"Noah Hall," he said slamming the doors open to her office. She was with a patient, and quite frankly, it wasn't a good time. The man was paranoid with a series of phobias, and anything could set him off including an arrogant consulting detective that has too many issues to understand boundaries.

"Who's he?" her client asked her looking at Sherlock confused.

"A man, who desperately needs therapy, Mathew," she replied rolling her eyes as Sherlock quickly entered her office. He pushed Mathew's legs off the couch sitting down and looking at her not giving a care in the wolrd that she was with a patient.

"How did you know? You're a psychiatrist not a detective."

"Mr. Holmes, now is not the time," she scowled. "I am with a patient. I have no time for you." He looked over the patient carefully but quickly. No doubt he knew right away what was wrong with him by a glance.

"Give him something for his anxiety and call it a day," he told her quickly. "How did you know? I have to know. How?" She sighed and stood grabbing his arm in an iron grip. She tugged him to the door and threw him out of her office stepping out momentarily.

"I do not have time for your sociopathic behavior. I have clients and a job. You want to talk about it then you have to wait until I'm done here, do you understand that?" She asked, but he didn't have time to answer before she answered for him. "Good. Then I'll be with my client. If you really want to talk, then wait until I'm done at work." She went back into her office slamming the door behind her. Done after work! Ha! She usually, if she did, left her office around three in the morning. Good luck with that.

Sherlock Holmes didn't barge into her office again that day much to her satisfaction. She found herself swamped in backup paper work that she had put off for days. Her publisher was calling demanding the book she promised ages ago, but she still hadn't delivered it. She had several clients, most were beyond boring, and was now screening calls from everyone as she really didn't feel like dealing with any more people for that day.

By the time she had finished her work, she decided she needed to get away from the office and spend a night at home. She walked out of her office into the mostly empty halls of Saint Bart's at three in the morning as she had predicted. It was rather dreary this late at night, and it was eerily quiet. There was no one to observe, and Jen was just left to her thoughts.

The night air was chillier than expected causing her to pull her red coat tighter around her to keep the cold out.

"How?" a voice called form against the wall. She jumped and her books and papers went everywhere. She looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall to Saint Bart's. She twitched in annoyance.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" she asked quickly gathering her papers and book before she stood straight.

"I was waiting for you, but the staff shut me out at midnight forcing me to wait out here for you," he informed. "I thought it would be obvious."

"Mr. Holmes, for the love of God, go home. It's three in the morning. Normal people don't wait for a single answer for ten hours," she told him.

"I'm not normal. Normal is boring," he informed her as he matched her stride as she started to walk away. "And neither are you. Now tell me. How? How did you know it was Noah Hall?"

"Go home, Mr. Holmes. It's three in the morning," she repeated.

"No. Not until I get my answer," he replied. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she replied, "if you want to be a child and demand answers, I'll tell you how if only to get you as far away from me as physically possible. First things first, tell me what made you realize it was Noah Hall."

"You said someone unstable, someone who would just suddenly attack. Violent outbursts like that must have had history. I used a number of sources to find my killer. I knew he was approximately 6'4. I knew he weighed approximately 215 lbs. I knew he was of German descent, and that he had been married at some point possibly with a daughter. I then recognized the dirt on a victim's sleeve as coming from only one place in the country. It all lead me to Noah Hall. Now tell me how you beat me to the answer? How did you really know Mr. Yates was innocent?"

"See that woman on the corner there?" she asked him nodding to a woman sitting on a bench. "Tell me about her."

"I hardly understand how this is relevant."

"Just answer me, you dolt, and stop telling me something isn't relevant if you don't know where I'm going with this." He scowled at her before he spoke.

"Shadow's under her eyes," he started a little too eager to impress. Perhaps he was trying to prove to her that he wasn't a dolt. "She hasn't had a good night's sleep in four days. She's right handed and works as a waitress judging from her clothes. However, judging from her hands she also plays piano. Beginner's sheets in her bag. She teaches piano on the side. She has a paint stain on her blouse. Could be a painter, but no, that's children's paint. She has a child at home. No ring. Single mother. Old scars. Not self-inflicted. No, she came out of a bad relationship. Abuse. She was self-taught at piano and never completed any formal education, but she's clever enough. She reads and tries to set an example for her daughter."

"Daughter?"

"Pink ribbon on her bag. Obviously from a little girl. She's recently stopped smoking as she has no money for the habit. She's barely making her rent. They're about to be kicked out, but she's just managing to scrap by. Her names Joan Phillips. She's 5'5 and 133lbs. She's a mix of French, African, and German. Anything else?"

"No," Jen replied. "That was a bit remarkable."

"Really?" he asked surprised.

"Yes. I wouldn't be able to deduce all that by looking at her. Why? What do most people think?"

"Most tell me to piss off," he told her.

"No, it's just a bit remarkable, but don't let it go to your head. You missed what I can see."

"Like what?" he asked her irritated. Jen barely glanced at the woman.

"She's suffering from severe panic attacks and depression. She worries too much for her child, I assume, so much so it's been affecting her sleep. 369-11."

"369-11?" he asked.

"The chances she'll snap and kill her child before shooting herself in the head," she informed him.

"For or against?"

"Against," she told him.

"How could you tell? She shows no outward signs," he informed her.

"No, but it's there," she muttered staring at the woman before she shook her head and turned the corner with Sherlock following at her side. "Do you know what Borderline Personality Disorder is?"

"It's a cluster B personality disorder whose essential features are a pattern of marked impulsivity and instability of affects, interpersonal relationships, and self-image," he told her.

"Nearly directly from the textbook," she remarked amused. "Did you know I have it?"

"It was obvious," he informed her, and although she didn't want him to know she had Borderline Personality Disorder, she suspected he knew against her will.

"One of the possible symptoms of BPD is what's known as hyper-empathy. Basically, I can read a person's emotions better than you can read a book. I can feel what other people feel, and using what I know about emotions and about what I see I can tell you what is wrong with a person. I can tell you the chances of the murdering someone and the chances of them killing themselves. Hell, I once accurately predicted the means as well as the time and death down to the minute of a government official. All by a single glance."

"Show me," he demanded.

"Did I not just show you?" she asked with a frown gesturing behind her to the woman on the bench.

"Show me how," he told her.

"You're asking me to teach you?"

"It's relevant to my work," he informed her. "It will make me better at finding the killers."

"It can't be taught, Mr. Holmes," she told him with a sigh. "You either understand emotions or you don't, and you understand them in a very chemical way. I understand in a physical way. When someone is upset, I get upset. When someone is happy, I'm happy. When someone is angry, I'm angry. You can't learn it. It just is. Everything I do, everything I know is instinctual. It has nothing to do with intelligence or science." She stepped up the steps to a small apartment building to the door.

"You said I was difficult though. You couldn't read me," he told her.

"No," she replied with a frown. "I couldn't. It's like I can see people's emotions and problems on a telly, but when I look at you, all I see is static jumbled with a few choice words that mean nearly nothing to me." She took her keys from her coat jacket and unlocked the door. "Go home, Mr. Holmes. It's nearly four in the morning, and I need to rest." She entered the building but quickly turned around to watch him slowly walk down the steps. "Mr. Holmes?" He turned to look at her. He had a smug smile on his face like she knew he would. He was satisfied to know she couldn't deduce him, and he kept the knowledge that he couldn't deduce her to himself. In her eyes, he won, and he was happy, and she enjoyed crushing his pride a little too much. "I am well aware that you can't deduce me either, and I know that it frustrates you far too much, so try to wipe that smug look off your face, will you? We are both at a stalemate. You haven't won." His smile fell, and he scowled at the girl's back as she disappeared into the apartment complex. Bloody woman.

A/N: I wanted to make it clear that her ability to find the killer had nothing to do with intelligence. She's clever, very clever, but she's still nowhere near the intelligence level of Sherlock. She uses mostly instinct and experience to get to her answers.

Thanks to new reviewers TragicBlossoms and a guest: Katelynne. To Katelynne: Sorry, yeah, that was a mistake while I was typing. I fixed it though. Ginevra.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I will be updating again tomorrow since this was decently short, and the next one is short as well, so I'll see you then! Review please!