Disclaimer: You get the drill... 'Sherlock' is unfortunately not owned by me: I wish

Foundations

Serial Suicides

Another one! Sherlock couldn't help the delight that was filling him as he grabbed his coat and dashed out of the flat after Lestrade. Finally.

Mrs Hudson had often compared Sherlock to a child when he got a new case. They were like Christmas presents: perfect and ready for the unravelling. Nothing was better. And this was a case Sherlock had been waiting for. The world had never before seen serial suicides, and whoever was behind them was clever… very clever. Sherlock couldn't help the grin covering his face; this was going to be fun.

It didn't take long for a taxi to respond to Sherlock's hailing and soon he was bouncing into the one of London's black cabs. "Follow that car."

Sherlock didn't miss the slight raise of eyebrows from the elderly taxi driver nor the slight smile, showing his clearly yellow teeth. Ignoring his driver, Sherlock turned to the window to stare out into the city as he considered what on earth could be different about this victim.

It had to be a note. There was no other explanation. This victim had written something… had said something… had left some clue that the police didn't have any clue what to do with. Then again, the police didn't have a clue what to do with much, that's what they called Sherlock in for. Consulting detective, it was brilliance. Pure brilliance.

Sherlock shoved a wad of notes into the driver's hands and received another smirk as he arrived at the latest crime scene. The cab was soon whirling away into the distance and Sherlock was forced to turn to the police tape in front of him. "Hello, freak."

"Donovan, always a pleasure," Sherlock replied as he breezed under the police line and started to head towards the building.

There were many police officers lurking around, probably not helping with the "crime scene" look that was screaming out into the streets. If there was ever a way to show a murderer that they'd been caught out it was like this.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to reach the top of the stairs, his long legs burning a little from the running. He'd almost run over four constables on the way up. It served them right for being in the way. "Sherlock, what are you doing at my crime scene?" came a whiny voice as soon as Sherlock reached the doorway.

"Shut up, Anderson."

There was a snivel-nosed man in front of Sherlock, his hands on his hips clearly blocking the entrance to the room in which the next suicide had occurred. "Who ordered you here?"

His voice was almost annoying as his simpering persona and Sherlock couldn't help but wrinkle his nose slightly. If there was anyone alive who could lower the IQ of a room, it was Anderson.

"I did."

Lestrade stepped back through the doorway, pushing Anderson out of the way to beckon Sherlock inside. "And I would like it if you could move out of his way, Anderson. We need him."

Anderson curled his lip but to Sherlock's satisfaction stepped out of Sherlock's way. Much to his displeasure, Sherlock noticed as he passed that Anderson's nails were grubby and bitten - clearly he'd not bothered to wash his hands before visiting the scene. Tampering with his evidence again. Anderson was simply a waste of good air.

Walking into the room, Sherlock took in the sight of the woman all in pink sprawled on the floor. She was clearly a businesswoman, and everything about her screamed this at Sherlock. He squatted next to the body and then turned to Lestrade and asked, "Where's her case?"

It took Sherlock one attempt to find the bin he needed and in no time he was lifting an excruciatingly pink suitcase out of it. Everything about it screamed the dead woman, right down to the hastily scrawled pink label giving her email address and name. Sherlock barely gave it a second glance but instead grabbed hold of the handle of the case and headed out of the alley, ready for his second taxi of the night.

The city of London at night in a rain-storm was always something to witness and Sherlock couldn't help but stare as his taxi whizzed towards 221B Baker Street. There was always something going on, some life being ended or saved. All that mattered to Sherlock was whether it was boring or not… but he did like to people-watch.

As the cab halted at a set of traffic lights, Sherlock watched a young man cross the road. He was wearing dark glasses even though it was dark outside and keeping his head down. Everything about this man's posture screamed rich. He was holding himself straight, as if he had not a care in the world and almost dancing along the road. He was fast. And something about him drew Sherlock in to staring and ignoring the case at hand.

Then the man looked directly at him. A pair of dark glasses met his eyes and then he removed them with a smile, popping them into his pocket. The eyes that met his were as dark as the glasses, a deep brown but just as Sherlock was trying to work out what exactly it was about them that was not allowing him to look away the taxi decided that it was now time to pull away.

Sherlock couldn't help the slightly angry feeling he had from being taken away from this man, but he knew it was idiotic and he was anything but idiotic. He had no time to people-watch. He had a case to solve and it was his name at risk, as usual. After all, why would the police come running to him if he wasn't the world's best detective? Sherlock smirked to himself as he once again removed himself from the taxi (after paying his fare).

221B stood as it had earlier in that evening although now the door seemed perhaps even darker. His key slipped into the lock easily, telling him that no-one had been trying to force the lock open recently. That was good. Although the only person to force this lock that he knew of was probably himself when he came for his first look at the flat.

"Miss Watson rang back, dearie," Mrs Hudson called as he breezed in the door bringing the pink suitcase behind him. "She says she'll be over shortly. She's taking the flat."

Sherlock grinned. He'd known it. Of course she would take the flat. Harry had nowhere else to go, and she was just as intrigued by him as he was by her. He couldn't help but wonder why she had been kicked out of his old flat. There was always something that he couldn't deduce… and he knew whatever this was it was pretty big.

"Good, Mrs Hudson, send her up when she arrives."

"I'm not your housekeeper!"

Sherlock snorted to himself as he entered the flat and shut the door behind himself. It was just as he'd left it, right down to the piles of paper everywhere. He cleared the desk by spilling its papers on the floor and then dumped the case on top. Sherlock knelt down and stared at the case. This murderer was smart… and yet they were a serial killer – they wanted to be found out.

The case was a plain baby pink, slightly wet still from the rain with splashes of mud towards the bottom. It was fairly new, the zip not having been worn out or broken by use and yet this was not its first outing. Slight threads of blonde hair were caught in the zip itself which Sherlock removed quickly. It was obvious this was the woman's suitcase.

Slowly, Sherlock eased the lid open and peered at the contents. He was dismayed to see nothing out of the ordinary: no phone, no "this woman was murdered" note, no demands… just a business woman's suitcase.

Sherlock sighed heavily and sat back on the balls of his feet. There had to be something more to it. He couldn't have hit a dead end.

This woman had been travelling. She'd gone to Cardiff for a meeting, been caught in the rain and then returned to London. It hadn't been raining here when she arrived which explained the time of death. She had written "rache" on the floor, clearly a reference to a family member named Rachel rather than the German word for revenge.

Maybe this was about something else…

Sherlock snapped open his laptop just as somewhere in his room a phone began to ring. He ignored it, typing away quickly, waiting for Mrs Hudson to come up and answer it for him. Google was his first port of call as he looked up again the possible Rachels. There really wasn't much help there. Then he found himself researching the dead woman: again a dead end.

"Sherlock!"

He smirked as Mrs Hudson bustled her way into the room and picked up the mobile lying on the sofa. "Hello?"

There was a pause as Sherlock turned to stare at the suitcase. Then it hit him… why would this woman write 'Rachel' unless it could be used in some way… like a password.

"Yes, okay, I'll tell him you're on the way. What did you say it's for? He didn't tell me anything."

Sherlock opened up the email service straight away and typed in the pink peril's email and then 'Rachel' as a password. With bated breath he waited. And for once, not to his surprise, the email clicked through to the inbox… and the find my phone service.

It was the phone – that was what Sherlock had been ignoring all this time. Why would a businesswoman not have her phone? He had assumed it had to be in her case but now it was looking more and more like it wasn't in the case… but it was with the murderer.

"Sherlock, your taxi's on its way," Mrs Hudson told him as she headed out of the room again. "Please, could you just answer your own phone?"

"But what would the point in that be?"

"Someone might need to contact you one day, Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes and clicked on the find my phone app. It started to load.

It didn't take long after Mrs Hudson left the room for Sherlock to realise something was wrong… the display said the phone was in this room. And there it was. Pink as can be. The phone Mrs Hudson had picked up off the sofa and answered… but how had it got there?

There'd been no break-in and Harry couldn't have brought it so somehow either Sherlock himself or Mrs Hudson had brought it in. There was no other option. Sherlock grabbed the phone and attempted unlocking it, much to his unfortunate luck this proved to be pretty impossible.

Then there was a knock at the door.

"Sherlock, taxi's here!"

Who does a businesswoman trust above all? Someone who hides in plain sight. Sherlock had his head resting on his long fingers when Mrs Hudson gave her second shout. But who could hide in plain sight...?

Taxis.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his door opened. He should have figured it out earlier. He'd been so stupid and slow. Now the taxi driver from earlier with the yellow teeth was grinning at him. "Taxi for Mr Holmes."

"I don't believe I ordered a taxi," was all Sherlock replied.

The elderly man grinned. "Generally people don't order this kind of taxi, it's ordered for them and Miss Harry Watson was more than happy to point me in your direction."

Sherlock's blood ran a little colder. Harry? The woman who had come into his life so briefly earlier? She had betrayed him? It could happen… but Sherlock had trusted her. She didn't work for his brother and this automatically gained his trust… "No, no, no, Sherlock…" the cabbie continued. "It's not your fault. Miss Watson decided she needed a taxi, and I was more than happy to oblige. I don't think her brother will be so happy. He didn't sound so on the phone."

Sherlock's eyes widened. She had a brother? That might explain her sort of fragile-look, generally siblings were opposite. But he'd not been able to pick up anything about a sibling when she'd been there. Another secret for Miss Watson. She was becoming a little like a great question mark in Sherlock's head… and he wanted to figure her out.

"I take it I have little choice in coming with you?" he asked point-blank to which he simply received a smile. "And I will be causing an innocent death if I don't come?"

This time the cabbie nodded. "You do know who I am? Generally sociopaths don't stand up for people… I don't know Miss Watson, why should I save her?"

Again the cabbie grinned. "It doesn't matter who she is… she's simply insurance, a reason for you to come. A reason for you to give yourself when all the reason leaves you. As Sherlock it will leave you… when you play my game."

Sherlock met the cabbie's gaze. "Lead on."

"Shall we talk?"

They were sitting in a classroom of the very empty college, a fact which didn't worry Sherlock too much. Nor did the serial killer sitting in front of him. Serial killers were interesting… but oh so predictable. "Bit risky taking me, wasn't it? The police'll be round there soon and Mrs Hudson isn't a complete imbecile."

The cabbie grinned his toothy smile. "You call that a risk? Nah. This is a risk."

And then there it was. The bottle. There were two pills… the serial suicides were going to be explained.

"Ooh, I like this bit," the cabbie said as he unscrewed the lid and took out the tablet. "'Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this."

And then out he took another bottle… and another tablet.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. So this was it? The great secret? One table meant death and the other meant life? Why on earth would anyone take the tablets?

"Because, Mr Holmes, I could hurt them. But with you, I could hurt her."

And with that the cabbie walked over to one cupboard, pulling out a gun. Then he was pulling open the door and out fell Harry Watson. A very distressed-looking Harry Watson. "Mr Holmes!" she couldn't help saying in relief until she realised how he was sitting in front of the pills.

Her eyes widened in panic. Sherlock could tell her thoughts. She wanted him alive to save her and if he took this risk she might not survive… it was a risk worth taking in his mind.

"Why should I take one?"

"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together… we take our medicine."

Sherlock grinned. So this was it? A 50:50 chance of survival and they all took it? And they all got it wrong…

This cabbie thought he was a genius. But he was playing someone better. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the tablet the cabbie pushed forward and the other… and then picked.

But there was no time to take it before the gunshot.

The gunshot that hit the cabbie straight in the chest. He was dead instantly… And a scream ripped from Harry. "John! Thank God!"

There across the college was an older man holding up a gun but in less than a blink he was gone. Sherlock's breath left him. Who was that?

Suddenly he was not at all interested in the tablet in his fist but instead the strange man who may have just saved his life… The strange man that Harry Watson apparently knew.

And the next part of 'Foundations' is complete! Apologies for being so late with my update compared to how I said - I was actually at some university open days this week so it's been kind of busy. But it's finally here! I'm just going to say I don't like this chapter much so it would be really nice to hear from you guys as to what you think (*hint hint* reviews would be lovely).

But in any case here are my usual votes of thanks for my new followers!: FantasyDreamer23, MaryElisabeth, greenwitch88, xSommerRegen, Alieri, and amylovesjohnlock. I love you all to my new followers! And I love you to everyone else who has followed in the past, and to milkyourpigs for an ace review and for being my companion in writing for most of my life - you guys should check out her writing it's ace! Anyway I've got to say amylovesjohnlock I love your name... it rocks!

Anyway, I gave you John this time but not that much John? So as I'm moving onto (*gasp*) my own plotline now I've got the serial suicides out of the way we shall be seeing a lot more of him... but I had to introduce him somehow and what better way! So anyway I'd love to hear you guys' thoughts, and a big thank you anyway to anyone who reads but I'd love some reviews :) See you guys soon for a more own-plot focused chapter and for more John! (I've got to say I feel he seems a bit badass just turning up to shoot someone so we need more of him!)