Okay, so I was going to make this chapter a lot longer than it is so it wouldn't make the story seem so slow, but I think it's already brimming 7,000 words and if I continued it, it would be too long, so I didn't want to do that. I wasn't going to update today as well since it is my senior cut day, but I don't feel well enough to go to the beach :(.

Well, then, hello! Hope everyone who celebrates Memorial Day had a good one! Thank you to all the feedback from last chapter, it means so much to me plus I didn't expect anyone to really like this. I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Chapter Two: Sherlock Holmes

"I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying."
-Oscar Wilde, The Happy Prince and Other Stories

I don't understand myself sometimes. Actually, I don't want to understand myself at all unless it would be a matter of life and death for me. Sherlock Holmes and John walk fast, I didn't make any effort to really catch up to their pace but I was always at least nine feet behind them. Besides, it's good to keep my distance. I only want to know why he is there at the crime scene, I don't really want to talk to him and his... friend. My legs are beginning to hurt from all this walking I have done, and when I see the familiar scene with Donovan still at the tape, relief washes over me like a tidal wave.

I have stared at the backs of two men far too long, I'd rather stare down at a dead body right now. I recognize what resembles a scowl on her face as she pulls it up for them to go underneath. She yells something out at them before dropping the tape and leaning her back against the squad car. She turns her head to look out and when she looks straight at me, she narrows her eyes. "Changed your mind that fast, didn't ya?" She says loudly to me with a small smile.

I shrug my shoulders as I approach her, "Flat hunting can wait, I suppose." She brings up the tape so I can go under and once I do she crosses her arms over her chest. "Besides, I'm going to regret not staying later, I'm not going to cause any harm by being here now, am I?"

Before she can reply, I go back to the table where Lestrade is talking to the two men I followed. John puts on the long body suit and covers his feet in the plastic bags. He snaps on the rubber gloves on both of his hands. His colleague however leaves his long coat on and dark blue scarf before actually beginning to peel off his black, leather gloves to replace them with the rubber ones. But, like me, he ignores the blue body suit.

Lestrade glances over my way and when he sees me coming to the table an expression comes on his face. Confused? Most likely, he is having a lot of confused expressions because of me, it seems. He looks back at Sherlock for a moment, saying something about the case, before he glances back at me. I stop ten feet away from the table and look idly up at the sky when Lestrade excuses himself from the two men. The two men look over at me but I don't pay any attention to them as Lestrade comes over.

"You're back so quick?" He asks me.

I shrug my shoulders to him like I did to Sally, smirking. "I'll regret it later if I find a job in a department store."

"So does that mean...?"

"I'm considering it," I tell him with a nod. Those words just left my mouth. I'm considering working with Scotland Yard. Me. A bright grin appears on his face as we both go back to the table together. I have a feeling those discarded gloves that are the only pair left are mine. "If I was planning to stay, I should have gotten a coffee for myself. Anything new happen when I left for twenty minutes?"

"Nothing, Forensics only began to cover here. They came when you left." Lestrade says to me as I push between the two men staring at me with narrowed eyes. One of the pairs, I feel calculating me. "Coffee does sound good right now, though." Lestrade agrees with me.

I turn to the taller man, "Yes, so can you get that for us? Black, please." Sherlock Holmes stares down at me as if he is actually insulted by me. Now that I have a better look at him, he must be around six feet tall. His friend, John, makes it to his chin and Lestrade makes it somewhere there, too. He has prominent and sharp cheekbones protruding his skin and his pale blue eyes look almost cold. His face is long and he has brown, somewhat curly hair that brushes against his forehead This is Sherlock Holmes? The one Carter looked up on his laptop yesterday? He isn't exactly what I pictured. I hear a snicker on the side that Sherlock silences with one glance.

I take the discarded gloves to slip my hands in when I hear Lestrade next to me, "Meredith, that is Sherlock Holmes."

"I know, I just wanted to see his reaction when someone like me would ask him to get me a cup of coffee like he is the help." I say to him as I rub my hands together. "He gave me advice about a certain cab driver too lazy to actually drive here." I look over at him as he nods his head in recognition.

"So you were the one by the cab before who was about to go in." Sherlock says to me with his eyes lighting up with recognition. I shrug my shoulders at him as he looks to Lestrade with his eyebrow raised, "Since when do you allow random people who dress like a tourist enter in on a crime scene?"

"She's not random, Sherlock."

"What makes you think that I ain't a tourist?" Lestrade and I both talk at the same time, me in my horrible New York accent. Sherlock rolls his eyes at me, I can tell he really doesn't like me at all just by that eye-roll. Hell, I don't even like him. I'm only curious about him, is all.

Sherlock looks away from me before he goes off toward the body. "Come on, John." He says to his friend shortly. Lestrade, John, and I look after him. I, in almost an awe, he is pompous and arrogant. Even how he walks, it is almost like he is trying to show that he is clever... which I doubt.

I look over to John, who comes up to me with a small twitch of his lips that look almost to me like the beginning of a sweet smile. He holds out his hand toward me, "John Watson." I slowly take his hand in mine. John Watson stands with his back straight, his blonde hair is darker than mine and is straight, combed over to the side. Judging by how his hair is growing it looked like he had a crew cut at one point in his life. He has a thin mouth and a nose with a button-shaped end. His face is more round than Sherlock's is and in his blue eyes, I can see that this see man has seen a lot. He's a military man.

"Meredith Wilder," I say to him slowly before taking his hand in mine. He looks ridiculous in that blue suit and I'm almost considering telling the good man that. But I don't. He holds my hand in a firm grasp as he shakes it.

"I'm sorry about my... colleague, he tends to be like that." Colleague? I raise my brow at that but nod my head to him like I understood. That makes more sense... actually. "So... you were the one on the line for a cab?" He asks me curiously, changing the subject from excusing his 'colleague'. I nod my head to him again and only now do I realize that Lestrade has left the both of us to go stand by Sherlock. "Why did you come here? Or... how did you really get in here?"

"I'm a detective, or was... I don't really know any more." I tell him honestly. He looks at me puzzled and all I feel is being obliged to elaborate. "I was in New York for three years, working along with them as a detective and actually got myself deported. Lestrade heard of me and called me in, then dragged me on the case in the middle of what I think was a job interview. When you saw me, I was going to be leaving here before."

"Oh... okay, that makes some sense, I guess." John says to me slowly. It barely makes sense in my mind, how does it really make sense in his? I see it in his face that he is at least trying to make sense of it, which, I'll admit, is very sweet of him. "But why'd you come back then if you were going to leave?"

"I saw you two," I tell him honestly. Now he is really confused, I can see it in his face. He isn't even trying to make any sense of what I said before. I continue on, "I have a friend who is a fan of your friend's website."

"Colleague." John corrects me almost immediately.

"Yeah, whatever. My friend is amazed by him apparently and I want to see what makes Sherlock Holmes tick. Plus maybe working in a store would be so boring." I add the store part before even realizing it. He doesn't even know about my ideas about getting a store or working in one. It could be boring, unless you do have a robbery in the middle of the day, then it may be a little exciting.

"I'm sorry, a store?"

"I was going to go look for a job and a fl—."

"John!" Sherlock's voice bellows from the body, cutting me off in the middle of my sentence. Both John and I look over to see Sherlock crouched down at it, examining all that he could of what was on the body. John gestures for me to go ahead of him and I sigh before I do so. This should be really interesting. The two of us walk beside each other quietly to the body and we get there in less than a minute. I put my hands on my hips as John goes to stand over Sherlock. My eyes scan over the lower half of the girl and my upper lip twitches when I notice the marks from the restraints around her ankles.

Sherlock looks up from where he is, a smirk appearing on his face. He is smirking at the crime scene after looking at a dead body... that is strange. "Any ideas, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks him. I look over at him slightly and begin to wonder, has he even looked over the body yet or gave it a once over? No use thinking about it now. Before Sherlock could even say a word, something bulging catches my eye.

"A few," Sherlock says to Lestrade without even looking up at him. I round to the victim's feet while he talks, saying things that I already figured out and some that I didn't, "The girl is about twenty-two years old, fresh out of university judging by her class ring. She was obviously dragged here from a four-wheel truck. She was restrained where it was damp, which explains why her skin is still slightly sticky from the dampness and why the marks around her wrists and ankles are deep from the rope that he tied her with. Most likely she was in a basement for a period of time. She is positioned under the sun where it would be at high noon so it would shine down on her and she is placed so it looks like she is sleeping, which is why the killer closed her eyes and rested her hands over the abdomen like you would do at your funeral. He cared for her, like he did with the other two."

"To a certain extent, of course." John steps in, breaking Sherlock's quick hand movements and talking. Sherlock looks abruptly up at him. I crouch down slowly at her feet, but don't look down at whatever is bulging out yet. "Well, he didn't completely care for her, he restrained her and crushed her head. I could hardly think that could be considered caring for someone."

"He did care for her," Sherlock corrects him rather rudely. "He only did that at the very end, but before then he dressed her, bathed her, fed her, and gave her water."

"Almost like a little pet?" Lestrade questions him unsure. Sherlock looks over at him and makes it seem like the answer to that is extremely obvious. It is, I have to agree with him on this. "If that's the case then, why didn't he wash her after he killed her so she, and the other bodies, don't look like they've been in a medieval chamber?"

"Good question." Sherlock replies to him softly before turning back to the body. I finally take the time to look down at the heels of the body's feet. My hand goes to touch the left one, feeling the lifted up skin that is in a shape of a symbol. One that I have definitely seen before, can't quite recall when. My mouth parts as my finger smooths over the freshly burned lines before gulping. As Sherlock goes on, I go to my back pocket to take out my phone, pulling up my camera to take a quick picture of it. "He wanted to make her seem angelic, it seems. That is why she's wearing white, it's a pure colour and there isn't a stain on it, nor is it really wrinkled. The locket around her neck is new, it's not scratched at all and the chain isn't even worn out, if she wore it often it would be breaking slightly. The killer also posed this to be centred in the middle of the chest. Now, is this the first time a victim has been seen with a locket?"

"Yes." My camera goes off once Lestrade answers him. The noise makes them all look over to me curiously and I ignore them all.

"Why didn't you tell me that when I took a look at the body?" I ask Lestrade. I didn't really mean to sound so annoyed while doing it, but wouldn't you when you found out that your future superior withheld information from you?

Lestrade seems focused on the fact that my camera phone went off rather than my question. He tries to answer me, "I would have if you stayed long... why did you take a picture of her feet?"

"She's branded," I answer him shortly and quickly put up google to plug the picture in the search, hopefully I could get a image shortly. "You didn't know that she was branded?"

"Oh, we did, they all are," Sherlock now looks up at Lestrade as if this is something new to him as well. I control myself to actually not burst out in something that could be either anger or close to anger. Lestrade looks between us both. "What? I thought you both would have assumed it or read it in the papers."

"I came in the country yesterday and assuming makes an ass out of you and me, I tend to not do that."

"And sometimes journalists have the tendency to exaggerate all stories that they put in the paper. If they said brand, I would have thought it was a figure of speech rather than an actual brand." Sherlock adds on, reaching for the locket around the girl's neck. "Have you even an idea on what the brand actually means or are you and your men not able to figure it out?"

"I got my best men re—."

"It's a Zibo symbol meaning, 'begin anew.'" I say looking down at my phone getting the result almost immediately. Google is better than the police force everyday. I glance down at the screen of the phone and smirk to myself, now I know where I have seen it before. My friend from uni had gotten it on her lower back and I advised against it. I don't trust tattoo artists and symbols. I stand up from where I am and hand over the phone to Lestrade, who furrows his brow down at it. "Tell your best men google is always the way to go and not millions of translation books. Idiots always post shit up like that."

"How do you know it's right, Wilder?" Lestrade asks me curiously, briefly looking up from my phone.

"You can't post anything on Wikipedia now without any sources," I reply simply before taking the phone out of his hands and putting it in my back pocket. "Were they all the same symbol on the other bodies?"

"Yes, they were."

"Well—."

"I'm sorry, Inspector," Sherlock stands up from where he is to look at Lestrade with a frown on his face. I look over at him abruptly with my eyebrow raising, "but who is she to actually be looking at a body?"

"Who are you to actually be looking at a body?" I counter to him almost offended by him. "We are both on the same side of a coin, I can't be here and neither you or your friend can't be here."

"We aren't amateurs like you, I've solved dozens of cases alongside Lestrade for five years and Dr. Watson is my assistant." I put my hands on my hips and look over at John with some interest now. So not only was he in the military, but he was an army doctor? That's pretty impressive, I wonder if it was in Afghanistan or Iraq? My money's on Afghanistan if I have any. "You, on the other hand, have just came back from New York yesterday, you walk as if you're still on the aeroplane and not only are you wearing an American football sweatshirt from New York, you say things like you are from there. But not everything. You obviously lived there for a long time, I presume. Five years, at most?"

"Do you always show off?" I inquire throwing a small smirk at him. He doesn't answer me, so I correct him instead, "Three years."

He doesn't skip a beat after that. "Can't be right about everything, but now why did you leave? You obviously don't want to be back in London, or else you would have made at least some effort in your appearance... but you do put effort in your appearance," he says with a smile on his face suddenly, he looks me up and down as he puts his hands flat together like he is praying, the tips of his fingers touch his chin lightly.

"Sherlock, please." John reaches his hand out to Sherlock's shoulder in order to stop him from continuing whatever he is doing with me.

Something possesses over me—curiosity, maybe—that makes me not want John to actually succeed in stopping Sherlock in whatever he is doing. I want him to continue on. "No, it's okay John. Let Mr. Holmes say what he has to say." I say to John without even looking at him. I never take my eyes off of Sherlock. He really does have remarkable eyes when you really look at them. Sometimes they are a pale blue, other times green, and then, right now for instance, they have flecks of yellow in them. I'm jealous of them. "How do I put effort in my appearance, Sherlock? Enlighten me."

"You've dyed your hair blonde recently," Sherlock simply stated. I dyed my hair blonde again three days ago because it was fading. I never bleached my hair because my original hair colour would be long gone. "Your hair is darker at the roots and it's uneven. Your hairdresser was awful in New York. You still have some red in your hair from before. Your eyes are an uneven shade of green and blue, you're wearing contacts, that isn't a natural tint to them. Your face also doesn't look natural, your nose is hardly proportional with it."

"I assure you my nose is very much real," I tell him with a light chuckle, but I feel my chest actually tighten at that. He figured out that my nose is fake? How on earth... he can tell that I just lied through my teeth too. He looks at me in my eyes, tilting his head, and though I have an easy smirk on my face, I look away from his eyes for a quick second and gulp. John and Lestrade don't realize it, but Sherlock, on the other hand, does. "But you're right about the hair and the contacts, I hate my eye colour and hated being a ginger. And three days ago, my usual hairdresser caught the flu, which is why my hair colour is a little uneven."

"But why are you here?" He doesn't believe the excuses of my hair being a different shade nor why I wear contacts, but he doesn't comment on it. I actually appreciate that. "When I looked at your hand before, I've noticed that you have a tan line where a ring used to be. Too thin to be a wedding band, but thin enough to be an engagement ring. It ended badly, if it was a sentimental ending, you would've kept your ring and maybe still wear it. Not on your left, but maybe your right. But that is not the case." His hands drop from his chin to go on. I would stop him there, but how far is he willing to go? He's almost right on all points. "Like I said, it ended badly, in fact he is mostly the reason why you're here. Perhaps you left to get away from him, but that would be a choice. You aren't here by choice, are you, Wilder?"

"I insist on you calling me Meredith, and no, I am not."

"So you left New York, not by choice?" I nod my head again to him, looking him over carefully. He chuckles deeply before looking behind his shoulder at Lestrade, who is looking somewhat irritated by what Sherlock is doing. John barely is looking at us, in fact, his head is hanging as he rubs his forehead in exasperation. I wouldn't be surprised that Sherlock does this to at least everyone that he meets and it must embarrass John, too. "You actually let a deported citizen onto a crime scene?"

"You should know better than that, Sherlock." Lestrade replies to him.

"Yeah, you should," I say to him with a small nod, my smirk growing wider. I don't realize until now that there is only about two feet between us, which means he must have moved toward me while making his deductions of me. "Come on, Sherlock, I know you want to ask me why I'm here. It's okay to ask."

"I have a couple of ideas," Sherlock says to me. "You were either an officer beforehand of Scotland Yard and are looking to work with them again or you were a detective in New York. Which one?"

"Sort of both of them." He looks at me carefully again before turning to the body. If he knows something, he's not saying it out loud.

That was... unexpected. I look at the back of his head for a moment with my smirk falling off and my mouth parting. I take back what I said to Carter yesterday on the aeroplane. What he just did... was hardly something an amateur would do. Sure, he missed a few things, but they were small things and didn't matter at all. He really... was almost right on all points about my life in the ten minutes we've known each other. I wonder how long it took him to decode that message on his website now... seriously, this time. I look to Lestrade, "You didn't tell him anything about me, I presume?"

"Nope." Lestrade answers me with a shake of his head. I let out a snort before looking up at the sky in disbelief, the corner of my mouth twitches and I grin stupidly.

Sherlock crouches down again at the body, ignoring me in the background. "That was..." I start to him again before walking toward the body, crouching down next to him. "That was remarkable."

"You're not offended?" John asks me in disbelief as Sherlock says something at the same time as him.

"Was it?" Sherlock seems surprised by that response. I could only imagine the responses that he would usually get from his deductions. I look between him and John before actually looking up at John before shaking my head no. Mine could have been worse and I appreciate the fact that he didn't say anything about me lying, which I know he knows about. If he doesn't, then I'd be surprised.

I glance back at Sherlock before looking forward at the licence plate of a small truck, "Oh yeah, definitely... definitely remarkable. You were right... you are hardly the amateur. We haven't really properly met," I start to him slowly before I hold out my hand to him, which he looks down at almost reluctantly. "Hopefully, Soon-to-be-Detective Meredith Wilder." Sherlock looks down at my hand for a moment and takes his back from the locket to grip it within his.

His hand holds mine firmly and gives it a quick shake. His hand makes my hand seem smaller and dainty than it actually is, and under the rubber glove he wears, it looks soft. I wonder if it actually is. "The only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes."

"Pleasure to meet you." Sherlock now drops my hand before he turns back to the locket.

"Great, now that we have proper introductions," Lestrade starts to all of us. I look up at him before standing up. "Can we get back to this murder?"

"Yes we can," I answer him with a smile. "As Sherlock said, the serial killer wanted all of his victims to seem pure and angelic as you see. He wanted them to look natural, which might be why he didn't wash them off after killing them. She's also wearing white, and I'm going to presume that they all wore light colours. He cared for each of them, so maybe, the bodies are supposed to represent somebody close to him."

"Like who?" John asks me, looking confused. I look over at him with my eyebrow arching. "A wife, a daughter?"

Before I even get to answer, Sherlock steps in, now having the locket in his hand and having it turned over, "Daughter." His answer is flat. He stares at the the back of the locket with narrowed eyes.

"Daughter? How could you possibly know that?" Lestrade asks him. "It could be a wife, a sister, a mother."

"'For my sweetest daughter, Beth.'" Sherlock reads off to us. "It's on the locket, but when you open the locket," Sherlock opens the locket as a small piece of paper falls out. My eyes immediately go to the paper on the ground. "The girl inside doesn't look anything like our body. Almost, but not the exact resemblance." He hands over the locket to Lestrade before he picks up the paper that fell on the ground.

Lestrade talks to Sherlock as I watch him unfold it, "So, he's using young women around the age of 22, to use them to represent his daughter? Sherlock, the other two," Lestrade glances down at her locket for a moment before looking back at Sherlock. Sherlock is reading whatever is on the piece of paper. The writing on it is small, and I can't read it. I still try though, the words don't really look put well together. He continues, "don't even look anything like this girl. They all look completely different, this is the only one that makes some resemblance."

"Well, they have to have something other than their age in common." Sherlock says to him, sounding somewhat impatient.

"Maybe they do," I mutter to myself, looking down at the small dress she is wearing. It's white and pure, as said dozens of times already. White and pure. Pure. "Aren't angels... usually virgins?" Sherlock looks up from the body and I can see him actually considering this. He pockets he note in his coat pocket and I look away from him quickly as he looks up at me. I'm going to pretend I did not just see him withhold evidence. I glance over at John, who looks down at Sherlock's pocket. He saw that, too, and yet he isn't really saying anything about Sherlock pocketing a note from a murderer.

Sherlock's voice brings me back to paying attention, "So you think that he takes women, age 22, single, and a virgin and takes care of them like they are his own before killing them suddenly?" I nod my head slowly, it seems logical. Of course, the murderer would have to check that she's a virgin, but for women, surprisingly, you can still do that. Men, you can only tell by their demeanour. That's why teenage boys fumble the first time when trying to take off your bra, or when gamers and nerds have trouble when actually speaking with a girl. A woman's virgin demeanour is far different, because we are just way too complex to figure it out, unless of course, you are a woman yourself.

"That's actually..." Sherlock starts to me and I cock a brow at him. Is he about to compliment me? He sucks on his bottom lip for a quick moment, "reasonable. Glad to see a member of Scotland Yard finally using their head."

"I'm not a member of Scotland Yard."

"Yet."

"I'm sorry, but how did they really know that they were virgins?" Lestrade asks us both, his face looking puzzled.

I chuckle lightly at this, "Shall we go back to health class, Lestrade? I'm sure the army doctor would be more than happy to explain how we can tell a woman is physically a virgin."

John now seems to be puzzled and he points at me, "How did you know...?"

"It's quite obvious, I just don't make my deductions known like Mr. Holmes here. I've figured it out when you shook my hand back at the table." I smirk over at Holmes and he looks away quickly. I glance back at John, "Plus he mentioned that you were a doctor and you stand as if you are in line, rigid, plus the way your hair is cut and growing in, makes me believe that you are from the army."

Before John can even respond to that, Lestrade cuts in. "I know how we can tell that she is a virgin physically." Lestrade looks over at me. "I mean, how can the killer actually pick them off of the streets? There's no way in knowing in public unless—."

"Well, the marks on her arms suggest that she was drugged before," Sherlock answers for me, gesturing toward her arms with his hand. "So he might have presumed, drugged them, checked and if they were, he kept them or if they weren't, let them go free. It's easier to do something less obvious in common, than actually have something more obvious to link each murder. If they all looked like the daughter, how simple would that be to find him? No, he wanted to make it less obvious, which is why you can't figure it out. So he picked, the least obvious thing that would be difficult to catch on unless you pay attention to the details."

"But, Sherlock, don't you think it's a little bit of a stretch?" Lestrade asks him with his eyebrow raised. I shrug my shoulders, it may be a stretch but that's the only thing I can think of.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side slightly and admits, "It could be a slight stretch, but it's not impossible. The only way in knowing is checking the other bodies, which is what I'm about to do." He takes his mobile phone out of his pocket and looks down at it. That's it? He's just going to leave now? "Be sure to look for any missing girls from the University of London, according to her ring, that's where she's from, Lestrade." I look over at Lestrade, who, to me, doesn't seem at all surprised by Sherlock suddenly about to leave. Lestrade nods his head at Sherlock as John is beginning to take off his rubber gloves. "Send me a text when you find out."

With that, he leaves with little goodbye. He never even looks up from his blasted phone. John attempts to take off his body suit quickly, unzipping it as he begins to follow Sherlock. "Lestrade," he nods his goodbye to him before taking off the plastic bags off of his feet. Lestrade nods back to him, not really saying anything. I look behind my shoulder to see Sherlock already discarded his gloves on the ground, not really bothering to throw them on the table. "Nice to meet you, Meredith." John says to me quickly. I look over to him and mutter something along the same before he tries to catch up to Sherlock Holmes.

I gaze forward at that same truck I've looked at before. Lestrade and I are silent for a moment. "Does he always walk off like that?" I ask Lestrade curiously, not glancing over at him.

Lestrade replies, "All the time."

"Oh," is all I can think of saying. Did all this actually just happen? I look down at the body for a moment before turning my head where Sherlock has gone. I turn my head back to look down at the body. It feels like it has happened so quickly that I don't even know which is way up and down.

"Oh, is right." Lestrade says, making me glance over at him as he is thinking about something, biting the corner of his lip. "Anderson!" He suddenly shouts out. I raise my brow as I see someone come over after taking pictures of the tire tracks left at the scene. So that's where he saw the tire tracks before, I didn't even notice them coming on the scene. He jogs over, Anderson is the one that I keep seeing from Forensics. He has a long, wide nose and a narrow face. He has frown lines around his mouth and he must be mid-thirties, at most? Maybe slightly older. His dark hair is parted in the middle, slightly greasy and a little long, but it's not touching his shoulders. If he lets it grow out it would.

"Did the psychopath contaminate my scene?" He drawls out, slightly irritated and annoyed. I presume not a fan of Sherlock Holmes?

"Not at all, I did before he could." I say sarcastically to him without even realizing it. I grin over at him and I see Anderson's face contort at the sound of that.

Lestrade gives me a careful look, before saying to Anderson, "She's joking, of course." He then looks over at Anderson, he seems confused. We haven't really met and already I'm trying to bust his bollocks. Habits die hard. "Anderson, this is Meredith Wilder. She's assisting us on this case."

"You..." he looks me up and down before looking at me in my eyes somewhat reluctantly. I look myself up and down with my grin before looking up at him. Something wrong with my clothing? "You're the detective from New York that we might take in."

"I believe so." I tell him, extending my hand out to him. I feel like I have shook more hands here than I ever did in New York. He takes my hand in a firm grip, "Meredith, nice to meet you."

"You too," Anderson says softly to me before dropping my hand. I tilt my head up at him before I let it fall to my side. He looks back at Lestrade, "So, did he?"

"As Wilder said, not at all." Lestrade says to him, "You could take this one to St. Bart's with the others and I want to know the type of tire that left those tracks there." He points to the tracks where Anderson was before. "Sherlock said it belonged to a tire usually on a truck, so I want to check on that. It would eliminate some things. Also, look up any missing persons from the University of London, I think if we find our vic, she will be there."

"Will do," Anderson says to us before he goes to turn around, but I stop him.

"When you mentioned psychopath, did you mean Sherlock Holmes?" I ask him curiously. Anderson, who has already turned around. He now reluctantly turns back around to face me. "He doesn't seem that psychopathic to me."

"You only just met him though. But he doesn't seem at all strange to you?"

"Just because he's strange doesn't mean he's a psychopath, Anderson." I tell him carefully. Anderson is looking at me, almost as if he is judging me. But he doesn't reply to me. Maybe because there is no use replying to me. I might be strange, myself, and I am, but I don't see how psychopath actually relates to Sherlock. The only thing that would point to it would be his smirk after looking over a body, but that would be it. Anderson turns around to go to where his men are before I turn to Lestrade. "Is Sherlock Holmes a psychopath?"

He shakes his head no to me, but I see some doubt in his eyes. "He does get off on cases like this, he's highly intelligent, and isn't paid." Lestrade doesn't even pay him to do this? "But... I don't think that really classifies him as one. He's a brilliant man, but I think one day he could be a good one. He definitely could."

"Well, I do see why you need him then." I tell him softly. "He sees things that most can't."

"Exactly." Lestrade states to me.

"So... what do I do now?" I ask him curiously. Lestrade looks over at me now, with a frown on his face, his forehead still scrunched as if he is concentrating on something. "Do you want me to get that cup of coffee that I should have gotten before?"

"Yes, that'll be good." Lestrade says to me with a nod of his head. He does look like he needs a nice cup of coffee. "If you get me a coffee with milk and sugar, we'll go see if they have him on the video camera. There has to be at least two or three here."

"Will do then. I'll meet you by the security offices." I say to him before turning on my heel. This is going to be a very interesting day. I head back to the airport, hoping for a café that might be inside of there.

Yes, I know, kind of going a bit slow, but it will pick up soon. I hope I got Sherlock in character, I found it a little difficult writing him at first but as I went along, it kind of gotten a little better. Now it either flowed because I got him completely wrong, or I got him on point. Don't know which, haha. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and as I said, I promise it will go a bit quicker as it goes on. And I'm going along with some episodes from the series, in fact, this starts before The Blind Banker.

BTW: Did anyone see Star Trek: Into Darkness yet? Oh my God, I couldn't keep my eyes off of Benedict, my family was getting annoyed with me about it. Loved it, he was absolutely brilliant and I think he stole the show.

And, maybe now I'll tell you, I have a Facebook page you all could like for sneak peaks on chapters and sometimes I would put a status about a story. I also do character physical looks and bios on there as well. If you want to like it, the link is on my profile. I really don't care whether or not you do, but if you do, that'll be great. I also like using it to connect with my readers.

Okay, now I'm done with this long author's note that most of you may or may not have skipped over. Thank you for reading!