What ho? It's Sunday already? By George, yes, it is! Topping! Spiffing! And I had too much tea again. Hello sweeties, another chapter for you all. I'm still awake at four in the bloody morning due to insomnia so why not post it early? We've come to the point where I can now update more frequently. I know, it's fantastic! I've been a busy bee writing chapters and painting, and then I made a scarf like Lexi's plaid one by hand. Very busy, but another chapter is ready for you!

I must mention as I find it incredibly funny but I have 99 reviews and Moffat ain't one. Maybe if we all spam tweet Mark Gatiss we can get him to take a look at this, or Ben or Martin. *lifts eyebrow* yeah, that could work.

This chapter is dedicated to the following members of the Baker Street Irregualrs:

Mr. Smith who begged for another chapter

K-9 who would like me to write more Johnlock for him and Mr. Smith (We shall see dear, Mels has been a bit busy lately)

Ames (Oh you know why sweetie, you are fantastic)

Owl who knows more about this story than she should.

- Melody Morrision

Chapter Thirty Three- The Murder Who Can Walk Through Walls

'They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,' he remarked with a smile. 'It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work.' - A Study in Scarlet

We didn't have to wait long for Van Coon's flat to be swarming with police and photographers taking pictures of Van Coon's body lying on the bed. A forensic officer was dusting for fingerprints on the nearby mirror. Sherlock took his coat off in the living room as did I and we went back to the bedroom. He handed me a pair of latex gloves and we each put a pair on as John stood beside us. We were in our natural element here. Crime scene, crime, murder… that was all we needed.

"D'you think he'd lost a lot of money? I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys," John asked us as Sherlock and I finally were able to start investigating around the room.

"We don't know that it was suicide," Sherlock told him as I looked back at John and gave him a pointed look. Had I not already told him this was murder? I understood that he was right in thinking this might be a suicide, they were common amongst City boys who were unhappy with their jobs, but this certainly was not a suicide. Besides all you had to do was look at Vann Coon's body. The way he was so awkwardly lying on the bed seemed more like he had been placed there after his death as if someone had dragged him over to the bed and laid him down on it to make it look like it was a suicide. His limbs were just it awkward straight angles. Not the way someone would normally lay on a bed.

"John, I'm telling you, this was murder. I know murder when I see it," I told him and he looked back at me in disbelief. There were a few things I had noticed about the flat that the casual observer might not have noticed upon a glance.

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you two had to climb down the balcony," John said as Sherlock squatted down by a suitcase on the floor near the bed and opened it, looking at the contents. I went over to him and bent down, both hands on his shoulders as I steadied myself, taking a look at what was inside the suitcase.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," Sherlock said as we both stood up. There was a deep indentation in the clothing inside the case as if something was packed inside it. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

"Thanks – I'll take your word for it," John told him and I raised an eyebrow at the attitude he had. I understood he was upset we had left him outside, but we had other priorities. He could have just as well used the balcony like we had to get inside.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked him throwing a look my way. I cocked my head to the side and we both shared a look before turning back to watch John.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear," John told us and I snorted. Okay, not everything you had to do was glamorous, but it was necessary. Sometimes you had to do what no one else wanted to do, like sniff a corpse, lick a substance to discover what it was. It was what made us good detectives, we were willing to do what the police at Scotland Yard would not.

"Those symbols at the bank – the graffiti. Why were they put there?" Sherlock asked me as he walked to the foot of the bed. I opened my mouth to answer him, but John instead gave his own views on it.

"What, some sort of code?" John asked us and I nodded at him. It was some sort of code, one written in symbols so only the person intended to receive it would understand the message. Most likely Van Coon owed them money or something.

"Obviously," Sherlock said as he took a close look at Van Coon's shoes and moved up, carefully opening his jacket so he could take a look at his inside pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John told him and I nodded at that again. If I was receiving a message or a threat I would tend to ignore it as well. It would appear that the person making the threat decided a different option. When that didn't work they paid him a personal visit.

"Oh good. You follow," Sherlock told him as he flicked his gaze up to me. I shared a look with him before I moved towards him and started my own inspection of Van Coon's body. There wasn't much to find on him. It was apparent that he was an office worker but then we already knew that.

"No," John told us and Sherlock threw him a look before he moved on to examine Van Coon's hands. I sighed and looked back at John, pausing my inspection to give him some details.

"There are some messages everyone tries to avoid John. The letters you were looking at this morning, what were they?" I asked him and John frowned back at me in confusion as he thought it out. I knew that John had an inner detective. I turned back to Van Coon and moved up to his mouth. There was something wrong about it from a medical sense, like he had something stuck in his mouth. I motioned to it and Sherlock nodded at me in understanding, sharing the same thought I had.

"Bills," John answered me as Sherlock pried open Van Coon's mouth and pulled out a small origami flower from inside as air hissed out of the dead man's lungs. I grimaced as Sherlock showed me the paper flower. It wasn't just any flower, but a lotus flower.

"Yes. He was being threatened," Sherlock told him as we both straightened up as a loud voice came from outside the bedroom door.

"Bag this up, will you ...," The man said as John looked closely at the paper flower Sherlock was holding as Sherlock lifted an evidence bag and put the flower into it.

"Not by the gas board," John remarked and I grinned, nodding at him. No, certainly not the gas board. Who though? I was sure I had seen something like this before, but I couldn't think of where.

"Most likely not, no," I told John who grinned at me in return. I vaguely remembered something about a case for Mycroft that seemed familiar, but I would have to ask him for the case file to review again. I would have worked it back before when I was taking cases, so at least four years ago.

"... and see if you can get prints off this glass," The man outside the door said as he walked in. He was a plain clothed police officer who looked rather young. Sherlock turned and walked towards him as soon as he entered the room while I stayed by Van Coon's body.

"Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met," Sherlock said as he offered his hand to shake. The young man put his hands on his hips. I remembered his face, but I had never been introduced to him in person before.

"Yeah, I know who you are; and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," The man snapped back and Sherlock lowered his hand, giving him the evidence bag before he turned his best stroppy look on him. I was beginning to think it was just a Holmes' thing.

"I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock," The man said and Sherlock looked at him in surprised before he turned and shared his surprised look with me. I took this moment to introduce myself.

"Alexandria MacKenna, we met before but I never got your name," I told the young man stepping forward and offering him my hand. This time he shook it, nodding at me as he seemed to recall me.

"I remember you. Lestrade speaks highly of you," Dimmock told me as he walked out of the room. I followed after him, the boys trailing behind me. Dimmock handed the bag of to one of the forensics team. "We're obviously looking at a suicide."

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," John said as Sherlock and I took our gloves off before turning back to him. If it wasn't for the police officers in the room I might have hit him. Did no one want to listen to me besides Sherlock?

"Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts," Sherlock said as he turned to Dimmock. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock asked Sherlock. The consulting detective turned to me and gesture for me to answer him as I had first spotted the error that the killer had made.

"Dimmock ne sera pas nous écouter si nous lui donnons une preuve suffisante que nous avons raison. Je l'ai rencontré une fois. Il est têtu, mais je pense que nous pouvons le convaincre que nous avons raison. Anderson est pire que ce qu'il est," I told Sherlock quickly in French. I knew he would understand me. Mycroft had learnt French as a boy and it was only logical to assume that Sherlock had as well. (Dimmock won't listen to us unless we give him enough proof that we are right. I've met him once before. He's stubborn, but I think we can convince him that we're right. Anderson is worse than he is.)

"Tout le monde est pire que Anderson. Au moins, je ne perds pas tant de cellules du cerveau quand Dimmock parle," Sherlock told me, glaring slightly at Dimmock. I nodded, he was quite right. (Everyone is worse than Anderson. At least I don't lose so many brain cells when Dimmock speaks.)

"In English please! Not all of us speak multiple bloody languages," John shouted at the two of us in exasperation and we both looked at him before looking at each other and rolling our eyes. That was the entire point.

"Où est le plaisir à le faire lorsque cela vous ennuie plus?" I asked John before reverting back to English and answering Dimmock's earlier question. (Where is the fun in doing that when this annoys you more?) "The wound was on the right side of his head," I told Dimmock who turned to look at me, raising one eyebrow.

"And?" He asked me arrogantly. Hmm, better than Anderson but only just. Then again, it really wasn't too difficult to be better than Anderson.

"Van Coon was left-handed," I told him as I showed him how that wouldn't work by pretending to point a gun to my right temple with my left hand. "It would have required quite a bit of contortion for him to have been able to shoot himself in his right temple."

"Left-handed?" Dimmock asked me in disbelief and I nodded at him. It was strictly obvious that Van Coon had been left handed.

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat," Sherlock told Dimmock sarcastically. "Lexi spotted it right away, but then again she would," Sherlock continued, gesturing at me to explain how I had figured out that this was murder.

I pointed to the table beside the sofa. "The coffee table is on the left-hand side; the coffee mug handle is also pointing to the left. He habitually used the power sockets on the left. The pen and paper is on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Would you like me to go on?" I asked Dimmock as Sherlock smirked at me, sharing our own private bit of humour.

"No, I think you've covered it," John told me tiredly.

"Oh, she might as well; she's almost at the bottom of the list," Sherlock told him and John nodded as if to say, 'Yeah, I thought she might' Sherlock gestured for me to continue and I nodded once before pointing towards the kitchen.

"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left," I said as I turned to Dimmock as Sherlock threw him an impatient look. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. I can be proof of that. I am left handed. If I were to shoot myself I would do it on the left side of my head. You're right handed. Would you shoot the left side of your head? No, because it would require too much contortion. If you truly wanted to commit suicide you would want to do it as painlessly for yourself as possible. So why shoot the right side of you head if you were left handed? Slip once and you could have to suffer through a slow, painful death. Therefore, the only conclusion is that someone must have broken in to Van Coon's flat and murdered him but they didn't notice what we did. Statistically most people are right handed. Had it not been for the killers mistake I would have thought it was suicide too. As Sherlock said you like one solution and you are ignoring any facts that do not comply with it. The only explanation of all the facts presented is that Van Coon was murdered and did not commit suicide."

"But the gun: why ...," Dimmock began before Sherlock interrupted him.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened," Sherlock said as he walked away and stated putting on his coat, scarf and gloves. I joined him and he helped me slip into my coat being careful for my arm before he tied my scarf for me so I wouldn't pull on my stitches more than I already had. As it was I was going to have to change the gauze when I got back to the flat and make sure I hadn't ripped any of them.

"What?" Dimmock asked us as I lifted my hands and fixed Sherlock's scarf. I didn't even realize when he froze as I smoothed down the collar of his jacket and brushed the lint off of his shoulders before lowering my hands.

"Today at the bank. Sort of a warning," John told Dimmock as we looked back at him.

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock told him. I had noticed this too. He had powder burns on his hands and the room still smelt faintly of gun powder.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock asked us as Sherlock and I shared a look. Sherlock nudged me to answer him. I sighed before looking back at Dimmock.

"The bullet went through the open window," I told him and he stared back at us in disbelief.

"Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?!" Dimmock asked him and before I could answer him, Sherlock jumped in and defended me.

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it," Sherlock told him and I nodded in agreement with him. The way it played out was that Van Coon had seen the warning and hurried home. He locked himself in his room with his gun because he knew they were coming for him. Somehow they surprised him. Vann Coon was shot in the head and the shot intended for his adversary flew through the open window. If I had enough time and the weather conditions around the time Van Coon was murdered I might have been able to calculate the velocity and possible trajectory of where the bullet had flown, but that wouldn't be necessary as soon as they got the ballistics report.

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock asked us as I pulled my gloves out of the pocket of my coat and slipped them on. The air had gotten steadily colder as it moved towards night time.

"Good! You're finally asking the right questions," Sherlock said condescendingly as he dramatically slammed his hand into his gloves. He turned and flounced out leaving John and I behind before he called for me. "Lexi!" I looked round at John and Dimmock and nodded at the D.I. before I took off after Sherlock, John just behind me pointing apologetically at the both of us before following me.

"Did you have to do that?" John asked us as soon as we were back in the lift and away from all of the police officers. "Would it kill you to be nice for once instead of showing off?"

"Yes," Sherlock and I answered in unison before we shared a smirk. John glared at us and I sighed as Sherlock pulled out his phone and began texting someone. "John, Sherlock and I are used to people not listening to a word we say. Why would they? They are the police and we are consulting detectives. It is the equivalent of a parent not believing everything their child says. Sometimes the only way you can be heard is by showing off. No, it isn't nice, but it gets us results," I told him and he nodded after a second, not exactly understanding, but endeavouring to.

"Where are we headed then?" John asked us as Sherlock lowered his phone and stowed it back away in his coat pocket.

"To see Sebastian. I just texted his secretary and she told me where he was currently. We'll report to him what we've found out so far," Sherlock said as we stepped out of the lift and walked out of the building. Sherlock hailed us a cab and we piled in like we had before, Sherlock holding me so that my arm was against him rather than John. We arrived at the restaurant that Sherlock had given the cabbie the address to and we all crawled out of the cab. I leaned back inside and paid the cabbie before following John and Sherlock into the restaurant. We quickly located Sebastian's table where he was having dinner with some clients or work colleagues. I didn't care to deduce either one, preferring to stand beside Sherlock stonily.

"... and he's left trying to sort of cut his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" Sebastian was laughing as we walked over to his table. Sherlock stood slightly beside me, one hand on my elbow as if he was afraid to let me stand so close to Sebastian without one hand close enough to me in case I went off on him again. He had seen what happened when Mantlo pissed me off after all.

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant," Sherlock told him as Sebastian looked up at us and then back at his clients, definitely clients, not colleagues.

"I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" Sebastian asked us with a bit of bite to his words. I glared back at him and was about to answer him but Sherlock quickly did so himself.

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed," Sherlock told him as he rubbed my elbow comfortingly. I took a deep breath and let it out, leaning slightly into Sherlock's shoulder as I tried to calm down. I wasn't sure what it was that made me so angry around Sebastian, but he sort of reminded me of my father a bit, the way he thought what we did was only a trick and nothing more.

"What?" Sebastian spluttered in disbelief.

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat," John told him as I spared a look at his clients. Rich business types, investors. Well, they might consider not doing business after this.

"Killed?" Sebastian asked in shock. I rolled my eyes in exasperation. Yes, killed, murdered. In how many ways did you have to say it before the news sunk in to his thick skull?

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock began sarcastically before I cut him off, finally having enough with Sebastian.

"Still want us to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard be good for you? I'm sure they would have some excellent questions for you," I said and Sebastian put down his water glass and nervously ran a finger inside his suit collar. He got up, excusing himself from his clients before he hurriedly gestured for us to follow him. We followed him through the restaurant and back to where the bathrooms were. He entered the men's room and John and Sherlock made to follow him before they realized I wasn't coming with them.

"Um…," John said as he looked between the door and me. Sherlock eyed me as if he was seeing what I would do. I shook my head at him and gestured back to the restaurant.

"I'll wait out there, you talk with him. I'll end up killing him if I spend too much time with him anyway," I told Sherlock who nodded at me before we went our separate ways. I walked back into the dining room, planning to walk outside and wait for John and Sherlock out there, but I heard my name called behind me. I turned around and found Anthea sitting at a table with Mycroft and another gentleman. Mycroft nodded at me and I approached the table as both men stood.

"Alexandria," Mycroft greeted me and I smiled slightly back at him as I allowed him to take my hand and kiss it. We were only formal with one another on these occasions, when he had someone important with him. "Might I introduce Lord Bellford," Mycroft said gesturing to the other gentleman who took my hand and kissed the back of it as Mycroft had.

"A pleasure sir, Alexandria MacKenna," I told him forcing myself to be polite and he grinned at me as Mycroft eyed me, silently thanking me for behaving. I knew how to act properly, I just chose not to half of the time. I didn't like formalities as they reminded me too much of my father, but I wouldn't embarrass Mycroft.

"You would be Lord MacKenna's daughter then?" Lord Bellford asked me and I nodded, smiling sweetly at him though inside I was grimacing, hating to be addressed as Lord MacKenna's daughter. I wanted nothing to do with the man that was my father including being thought of as his anything. I shared a surname with him that was all.

"I would be," I told him and Mycroft sighed that I hadn't made a remark though I had wanted to.

"Please join us," Lord Bellfast offered, gesturing to the free chair. I looked at Mycroft and saw that he didn't expect me too. I silently thanked him. I couldn't stand the company right now. John and Sherlock were fine. I could be Lexi with them. Around people that Mycroft knew like Lord Bellfast I had to be Alexandria.

"I must decline, I'm currently on a case for Scotland Yard," I told Lord Bellfast who raised an eyebrow at me in surprise.

Here we go again with woman of my rank in society. This was where my father and I had also disagreed. My father was a Lord. In fact, he was the head of clan MacKenna. Being a woman of high class my father expected me to marry another equally high class man, someone like Mycroft in fact who was influential in government. I however refused to marry someone like that. I adored Mycroft, but people like Lord Bellfast I despised as they thought they were better than everyone else because they were "high class." My father would never forgive me for becoming a consulting detective or before that a chemist, a professor, and a pathologist. These jobs were beneath me in his eyes. I however would not be dependent upon his money. I wasn't going to accept if I didn't acknowledge him as my father. It was safe to say that when I informed him of my plans after leaving college that he had swiftly disowned me. Shortly thereafter my grandfather died and I finished my graduate work and lived with my friend Mary before moving to London. I hadn't heard a word from him in over twelve years nor had I gone back to my family home.

"Ah you are a police officer," He said almost condescendingly. Mycroft stiffened and I saw Anthea wince as they both got ready for my outburst at this. I will be forever proud of myself for what I did next.

"A consulting detective actually," I answered him with a sniff before looking back at Mycroft. "I should go find my colleagues. Good day," I told the group before stalking of back towards the bathroom. I didn't care if they weren't done with Sebastian or not, we were leaving. I was done with people who looked down on me because of what I chose to do with my life. I was no longer Alexandria, I was Lexi and I was proud to be who I was.

As I was walking back into the hall I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and was suddenly walked into. I felt to hands on my shoulders, steadying me and I looked up to find Sebastian looking down at me. "Sorry, didn't see you there," He said as he dropped his hands. I nodded at him and he moved around me before turning back. "You know, you and Holmes, you're cute together I'll give you that but someone of your fire needs a real man, someone who can take care of you, not that freak. Dinner with me tomorrow night?' Sebastian asked me with a smirk as I turned back to him.

I snorted at him as I regarded him with distain. Had he actually been serious? He couldn't be as I knew he wasn't saying that to me of all people. "A real man? Someone to take care of me? I'll have you know I don't need a man or someone to take care of me as I can bloody well take care of myself just fine thank you. I wouldn't go to dinner with you even if you were the last person on Earth. As for Sherlock, he is more of a man than you could ever be and he certainly is not a freak. I am glad to be his, he's all I need and want," I spat at Sebastian who grinned back at me as if he thought I was funny. That's it, I was going to punch him right in his smug face. I took a deep breath and breathed it out heavily through my nose as I glared daggers at Sebastian.

"You really are loyal to him. I thought so, seeing you together. Friends are you?" Sebastian asked me before walking away. "My offer still stands," He called over his shoulder as I flipped him off, swearing at him under my breath in as many languages as I knew. I couldn't believe him! I needed a man? Someone to take care of me? Well, if he met my fist he would be singing a completely different tune. He was the biggest idiot I had ever met, surpassing even Anderson, if he thought I would ever have dinner with him.

Suddenly the bathroom door opened behind me and I turned, jumping slightly in surprise as I was pulled out of my murderous thoughts as Sherlock and John exited from the men's room, speaking quickly with one another. Sherlock's eyes fell on me and he frowned. "What's wrong?" He asked me, breaking off from his conversation with John as the army doctor looked over at me worried now.

"Nothing," I told him, waving him off. "Ran into Mycroft and then quite literally into Sebastian. What did you find out?" I asked him changing the subject as Sherlock's eyes drifted down to my arm, obviously wondering if it had something to do with that. Now that I thought more about it my arm hurt like a SOB. More pain meds were in my future and then a cuppa and a nap.

"Van Coon went to Oxford. He worked in Asia so Sebastian gave him the Hong Kong accounts. Apparently he lost five million in a single morning but made it all back a week later. He couldn't tell us if there were anyone who would want to kill him. He refused to say more as the police told his Chairman that it was suicide," Sherlock bit out and I rolled my eyes. Of course they wouldn't listen to us.

"So now we have to figure out why Van Coon was killed and by who and what the message meant. Am I missing anything?" I asked the boys with a heavy sigh.

"No, I think that's all of it," John told me and I nodded before looking at Sherlock.

"So where do we go from here?" I asked him and he looked at me and then my arm again as he contemplated his answer.

"Back to the flat. We can't do anything more without more evidence. Tomorrow we can start figuring out what the symbols might mean," Sherlock told us and I nodded at him in agreement. Going back to the flat sounded rather nice about now.

We left the restaurant and hailed a cab back to Baker Street. I threw one look over in Mycroft's direction as we left and he looked up catching my eye as I walked out with Sherlock's hand on the small of my back. He raised one eyebrow at me and I raised one right back as I looked quickly at Lord Bellford and then back at him. He nodded slightly and I knew he understood not to question me about it. I climbed into the back of the cab and snuggled against Sherlock's shoulder on the ride back to Baker Street, breathing in the faint smell of tea, chemicals, and London rain that clung to his coat. The scent calmed me and I relaxed against him. When we arrived back at Baker Street the three of us trudged up the stairs, saying a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson. She wouldn't let me leave until I had taken a plate of biscuits up to the flat with me. John decided to turn in early and I stayed up for a bit with Sherlock, taking advantage of John's absence to take more of my meds. I changed into my tank top and bed shorts before padding back into the living room. Sherlock was already waiting for the roll of gauze and tape and he wordlessly gestured for me to sit on the couch before he took my old, bloody gauze off. My stitches had pulled, but still were in good condition. Sherlock gently dabbed on the antibiotic cream before applying the fresh gauze before he wordlessly got up to put the stuff away. I walked over and took a biscuit off of the tray, nibbling on the corner before I went and picked up my viola and played a few notes. A few minutes later Sherlock came back and picked up his violin before starting Bach's violin concerto in A minor. I played with him and when I finally grew tired, I left him to play. I said good night to him and made for my room before I heard him calling for me.

"Lexi," He said and I walked back through the kitchen and poked my head into the living room.

"Yes Sher?" I asked him as he looked back at me, violin still balanced on his shoulder but his bow lowered to his side. He seemed to be studying me, almost as if he was hesitating with what he wanted to say to me. I nodded at him encouragingly and he sighed before answering me.

"Your nightmares, what are they about?" Sherlock asked me. The question surprised me as I wasn't aware of the fact that he knew I had night mares. I knew I didn't scream in my sleep no matter how bad they got. I locked eyes with Sherlock and we stared back at each other for a long moment before I answered him. I didn't like talking about them, just as I knew John didn't like talking about the nightmares of war he had. I had woken up once or twice and padded about the flat only to hear him whimpering upstairs. I had gone up there and sung to him an old Irish lullaby until he had grown more peaceful. I never told him I did it, but I knew it helped him. I knew he would never like to be seen as weak which was why I never mentioned to him that I knew.

"The past," I told him simply before turning around and walking away. I padded back through the kitchen and down the hall to my room. I entered my room and shut the door behind me and sighing. I pulled a sweater over me to hide my arm before crawling into bed and letting sleep over take me. That night, the music of a single violin filled my dreams.

I woke up with a groan and rolled over in bed, staring up at the dust motes that hang in the sunbeams. I pulled myself up to sitting and yawned, stretching the sleep from my limbs. I cursed when my stitches pulled before I got out of bed and wrapped my sweater around myself as I shuffled out of my room sleepily. From the kitchen I could see that Sherlock had printed out photographs of the graffiti near and across Sir William's portrait and had stuck them around the mirror of the fireplace. He was sitting in one of the dining chairs with his back to the dining table and he had his fingers steepled under his chin as he stared at the photos intently. Something caught my eye then and I noticed a mug of tea sitting on the edge of the kitchen table closest to me, steam still rising from the top of the tea. I smiled and picked up the mug, lifting it to my mouth and taking a sip. Exactly how I liked it. I looked at Sherlock and deduced that it had recently been made. He must have known I would be up soon.

"Morning Sher," I said as I shuffled into the living room and over to Sherlock's chair sinking into it. I looked up at the pictures on the mirror, studying them. I hadn't expected Sherlock to actually answer me as he seemed lost in his own thoughts, therefore it surprised me when he did.

"Hmm? Morning," Sherlock told me, turning his head to look at me. His eyes trailed over to my arm and he immediately popped out of his chair and left the room. He returned moments later with the gauze and we repeated the process from the night before as I sipped at my tea. We he finished he cleared everything away and came back to sit in his chair.

"Thank you Lock," I told the consulting detective. He had been helpful lately and he seemed to be looking out for me in the way he was so diligently taking care of my arm. It still burnt and was inflamed, but I knew that it would heal soon enough. It was relatively shallow and a clean cut and should heal given time and adequate rest. I assumed John was still asleep as he wasn't down in the living room. "Have you figured anything out about the symbols?" I asked Sherlock and he hummed before looking at me.

"No, I have no clue what they are," He told me as I got up and crossed over to the desk, pulling my laptop off of it. I brought it back over to Sherlock's chair and booted it up. Once it was completely brought up I looked back to the desk where I had left my flash drive.

"Could you pass me that?" I asked Sherlock, pointing out my flash drive. He wordlessly leaned across to the desk and retrieved it for me before handing it off to me. I put it into my computer and opened my file records. After every case I solved I would write up case notes which I stored on my flash drive. Unfortunately I had over four years' worth of case notes. I would have to go through all of them and read through them in order to possibly find the right one.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked me curiously as I opened the first file and started scanning through it. I held a finger up to him, indicating for him to wait a moment as I finished my current paragraph before I looked up to answer him.

"This case reminds me of one I worked for Mycroft before. I used to write up a summary of all my cases after I solved them, even for those I worked for him. I neglected to indicate which cases were the ones I worked for Mycroft so I have to go through all of them," I explained to Sherlock who raised an eyebrow in interest.

"You recognize the symbols then?" He asked me and I shook my head quickly before cocking my head to the right as I looked back at the pictures.

"Yes and no. I recognize them from somewhere, but I can't remember what they are and my brain has gone fuzzy from the meds. Whoever used the symbols was coming to collect though. They would have tried to send him a message beforehand, but when he refused to answer them they must have come to meet him in person. Obviously they weren't satisfied with the answer he gave them. I think we are working with more than one person. Probably a planner and an enforcer. I have a feeling that the person behind planning this would be in charge, the boss or the teacher. They don't often get their hands dirty with the work so they would have someone else doing things for them like the killings. Whoever the enforcer is he would have to be small and athletic. John said something yesterday that got me thinking. He mentioned that even we had to use the balcony above Van Coon's flat to get inside it. It's possible the person who murdered Van Coon entered in a similar fashion," I told Sherlock, sharing my deductions with him as he listened to me intently.

"You think he can climb?" Sherlock asked me and I nodded at him. It was one theory I had. Right now I couldn't be certain as there was no way to prove that the murderer had climbed into Van Coon's flat as there had been no evidence of it at the crime scene. Therefore the killer was rather smart and knew what he or she was doing. Odd are that the murderer was most likely male. I wasn't being sexist, but statistics showed that men rather than women typically committed murder.

"It's one theory I have. It would explain how he got into Van Coon's flat and into the office at Shad Sanderson. The balcony door was the only one on the schematics of the building that you didn't need a key card to access. It's the only hole I can see in the security there. The only thing wrong with that is that Van Coon's flat and the late Sir William's office are not exactly on the first floor," I told Sherlock and he nodded at me in agreement. "The problem for us now is that the police are calling it a suicide when we gave them sufficient evidence that it's not," I said and Sherlock's expression darkened

"They're all idiots. They took the theory they liked and let facts suit their misguided theories rather than having their theories be supported by the facts," Sherlock told me bitterly. I sighed and reached over putting my hand over his in comfort. He looked down at it and I drew my hand back, playing with the ends of my sweater instead.

"I know, but we can't do anything about it right now. Our best chance is to figure out what the symbols mean which will lead us to Van Coon's killer," I told Sherlock before getting up and setting my laptop down in Sherlock's chair.

I left him to study the pictures more as I went back to my room and pulled on a pair of jeans and one of my own jumpers, a green v neck. I pulled on Sherlock's socks and my black converse sneakers before I crossed over into the bathroom and pulled a brush through my hair before brushing my teeth. I returned to the living room and got comfortable in Sherlock's chair again, going through the files now that I was fully dressed. Sherlock and I sat in companionable silence, happy to silently go about our own work. Within the next hour the sound off footsteps broke me out of my long summary about a serial killer case that I had worked, a case in which I had been hit by a taxi while chasing after him throughout London. John came through the door and walked in, dropping his jacket onto his chair.

"I said, "Could you pass me a pen?"" Sherlock suddenly said without looking up. John looked around the living room as if he was expecting Sherlock to be talking to someone else. I shook my head, indicating that Sherlock had not been talking to me. I would have remembered if he had asked me that.

"What? When?" John asked him in confusion.

"'Bout an hour ago," Sherlock answered him and John sighed in exasperation.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then," He said as he picked up a pen from the table beside his chair and, without even looking at Sherlock, tossed it in his general direction. Sherlock lifted his left hand and caught it without even looking away from the photographs on the wall. "And why couldn't you have asked Lexi?" John asked Sherlock as he walked over to the mirror to look more closely at the photographs.

"Because Lexi was studying the pictures and now she is taking a break," Sherlock answered John as I looked up at the army doctor and waved at him. He looked round at me as did Sherlock, finally breaking his staring contest with the pictures.

"John, I didn't know you were heading out this morning," I said as closed my laptop and placed it back on the desk. I had gone through most of my case files and I had yet to find anything. It was possible I hadn't written anything on the case. If I hadn't solved it, something that happened every now and again, than it was highly likely I had just given the file back to Mycroft and forgotten about the case.

"Yeah, I went to see about a job at that surgery," John told me as I sipped at my tea which was still warm, absentmindedly rubbing my hand over my arm. Sherlock leaned forward when John wasn't looking and slapped my hand away. When I went to slap him back he slipped one of my pills into my hand. I looked at him and grinned but he had already turned back to his pictures. I took my pill before John looked back and caught me.

"How was it?" Sherlock asked John as I took a look at the pictures as well. They made no more since today than they had yesterday. They still were a mystery to me but I was even more sure today that I had seen them somewhere before.

"It's great. She's great," John said absentmindedly. I looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. Oh, she was great was she? I grinned at the army doctor. Trust him to go out for a job interview and end up meeting a woman.

"Who?" Sherlock asked John, picking up on the same thing I had. John Watson, the ladies' man.

"The job," John answered him as he looked round at us, noticing what he had said.

""She"?" I asked him with a mischievous smile and I saw him swallow nervously. Got him. Very smooth Watson. "There was a she was there?"

"... It," He told me and Sherlock and I looked at each other knowingly before eyeing John suspiciously.

"Do I get to meet this she?" I asked John and he grinned back at me, shaking his head slightly.

"Maybe," He told me before Sherlock cut off our banter by jerking his head to his right towards his desk.

"Here, have a look," Sherlock told us he got up and walked over to his desk and looked at the web page that was open on his computer. I got up as John hummed a sound of hmm and followed me as I bent over Sherlock's shoulder to see what he wanted to show us. It was a lead article on the 'Online News.' The page was headlined, "Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police." Next to the headline was a picture of a bald man and under it the article read: An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in….

"The intruder who can walk through walls," John said as I looked down at Sherlock. It seemed to me as if whoever murdered Van Coon had been making his rounds. As John had said, the intruder who could walk through walls.

"Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon," Sherlock told us as we shared a look. It was the exactly same thing, but Lukis was a freelance journalist and Van Coon was a banker. They had nothing in common in terms of a job. The only thing that connected these murders is that they were killed in a similar fashion. John straightened up and looked at the two of us in disbelief.

"God. You think ...," He said before trailing off. I nodded at him in confirmation before Sherlock and I answered him in unison. "He's killed another one." Well, it would seem as if this case was getting more and more interesting. Two murders, no motive, and the killer could walk through walls. The game was most definitely on.