Author's Note: HELLO! Thank you all for being patient and lovely readers! I loved getting the new reviews! Now, I know this chapter is shortish, but I will make for it by updating soon! Sorry if this doesn't seem too interesting at first. Writing mysteries is not a strong point for me. Actually, I wouldn't know; this is me first. :)
Anywho, as always, ENJOY!

-NWW

DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes.

"This is the late William Moore's flat. He was found, in the kitchen with his throat slit, earlier this morning by his daughter Kaitlyn, who was visiting for the summer. His son, Thomas, also visiting for the summer, was found in a similar state except in his own bedroom." We were on the third floor of the building, walking down a hallway—the carpet was a frightful shade of orange—toward the flat, with Lestrade filling us in on details of the murder.

"And the murder weapon?" Holmes asked.

"Didn't find one."

Holmes barely glanced at the police officers milling about as he walked purposefully into the flat. I made to follow him, but John grabbed my arm lightly. "Oh, no you don't. Wait for me. You are not leaving my side." I sighed and pulled from his grasp, but stayed beside him, "Right."

"So have you got anything, then?" John asked Lestrade just outside the door of the flat. I was itching to go in. I could see the upper half of Holmes examining a body but his lower half was obscured by an island counter in the middle of the kitchen. Inconvenient.

I vaguely heard Lestrade say they had no leads but were going to question the daughter, Kaitlyn, and the other brother, Matthew, soon. I was getting impatient; jumping up and down on the balls of my feet, my fingers twitching, unconsciously plucking the back of John's shirt.

Finally John gave in to my insistent, and quite bothersome, actions and we entered the flat. I sidled up next to Holmes where he was still examining William Moore's body. I flinched at the first sight of the blood pooled around the dead man's head and neck. I usually wasn't too squeemish during gory movies but this, this was real...I realized John was looking at me with concern; I must have paled slightly. Collecting myself, I crouched next to Holmes as he started talking.

"He was a dentist. And a complete slob, anyone could see that from the state of this place. He misses his wife terribly, enough to keep a necklace with her wedding ring on it; not many men would wear something like that."

I peered at dear dead Mr. Moore with sympathy. "Poor man. Hadn't even started his breakfast before he was killed," I stated sadly.

"How do you know that?" John asked, ever ignorant. Holmes answered that for me, "The stove, John. Look at the stove." John obviously hadn't noticed the half-cooked scrambled eggs in a pan on the burner.

"Not that it will help us solve this case." The detective turned his glare on me. I hope it didn't show on the outside but I think I shriveled under his intense gaze. "The more important fact is that someone had the decency to turn off the stove so the eggs wouldn't burn. Could indicate a family member." I immediately jumped on the same page as him, "The sister."

"Or the brother," John added. Holmes nodded and swiftly got to his feet.

"Exactly."

He strode across the flat to Thomas Moore's bedroom. The first thing everyone noticed was all the Manchester United football team fan items. Posters on the wall, the cover on the bed, individual bobble-heads of each player placed neatly on an otherwise untidy desk.

"Are those...slippers?" I asked, peering at the hideous red, yellow and black colored footwear peeking out from behind the messy wooden dresser.

"It would seem so," answered Holmes slowly as he examined the second dead man's body. Thomas lay sprawled across the bed with his throat slit similarly as his father's was.

"What the hell is she doing here?!" asked a voice loudly and with disbelief. A voice I recognized...and disliked very much.

"Well, it looks like she's helping examine the crime scene, Sally," Holmes answered sarcastically, "And probably more thoroughly than you've ever done."

"Now hold on just a min-" Lestrade tried to interrupt.

"You can't let her in here, Greg! She's a child and this is a crime scene! There's a man lying dead for god's sake!"

"She's helping." Holmes insisted. Wow. Apparently I was considered a bit of help to him. Though, it was probably more of a stubbornness act. He just wanted to get his way.

The adults continued to argue over whether or not I should be there. Mostly it was Sgt. Donovan against Holmes and John with poor Lestrade in the middle. While they bickered, I continued with my detecting.

"Rats!" I hissed under my breath as I accidentally stepped on a pair of M.U. boxer shorts. I controlled my disgusted shuddering and moved to poke around Thomas's desk. Nothing too interesting. I heard Donovan mention my age. Incorrectly, I might add. She called me 14. I was 15 and when I tried to point this out to her I was promptly ignored. Sighing, I dropped to my knees and peered under the bed. Finding nothing, I was just about to get up when something small and blue under the dresser to my left caught my eye.

"Jinkies..." I whispered. Then, not wanting to get my fingerprints all over, I quickly got up and snagged an extra plastic glove from Lestrade's pocket. He was so caught up in the conversation, I don't think he even noticed. With my now gloved hand I picked up a blue...pen. It was a pen. Fantastic, great job Evelyn, you found a jolly pen.

But wait.

What were these letters on the side?

Chelsea F.C.

Chelsea Football Club. Thomas was a Manchester United fan. Why on earth would he have a Chelsea pen?

I realized the "adults" had stopped talking and were looking over at me.

"What is that?" Holmes asked as he hurried over.

"A pen," I answered simply as he took it into his own gloved hand.

"Obviously."

"Well, you asked." I earned my self a glare for that one. John trotted over as well, "What is it?"

"A pen," I answered again, "Or, more specifically, a Chelsea pen."

"What would a Chelsea pen be doing in this room?" John wondered out-loud.

"Well it sure doesn't belong to Thomas," I remarked. Lestrade had dissuaded Donovan by threatening to fire her for questioning his authority (a bit drastic, if you ask me), and now wandered over himself.

"What did you find?"

Although his question was directed at me, all three of us answered in unision: "A pen."

"What does a pen have to do with anything?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and pointed to the writing on the side, "It has always been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."

"And you're right," Lestrade agreed reluctantly.

"Of course I am," Holmes muttered and strutted out the room.

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Also, I included a few of the original Sherlock Holmes quotes. Can you find them? Brownie points if you do!