A/N: Ahoy matey!

Three updates in three days, you say? Ha ha no, don't bank on that. My update speed ranges from once a day to never, zilch, nada, zip.

But fear not, this story is something that I wanna continue... Even though this chapter seems a bit pointless and long and full of things that need not be there. Dear god, when I edit it, for I will edit it, it'll be better. I promise!

Anyway, for now, read and review! Please!

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Sherlock BBC because life's not fair like that.

'Okay, you've got questions.'

John turned his attention to the man sitting next to him, if ghosts could sit that is, and mentally debated whether punching this man would do any good. At best, his punch would go right through him, so he gave up that line of thought.

Instead he looked ahead to check if the driver was looking in his rear view or not and put his collar up to partially hide his mouth, a precaution he took so as to not seem like he was talking to himself, because that would surely not go well at all.

'Yeah, where are we going?' he said barely a whisper.

'Crime scene. Next?' said Sherlock matter-of-factly and turned the other way to avoid John's glare.

Crime scene? What?

'Who are you? What do you do?' Though John already knew the answer to that one, and by the looks of it he knew he won't be getting a straight answer out of this man anyway.

'What do you think?' Sherlock's reply was just as John expected.

'Very well, tell me what do you mean when you say you're a consulting detective.' John asked in return, passing a cursory glance at the cabbie again before turning back to Sherlock, expecting a surprised look from the other man. Instead, all he got was an expression that roughly read well-done-you.

'It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.' John swore he felt the pride emanating from Sherlock, physically, when he said that.

Struggling to keep himself from laughing John said in a strained whisper, 'But the police don't consult amateurs.' And John felt a crackle next to him as Sherlock visibly bristled, then turned away, a sly smile on his face.

'When I met you today for the first time, I said – Afghanistan or Iraq – You looked surprised.'

'Yes, that was very clever…'

'Oh yes, clever. And then there's your brother…'

'Yes, how did you know that?'

'I didn't know, I saw. Your phone' John took his phone out of his pocket and looked at it as Sherlock went on, 'It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player – But you've got no accommodation of your own? You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then.' Sherlock then motioned him to flip it over, 'Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already.'

'The engraving…?' John whispered, running a thumb over the 'Harry Watson – from Clara xxx' written at the back of the device.

'Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father – This is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara,' he paused, 'Who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then – six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it – he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch.' he paused again, looking thoughtful, 'You're looking for accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking.'

'How could you possibly know about the drinking?' John was all but staring at the man now. To anyone outside, or even to the cabbie, it would've seemed like John was glaring at something outside, when in reality his glare was trained at the man who was positively smiling right now.

'Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection – tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.' He paused, yet again, and then continued with much more emphasis, 'There you go, you see? You were right.'

'I was right? Right about what?'

'The police don't consult amateurs.' Sherlock finished, as if he'd been waiting to say that line. The two men spent the next few seconds in silence with Sherlock basking in his successful attempt to prove to John his point, who in turn was looking rather flabbergasted and trying to figure out just how a man could think like that.

When he finally got over his shock, he said in a small voice, 'That was… amazing.'

'You think so?' the other man said deadpan.

'Oh yes it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite…extraordinary.' John shook his head ever so slightly, still marveling about how the man could deduce things like the way he did. Never had he met a man like that, dead or alive, and John wondered whether this meeting would do him any good. He smiled again as he remembered his psychiatrist's advice from earlier on. 'John, you're a soldier. It will take you a while to settle down into civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.' John had scoffed at that saying that nothing ever happened to him.

Well, it's happening now.

He broke out of his thoughts just in time to catch the brunette mumbling something.

'That's not what people normally say.' he said.

John blinked at that and added, 'What do people normally say?'

Sherlock looked at him hard and then added with a smirk, 'Piss off!'

John swore the cabbie gave him concerned look as he let loose a giggle, hurriedly concealing it in a fit of mock coughs and adding a 'Don't do that' in between. The rest of their journey was rather quiet and random, though as expected Sherlock didn't reveal anything that would even remotely interest John.

When they finally reached their destination Sherlock sped off while John was left paying the cabbie. When he caught up to the brunette, John said in between pants, 'You could've have waited…'

'Did I get anything wrong?' Sherlock said instead, earning a confused look from John whose brain finally clicked and he got the context.

'Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker.' John said slowly as they walked along a pathway.

'Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything.' Sherlock remarked, smiling to himself.

John paused for a bit, thinking of a satisfying way to break it to him, but then said anyway, 'Harry's short for Harriet.'

'Harry's your sister!' Sherlock exclaimed, scrunching his face up in disappointment.

'What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?' John went on unnoticed.

'Sister!' Sherlock ranted on, still not over the fact that he'd gotten something wrong.

'No, seriously,' John raised his voice up a notch as they neared what looked like a crime scene. An angry looking woman was manning the front and John had a very bad feeling about all this, 'What am I doing here.'

'There's always something.' Clearly Sherlock wasn't over the previous matter and John decided to ignore the ranting brunette and focus on the scene in front of him instead. But all of a sudden he found the brunette standing behind a yellow tape, next to the angry looking woman with a head full of curls and a walkie-talkie in her hand. As John approached her she held up her hand signaling him to stop.

'Oh no, no, who are you?' she asked, giving him a glance over. John merely looked at Sherlock with a what-do-I-do-now face.

'Tell her you're my colleague.' he said with a bored look and drifted off to another side.

'Colleague?' John repeated.

'Who's colleague?' the woman in front of him inquired.

'Uhh… I'm Sherlock Holmes' colleague. Nice to meet you.' John smiled nervously.

'A colleague? How does he get a colleague?' the woman scoffed, 'Er… Did he follow you home?' but at that instant her walkie-talkie crackled up and a male voice shouted over the line, 'Donovan?'

'Er… There's some guy here claiming to be freak's colleague.' she said over the line. Almost the next second the line crackled up again.

'What?!' said the man,surprise evident in his voice, 'Are you sure?'

A few minutes later John was standing at the base of a staircase that went quite a way up. For some godly reason he had been allowed inside a crime scene, and though he had been lectured by the forensics in charge, he was now making his way up the flight of stairs, dressed in blue overalls and gloves.

'I can give you two minutes…' the man in front of him said as they made their way up. He had introduced himself as Detective Inspector Lestrade, and John had recognized him from the newspaper this morning. He was the detective in charge of investigating the serial suicides.

'Her name's Jennifer Wilson, hasn't been here for long, some kids found her.' The detective said, opening a door and letting John in who grimaced a little at the sight in front of him. The room was bare except for the woman who was lying on the floor face front. In front of him he noticed Sherlock was stock still, his eyes darting everything, taking the whole scene in.

'Shut up!' he suddenly exclaimed.

'What?' John said surprised and confused.

'I didn't say anything…' the detective inspector said in turn, looking as surprised and confused as john.

'You were thinking, it's annoying.' Sherlock said turning towards Lestrade who obviously couldn't hear him. Next he turned to John and said, 'Tell him that.'

John opened his mouth in silent protest but Sherlock's expression seemed unyielding, so John took in a shaky breath and said out loud, 'Er… Your thinking is annoying.' Trying to sound convinced by his words. But what happened next was completely unexpected as John watched the detective inspector's eyes grow wide in shock, though not in anger but because the words were so familiar to him. He walked up to John, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly with a strange expression on his face and promptly left.

'What the hell…' John breathed, but beside him Sherlock was already busy analyzing the scene before him.

'John,' he called out, 'I need you.'

John spent the next few minutes examining the victim's body as per Sherlock's instructions.

'Run your fingers over her coat… Good. Now wipe them off and run them under her collar... Have you done it? Good. Next, check her umbrella. Good… Hmm… slide her ring off and hold it under the light… Good. Now give me your phone… No, hold it up! You know I can't do that…'

At that moment the detective inspector walked in again, 'Got anything?'

'A little bit.' Sherlock said, smiling, and then turned to John expectantly who caught the queue a few seconds later, resulting in an awkward pause.

'Er… yeah a little bit.'

'Well go on then…' The detective inspector was standing by the door with his arms crossed. John looked at Sherlock in alarm, who smiled it off and said, 'Well go on Doctor.'

'Erm…' a small vein was bulging at his temple, 'Yeah cause of death is asphyxiation. Most likely she choked on her own vomit. Um, could be alcohol, possibly drugs…' but he trailed off because the detective inspector looked thoroughly disappointed.

'Come on, John,' Sherlock chided, 'You've read the papers…'

'So this is the fourth one then?' John said out loud, recalling the number of serial suicides that had already taken place.

'Oh for heaven's sake, if you've got something else that's…' but John was listening to Sherlock now who had begun his own little rant and was trying his best to remember everything. When he finished, John turned towards the detective with a vacant face, and praying to the gods the see him through this, began his own version of that.

'Er… The victim appears to be in her thirties. Worked in the media going by the (alarming) shade of pink… And she was unhappily married because…' he faltered.

'The ring…' Sherlock offered.

'Oh yeah, yes, the ring…' John said scratching at his eyebrow.

'Her ring? Dear God, if you're just making this up…' the detective began.

'Er, hear me out…' or I swear I'll forget it, 'Her ring, it's not polished like the rest of her jewelry but once you take it off you'll notice that the inside is, which indicates that it was removed regularly. She didn't remove it for work since well, the state of her nails don't indicate she used her hands much. So… One possible reason would be that she had a string of lovers,' ring, check, 'Her coat…' but he was cut off by a new voice.

'She's Germen.' said the man who'd previously lectured John about the contaminating the crime scene, apparently he was in charge of forensics and was called Anderson, 'Rache, is German for revenge…'

'Oh do shut the door, John.' Sherlock said making a futile effort to shut the door on the other man's face for his hands passed right through it. At this point, John was so confused he abandoned all thoughts and did exactly what he was told to do; he shut the door right on Anderson's face, earning a satisfied grin from Sherlock.

'So you don't think she's German,' the detective inspector asked instead.

'Er… But she was from out of town… Er, she was from… Cardiff?' John said, looking at his phone, and then held it up for the detective inspector to see, 'Yeah, her coat is wet, but not her umbrella. Her collar is wet too so most likely she had it up… So, dry umbrella, wet collar… Oh, yeah, the wind was too strong to use an umbrella. She couldn't have travelled for too long because her clothes are still wet so she must have travelled for most likely 2 hours or something.' John paused here, surprised at himself for saying so much, and then continued on, 'So looking up the weather forecasts for heavy rain and strong wind around a 2 hour radius from here – Cardiff.' John finished, rather pleased with himself.

'Okay, so what about the note?' asked Lestrade.

'Note?' John repeated, turning around the spot the 'Rache' scratched on the floor, probably using fingernails. Next he looked at Sherlock who said just a single word.

'Rachel' repeated John.

'What?'

'Rachel, she was writing Rachel. Also, there should be a case around here somewhere.'

'Case? What case?'

'A suitcase. There are splashes on her heel that indicate she was dragging a case behind her… A small one going by the amount of splashes.'

'But there was no case.' The detective put in.

'But…' John began but Sherlock interrupted him in between, 'There has to be a case. Come on, John.' John watched as Sherlock disappeared through the wall again, returning a second later only to tell John to hurry. Working on autopilot, John's brain devised an excuse and clutching his walking stick, he tried his best to keep up with the now sprinting brunette.

'Small case, must be around here somewhere…'

'Sherlock.'

'Hahaha this is fun…'

'Sherlock?'

'This is…'

'Sherlock!' John all but shouted, thankful that they were in a rather remote alley and that no one heard him, 'Explain.'

Sherlock halted mid-step and turned around to face John. His eyes were wild and excited and he placed his hands on John's shoulder, who felt a chill when he did so. A wide grin played on his face.

'That wasn't a suicide. Oh no, they're murders, all of them, I don't know how, but they are. Ha ha ha we've got ourselves a serial killer. Ooh, they're always hard, you always have to wait for them to make a mistake.' He looked at John with an elated expression only to find the shorter man looking confused and unable to follow.

'Come on, John, her case! Where is her case? Did she eat it? There was someone with her and they took the case. Maybe she left in the car when he brought her here.' And so the hunt started.

At first John was made to follow the excited man up several flights of stairs and look down a rooftop, and then they climbed back down before Sherlock determinedly sped off in a direction, leaving John to keep up as best as he could. Once he'd caught up to the tall man who seemed to be on a sugar-rush, he noticed the brunette was excitedly pointing at a garbage heap.

'What…?' John questioned, not liking where it was heading to. As suspected, Sherlock made the poor doctor search through the heap until he came across a pink suitcase, much to his surprise, though Sherlock looked as if he had expected it to be there all along.

'Come on, John!' said the detective as he sped off once more into the night, leaving a sour faced and muttering John behind who now had to drag that ruddy pink suitcase all the way back to wherever the crazed detective took him next.

When will this end?

A/N: Aaaaand that's chapter 3. Kill me now for I know it sucks. Review please.