This chapter will contain: A description of a body at a crime scene, an attempt at Sherlock deductions (which may or may not be a complete disaster), excessive Anderson hating, a depressing lack of Mycroft, and probably a few grammatical errors because I didn't edit this very much.

Consider yourself warned.


It would be nice if once, just once, it was a nice pleasant day out when there was a particularly brutal killing. It would help lighten the mood considerably. Somehow, that never seemed to happen. Today was no exception, it was rainy and depressing and Gregory Lestrade was investigating a murder. As a case, it didn't seem all that serious. There was one victim, a woman in her late thirties, and that was the extent of it. Normally, a case like this would be easy to solve. What made this case special was the complete and total lack of evidence. As far as Lestrade could tell, there was no murder weapon, no evidence to even suggest the identity of the killer, and no way at all to identify the body. The police force was entirely at a loss as to how they should conduct an investigation with absolutely no leads, and that meant it was time to bring in the consulting detective. In a twisted sort of way, Lestrade was happy that there was finally a case for Sherlock. He wasn't glad that someone was dead, of course, but having the consulting detective text him every five minutes informing him that he, Sherlock Holmes, was bored had quickly become aggravating. Thankfully, Sherlock only sent these repetitive texts when John was too busy to entertain him. Still, during the hours that John had worked at the clinic, life had been torture for Lestrade. A case had been desperately needed, and now there was finally one worthy of Sherlock. Just in time too. The last time Sherlock had gone this long without a case, he had toilet papered Anderson's house. It was only a matter of time before the incident repeated itself.

Lestrade and his team were now at the crime scene, just waiting for Sherlock to show up. Anderson was on forensics which was less than ideal, but it couldn't be helped. They had called Anderson in expecting this to be an easy case, the fact that it turned out to be complicated was tremendously unfortunate. They couldn't exactly just send him back to the yard though, so he was here to stay. Lestrade only hoped that the man stayed out of Sherlock's way. The last thing he needed was John punching anyone in Sherlock's defense, again.

Sherlock's voice preceded him as he came down the hallway. "My, my, Anderson, two women mad at you at once. What have you been doing?"

"I don't know what your talking abou-"

"The shaving cream under your left ear," Sherlock interrupted the forensic officer's protestations, "it clearly shows that your wife is mad at you. Perhaps she isn't even living with you at the moment. If things were fine between you she would have pointed it out, but things aren't fine. She's angry with you. Judging by both the fact that Sgt. Donovan hasn't said anything about the offending shaving cream and the rather cold looks she was shooting you while we were outside; it is evident that she is annoyed with you also. Possibly, these could be attributed to two separate incidents. More likely, this is all connected to your affair with Donovan. Is that enough, or would you like me to continue?"

Anderson stood with his mouth opening and closing like a fish, trying to formulate a response. Lestrade called out from down the hallway, "Stop antagonizing my officers, Sherlock. I need you in here." Sherlock brushed past Anderson, without so much as another glance in the man's direction. John, who was tailing his flatmate, tried to give Anderson an apologetic smile through his snickering, but it didn't come across as sincere in the least.

"Woman, late thirties, no identification on her. Time of death was around three a.m. this morning. The body was found by the landlord, who came in to air out the room. He had people who were coming see about renting the flat today." Lestrade stated as Sherlock entered the room. They were in an empty flat that hadn't been unlived in long enough to develop a film of dust yet. The woman was propped up against a wall like an oversized doll. At a glance, you could have made the mistake of thinking she was still alive, for the only evidence of her demise was deep gash in her chest where she had been stabbed to dead and a small pool of blood around the body. Her eyes were open, staring unseeingly across the room. Her expression was disturbingly blank, as if death had wiped away all emotions. On the wall above her head was a symbol drawn in blood. It resembled a crescent moon facing downward, with one star above it and one star below it and a circle enclosing the entire thing.

"That symbol on the wall?" Sherlock asked while stepping forward to examine the body.

"Drawn with the victim's blood," Lestrade was standing off to the side. Sherlock had complete control over this investigation now, and everyone here knew it. "We found no murder weapon, no fingerprints, no DNA evidence, we basically found nothing. Honestly, Sherlock, we have no leads. We haven't even been able to identify the body."

Sherlock gave the inspector what might have been a pitying look before speaking. "You really haven't identified the body yet? Can't you do anything by yourself? She's the mother of two daughters, happily married, and currently living in London. No doubt she has been reported missing shouldn't be two hard to identify. I am baffled that you couldn't do that on your own, inspector."

"Donovan! Check the missing persons list again. This time we know she's a mother with two daughters, married, living in London." Lestrade called out the door immediately, before turning back. "Wait, two daughters? How could you possibly-"

"The bracelet around her wrist, it was clearly made by a child. That says one daughter. Then there are the bruises on her neck that show she was also wearing a necklace that got ripped off while struggling with her murderer."

"Couldn't the necklace just have been a piece of jewellery? We don't know it was definitely made by a daughter." John interrupted.

"Look at her, John. No make-up, clothes chosen for comfort rather than fashion, this is not a woman who wears jewellery on a regular basis. Not unless it was made for her by her child."

"Fine, but how do you know she has two daughters? Maybe she has one daughter who made both the necklace and bracelet." Lestrade interjected.

"If they were made by the same child why would she be wearing both? Like I said before, this woman did not enjoy wearing jewellery. No, she was wearing one of the pieces, most likely because it was made for her recently, and the other child became jealous and whined until she also put on the piece that they made. Thus, it is safe for us to conclude that she had two daughters."

"So she struggled with her attacker?" John asked, digging for more information.

"Yes, there are signs of it all over the body and in the hallway we just came through. I'm amazed that you missed them. The bruises around her neck, and the tell tale beads I noticed coming in show that the person grabbed her necklace and it broke off in their hand. She was a fighter this woman, struggling right up till the end."

"Struggling with whom, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "That's what really matters, who did this and why."

"That's the question, isn't it? It could have been her husband, but as I stated earlier their marriage was a happy one."

"And you know this, how?" John voiced the confusion of the entire room.

"We can tell by her wedding ring that she is, indeed, married. Normally, single women or women in difficult relationships keep their exterior immaculate, always trying to impress others. Women in comfortable established relationships, however, are often times less likely to worry about that kind of thing. Now, what do we see when we look at this woman? She wears no make up, no jewellery, and her clothes are hardly flattering. This is not a woman occupied with keeping up appearances. This is a woman so involved with her family that her own physical appearance matters little to her. Her relationship with her husband is stable, and any idea that she might have had a lover is implausible."

Lestrade stepped forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Alright, so not a crime motivated by love. Not likely money, if her clothes are an accurate representation of her income I'd say she's middle class. Well off, but not with enough money for someone to murder her over."

"Excellent, Inspector!" Sherlock looked delighted. "Your skills of deduction are improving all the time."

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock!" Greg objected ignoring the look Sherlock sent him. "What about this symbol? What does it have to do with all this?"

"Ah yes, that." They turned their attention to the bloody icon on the wall. "I'm afraid I don't know enough to answer your questions at this point. This symbol merits further investigation. I will say that this symbol confirms my suspicions that this killing is far more complicated than just the death of a middle aged woman."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, dear inspector, that we have barely scratched the surface of this crime."

Donovan then entered the room, returning from checking the missing persons list. "I checked again, no woman of that description was reported missing in London during the last forty-eight hours."

"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "No, no that doesn't make sense!" He began to pace around the room, negative energy literally pulsing off of him as he sifted through his previous deductions looking for some mistake.

John winced, glancing at the police officers cautiously. When Sherlock was tense like this it tended to cause trouble, what with others believing that the consulting detective was overconfident in his own abilities. John spoke up, hoping to calm Sherlock a bit. "Well, maybe she wasn't from London? Or maybe she went missing earlier than forty-eight hours ago?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's obvious from her hair and clothes that she had been to her home in the last twenty-four hours. She had not been traveling to London from some outlying place, nor had she been kidnapped to some unfamiliar location. The fact that she was wearing traveling clothes was... oh." Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, straightening up as realization hit him. "Oh!"

"Sherlock? What is it?"

Sherlock spoke quickly, his excitement at his new discovery evident in his voice. "She lived in London, but she was leaving. Not permanently, just traveling for awhile. It explains the lack of identification or cellular phone. A woman like this doesn't carry around a purse. No, normally she would have kept any objects she carried in her pockets. They're not there now, because they're in her suit case."

"What suit case? What are you on about?" Lestrade inquired. He swore Sherlock explained things in such a round about way simply to annoy him.

"Don't you see? She's wearing traveling clothes. She was going to get on a plane! This explains why she hasn't been reported missing. Her family said goodbye to her last night, sending her off on her way to the airport. They have no reason to suspect that something went horribly wrong."

"I don't understand. How does she go from going to the airport to lying dead in an empty flat?"

"That's where this gets really interesting. She no doubt ordered a taxi to take her to the airport. She got into what she thought was the taxi she ordered, and didn't even realize she was being abducted until they stopped at this building rather than the airport. They then carted her into this room where she met her ultimate ending."

"So what are we dealing with? Another rogue cabbie?"

"No, no don't confuse the issue!" Sherlock snapped. "This doesn't have to be an actual taxi; it just has to look like a taxi. No, what we're dealing with is someone clever. If I hadn't been here, you lot might not have even identified the body for weeks. Even after that, you'd still be painfully confused. This criminal is smart undoubtedly they've been planning this crime for months. They got the information, possibly by hacking the taxi agency's system, and drove over just a couple minutes before the true taxi would have. Thus, our victim got in their car and was whisked away right before her husband's eyes. You should be able to identify the body if you contact the biggest taxi agencies in London. Find someone who ordered a taxi to take her to the airport in the early hours of this morning, but was already gone when the taxi arrived for her. If we're lucky they will have documented that information and we will be able to track down our victim."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed softly, starring at Sherlock with his mouth hanging slightly open. The consulting detective smiled at him fondly, meeting his eyes for a heart beat too long to be comfortable for everyone else in the room.

Lestrade cleared his throat, drawing the two back to reality. "Right. I'll get right on that. Is there anything else you can tell us from the body, Sherlock?"

"Nothing definite." Sherlock was looking rather pleased with himself over the latest deduction. It was begging to frustrate everyone in the room, except for John who was still staring at the man like he was God. "I need to speak to the landlord."

"I already did that. He doesn't know anything."

"I'd like to check that for myself, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself." Lestrade signaled to Donovan that she should show Sherlock the way. She huffed in annoyance, but complied with the request. Lestrade turned to face the body one last time, hoping that with the identification of the body some answers would appear.


Victoria Hudgens was her name. She was a loving mother and wife. Her family was utterly devastated at her loss. No one gained financially from her death, and it was hard to imagine that such a kind, caring woman could have enemies that would want to kill her. So why had she died? Sherlock wasn't answering his phone, the bastard. Lestrade was going to have to figure this one out himself it seemed. There was no apparent motive, and yet someone had gone through quite a lot of trouble to arrange this woman's death. It just didn't make sense. It couldn't have been someone she recognized or she wouldn't have gotten into their car, so a stranger then? And then there was that symbol on the wall. What was that all about? Did it mean something, or was it a false clue to throw them off the track? Sherlock had said that the culprit was clever. Sherlock bloody Holmes had said that, so it must be true. Lestrade didn't know what he was dealing with, but he knew it was beyond his abilities.

He tried Sherlock's phone again. No answer. He heaved a sigh of frustration. Sherlock knew more than he was letting on, of that Lestrade was certain. For all the DI knew, the murderer could be out there preparing to kill their next victim, and there was absolutely nothing Lestrade could do about it without the consulting detective's help. He could continue to pursue the lead he had right now, investigating Mrs. Hudgens's life. The chances of that leading him to catching the killer, however, were slim. He contemplated calling John. Perhaps, Sherlock's doctor companion would have some answers. Then again, Sherlock rarely told John what was going on either. He stared at the phone in his hand. He had entered that phone number Mycroft had given him into it that night. It was a strange feeling really, having the most powerful man you could imagine in his contact list. The urge to call the elder Holmes gripped him suddenly. The man had said he could call him when Sherlock was being difficult.

Did this qualify as Sherlock being difficult? Lestrade really didn't want to bother Mycroft without good reason; he was sure the repercussions for doing so would be dire. Yes, it would be much wiser to let Sherlock get back to him when he was ready for an arrest. That was how it usually went when Sherlock got in moods like this. Lestrade thoughts strayed to the sorrowful faces of the Hudgens family. They had looked so lost, so hopeless without Victoria there to support them. Could he really sit by and do nothing while the maniac responsible was still on the street? No, no he couldn't, not if he wanted to retain his self respect. With that, Lestrade dialed Mycroft's number before he had time to question the sanity of the decision.

"Hello." Mycroft's tone was clipped and business like.

"Err…hi, Mycroft. It's Gregory Lestrade…"


A/N: It occurred to me while writing this chapter that I have never written the genre mystery before. Then, I also realized that I have never completed a romance story before either. And here I am writing a huge, multi-chapter story containing both of those genres. Yeah…so we'll see how this goes, shall we?