Sherlock took me to a block of flats a couple of miles away from our own - and not too far from Crotchety park, it seemed. He explained to me when we arrived that the body had already been identified, and the crime scene; cleared. It appeared that whilst Nikki and I had been out, he had been busy dusting for fingerprints and squishing his eye against his little magnifying glass. And we weren't going to Crotchety park - we were going to where the girl discovered had lived.

"Mia Coast. Aged twenty-five - her name was written in her clothes. Other than that, it's just like before: no form of identification. No phone. And no real family."

I nodded solemnly as I took in the information, and watched through the taxi window as the block of flats came into view. It was cheap and tacky accommodation; like the simplest of dorm blocks that you might find at some old and run-down University. Dully grey concrete. Unpainted. A group of four young men in hooded jumpers stood by the main entrance; smoking and spitting on the pavement. After what had happened earlier in the evening, I made sure to steer clear of them. After all, I was still a little tipsy...

Sherlock swiftly led the way up the steps and through the squeaky front door. It had an eerie atmosphere in there; the sounds coming from behind the cardboard-thin walls that separated flat from reception. I heard the sounds of what appeared to be a very loud cat meowing, a very loud TV blasting the Jurassic Park theme tune, and two very loud people who were...enjoying one another's company, shall we say.

Sherlock walked right up to the front desk (ignoring the sounds that were coming from all around us in all directions) and began banging his palm on the bell as loudly as he could.

"HELLO?" He called impatiently, "ASSISTANCE PLEASE!"

"Sherlock!" I scolded, pulling him back. He glared at me and continued to compete with the racket to get the attention of someone who had power in the place. Thankfully (for my sake) a small, frail old woman came shuffling out of the back door a moment later.

"Hello, there. How may I help you, dear?" She said; seemingly oblivious to how noisy the place was. Maybe she was used to it. Maybe she was just a bit deaf.

"We need the key to the flat of Mia Coast," Sherlock explained.

"And why is that?"

"Police business." I answered.

The woman seemed to pause for a moment, judging whether or not Sherlock and I were telling the truth. She had beady eyes, like a rat, and a tight mouth like she constantly had a sour taste in her mouth. But other than that, her face was that of an average, sweet old woman.

A bit like Mrs Hudson, I thought.

The moment she took to judge us seemed incredibly long. Meanwhile, the two people who were "enjoying one another's company" started to enjoy themselves a little bit more. So much so that I began to feel uncomfortable - did no one else hear them?

"Alright," She said; grabbing a key from a box behind her, "This way."

In her weathered slippers, she shuffled down the corridor to our left and led us further into the building; past room after room, and up a staircase or two. Whilst we walked, Sherlock began questioning her (she had introduced herself as Mrs Biggs). I was at the back, so couldn't get in the way to stop him...

"When was the last time Mia came back here?" Sherlock said.

"I don't know."

(At this point, normal people would have said "you don't know?" in a very polite way. Sherlock - the least normal person in Great Britain - was rather blunt about the whole thing...)

"Why?"

"No one ever saw her, really. But I couldn't complain, could I? She's always quiet. Never causes a fuss or complained about anything - she's my best tenant."

"Was." Sherlock corrected.

"Hmm?"

"She was your best tenant, Mrs Biggs. She's dead."

"Dead?!" The woman stopped on the staircase and turned to look at us in shock.

"Yes. Dead." Sherlock continued, irritably; clearly eager for her to get moving, "Not breathing. Not moving. Kaput. Dead."

"My, my..." Mrs Biggs gasped, "The poor girl...how did it happen?"

"That's what we're trying to find out."

"Is it anything to do with that job she was doing?" The elderly woman asked, continuing to lead the way, "Could that have been it?"

"It says on the report that she was a shop assistant at Morrison's - I highly doubt it."

"No, no, no," Mrs Biggs said, shaking her head, "The other job she did. For that bloke - he comes knocking every now and again, asking for her. Telling her he's got a job for her to do."

"What job?" I asked.

"I don't know for certain," She went on, "Never heard either of them say outright. But whenever he came round, he'd give her a wad of cash - quite a bit from what I saw - or hand her a package and a slip of paper. She'd take it, and then go out at some point in the week with it under her coat."

"How often did this happen?"

"I only saw her do it twice, but they seemed to know one another quite well, in business terms. Everything was very swift, as if it had been practised many, many times...but she's very quiet and I have other things to be doing than spying on my tenants. They pay the rent, that's all I care. If I questioned everything they all did I'd have none of them left!"

At this point we had finally reached the room. Mrs Biggs put the key in the lock, turned it, and then entered. Sherlock did not hesitate before gliding past her. I, however, was a little more patient, and allowed Mrs Biggs to go before me.

The room was plain and simple, and definitely had not been cleaned properly in a while. Dust covered most surfaces, particularly the small bookshelf that was obviously rarely touched. Clothes were strewn about the floor and unmade bed in a casual manner, but not in a way that suggested someone had been searching through Mia's possessions - she had done it all herself in laziness. The singular, grubby window, was open as wide as it could go - a full two inches from the rotting wooden frame - and at most corners of the walls, the wallpaper was bubbled and peeling away due to damp.

It smelt musty.

"Is there anything else you need, dears?" Mrs Biggs asked politely.

"No, thank you," I answered with a kind smile, on behalf of the both of us, "But we'll come and find you once we've finished our investigation."

Mrs Biggs nodded in return and left the room - I didn't blame her for being eager to get away from Sherlock, who was on his hands and knees inspecting under Mia's bed.

"Found anything?" I asked him, once the door had been closed.

"Plenty," Sherlock's muffled voice said from under the bed; he sounded pleased, "just as I'd suspected..."

Suddenly, he sat up straight again; his dark curls bouncy and alive in a slightly manic way as he held up a bag full of something for me to see. It took me a moment to realise just exactly what it was. But then:

"Is that...?"

"Cocaine!"

"You might want to lower the voice and lose the grin, Sherlock."

Sherlock seemed not to have heard me. he continued to mutter to himself.

"What the hag was saying about Mia's 'job'; this makes sense. There's plenty here. Definitely too much for personal consumption. The girl was a distributor. Money was tight, she got involved with the wrong crowd...but she knew the man well. She'd known him for a long time then. Perhaps he was a family member, or old friend. She was only twenty-five...but look at this place! Not exactly rich living...no real job. No real family. Forced to get caught in the drug trade. So why was she murdered? Was she a threat perhaps? No...not a threat. She was a warning...but a warning to who?"

"Wait a second," I interrupted, "Why can't she have been a threat? If her boss thought she was going to hand him into the police then-"

"What kind of idiot would do that though? She was in on it too, and needed the money to keep this flat of hers. Very few people would get involved with something like this unless they had any other choice, but it's a difficult thing to get out of - the people at the top end are never fully trusting to those who do the dirty work. That's why they don't like letting their workers..."

He stopped, and I watched his eyes flicker as if he was skim-reading some text on an imaginary computer screen. He then smiled - that wicked, self-satisfied smile that showed he knew exactly where this was going.

"Of course!" He said with a grin, and began walking around the room in his disturbing excitement, "Of course! How could I have not seen it sooner?"

"Mind clueing me in on this too?" I asked tiredly - the beer and wine making it more difficult than usual for me to keep up with him.

"Drugs, John! Drugs!"

"Once again, Sherlock, I think you need to lose the sense of glee upon finding drugs. People will ask questions."

"The drug trade, John! Don't you see? I just said it! It's obvious! And I bet that when Molly gets back to me about what was under the other victim's nails, and checks her clothes for substance traces she'll find that the two of them have minute traces of cocaine," He chuckled again, "No real family, no other support, no other choice than to get involved with criminals!"

It took me a minute to see where he was going with this.

"So..." I said, "You're saying the two girls were working for this same man?"

"Yes!"

"Delivering the drugs to the clients for him?"

"Yes!"

"And he murdered them because they were trying to get away from him and the whole scheme of things?"

"YES!"

"Alright, no need to get so excited. You're sounding like the couple in the room next door."

"You're being awfully tetchy, John, considering we just solved a very big piece of the puzzle here," Sherlock said.

"Yes, well it seems to have escaped your notice that I was having a wonderful evening with a beautiful woman before you came barging in and ruined it all! All for what? To make some wild theory about the two victims being drug dealers, with no way of knowing who this boss guy of it all is!" I was getting quite angry now. I'd forgotten that the walls were made of paper, and that the whole corridor could probably hear me, "All I wanted was to have one night without you Sherlock! One night without you and your antics so I could enjoy the company of a woman for the first time in months! But you don't even know what that's like, do you? All you care about it SOLVING CRIMES!"

Sherlock said nothing. Instead, as if on cue, his phone beeped. After unlocking it, he held up the screen for me to see:

DID THE TESTS, LIKE YOU ASKED. FOUND TRACES OF COCAINE UNDER BOTH THE VICTIMS' FINGERNAILS AND IN THE POCKETS OF THEIR CLOTHES.
FANCY GETTING LUNCH TOMORROW? I GET OFF WORK AT 2.
MOLLY
xxx

I read the message twice, and sighed. I really did hate it when he was right all the time.

"I'm going home," I said tiredly, "You obviously don't need me here anymore. I don't know what the heck I'm talking about. I'm not helping at all. There's no point in me being here. Call me if you find a lead to the killer, or if there's another victim or whatever."

I headed towards the door. Two seconds later, much to my surprise, Sherlock did the same.

As we walked down the noisy corridor together in silence, I saw Sherlock text four letters to Molly in return for all her work:

NO.
SH

Some things never stand a chance at change.