AN: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for the support you're giving me!

This Chapter is for Angielima because you reviewed every chapter. Wow! I'm so glad you're enjoying it as much as you seem to be! :D

Just out of interest, if I started a story where I did one-shots and prompts, would anyone reading this story give me any prompts?

Enjoy!

Chapter 10: Crime Scene

"So, are you going to tell me where we're going?" John shouted to Sherlock, who was almost running in front of him.

"We're going somewhere, to talk to someone, to get answers, John. I would have thought that would be obvious." Sherlock called back to him.

John shook his head. "Why do I bother?" he muttered to himself.

Sherlock turned up a drive and moved to knock on the door, as John caught his hand.

"Just for general knowledge," John said, "Who lives here?"

Sherlock scowled at him and replied: "Greg Lestrade. He was in Mycroft's year; they were sort-of friends, now he's doing work experience at Scotland Yard. Therefore, he should have answers, or at least the means of getting some."

John nodded, slowly, and released Sherlock's hand so he could knock on the door.

The door opened, after a few seconds, to reveal an older boy with brown hair.

"Hi, can I help you?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes' brother." Sherlock stated, casually, "We were hoping you could give us some information."

"Oh," Lestrade exclaimed, surprised. "So, you're Sherlock, right? Nice to meet you." He held his hand, and Sherlock glanced at it and then ignored it. "What do you want information about?"

"The dead girl, Jennifer Wilson." Sherlock told him.

Lestrade's eyes widened. "I'm sorry," he stuttered slightly. "I can't tell you anything about it, I'm not on that case-and, if you don't mind me saying, it's none of your business." He moved to shut the door, but Sherlock got his foot in the gap quicker.

"Just tell us where the crime scene is." Sherlock demanded, "Seeing as you won't tell us anything yourself."

"I can't." Lestrade repeated, teeth gritted.

Sherlock sighed, "If you don't help us," he muttered, slyly, looking innocently at his fingernails. "My brother may make your life a living hell." He looked up and smiled at Lestrade.

His mouth dropped open in shock and pulled the door open, a bit wider again. "The body's at 3 Lauriston Gardens." He gave in, "But, I warn you, the Police definitely won't give you any information."

Sherlock spun round and walked down the drive, ignoring the call of "You're wasting your time!" from the front door, behind him.

John jogged to catch up with the taller boy. "We're not seriously going to this crime scene, are we?"

Sherlock looked at him with exasperation, "Of course we are, John."

"We won't be allowed in."

"Who said anything about having to be allowed in?"

John frowned, not quite understanding what Sherlock was saying. A few minutes later, he understood, and his eyes widened. "We can't break into a crime scene, Sherlock!" he almost shouted.

"We can and we will." Sherlock replied coolly, ducking behind a parked police car as they turned onto Lauriston Gardens.

Sherlock peaked out from around the car, eyes scanning over the Police officers milling around outside number 3. He glanced into the car, noticing the window was open, reached in, and snatched up the walkie talkie inside.

He bent low again and put his mouth to the speaker, holding down the button.

"This is the Chief Super Intendant." He said in his most authoritative voice. Beside him John raised his eyebrows. "Can all officers working at the Jennifer Wilson Crime Scene go to the Embankment. We've had another suicide." Sherlock lied, easily.

John looked over the car and saw the officers exchanging worried glances, jumping into their cars, and speeding away. Sherlock and John only just got behind the corner before their hiding place had driven away.

"Problem Solved." Sherlock smirked as he marched toward the crime scene.

John followed him, trying not to think about what would happen if they got caught, as they headed up the staircase.

They both entered the abandoned room at the same time. In the middle of the room lay the dead girl, wearing her school uniform and her hair covering half of her face. John paused in the doorway, worrying about disturbing the evidence in the room, whereas Sherlock marched straight over to the body, not concerned about respect or disturbing evidence.

Sherlock bent down next to the girl, his eyes roamed over the motionless body. Carefully, he reached out, brushing her coat with his fingertips, pulling something out of her pockets and examining the skin on her hand.

Before long, he stood up, gazed around the room and then looked at John who had wandered into the room.

"Go on then," John told him, smiling. "What have you worked out?"

Sherlock grinned. "Jenny started walking home, when it was raining. Her parents weren't able to pick her up yesterday, because they both had meetings. She's been working very hard during the holidays, probably trying to improve her grades before the exams. To get here she must have been picked up by someone and driven here. I think we should talk to her friend, Rachel, to find out more."

"Okay, next obvious question: How?"

"Yesterday, she came into school with her friends, so they could do some art work- preparation for their exam. Her blazer's still wet – yesterday afternoon there was heavy rain, about an hour after school had finished, when she would have been walking home. Her parents couldn't collect her – there are notes in her pocket that she had passed to her friends during a silent lesson, her part of the conversation consists of her moaning about not being able to be picked up later, because her parents are busy. Her fingers on her right hand are dry from where she's been writing lots – her pen has rubbed against her hands, drying the skin. This shows she's been working hard, probably trying to improve her grades. That would also explain why she stayed in school for an hour before walking home – she was doing extra work. To get here from school she must have been driven, why would she walk here when she was walking home? As for her friend, Rachel," he gestured to the scratched note in the floorboards, Rache. "She wrote this while she was dying, clearly she must know something that can help us catch the murderer."

"That is amazing." John stated, shaking his head and chuckling.

Sherlock smiled back, then spun round and frowned. "Something doesn't make sense."

"What? Sherlock?" John asked.

"She doesn't have a phone." Sherlock said, "She has loads of friends to stay in touch with, she must have a phone. And where's her school bag?" he asked the room at large.

He scowled and pushed past John."I need to talk to Rachel."

John tutted, as he followed Sherlock down the stairs, amazed at the lack of manners he could have.

As they walked out onto the road, they heard distant sirens getting gradually louder. The boys looked at each other, smirked, and broke into a run, moving away from the approaching police and back towards school.