'John! John!'

Evie put down the paper, wondering if he would realise.

'John!'

She sighed, and got up from her comfortable position on her lounge. She climbed the stairs and entered 221b. Sherlock was lying on his own lounge, fingers steepled beneath his chin in what was called his thinking position.

He looked away from the ceiling when she entered.

'Where's John?'

'He and Mary went to Bath for three days. Remember?'

'Oh. When did he leave?'

'This morning.'

He furrowed his brow. Standing, he stepped onto the coffee table, and then down the other side. He was still in his dressing gown.

'Did he say anything before he left?'

'He left me instructions. I need to water you daily.'

'Yes, hilarious,' he said flatly. He paced the length of the floor. 'This is problematic.'

'Why?'

He pointed to his laptop. 'Because we've got a case.'

Evie sat down before the computer and pressed the space bar a few times to wake it from stand by. Displayed was a message on his The Science of Deduction website.

Mister Holmes, it read.

I've heard many stories about you, and you seem very clever. I desperately hope you are.

Lately, things have been moved in my house. I know it seems mad, but I'll arrive home from somewhere, or I'll wake up and some of my furniture has been moved. Now, I don't believe in ghosts, but having a ghost in my house is a much more pleasant alternative than a murderer creeping around my home when I'm asleep. As far as I can tell, nothing has been taken.

Please help.

Sincerely,

Daniel Craig

She looked up from the screen. 'Really? That's the case? It seems a bit...'

'Go on.'

'...I don't know. Below your usual level, if what I've heard is correct.'

'Ah. And it would be, if not for this.' He pulled a small, compact radio from his pocket.

'What's that?'

'A police radio scanner.' He clicked a button and static voices erupted from within.

'And what's the police scanner saying?'

'Daniel Craig has been found dead.'

'Ah, the plot thickens.' She picked up the skull from the mantle, tracing her finger over the glued up cracks. 'Are you going then?'

'Yes.' He shrugged off his silk dressing gown, letting it fall in a pile on the floor. He pulled his coat from the back of a chair, pocketed his phone, grabbed his gloves, scarf, and swept past her out the door.

Moments later he popped his head back in the room.

'Well?' He demanded.

'Well what?'

'Are you coming?'

'Why would I come?'

'I think better when I talk aloud.'

'And you need me to do, what? Be a replacement John?'

'If it's any consolation, both you and John are a substitute,' he nodded toward the skull in her hands, 'for Yorick.'

She couldn't stop the smile that wormed it's way onto her face upon hearing the skull's name.

'Then take Yorick,' she answered. 'He'll probably be more useful.'

'He's been a tad slow since the cranial fracture. Coming?'

She let out a laugh and stepped onto the landing. Sherlock had fetched her coat from downstairs and held it out for her to slip her arms into. Excitement bubbling in her chest, she followed him out the door.


Daniel Craig had not lived a modest life. He had brought three consecutive buildings in the inner London area, knocked down the walls between and had them all painted a dull green. The result was a fat, three story building towering imposingly over the street.

Police cars were parked along the street, and the front doors had been banned by bright yellow tape. Officers milled around the perimeter, speaking into radios or interviewing civilians.

'Sorry, sir,' one said as Sherlock approached the barrier. 'This is a crime scene.'

'Of course it is,' Sherlock answered, 'that's why I'm here. Sherlock Holmes.'

The officer's eyes bulged and he hesitated before answering. 'Sorry Mister 'olmes, but no one can cross until-'

'Fetch Lestrade for me, would you?'

He hesitated again then scampered off.

'Look at you,' Evie smiled, 'aren't you just commanding.'

He cast his eye toward her. 'I've no time for bumbling fools,' he said.

'Well, well, Freak's here.'

Evie noticed Sherlock's eyes darting up and down the woman that had approached, and the way the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. He had gathered some information on the woman, Evie knew, and was very prepared to hurl it like bullets.

'Sergeant Donovan,' Sherlock greeted lightly, 'fancy seeing you here.'

She noticed Evie, and cocked her eyebrows. 'You bringing dates to murders now, freak?'

Before Evie could reply, Sherlock cut her off. 'I'm here to see my client.'

'Your client?'

'Daniel Craig. He contacted me through my website, requesting my help to determine who has been sneaking through his house.'

'The dead guy emailed you?'

'Before he died, obviously.'

'Look, I don't care what-' her radio buzzed and she listened. Her expression turned sour.

'Lestrade?' Sherlock assumed with a grin. Donovan sucked in a breath and lifted the tape for Sherlock to duck beneath.

'Is she a doctor?' Donovan asked, holding her hand up to stop Evie following. 'Or a forensic scientist?'

'I'm neither,' Evie answered, chafed at how she was being ignored.'Then she's not coming in.'

'Nonsense.' Sherlock lifted the tape and Evie stepped through. 'Now come, Genevieve. There's nothing like the first time.'

Although the house was grand, it was scant of furniture. Evie could see lighter patches on the wall where works of art had no doubt once hung but were now removed. That's all she could deduce herself, but from the way Sherlock's eyes darted across the halls as they walked she could tell he was getting a much more 3D picture.

Donovan led them up two flights of stairs until they reached the top floor. Officers filled the hallways, snooping, investigating, dusting objects for fingerprints. They cast the pair curious looks as Evie trailed after Sherlock. Donovan showed them to the living room, where a man dangled by a rope from the ceiling.

Heat pricked through Evie's skin and her vision darkened at the corners. Her breathing sped up and she fought to keep it under control. He was wearing socks, she noted numbly. Her fingernails embedded themselves into her palms. Her eyes were glued to the pair of swinging feet, the dangling legs, the slumped shoulders, the broken neck, the man just hanging there like some sick decoration on a twisted tree. Sherlock glanced at her. She couldn't meet his eye.

'You're not going to faint are you?' Donovan commented snidely.

'No,' Evie replied measuredly. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make a call.'

Taking calm, measured steps she made her way back down the stairs and out the front door, where she turned to the side and threw up in the bushes. She emptied the contents of her stomach until she was retching, and wiped her mouth with shaking hands. When she had collected herself, she returned back to the crime scene.

The man hanging from the rafters was not her brother. He was a stranger, and this was a crime scene. Lord knows she'd seen enough of them. Well, photographs, but still... she could handle this. She was healed. She was strong and she was capable and she was not some swooning Victorian lady.

Sherlock was inspecting the body through his pocket magnifying glass. He circled it slowly like a predator, holding the glass to the man's feet, hands, neck, face. It was a bit disconcerting because the body swung with every disturbance to the air, but Evie forced her breathing even and dug her nails into her palms.

Sherlock stepped back from the body.

'Murder,' he announced to the room.

'What?' Lestrade asked. 'Murder?'

'Yes, murder.'

'It's a clear suicide, Sherlock. Look, his father had lost his job, Craig wasn't going to receive his inheritance, he was overweight, unhealthy, he was alone and with Valentine's coming up...'

Without looking, he pointed at the end table beside the lounge. 'A half eaten bowl of chips,' he said. 'Wouldn't you wait until you'd finished eating before you ended your life?'

'That doesn't prove anything.'

'And half a glass of wine. But that's not all. The chair. It's tipped the wrong way. If he stood, facing this direction,' he positioned himself so he faced the door as the corpse did, 'wouldn't he tip the chair backward? Instead, it's fallen forward. He didn't kick the chair over. In fact, he did not hang himself at all. There's evidence of trauma to the head caused by a blunt object. That, and the fact that Daniel Craig recently contacted me voicing his suspicions that someone had been recently sneaking around his home is all highly suggestive of the conclusion that he was, in fact, murdered.'

Without another word, Sherlock left the room and Evie hurried after him.

'That was impressive,' she admired.

'Rudimentary,' Sherlock dismissed. He swept through the house and they arrived in the kitchen. He opened cupboard after cupboard, and then the fridge.

'Genevieve,' he said. She approached him, staring into the fridge. 'What do you notice?'

'Um...' she raked her eyes across the fridge. 'It's full?'

'And?'

She looked harder.

'There's a marinating steak.'

'Why is that relevant?'

'Well, who takes the time to marinate a steak if they're going to off them self?'

'Good,' Sherlock approved. He swiped a piece of paper from the counter and held it up.

'A receipt,' Evie observed.

'Yes. For forty pounds worth of food, most of which was perishable. Who stocks up on a week's worth of groceries only to commit suicide?'

'Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing,' Evie suggested.

'You do not kill yourself on whim,' Sherlock replied impatiently. Evie swallowed hard.

They left the house. Outside, Sherlock stepped onto the curb and peered down the street for a taxi. Evie idled behind him.

'I hope you didn't find that too trying,' Sherlock said.

'Why would it be trying?'

He turned to her and reached over, taking her wrist gently. Using his other hand, he flipped her hand over so it lay palm up, resting atop his own, and then uncurled her fingers. Angry red half-moon's glared up at the pair.

'I forgot about your brother,' he admitted, studying her palm as carefully as a mystic. 'I understand such events can be traumatic.'

'That's okay,' she answered, taking back her hand. 'I'm fine.'

Sherlock gave a nod, then stepped back to the street side. He managed to flag down a taxi, and held the door open. Knowing that his considerate behaviour would cease if she made a comment on it, she slid into the seat. He leant forward to give the cabbie an address, then sat back in his seat.

'Where to now?' Evie questioned, unable to feel eager about the adventure ahead.

'Daniel Craig's father, Joshua.'

'How did you know who his father is?'

'He's the CEO of Greater Electronics. Well, was, he was fired recently, and sued into personal bankruptcy.'

'That's what Lestrade was saying. And Daniel Craig lost his inheritance.'

'Correct.'

'He looked like he'd gotten rid of a lot of his furniture and art. Did he sell it all?'

'Most likely.'

The cab pulled up outside a two star hotel. Sherlock paid the driver, and lead the way to room 201. He knocked briskly on the door.

'This is where Daniel's dad is living?'

'For now.'

'How did you discover that?'

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but the door opened and an unshaven, unwashed man regarded the pair with narrowed eyes.

'What do you want?' He demanded gruffly.

'We're here about your son, Daniel Craig.'

Joshua snorted, and started to close the door. 'Don't care.'

Evie's hand snaked into the room and held the door open. 'You don't care that your own son is dead?' She asked incredulously. The man hesitated.

'Good,' he grumbled. 'Now move your hand or you'll lose your fingers.'

Sherlock's hand appeared on the door and he forced it open wider. Joshua stumbled back into his apartment.

'We just have a few questions,' Sherlock drawled, entering the room uninvited. His eyes swept across the space.

'I don't know anything,' Joshua protested.

'Why don't you care if your son died?' Evie interrogated.

'Because you he turned you away when you needed somewhere to go,' Sherlock supplemented.

Joshua snorted. 'I gave that boy everything,' he growled. 'Ungrateful bastard.'

'But he's family!' Evie fought. 'You can't just-'

'Do you have any change?' Sherlock interrupted. Joshua blinked.

'What?'

'Change. For the cigarette machine. I'm gasping.'

'Oh.' Joshua rooted through his pocket and pulled out his wallet, rifling through it. 'Yeah, I got some coins.'

'That's all we'll need today,' Sherlock said, handing Joshua a note. 'And keep the change.'

Again, he turned and left the room, Evie following after. She wondered if this was half of what it was to be Sherlock Holmes' companion – trotting after him like a loyal puppy.

'He had a second family,' Sherlock told her as they left the complex.

'Is that why you wanted to look into his wallet?' Evie asked.

'No. I needed change.'

'No you didn't, you don't smoke.'

Somewhat miffed, he continued. 'Well, there was a picture of a woman holding a child in his wallet.'

'And it wasn't his legitimate family?'

'No, his wife was brunette not blonde,' he said as though it were obvious.

'Was?'

'She left him.' Again, that tone.

'Okay. So who are our suspects?'

His phone found his hands, and he started tapping away at the keys. 'Research. We find out about this affair and it's results. Any illegitimate offspring would feel entitled to the inheritance and have motive.'

'But Joshua got sued. There is no inheritance anymore.'

'And that, dear Genevieve, is the puzzle.'


Huge apologies for the extreme lateness of this chapter. School has started up again and since I'm in my final year, it's very sink or swim and I'm barely treading water. I'll try much harder to update more frequently. Again, sorry.

-J