Thanks for all the positive feedback I've gotten so far! It's really lovely. Do you wonderful readers have any suggestions for the future of this story? Any thoughts and comments will be greatly appreciated.

Roughly three days after their odd encounter, Sherlock sent a text to Ellie: How long has this man been dead? SH. A picture of a startlingly blue corpse was attached to the message.

I'd say 4 to 5 days. EA

Sherlock grinned, pleased. Now that he had all of the facts, the last and most important being the time of death, he was able to conclusively tell Lestrade to arrest the brother. Of course, he probably could have just asked Anderson for this information, but honestly, why would he trust Anderson's opinion? Instead, Sherlock had texted John and demanded Ellie's number. As long as John was out of his commission, Sherlock knew he needed a new doctor to assist him on cases, and having already met a perfectly suitable medical examiner, he saw no reason to let her expertise go to waste.

By the way, how'd you get my number? EA

He typed a quick response to Ellie's inquiry: Unimportant. SH

"Texting your girlfriend, Freak?" Sally said by way of greeting. She sauntered through the door and sidestepped the dead body to stand in front of Sherlock.

He stepped around her and exited the room, calling over his shoulder, "Jealous, are we, Sally?"

~oOo~

From then on, Sherlock took up asking Ellie for help on cases. He'd never actually brought her along to investigate with him, but he would send pictures of various portions of a dead person, and she would identify the medical significance. They hadn't seen each other face to face since that disastrous "date," but it soon became clear that she was filling the role of Sherlock's newest assistant.

The best part, at least for Sherlock, was that Ellie hadn't yet gotten a job. She claimed she didn't need any extra money yet and was content to just sit in her flat all day. While it may have offered her some relaxation, it offered Sherlock complete, continuous, and uninterrupted access to her mind. With no job to distract her, he could text at any time and would get a response almost immediately.

Nearly two weeks after their first meeting, Sherlock finally decided to bring Ellie in to the actual crime scene. While he had no issue with texting and no real need for the company, he couldn't deny that not enough vital information was conveyed via messages.

Need you to take a look at a crime scene. Meet me at 221B Baker Street. SH

On my way. EA

He was pleased with how quickly she had agreed, and sure enough, ten minutes later, Ellie gently knocked on the door.

"Come in," he shouted from the couch.

She slowly walked in, clearly unsure what to do. "Well, here I am. Where's this crime scene?"

"Follow me." He grabbed his coat and scarf before heading outside to get a cab. Once they were seated comfortably inside, he began to explain the case. "Over the past month, three women have been found dead, and this morning there was a fourth. They were all between twenty and thirty-seven-years-old."

"That's quite a range," she commented.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, it's a bit odd for them to be so spread out. What's even stranger is that these four victims don't all fit a certain physical type. Plus, there's no external link to them at all." He paused and then added, "At least not one that Scotland Yard has found."

Ellie furrowed her brow. "But you still think they're connected?"

"Oh, I know they are. Each time, the killer has left a cryptic little note. It's always a short poem and it seems to be meant to taunt the police." He pulled out his mobile and handed it to his companion. "This morning I got a text from DI Lestrade. He's been working these cases. You met him when we caught Lawrence."

Ellie nodded as she recalled the grey-haired, tired-looking detective inspector. She shifted her gaze down to the phone she was holding. On the screen, there was a text Sherlock had received from Lestrade about an hour earlier: Another victim found today in abandoned warehouse. This note's different. Get over here ASAP.

When they arrived at the scene a short while later, Sally was waiting for them just behind the garish yellow tape that sanctioned off the area.

"It's in bad taste to bring a date to a crime scene," she informed them as Sherlock and Ellie approached.

"Sergeant Donovan, lovely to see you as always," Sherlock greeted with a fake smile, pointedly ignoring her previous statement. "I take it you remember Ellie?"

She nodded once and Ellie offered her a brief smile. For a moment, Sherlock was almost positive that Donovan would protest his newest companion's involvement in the case, but rather than putting up a fight, Sally raised the tape and allowed them in.

The old warehouse was rundown and clearly hadn't been used for quite some time. A few feet away from the door, the body of a young woman had been dumped without ceremony. She had dark hair and a legitimate-looking fake tan. Her whole outfit was expensive, and judging by the glittering earrings that were still in place, the killer had not been interested in robbing her of what she wore.

"The victim's name is Sarah Kimble," Lestrade informed them when he saw the pair enter. He didn't look surprised at all to see Sherlock's guest. "She was twenty-seven, born in Essex. Her throat was slit with some sort of sharp blade, just like all the others. She's also got several newly formed bruises, which were also seen on the other victims."

Sherlock crouched down beside the corpse, his gaze intent.

Ellie stood awkwardly, unsure what she was there for. The consulting detective hadn't yet given any indication that he required her opinion on something, so she didn't know what to do with herself. A man entered just then, though Sherlock didn't acknowledge the presence of the newest addition.

"Hello," the man greeted Ellie. He had a nasally and rather unpleasant sort of voice with a fat, rat-like face. His dark hair was styled in the most unattractive way imaginable, and he had cold, dark eyes. "And who might you be?"

"Ellie Archer," she supplied out of politeness.

He snatched her hand and shook it slowly, probably in what was meant to be a flirtatious manner. It ended up just feeling creepy. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm—"

"Hands off, Anderson," Sherlock interrupted sternly, glowering at him with unhidden disgust.

The man, Anderson, glared at Sherlock rebelliously but withdrew his hand from Ellie's. "What are you doing here?" he spat.

Sherlock was unaffected by Anderson's harsh tone. "I believe I'm doing your job." He stood up to his full height and walked around the body. "How long do you think she's been dead?" When Anderson opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock held up his hand and promptly cut across him. "Not you; I was talking to Ellie."

She mumbled some sort of apology to Anderson before bending down to inspect Sarah Kimble. "I'd say she was killed about ten hours ago."

Sherlock nodded as if he'd already known. "Exactly. My guess is that the killer abducted her sometime last night. He hit her with a heavy object to knock her out; he wouldn't have drugged her. He must've taken her to an isolated field of some sort. My guess is that he chased her around for quite some time before he murdered her. So then, he thrives off the fear of his victims; he enjoys watching them run for their lives."

"How do you know?" Ellie questioned. Honestly, how could this man possibly know that the dead woman wasn't drugged? There was no real way to tell until they'd run her blood-work. And where did he get a field from? That seemed completely unfounded. Ellie was also unsure how Sherlock could tell that Sarah Kimble had been chased before her death. It seemed as if he was pulling these facts from thin air.

Sherlock's expression clearly said, "Why on earth would you doubt me? How can you be so simple-minded as to not understand?"

"Well," Sherlock began, "first off, look at her shoes—very expensive flats. They've just come out, which means the victim couldn't have had them for all that long. But pay close attention to the soles—they're worn and stained as if they've been well-used. Conclusion: she's been running enough to damage her brand new shoes. Those are designer flats she has on, so why would she possibly be exercising in them? That means she was chased, running against her own will. There are grass stains and pieces of dried grass stuck to in the toe of her shoes. That proves that she was in a field of some sort. That particular grass is unique to a certain region, and with a microscope and an hour or so I would be able to pinpoint the exact location. There won't be much to find there but I'm sure it'll be of some use."

"That's incredible," Ellie said, an impressed smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Sherlock looked momentarily taken aback by the compliment. John was the only one who had ever really praised him for his abilities before, but even he had dropped off on that front after awhile. Sherlock had almost forgotten how nice it was to have someone appreciate his deductions.

He flashed a brief smile in Ellie's direction before continuing. "Next look at those bruises. She got those shortly before her death (I've done extensive work on the subject and I can confirm that this is true). Because each of the other victims also had similar bruising, we can assume that the killer somehow causes this. None of the other victims showed any signs of being drugged, so we can infer that the murderer will keep the same pattern with this one. He doesn't drug them, which means he wants them to be clear-headed and aware for the whole ordeal; he takes them to isolated locations, chases them, and causes bruises before killing. I think he enjoys the pain and the fear. He likes the feeling of control he gets when he hits them, and the adrenalin rush of chasing them, and the excitement from their terror. In all, he's a psychopath, and a dangerous one at that."

Anderson groaned. "Just what we need, another psychopath. Maybe you and the killer can get together and exchange notes. He can be your new playmate."

Sherlock's answering glare would have made even the bravest of men cower. As Anderson was most certainly not the bravest of men, he backed down and scurried away, mumbling some lame excuse.

Lestrade coughed awkwardly, clearly having something to say.

"What?" Sherlock snapped viciously.

Ellie kicked his shin and whispered, "Play nice."

He rolled his eyes but seemed to take on a less hostile tone when he added, "What is it Lestrade? Something to add?"

"Well, actually, yes," the DI responded. "You really should read the note that he left this time." He took an evidence bag out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

Inside was an uninteresting scrap of paper with six neat lines typed out:

Sherlock Holmes, come out and see
The violence surrounding you and me.

A new and equal foe is what I want,
Someone brilliant who I can taunt.

You fit that part quite wondrously.
Sherlock, come out and play with me.