific trace of herself behind?

"Sherlock," said John, opening file after file in quick succession. "All of these documents are blank."

"Of course they are, John," said Sherlock distantly, not surprised in the least. "The man was writing about a career-changing conspiracy - thus, murdered."

"Oh, James Flynn," said John. "I thought the name had been familiar."

"You mean the one in Parliament?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes!" Sherlock interjected. "He's the only one there with an unclear background. All simplistic and minimal documents, but nothing personal was ever released to the public - a bit suspicious that the man never said anything about himself, but only ever talked about his political views, don't you think? This journalist here thought so too, so he and his friend dug around and found out some things they weren't supposed to know."

"So this woman killed them to keep them quiet?" asked Lestrade, though it didn't sound much like a question. "But why? Think she was involved?"

Something caught Sherlock's eye. He knelt down by the head, took out his magnifying glass once more, and picked up a foot-long hair. "Too long to be his," he muttered, "and he didn't have any girlfriends or lovers."

"That must belong to the killer, then," said John, standing from the desk to kneel on the other side of the body.

Sherlock sniffed the hair, and then smirked very suddenly.

"What?"

"She's much smarter than average," he said, standing with the hair still between his fingers and under the lens. "Smart enough, in fact, that not only did she erase any distinguishing clues that would lead us to her identity, but she also left us a message."

John and Lestrade waited quietly for Sherlock to elaborate.

He snapped his magnifying glass shut and stuffed it back in his pocket, striding across the room with the hair still lifted to eye level. He looked at the other two men in the room. "She left a single hair of hers behind, but was aware of it. Why not just throw it out the window and eliminate her DNA entirely from the flat? No, no, she chemically burned it instead, with an acid strong enough to make it unrecognizable, but weak enough to leave it intact. And then she placed it very carefully next to her victim's head. It's a message!" And then Sherlock went to stride out of the room, throwing the hair back down to the ground.

"Wha- Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted after him. "What's the message, then?"

His reply came loudly from down the hall. "No idea!"

The walls flashed in the darkness from the light of the muted television. The only sound in the room came from the clacking of a keyboard, and the occasional soft slurp of tea. It was a beautiful night.

The woman on the laptop worked fast, typing away her report with the sort of vigor that she could only muster in the nighttime. She was surprised, really, that she had been so quick to finish her accounting reports, when usually she would procrastinate to do them until the very last minute. She honestly hated this part of the work - it truly was a beautiful night, and here she was, sitting at a desk in a hotel room with all the windows closed and covered.

Not that she cared much for stars, or the full, romantic moon hanging in the sky - those were simply atmosphere. It was just something about the thought of the majority of people sleeping at the same time, and the thought that predators hunted at night, or something along those lines, that made her wish she was out doing field work instead of the boring business work.

She took a sip of tea and leaned back in her chair. She was three quarters of the way done.

Then her mobile rang. She walked across the room to retrieve it from the bedside table, and read the caller ID. Mother? she thought. It was at least eleven o'clock at night, which was definitely not the typical time that her mother would call. And it wasn't even the weekend. It must have been important.

"Hello," she answered, sitting back down at her desk and taking her mug in hand.

"Hello, sweetie," her mother replied. Her tone was tired and a bit distressed. Something had happened that was big enough to call about, but not big enough to cry for. "How has your day been?"

"Fine enough. Um. How was yours?"

"Alright, but…" she trailed off, and then sighed. "Sweetie, have you been watching the news channel today?"

"Sort of," the woman replied, glancing over at the muted television. It was on the news station, but she had turned the volume off in order to get her work done. There was some big story on, she could tell. She went and sat on the edge of the bed in order to read the headlines. "Why?"

"Well," said her mother, pausing for effect as she usually would. "Remember a month ago when that student of mine was found dead in his flat?"

"Mhmm."

"Now his best friend has been murdered as well," said her mother. She heard her sniff wetly on the other end. "Finley Elliot. He was my best student last year - he would always stay behind to help me grade for other classes and such, and he had the highest grades. Even took me out for coffee once or twice just to talk about writing. He always found the best topics, and oh, he was such a good journalist. You know he once dug up documents from the sixteenth century that only one other person in the world knew about, just for an assigned paper."

The woman took a sip of her tea, watching as the news anchor showed the less bloody pictures of the crime scene. "I'm sorry," she said into her phone, not feeling sorry at all but not quite sure what she was supposed to say. She was used to her mother talking about her friendly relationships with her students, and how wonderful they were, so this was no different for her. Her lack of caring was the same as it was with any other student-talk.

"Dear, it just gets worse and worse about London these days doesn't it? Why do you stay there? It must feel so unsafe."

She sipped her tea again, crinkling her face. "I'm perfectly safe, mother. There's no more murder in London these days than there was a hundred years ago." She grabbed the remote control and turned the TV volume on low, listening to the anchor talk about how the police were handling the murder. A gruff looking inspector was offering a statement then, but he didn't say much - it was obvious the man hated publicity, and also that he had no idea what to make of the murders in the first place.

"Well, maybe so, but it's much more safe out here in Surrey, dear," her mother argued.

"Isn't that where his friend was mangled a month ago? Surrey?" the woman retorted. She realized a moment later that it probably wasn't the right thing to say, if her mother's silence was anything to go by. "…I'm just as safe here in London, mother, as I would be in any other place. Crime and corruption isn't just centered in London, it's a worldwide problem, and it has been since the beginning of time. It's stupid to assume that any one place is safer than the next."

"…I hope that's just your way of saying 'Don't worry about me, mum,'" said her mother. She sounded rather put off.

The woman rolled her eyes and kept sipping at her tea, waiting for her mother to say something more worthwhile. She suddenly didn't want to put forth the effort to keep the conversation going, which happened a lot when her mother called her. The police inspector was off the screen by now, and the anchor was talking about crime statistics in London. She muted the television once more and swirled her tea around.

"Well, I'll let you go, dear," said her mother quietly. "You should get some rest - you sound like you need it."

"You, too," the woman said.

"Love you."

"Mhmm."

"Goodnight."

The woman ended the call, tossed her phone lazily to the floor, and immediately walked back to the desk. She felt overwhelmingly bored and restless. On a second thought, she turned back and grabbed the remote, turning the TV off. Then she sat at her laptop and opened an IM.

x2081LIA: Val.

xvalkyrieburns: Yes?

x2081LIA: I'm bored. Find me something to do.

As soon as it was sent, she closed the laptop and climbed into bed, drifting off into sleep and awaiting her boss's inevitable call that would come an hour later.