Chapter 10- A Mystery

A/n: oh my god! I actually can't believe I've got to chapter 10! Thank you, thank you everyone so much for sticking with me for so long, I honestly didn't expect the reception I am getting from this story! I'm just going to say thank you to Arianadeduction, The Lovely K-chan and sherlockfan22 for reviewing yesterday and today! The support is absolutely unbelievable! And thank you to everyone else who I really hope are enjoying this story so far! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I think this is my longest chapter yet! I really hope it doesn't bore anyone! Please enjoy it and review and enjoy and review and… you know! Xxx

JW

Thank the Lord for Lestrade. I seriously think that I would have ended up murdering Sherlock if he had carried on the way he had. He had been driving me up the wall.

Warily, I led Lestrade up to Sherlock and sat next to him whilst Lestrade took my favourite seat. I offered him tea and coffee, but only gave Sherlock deliberately weak tea, partly to get back at him for the hours of grief he had given me, partly to make sure his caffeine levels were very low so that we were in no danger of him going hyper.

The look in his face as I gave it him was absolutely priceless.

"So what's the case Greg?" I asked him, to keep myself from bursting out laughing. He sighed in response.

"My sister is being accused of murder,"

His words were met by a long ringing silence. My jaw must have dropped because the next thing I knew, Sherlock was nudging me and I had to snap my mouth shut.

"How?" I spluttered finally finding my tongue. He looked at me gravely.

"She didn't do it did she Sherlock?" he asked desperately. Sherlock looked at him.

"I need information," he said crisply, "I can't just say yes- or no," he added hastily as Lestrade flinched, "I need information,"

"I need you with me Sherlock," he said, "we can keep you undercover, we could even arrange a comeback case, I just need you! Please! Oh god Sherlock please!"

Sherlock looked hesitant. I could tell he wanted to do it, Hell, I wanted to do it. I was starting to get sick of having to be Sherlock's boredom vent.

"A comeback case would be great!" I said as enthusiastic as I could manage in the gravity of the situation. Sherlock gave me a sideways look, but I tried to reason with him by giving him a look of my own. After a furious silent battle, I gave up.

"I can't," said Sherlock.

"This case Sherlock, it's good. You won't get bored! I'm promise! I just need you to help me,"

"Information!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"My sister was accused of murder of a man called Jaden Haye, on the same night that she had a break in at her house. They are treated as unrelated, but I don't think they are. Nothing was taken but on the window was a message. This,"

He handed him a photograph. I leaned over. It was a picture of a window, framed by lilac curtains. Painted on the glass in red glistening paint were the words:

I am watching

"They're linked," Sherlock agreed, "but how can they be in two places at the same time? There must be more than one. A group who are personally trying to frame your sister..." he muttered under his breath, and then looked up.

"Fine," he sighed, though his eyes were bright, "I'll take the case, but keep me undercover,"

Lestrade looked as though he was about to kiss Sherlock.

"You. Are the best," he said looking giddy with relief and happiness. He got up.

"Come with me,"

"Come on John," Sherlock tossed me my coat.

"Now?" I asked, startled, my coat in my lap.

"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently, "The sooner the better, I doubt the streets will be busy, and if they were the traffic would mainly be around the main roads," He gazed at the wall intently, no doubt visualising every street that may be congested. Lestrade tossed him a hat and a luminous police jacket before giving me a police overcoat. We shrugged them on whilst he appraised us both.

"Not bad," he said, "not at a first glance..."

We headed outside for the first time in days; I couldn't hold back my relief. It was so good to feel the cool breeze on my face, to walk on the street.

Lestrade's silver Mercedes was parked on the side of the road, its sleek black- out windows reflecting the houses opposite in a distorted fashion that made them look like rounded bungalows. I got in after Sherlock and watched in silence the houses go past. Occasionally, Sherlock would instruct Lestrade to go a quieter way, taking sharp corners or slim backstreets in attempt to draw less attention to us. I couldn't help thinking though, that staying on the main road would look less suspicious and would help us blend in. Of course mentioning that to Sherlock would no doubt earn me a murderous glare on his part. Especially as when I tried to even speak he shot me a glance that would of rendered me dead long before now if looks could actually kill.

I was starting to thank God that they didn't.

Finally, before the tension in the silent car was almost impossible to bare, we pulled up outside a quiet courtyard. The houses here would no doubt be terribly expensive and therefore I was surprised when Lestrade lead us to the grandest house on the row. It was tall and opposing, with red painted windowsills and door. The house even had its own, excruciatingly tiny, garden.

It would of been very pretty if it hadn't of been for the police tape, stuck to the door and windows.

"This is where your sister lives?" I asked, not being able to keep the surprise out if my voice.

"Yes, her job is. Well. A lot better than mine in terms of pay," Lestrade said warily, taking a key out of his coat pocket, "I'll show you in,"

He led us in to a large bedroom, the extents of which had been unclear in the photo. The window, and the space around it, had been taped. A large lilac double bed, matching the curtains, stood grandly in the middle of the room, neatly made with an elaborate white headboard. The white wardrobes set into the far left wall, had floor length mirrors which reflected the room and give the illusion of the room being bigger. An elegant dressing table looked like the most used thing in the room. Glittering jewellery was draped and sprawled on the surface, along with pots of makeup, looking as though it had just been dropped there. A white desk lamp stood with a sadly drooping head looking over the scene.

Sherlock immediately began his search, looking around the room, lifting and observing objects, sniffing the air like a police dog. I, however, took a more practical approach by going to the window. It was no longer glistening as it had on the picture, and its colour had dulled to a coppery brown, smeared on the glass painstakingly by what might have been a finger.

A sudden, rather sickening idea struck me and I turned to Lestrade, who was watching Sherlock whirl around the room silently.

"How was the man murdered?" I asked quietly. He looked at me.

"A knife," he said, "his throat was slit,"

"A lot of blood then," I said. He nodded.

"Well, I think this might be his blood," I pointed to the window. Sherlock's head snapped up from where he was standing by the bed.

Lestrade, however, just nodded.

"It is, I've done a DNA test, but it just convinces people more that she did it and was trying to frame someone else."

Sherlock pressed his fingers together, and then pointed them in Lestrade's direction.

"Your sister, what is she like?"

"Umm," struck by the question Lestrade took a while answering it.

"A smoker. She's...Clever but funny, you know? She's really kind..."

"yes, ok... she's five foot four with a shoe size of 4 and hair colour of brown," Sherlock finished, "she likes reading gossip magazines and her favourite animal is a lion,"

He was silent for a while, then said, "Do you mind if I take this?" he gestured to a small pot if grey foundation by the side of the bed. Surprised, and more than a little confused, Lestrade shook his head.

"You got all that from this room?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Did she know anyone that might of... Wanted to hurt her?"

"No, I don't think so," Lestrade dug his hands deep into his pockets, "the only person I've ever seen her fight with was her ex- boyfriend. Joe, his name was, but he died last month."

"Hmm," Sherlock glanced around the room once more then glided over to the window. He looked it up and down, then snapped open his rectangular magnifying glass. "Marks," he mumbled, brushing them with his finger, "here and here…"

They looked like dents a finger may have made, but that knowledge only confused me more.

"Blood, where it dripped, here…" he pointed them out.

"He used his finger I think," I said pondering.

He straightened up, giving me that look where he gazed at you over his perfectly straight nose, mouth slightly open as if unnerved by your words.

God it was so condescending.

"What?" I asked defensively.

"'he used his finger' you said he, not she," he noted, as if it was some major clue, "why?"

"I dunno, I suppose I'm not used to having female murderers," I said with a shrug.

He snapped the magnifying glass shut and focused back on Lestrade.

"Can you show me the victim's house? Where is it?"

"What? Now?" he said disbelievingly. I checked my watch. It was 8.30.

"Yes now, don't you want to solve it?"

"Of- course,"

"Good," satisfied, he stuffed the glass into his pocket and buttoned up the police coat, "so where is it?"

"Not far," Lestrade strode out of the room, me in toe, "he lived in Battersea, near the Thames,"

We got in the car and Lestrade drove us along the main road. It was quiet now so it didn't matter that it was a popular one.

This house was smaller and absolutely covered in police tape. In fact, the tape extended a few metres along the road, to make sure no one went near it. Lestrade lifted it so we could duck under it more easily.

"It should be empty now, the police have moved on," he said, throat tight. I squinted through the grime streaked window looking into the front room, but it was too dark to see anything but my reflection. The house looked very unwelcoming, like an empty fireplace.

"Where did he die?" I asked, quietly, as Lestrade handed me a mini torch. I was dark now.

"Bedroom. We think he was asleep when the killer came in."

"We're not using the lights I'm guessing," I said slowly, observing the torch.

"I thought it best not to attract attention," he replied, tossing Sherlock one, who , unbelievingly, caught it one handed without looking.

"So we're looking in the bedroom?"

"Yes, the house has been searched already so I'm guessing any clues will be in the bedroom,"

I nodded, exhaling slowly, "right,"

Sherlock, meanwhile was studying the door, the windows, the door handle. He took out his little magnifying glass and looked more closely.

Finally, he straightened up.

"The killer used the same methods to break in to this house as he did in your sister's house," he said slowly, "it's a well-known method and very quiet, I doubt neither of them heard it- look," he beckoned me over, and pointed to the key hole. I saw scratches and dents in the wood around it. I nodded, pretending to understand to prevent him from showing off. He brushed down his coat.

"Shouldn't take more than a push after that," demonstrating, he pushed the door gently, watching as it swung on its hinges, revealing a cramped, narrow hall. I clicked on my torch and skimmed its beam around the room. It glanced off a door, the peeling wallpaper, the small table that held a bowl full of keys and a photograph. I picked it up with my spare hand, shining the beam on it so I could see it more clearly. The light reflected off the glass frame, but I could see it. A laughing man, probably the victim, stood with his left arm slung over the shoulder of a young woman. She was laughing too, her hair caught in the wind which flew across her face in streamers. She was looking up at him adoringly, it was very sweet. I turned to show it to Lestrade but they had gone, disappeared upstairs I supposed.

I also guessed that they wouldn't mind me sneaking around. So I pushed my way into the living room, directing my torch beam across the room.

In the shadows, the sofa looked well-worn and lumpy, more photographs hung on the walls, winking as the torch beam was reflected off the glass. A closer look at them proved that they mainly showed the same woman. The blond woman with the laughing face. She was laughing in a lot of them.

I tore my eyes away from them to inspect the other half of the room. A vintage TV was pushed in the corner, sitting smartly on a dark varnished cabinet. The fireplace yawned widely, a gaping hole in the darkness. A vase stood in the corner, filled with dried flowers. It struck me as odd, the flowers. It was a man's house after all and this was such a feminine feature. My thoughts went to the laughing woman. Perhaps she lived here too? But where was she? She hadn't been there the night he'd died. So where had she been?

I went over to the vase for a closer look. It was a big vase, a vibrant copper colour, perhaps Chinese, up to my waist in height. It's wide lip yawning in the darkness. I shone my torch into the hole, pushing away the brittle flower stalks.

A metal object in the depths winked back.

I froze, leant down, manoeuvred the torch a little.

It glinted again.

Slowly, I pulled out some of the flowers, peering into it.

It was a knife.

There was a knife in the vase!

"Sherlock!" I shouted. I heard him thunder down the stairs and in a flash he was in the room. He shone his torch right at my face making me wince.

"Stop that and look at this!"

"What is it?" he strode over to me.

"There's a knife in the vase,"

"What?" this was Lestrade. He had appeared in the doorway.

"A knife, Lestrade, in the vase. I thought you'd checked the house?" I said ,unsettled, narrowing my eyes at him as Sherlock leaned in to retrieve the knife.

"I didn't, another guy did, someone called Jeffrison, I assumed he had," Lestrade said.

Sherlock observed it closely.

"This has blood on it," he said, as lightly as commenting on the weather.

Lestrade paled.

"It can't have, we have the knife back at the office. It- it has my sisters finger prints on it,"

"What?" I gaped at him. He looked sad.

"It has my sisters DNA all over it. That's why people think she committed the murder. But she was at home, experiencing a break in," he looked desperate now.

"Greg," I said gently, "are you just doing this because it's your sister? You don't want her to be a killer so you are trying to bail her out?"

"No," he said, trying to be firm, "she's not a killer. She would never kill anyone,"

"I think… I think we can prove that Lestrade," Sherlock said, talking for the first time in a while, "this could be the real knife used. The killer could have hidden it in a hurry to hide evidence. We just need to do a DNA check on this knife," he wrapped the blade delicately in some tissue, holding it there, to keep the fingerprints fresh on the hilt.

"We're going," he said to me.

"Well," I stammered, "did you find anything upstairs?"

"Quite a lot," said Sherlock before Lestrade could open his mouth. He shot him a quizzical look which told me that only Sherlock had found 'quite a lot' upstairs. In any case, I followed him out and Lestrade did too.

"So, where are we going?" I asked briskly, watching him stride down the street imperiously just like old times.

"St Bart's of course, Molly will get us in," he ducked into the car and Lestrade had no choice but to drive us there. But I think he would of anyway. The poor guy was desperate to prove his sister was innocent.

I had never seen him so desperate before. Not even when we listened with bated breath to the kid tied to the bomb, counting down whilst Sherlock tried to prove the Vermeer painting was a fake. And that had been pretty horrendous.

St Bart's was quiet. The large windows were illuminated by a yellow glow, but the car park was virtually empty. The site of it made me feel slightly ill, and my chest started aching. That damn building held so many terrible memories for me, I could hardly bare to look at it. Especially not the roof.

I swallowed, and forced my eyes away from it, back to Sherlock.

We went through the side door, which had a straight root to the back lab. On the way down the white dull corridor, Sherlock somehow managed to kidnap Molly, and she was dragged along too. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her again, as I looked at her nervous smile and trembling fingers. The poor girl had completely fallen for him and there was nothing she could do about it.

Suddenly, I remembered the photos of the young woman in the house.

"Hey, Sherlock?" I said, causing him to glance over his shoulder at me, "at the house-"

"Which house?" he interrupted.

"Umm at the man's house," I said, slightly put off by his interruption, "there were lots, and I mean lots, of photographs of a woman. A blond woman,"

"And?"

I blinked.

"And what?"

"What does it matter?" he said, sounding bored.

"well-" I was surprised at his less than enthusiastic behaviour, "I wondered who she was and where she was on the night he died. If she meant that much to him that there were pictures of her all over the place, where was she?"

"Good point," said Lestrade, eyebrows raised, "I could try and find a match for her, I just need a picture,"

"Was the guy married?" I asked. He shook his head.

"So it was a girlfriend?"

"Possibly,"

"Umm sorry, but what are you going on about?" Molly asked with an awkward laugh.

"It doesn't matter," I assured her. Her lips gave a tremor as she smiled. I noticed that since the last time I had glanced at her, she had somehow managed to apply some lipstick. This literally made my heart ache for her.

"Boring," Sherlock grunted, pushing open the lab doors, "who cares?"

"She could be a suspect," Lestrade said, while Sherlock flicked on the lights. The Large, rectangular panels flickered on slowly, dimly lighting the room. Long desks stood row on row like attentive soldiers, their surfaces cluttered by equipment. At the back of the room, white, scrubbed-down cupboards held some of the more delicate equipment, the names of these printed on the white sticky label taped to their doors. White, office blinds masked the view outside. A lonely chair had been left upended in the far right corner. White, plastic moulded stools were tucked neatly under the rim of each desk; Molly sat down on one quickly.

"So, what are you doing then?" she asked quietly, as Sherlock and I began ripping off the stupid yellow police overcoats.

Sherlock glanced at her, then for some reason decided to blatantly ignore her, so I decided to step in to cover his tracks, shooting him a stern look as I did.

"We're going to test the DNA on this knife handle, so we can work out the murderer of a case," I explained, hanging the coat up and dusting off my jumper.

"We are also going to test this bit of residue, left on the carpet in his room," Sherlock said suddenly, waving a plastic specimen bag at me. A small amount of grey rubble had collected in the one corner. At least it looked like rubble. Before I could take a closer look however, he had whisked it away back to his pocket. I watched him rub a small amount of white powder onto the hilt, using what looked like a small foundation brush. He blew gently and I saw the remains of a finger print slowly get uncovered.

"There's our killer," said Sherlock softly. He and Lestrade began the test. Quite soon their words became a foreign language so I decided to keep Molly company.

A/n: so today I'm going to ask for something special. How has the whole story been so far? Not just this chapter, the whole thing? What have you liked, disliked, any improvements etc. please review! This will hopefully give me a feel for what you all think so far and if I can do anything to make it better! So please, please review and again, I really hope you are enjoying it and I would absolutely love to hear from you all! It would make my day! Really…