Thank you for all follows and reviews! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter too.

A/N: I really try to skip dialogues that everyone knows, but some are unavoidable. Or I just can't help but include them. Anyway, it's a loooong chapter.

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The genius – because he was a genius, she could see it now – did have an arrogant side. He was practically glowing with self-worth when she confirmed his deductions. Until Harriet came along. It was funny for a moment, but then she would have loved to know what she was supposed to do at a crime scene. And thinking about Harry and the way she wasted her life wasn't her favorite pass-time either.

"Hello, freak." And what the hell was wrong with this woman? Joan was quite sure her bewildered stare was more than insistent, but the officer didn't seem to notice.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock's tone was forcedly patient and polite.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?" Joan's eyebrow began to twitch.

"I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" What a prime demonstration of professionalism.

"Always, Sally." The self-proclaimed consulting detective ducked under the tape, an evil glint in his eyes. "I even know you didn't make it home last night." Sally sputtered indignantly. Didn't stop her from dropping the tape when Joan made to follow.

"Er… who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." It was said so casually, as if they had been actually working together for years already. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." The sarcasm was thick to cut with a knife. Joan had less bad blood with the guy who shot her than those two.

Donovan's reaction did it for her. "A colleague?! How did you get a colleague? What, did he follow you home?"

"No, actually, it's the opposite. I followed him to his place" she replied evenly, a politely raised eyebrow indicating how much she didn't care about anyone's opinion. Deal with that now.

The reluctant sergeant paused, staring at her in disbelief, mostly because of the innuendo. She was still gaping like a fish out of water when Sherlock lifted the tape, gesturing Joan to come with him, an amused smile on his lips.

They were half-way to the door when a tall man in a blue coverall came out. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock commented tersely. Joan started to feel a little surprised by the enmity between Holmes and members of the police force. Weren't they working together? Was it an entirely private matter? But no, the personnel milling around the place had been giving her companion only dark glances of dislike and fear since they arrived.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Oh, the patronizing speech. It still grated on her nerves. Clearly, on Sherlock's too.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" The subsequent dressing down had been a piece of art. If the man went around the town pulling bullies down a peg like this, she could acquire a taste of trailing behind him just to watch it. He was a prat, but a prat with class. Still smirking inwardly, Joan limped past the dumb-founded couple into the house and had a formless coverall pushed into her hands by a still smug-looking detective. "You need to wear one of these." Behind Sherlock, she could see the DI frowning.

"Who's this?"

Sherlock ignored him in favor of taking his gloves off. "She's with me" he offered eventually, after Joan started disengaging from her coat.

"But who is she?"

"I said she's with me" Holmes practically snarled in DI's general direction. Watson wondered for a minute if she should ask why everyone but the consultant was wearing those ugly blue things, but decided against it. She could do with less questions and more action.

Unfortunately, the action was held upstairs. Her leg was literally killing her by the time she climbed up behind the party. Should just put a hole in it, so the pain would have an actual reason to be here. Mentally committing murder of the person who had the gall to invent stairs, Joan followed both men into the brightly lit empty room, where a pink-clad woman laid dead. A vision of another woman, olive skin, dark hair, lying motionless and face down on scorched grass filled her mind the time of a breath. Then she was back in London again. She glanced around the room, trying to shake off the phantom heat of a far-away land. The wallpaper had once been flowery, but was now dirty and peeling all over. It clashed even more so with the vivid color of Jennifer Wilson's clothes. This building was decaying, but it would stand for years to come, while this woman, a spot of life, would never move again.

"Shut up." The baritone cut in her musings.

"I didn't say anything!" Lestrade, who had been addressed, protested.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Joan shared a startled look with the DI. Apparently, her new flatmate was touchy about people having thoughts in his presence. He should have mentioned that in place of violin.

Meanwhile, the man was circling the dead body, his hands gently running over the coat, eyes pausing over little details. Joan watched the silent dance, captivated. He finally straightened up with a satisfied smile on his chiseled face. Chiseled, really? Where did that come from? "Got anything?" Lestrade asked grumpily.

"Not much." Oh, she could smell the grand revelation coming. His modus operandi reminded her of Agatha Christie's novels. A slow build-up for every secret to be brought to light.

"She's German. 'Rache', it's German for 'revenge'." This Anderson guy had no sense of self-preservation apparently. "She could be trying to tell us something…"

"Yes, thank you for your input." The face of the forensic when the door slammed inches from his nose must have been priceless.

"So she's German?" At least someone was trying to keep on track.

"Of course not." The detective sounded slightly affronted at the idea. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious." He punctuated his statement by pocketing his phone with unnecessarily flourish.

"Sorry, obvious?" There were limits to what she could guess.

"What about the message, though?" insisted the DI.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical professional." Joan itched to point out that judging by the content of his website, Sherlock must have followed at least three of advanced pathology and anatomy courses at uni, and thus didn't really need an unemployed surgeon to state a probable cause of death.

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside!" And there was that too.

"They won't work with me." Oh, so he's not oblivious. Joan settled to watch the fight of wills between the DI and the consultant. Their dynamic was certainly interesting to observe.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here!"

"Yes…" Sherlock hissed. "Because you need me."

The helpless stare Lestrade gave the younger man made her wonder if the grey in his hair was due to the natural aging process or the frequent contact with the genius. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson." He actually startled her. That won't do. Out of courtesy, she looked at the DI for permission. It was his job after all, and he clearly wasn't delighted by the situation.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself." He sounded even grumpier than before.

It took Joan some time to get to Sherlock's level beside the body. The man impatiently tapped his fingers on his knee while she was painfully rearranging her failing idiotic limb. "Well?" He finally inquired after a few seconds.

"What am I doing here?" Joan whispered in reply. It was all well and dandy, but it was made abundantly clear that she was an alien in the midst of Yarders.

"Helping me make a point" Sherlock lowered his voice to match hers.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent!"

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." Imp. She was sure he caught the brief moment where her innate need for adventure took precedence over ethics, and he was smug about it.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead" she protested half-heartedly.

"Perfectly sound analysis, doctor, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." He was definitely laughing at her. With the renewed presence of the DI in the room, she couldn't complain anymore. So she mentally kicked her leg into cooperation, and leaned forward to do a cursory check of Jennifer Wilson.

"Yeah… Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure, possibly drugs."

"You know what it was." Sherlock commented from above, having stood up when she started the examination.

"Yes, judging by the remaining whiff of almond, I'd say some sort of cyanide, but the autopsy should tell you more. Her perfume is a bit pervasive, it can skew a field assessment." She missed the surprised glance from the consulting detective while struggling up. She didn't miss the world-weary sigh from Lesrtrade.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said. I need anything you got."

That was his cue. The man started literally twirling around the body, talking in a ten-words-a-second way that made Joan dizzy. Judging by the DI's slightly blurry stare, he was having trouble following too.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

Lestrade latched on this one: "Suitcase?" He had a point. There were no suitcase in the room. Didn't seem to bother the genius however.

"Yes, suitcase. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're making that up…" She could understand the grey-haired man frustration, but having been subject to similar deductions half-an-hour before, Joan settled for simply listening. Holmes had a lot to say, and perhaps hadn't been given enough chances to do so freely.

"Her wedding ring, look at it." He sounded exasperated. "Ten years old at least. The rest of the jewelry had been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. It's not for her work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

He may be a mad genius, but he certainly managed to take her breath away every time he spoke. And all of her brain-to-mouth filters. "That's brilliant." This peep earned her a very surprised look from the man. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade prodded.

"It's obvious isn't it?" Sherlock drawled, a little distracted.

"It's not obvious to me" she offered.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." Here goes the arrogant prat again. "Her coat. It's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He fished out his phone with the weather displayed for the country. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" She really couldn't stop herself.

Sherlock blushed slightly. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

Oops. "Sorry. I'll shut up."

"No, it's… fine." Even he seemed bewildered by the admission.

Lestrade had a look of someone who just walked in a very awkward situation. "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?"

Sherlock happily leapt at the change in conversation. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade clarified.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it could be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

The detective pointed to the body. "Back of the right leg, tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He actually squatted down to examine the leg more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There was no case." The DI sounded a bit too smug about it. Sherlock's inquisitive and quite intent glare made him elaborate. "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." Holmes almost bowled him over, rushing out of the room.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in the house?" Joan limped behind Lestrade to get a better view of the quickly fleeing consultant.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade bellowed.

That made the madman slow down, but not much. "But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks… and?"

"It's murder, all of them! I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings, serial killings." The maniacal glint in his eyes was shining to the world to see. She could understand why the police force could be wary of him. "We've got a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to." He was muttering to himself now, but that didn't make the statement any less creepy. I like this guy, Joan's inner voice informed her, solidifying the suspicion that her common sense had died along with her military career.

"Why are you saying that?" The DI surely was a tenacious one. They now had a prime view of the lanky man down the stairs, excited as a toddler under the Christmas tree.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." His voice dropped suddenly: "So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car."

She quipped in just for the sake of consistency: "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there."

That elicited a rather stern glare from downstairs. "No, she never got to the hotel, look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh." If he looked maniacal before, now he was downright scary, eyes wide, toothy grin and clapping hands. "Oh!"

"Sherlock?" Joan tried tentatively.

"What is it, what?!" Lestrade urged, leaning over the banister.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Joan just realized that her companion was half-way down the stairs and apparently wasn't waiting for her to follow. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find out who her family and friends are. Find Rachel!" And he was gone.

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?!" Lestrade yelled in his wake. Surprisingly, it brought the man back for a moment. He reappeared on the stairs, still grinning.

"PINK!"

And he was gone for good. Lestrade sighed, baffled, and turned back to his forensic team. "Let's get on with it."

Joan felt even more out of place than before, forgotten in the flurry of activity. She let escape her own heavy sigh and started the hellish descent downstairs. Of course, the mad genius didn't wait. He was too caught up in the moment.

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A/N: I will keep the story from spiralling into obvious JohnLock, if only because it's not really the objective here, but I'm not above writing some scenes that leave place to interpretation. I think that Sherlock's and John's relationship (be it in canon or in my version) is way too complex to be defined clearly, and sometimes it's fun playing on this ambiguity. Thought that I should mention it now :)