A/N: Thank you for your follows and favs :)

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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Joan sent off a quick follow-up text ("False alarm. Nothing to report.") to the unregistered number before knocking at the 221 door. She was gently bustled upstairs by the landlady, who seemed really fond of her tenant. She didn't however expect to come upon her potential flatmate, laying on the couch and exhaling loudly with eyes closed. Several reasons for this peculiar behavior flashed in her head, all rather inappropriate. What the… "What are you doing?" she settled on asking the safe question.

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think" came the very logical explanation. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

She wanted to point out that nicotine addiction wasn't known to enhance brain capacities, but chose a simpler counter instead: "Good news for breathing."

"Oh breathing… breathing is boring." He shifted his arms, and three patches came into view. Joan, who had been on her way to the window, stopped short.

"Is that three patches?" she asked unbelievingly. How did this man still not poison himself?

"It's a three-patch problem."

Oh, really. We rank problems by our need for a cigarette now. She glanced at the window again, wondering if the black car was still hovering around. Then remembered that Sherlock had practically coaxed her into coming with promises of danger. Which was nowhere to be seen, unless he considered his imminent nicotine poisoning a threat (and he clearly didn't). "Well?" Brooding silence. "You asked me to come?" she prodded. "I'm assuming it's important."

The man had the grace to frown in his meditation, but stayed otherwise unmoved. "Oh yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

… now I can see why that DI was edgy. "My phone?"

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized, it's on the website." He probably expects me to say 'Oh, then it's alright'.

"You made me come from the other side of London to borrow my phone?"

"Mrs Hudson didn't hear me when I shouted."

Stay calm, Watson. "Here" she thrust the gadget in the awaiting hand, and limped to the window, absently wondering where the brotherly surveillance would be stationed. "What's this about then, the case?"

"Her case" breathed the impossible man who still didn't do anything with her phone yet.

"Her case?" she asked, slightly confused – what could be so particular about this murder case?

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously" came the explanation from the couch. "The murder took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Oook. So?"

Sherlock muttered to himself: "It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." And held out the phone to her. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text." I'm even starting to sympathize with the big brother. He must be worried sick, this man makes you want to punch him every five minutes. She snatched the phone back in silence, but didn't move towards the desk, watching the street intently. Would resorting to violence be worth it ? She wasn't overly worried about repercussions, and part of her just wanted to make the umbrella-Holmes squirm.

"What's wrong?" It appears her musings were misinterpreted by the resident genius.

"Just met a friend of yours" she answered evenly.

"A friend?" And wasn't it sad to be so confused about it.

"An enemy" she amended, after a brief consideration of what transpired during that particular meeting.

"Oh" Sherlock relaxed. "Which one?" he asked curiously.

"The tall one with an umbrella." She wasn't about to let the other shoe drop so easily.

The detective glowered at her from the couch with evident suspicion. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

Almost forgot about this one bit. "Yes."

The gaze intensity rocketed up. "Did you take it?"

"No" she answered honestly. Was it a common occurrence?

"Pity" Sherlock looked away, sagging back on the pillow. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"I'd rather your brother stop trying to bribe me in the future." That earned her full attention. Sherlock sat up abruptly, piercing her with a calculating stare. She replied with barely hidden amusement at the situation. "It's not that hard to notice, you know. You have the same glare." He continued to stare, maybe with a hint of genuine surprise this time. "Honest" she added as an afterthought. The stare-down continued.

Sherlock looked like he came to a temporary conclusion, as he nodded and his posture relaxed slightly. And he stopped dissecting her with his eyes. "On my desk, the number" he commanded, maybe a little more coldly than before.

Rolling her eyes, Joan hobbled to the crowded desk, picking the baggage label for one 'Jennifer Wilson' and typing the number with barely a blink. "Why am I texting the dead woman's number again?" she asked at large, not really expecting an answer at this point.

"Not important." Who would have guessed. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Ye… hang on!" Impatient. She managed to get to the texting screen, and looked up expectantly.

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

Her typing skills had never been the best, but she got distracted by the message itself. "You blacked out?" Why didn't I notice? That could be serious, too.

"What?" Sherlock looked mildly surprised by the concern. "No. No!" he added, finally seeing the misunderstanding. "Type and send it. Quickly" he ordered while walking over the coffee table and disappearing in the kitchen. John felt her eyebrow twitch, but finished the text, only to look up to the pink suitcase open on a chair before her.

"That's… the pink lady's case" she stated dumbly. "That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously" Sherlock commented, not tearing his eyes away from its contents. One part of John (the one that appreciated nail polish and make-up from time to time) wanted to scream bloody murder. The other (the one with a syringe and a gun) was debating if her senses had dulled to the point of not recognizing a killer or whether the man was brilliant enough to find a crucial piece of evidence in record time. Apparently, it took too long to decide. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in irritation.

"I never said you did" she quipped.

"Why not?" now he almost sounded offended. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption." Well, can't say I didn't consider it.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

The smirk was an epitome of disenchantment. "Now and then, yes." Lovely, she thought, plopping into the chair in front of the man, who was currently perched in his like some sort of overgrown vulture.

"How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?" She tried to communicate that she wasn't suspecting him and would just like to understand.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely" he took a small breath at his point only. "- so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake." He gave her a little false smile full of smugness. "I checked every back street wide enough for a car, five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed." He gestured at the open case between them. "Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

Joan felt her eyes widen as the story went. This man. Just wow. Wow. "Pink" she managed weakly. "You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?"

"Well, it had to be pink, obviously" replied the total alien in front of her.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot" came the very unhelpful comment. At the silent not-really-a-glare, he waved her off: "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."

"Can't argue with that" she huffed quietly, but he obviously heard as a fleeting smile curved his mouth.

"Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case?" She pushed some clothes around. "How could I?"

The man looked exasperated: "Her phone. There was no phone on the body, no phone in the case. Where is it?"

"Left it at home?" she suggested without much conviction.

"She has a string of lovers and is careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home." He unfolded himself from his perching position to sit properly in the chair. Too much energy to burn, supplied the medic part of her mind.

"And you don't believe it is lost either" she stated. Another smile flickered on Sherlock's face. Apparently, she had said something mildly intelligent.

"One way or another, it is highly likely that the murderer has her phone" he confirmed.

"Then why did we just text it?!" Then her phone rang. With a withheld number. "You gotta be kidding…" she exhaled.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…" he closed the pink suitcase with relish when the phone stopped ringing abruptly. ".. would panic."

Joan continued to stare at her phone in disbelief (a serial killer just called my number), while Sherlock was getting dressed for an outing. Wait, a serial killer?! "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"Then why are you talking to me?" Because I wouldn't be my first choice either.

The face Sherlock made at the question was funny in its falsity. "Mrs Hudson took my skull."

"So, I'm basically filling in for Yorick?" That's a rather unique job-title, skull replacement. Wonder if I should put it on my resumé.

"Relax, you're doing fine" he 'reassured' her. "How did you know his name?"

"Do you know any other names for a skull?"

"I suppose not. Well?"

Joan was finally distracted from her skull-related thoughts. "Well what?"

"You could just sit there and watch telly…"

"You want me to come with you?" She sounded as disbelieving as she felt. He doesn't even like me. He doesn't like anybody for that matter, though.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk around. The skull just attracts attention, so…" Gosh, he's such an overgrown kid. She gave him a small smile, but didn't move from the comfortable chair. "Problem?"

"I can see why the police is wary of you. You really enjoy it."

"And I said 'danger', and her you are" he countered, disappearing behind the door with flourish.

I can't win this round, can I. "Dammit!"