Thanks to SanctuaryLover, JumperGuy, ktmt1120, jeffhardyluvsme, Ohana13, Clodagh, TheDoctorsMistress, Jess, England's Rose, Juliet's Pen, Jinx 456, GoldBee,
Bookwormiie, blod1tatws, SuperFunkyGirl1, Mina Werewolf, LillianaKay2011, Gwilwillith, Darkly Dreaming, Procrastination Is My Game, Faith Rivens & TessaMoMessa for reviewing.
Lestrade let out a long sigh as he gazed up at the high gates of Fulham Football club.
A small tent had been erected at the bottom of the gates covering the remains of the poor bloke inside.
The police had identified him as Steven Partridge, a city boy and family man. His wallet, ID, phone and keys had all remained safely in his pocket and yet his body had been moved miles and miles from his route home. As well as this, another grisly factor still remained...
"Sir, if we wait any longer the press are going to be all over us," said Donovan shaking her head.
"She's right," sneered Anderson. "news of this will be out soon enough."
Lestrade hunched his shoulders defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sherlock'll be here," he said sharply. "We need him. Unless you two have any bright ideas about this case?"
The pair remained quiet and Donovan scowled, gazing just over Lestrade's shoulder...
Her jaw suddenly dropped.
"S-Sir?"
Both Lestrade and Anderson turned to her before both swinging around to stare at what had caught Donovan's eye.
Coolly strolling across the Tarmac towards them was the looming Sherlock Holmes. The trio stared bewildered as they watched him duck under the police tape, his coat fluttering behind him in the breeze and something ominous swinging from his arm.
As he walked, more and more officers stopped what they were doing and turned to watch him. All mouths were agape, shell-shocked...
He ignored them and walked right up to where Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan all stood.
"When was the body found?" asked Sherlock instantly, glancing over towards the small blue tent and to where an elderly man with a dog was being questioned. "I'm presuming it was around dawn, perhaps slightly earlier judging by the dog-walker who found him."
The dark-haired detective paid no attention to the whispers and pointing that now went on around him.
By this point Lestrade wanted to burst but he seemed to have lost the ability to speak. After a long moment he finally composed himself.
"Sherlock! You cannot bring a baby to a crime scene!" he said through gritted teeth.
The Detective Inspector pointed down to the large carrycot swinging from Sherlock's grasp in which a wriggling baby could be seen.
Sherlock looked affronted.
"You asked for me to be here, Inspector," uttered Sherlock in his most poisonous voice.
Lestrade gaped. "Yeah but I didn't know you were going to bring your daughter with you!"
Sherlock scowled. "Her name is Jennifer," he snapped as Anderson crossed his arms over his chest and smirked.
"Rebecca is going to kill you," uttered the forensics officer shaking his head.
Sherlock shot him a look but said nothing. He knew it was true. Rebecca would kill him if she found out he had brought their daughter to a crime scene, but there was no way she could possibly find out. He had covered his tracks well enough and they would be back within the hour under the pretence of getting some fresh air.
Donovan leaned over the cot and cooed at the baby inside, waggling a finger in front of Jennifer's face. After a second she stood up straight, hands on hips. She shook her head.
"How the hell did a freak like you manage to produce a beautiful girl like that?" she said almost rhetorically.
Sherlock opened his mouth to snap back but stopped himself, gazing down at the baby at his side. The usually cold-detective softened slightly, glancing up at Donovan.
"She obviously takes after Rebecca in that respect," he muttered, before striding over to the blue tent.
Lestrade was about to follow him before he felt Anderson tug at his sleeve.
"Sir, I believe the word has just gotten out."
Lestrade turned and let out a groan as half a dozen camera crews pulled up to the police line.
"Oh bloody he'll, that's all we need!"
Sherlock pushed back the tent flaps and strolled inside, baby Jennifer still snuggled up in her carrycot.
She let out a happy gurgle, unaware that there was a dead man laying merely a few feet away from them. Obviously she doesn't take after her mother in that way then, thought Sherlock.
He moved over to the body as Lestrade entered the tent behind him.
"The cavalry have arrived," he sighed before his eyes fell on the cot in Sherlock's arms. "Sherlock! You can't bring a baby in here!"
"Why not?" asked Sherlock looking scandalised.
The Detective Inspector marched over, wrestling the cot from Sherlock's grasp.
"Because this is a crime scene, it's no place for a little girl!"
The consulting detective scowled at the grey-haired Inspector.
"I'll wait outside with her while you do your stuff, ok?" said Lestrade in an almost pleading voice, knowing that if child protection ever got a whiff of this, that baby would be taken away from them faster that you could say Sherlock Holmes.
As Lestrade pushed back the flaps and left the tent, Sherlock got to work, he leant over the man's body, extracting his magnifying glass from his pocket as he did so.
Lestrade let out a long sigh as he waited in the early morning sun.
He could see the reporters filming as near to the police tape as they could get. They were unrelenting and soon the news would be out. Another murderer on the loose.
The tired Detective Inspector stared down at baby Jennifer.
"Let's just hope your Dad helps us solve this one quickly," he said yawning, speaking quietly to the little girl, who let out a gentle hiccup. "Your Uncle Greg needs his beauty sleep."
A moment later Sherlock reappeared out of the tent, peeling off his latex gloves and taking Jennifer's cot back from Lestrade.
"It's the same," said the dark-haired detective bluntly staring down at his daughter for a quick second.
"What's the same?" said Lestrade gazing at Sherlock bewildered.
"The bodies, the man found last week with the missing heart and this man. His liver and kidneys have been removed. The incisions are surgical, almost too perfect. This is a professional job, done by someone who knows exactly what they are doing."
"So you're saying the two are connected?" asked Lestrade seriously, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," said Sherlock pursing his lips. "I'll text Molly. She can take a proper look at him and let me know if there are any other connections."
Lestrade gave a nod before glancing over at the line of reporters that were pointing their cameras right towards them.
"So are we saying this is a killer on the loose, Sherlock?" said Lestrade in a tired voice. "Because if it is, I'm going to have to let the press know..."
Sherlock sniffed. "Yes," he murmured. "And a very clever one at that."
Lestrade let out a sigh.
Rebecca strutted along the busy high street, weaving in and out of city workers on their lunch hour.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced at her reflection in a shop window.
After more than nine months, she finally felt herself again. Strong, smart and on the ball.
She looked good too. Her hair was glossy and her weight was back down, and a little lip-gloss and a dab of blushed made a whole lot of difference.
But it wasn't just her appearance. Knowing that she didn't have to look after Jennifer all alone made her feel like everything was good. Like everything was slotting into place.
There was just one thing missing...
Rebecca bit her lip her mind travelling to the dark-haired detective she knew so well.
Giving a soft sigh, she turned to walk into a coffee shop before she headed home.
As she waited in line, she pulled her phone from her pocket and sent a quick text to Sherlock.
[Just on my way home. Everything alright with Jennifer?]
She got a reply almost instantly.
[Just taking her to Richmond Park for some fresh air. We'll be home soon. SH]
Rebecca slipped her mobile back in her pocket and glanced up at a large flat screen TV that hung in the corner of the cafe that showed a rolling news channel.
On the screen was a TV presenter standing in front of a bleak-looking crime scene.
"All we know at this time," said the presenter holding a microphone, "is that the body of a thirty-two year old man has been found outside Fulham Football grounds. We do not know the identity of this man as of yet but what we do know is that the police are treating his death as suspicious and are looking for anyone with any information to come forward..."
Rebecca watched interestedly as the queue moved forwards and the lady at the counter smiled. "What can I get you?"
But Rebecca's attention was drawn by something else on the screen. A familiar figure walking in the background, a large pink carrycot swinging from his arm.
Sherlock.
Rebecca's eyes widened for a long moment before her face suddenly contorted into an angry scowl.
"Lying bastard!" she shouted, turning quickly on her heel and storming from the coffee shop, leaving the other customers staring after her.
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