Hi readers! Welcome to the fifth chapter of False Names.

Sorry it's been a while, with back to school, wifi problems, saving issues, illness and homework I haven't had a whole lot if free time!

Secondly, sorry this chapter is kind of long, I was going to split it but just couldn't find a good place.

Anyway, enough of my chat, on with the story (enjoy!)

The PinkLady

As the taxi pulled up beside an abandoned house, it began to rain. The fine kind of rain that got you quite wet without you really noticing and left the spider webs glistening with tiny crystals. John watched it in the yellow light of the street lights as he reached for the door handle. The pair got out of the taxi, paid the fair and walked towards the house. Itwas dilapidatedand broken, the windows smashed and roof tiles missing. The grass was long and an old for sale sign looked like it had been there for years. Outside the house was blue and white police tape and several police cars, their blue and yellow lights illuminating the houses.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked. "My deductions?"

"Me and Harry don't get on" John said. He hadn't realised how true Sherlock was. It almost felt good to talk about this to someone other than his therapist, someone who wasn't paid to care, paid to listen. "Never have. Clara and Harry split up... three months ago. Their getting a divorce. Harryisa drinker."

"Spot on then. I didn't expectto beright about everything," he smirked.

"Harry is short of Harriet." This made the smirk slide off Sherlock's face like mud.

"Harry's yoursister!" he exclaimed.

"Look, Sherlock, what am I even doinghe-" John began.

"Sister... Ugh," Sherlock continued, oblivious.

"Seriously Sherlock"

"There's alwayssomething," He continued to mutter.

"Hello freak," said a voice. From out of a police car came a woman wearing a blouse, skirt and high heels. Her hair was curly, big and dark and she was tallish. Her skin was a medium tone and her eyes were a light hazel.

"Ah Sally, I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock said calmly. Was he not bothered this woman had just called him a freak? John certainly was. He clenched his fists and battled the urge to use them.

"Why?" Sallysighed, soundingbored.

"Iwas invited."

"Why?"Sally repeated, sounding more annoyed.

"Ithinkhe want me to take a look."

"Well you know what I think don't you," She gave a fakely sweet smile.

"Always Sally. Even though you didn't make it home last night."

"And who's this?" Sally said, turning to John and ignoring Sherlock's last comment.

"A colleague of mine, Dr John Watson. John, this is Sally Donovan."

"Colleague? How do you get a colleague?" she looked over to John to say the next snark comment. "Did he follow you home?" She asked in a grating voice.

"How exactly would he follow me home? It might be a bit difficult since welive together."

John looked over to Sherlock; he was smiling. Apparently he had handled Donovan in the right way. He also looked a little surprised that John had declared them flat matesso quickly. Sally glared at John before saying into her radio, "Freak's here, bringing him in."

John hated that word.Freak.He couldn't help it. Before he knew what had happened, the words burst out his mouth. "Stop calling him that," he said in almost a growl. "Stop calling him a freak."

"Why? He is one," she taunted back.

"John," Sherlock said, warning. He looked between the two. All Sherlock needed was for his assistant to get thrown off the scene. He wanted reach out and grab John's sleeve, to stop him doing anything. His arm actually moved from his side, until he remembered the name on his wrist. Did it work through clothing? He wasn't sure, but he didn't wantthe humiliation offeeling it lighting up for the first time in public. He could feel himself blushing at the thought, and quickly made himself scratch the back of his head instead, his fingertips disappearing into his dark curls.

John looked at Sherlock, right in the eyes. In this light, they were a delicate green. They looked concerned. John's eyes meanwhile, were a mix of anger and pain. John directed a dirty look at Donovan before doing a one-eighty and walking into he front garden of the abandoned house.

"Ah Anderson, here we are again." Sherlock said as if nothing had happened. Standing in front of the door was man with a large nose, hair in curtains and large, puffy lips.

"This is a crime scene I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" he said, hisvoicenasal and snobby.

"Quite clear," Sherlock replied. "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh don't pretend you figured that out, someone told you that." Anderson snapped

"Your deodorant told me that," he argued. "It's formen."

"Well ofcourseit's formen,I'mwearing it."

"So's Sargent Donovan." That infuriating smirk was back on his face. "May I go in?"

"Now whatever yourimplying-" Anderson began, rushing to get his defensive words out.

"I'm not implyinganything. I'm sure Sally popped round for a nice littlechatand justhappenedto stay the night. And Iassumeshe scrubbed your floors judging by the state of her knees."

He pushed past Anderson and John followed, some of his anger diminished and replaced by amusement.

"Who's he?" Lestrade asked

"My assistant," Sherlock replied. " I said I needed one, didn't I?"

"Sherlock, I'm breaking every rule letting you inhere-"

"Because you need me." His voice was void of emotions.

"Yes I do," Lestrade said honestly, before muttering, "God help me."

"John Watson," John said, introducing himself without being asked. He extended a hand for Lestrade to take. Unlike Sherlock, he took it and shook it vigorously. Lestrade was wearing a faint smile and looked over to Sherlock, who simply stared back.

"Greg Lestrade."

"So where are we?" John questioned. He then cringed at his tone of voice. It was too light, too happy. He didn't want to sound as if he was enjoying himself as much as Sherlock. Though the younger man was managing to suppress a smile, he was rocking on his feet, heel to toe, and his eyes were alert and bright.

"Upstairs," the Detective Inspector said, tipping his head towards the large flight of stairs.

John looked up; there were at least three flights at least. Hetap taptapped towards the bottom and began the long climb up. John noticed the wide staircase, high ceilings and the elegant hand rails. This house was probably very grand in its day, shame it was left to rot.Shame it doesn't have a lift, John thought bitterly as his leg stung with new pain. Sherlock's voice found its way into his head.You're therapist thinks it's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid.

Before he knew it, he was at the top of the stairs, all three flights. He must have been further in thought than he had realised, as somewhere up the stairs both Lestrade and Sherlock had overtaken him.

"I can give you two minutes,"Lestradesaid, brushing off several other police officers as he opened the door for Sherlock. John took a deep breath before entering; he didn't want to show it, but he was a little nervous of what he might find. All of the bodies he had examined in Afghanistanwere bloodiedand maimed, some barley recognisable. He wanted to brace himself for what might be behind the crumbling plaster.

Sherlock waited like an eager puppy for the door to open, as if it held a winning lottery ticket,nota dead body. As soon as it was wide enough for him to get through, he pushed past Lestrade and entered the bleak, damp room. In the very middle if the room lay a woman, face down, dressed head to toe in pink. Her coat, her shoes, even her chipped nail varnish was so bright it hurt John's eyes. From what he could see, she was completely unmasked. He cursed himself for being such a drama queen.Of course,he thought to himself,you knew she took poison. Why did you expect blood and gore?

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit card," Lestrade said. "Running them now for contacts. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." All three of them stared at the pinkwomanbefore Sherlock broke the silence:

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything!" Lestrade protested, defending himself because of words he didn't speak.

"You were thinking, it was annoying." The Detective Inspector threw his hands in the air and walked backwards.

"Anderson! Keep everyone out for a minute!" Lestrade said while walking out the door.

Sherlock leaned over the body, tilting his head in a bird like fashion. In any other situation, thepositionmay have been comical. It was - and wasn't - easy to forget that this woman was here because she had killed herself in this room. The consulting detective quickly got to work, starting at the legs and making his was towards the head.

Sherlock took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket andteasedthemon tohis fingers. He took a quick glance at the bottom of Jennifer Wilson's shoes before moving on to her lower legs. (What this told Sherlock about the victim, John didn't know.) There didn't seemto bemuchout of placein the woman's midriff as the younger man moved straight to inspect her neck.

He curled his finger around the small, fly away pieces of hair that hung close to her neck and tried the clasp of her gleaming necklace. He then wiped his fingers under the woman's coat collar and held them up in the bright LED light illuminating the crime scene. As an after thought, he reached into her coat and pulled out a pink umbrella, the same vibrant shade as the rest of her outfit.

Sherlock then tentatively moved on to her hands. Before reaching out his arm, the detective seemed reluctant to touch the bare skin of the body. Maybe it was just John's imagination, as he picked up the left hand gently and turned it over, tracing her palm lines. Finally, he scratched at the word etched into the floor. It readR-a-c-h-e.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked once Sherlock had finished his inspection.

"Not much."

"She's German," said a voice from the doorway. Anderson was leaning against the rotten frame. "Rache. German for revenge. She could be trying to tell ussomethi-"

"Yes, thank you for yourinput." Sherlock had crossed the room in a few long strides and slammed the door in Anderson's face. John heard a faint thump as if the irritating forensic scientist stumbled away from the door.

Lestradesighed. "So she's German?" he said, walking over with his hands in his pockets. John thought that he was the kind of man who was calm and

"Of course not," he replied,speakingas if hewas amazedhe even had to explain. "She's fromout of townthough. Intended to stay in london for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" John questioned, and Sherlock ignored.

"What about the message?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him too and instead turned to John. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John said. This conversation was quickly becoming a train wreck of questions.

"Of the body," Sherlock corrected. "You're amedical man."

"We have a whole team outside whocan-" Greg began. Once again, Sherlock interrupted.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock said with a faint sigh.

John looked over at Lestrade, asking the detective inspectors permission before approaching. "Oh do as he says, help yourself," Greg answered. His radio then gave out a scratchy noise and Greg exited the room. Sherlock made sure the door clicked shut before letting the smile loose on his face.

John crouched down as fast as his leg would allow and shot a look at Sherlock, who was on the other side

"What am I doing here, Sherlock?" John hissed.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock replied, grinning like an idiot.

"I'm supposeto behelping you pay the rent!"

"Yeah but this is more fun."

John couldn't believe this. How could he say examining a body isfun?He had always hated it in Afghanistan, having to find out exactly how that person died, imagining exactly how they felt in their last moments. "Fun? there's a woman lying dead!"

"Perfectly sound analysis but I did hope you'd go deeper."

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds before John finally gave in and started toexaminethe body.

"Asfixiation, probably," John concluded. "Passed out,chokedon her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her but it could have been aseizure, possiblydrugs-"

"You know what this is you've read the papers." The look in Sherlock'seyeswas one of steely determination.

"This is one of the suicides then?" John said conclusively.It's strange,John thought,Sherlock looked like he was about to disagree before a voice cut him off.What other options are there?

"Two minutes I said I need anything you've got." Lestrade had reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, looking slightly annoyed.

"Victim in her late thirties. Professional person going by her clothes, something in the media going by the franklyalarmingshade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intended to stay in London for one night. Obvious by the size if her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" the DI asked.

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

"Oh for god, sake if your just making thisup-" The words werebarelyout of his mouth before Sherlock replied, his words tumbling over each other in haste to escape his mouth.

"Her wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned but not her ring. Common sign of an unhappy marriage." (John idly wondered if Harry had the same trait.) "The inside of her ring is muchshinierthan the outside which shows its regularly removed. The only polishing it gets it when she works it off her finger.

"It's not for work, look at her nails, she doesn't work with her hands. So what - or rather who -doesshe remover her rings for. Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustainthe fiction ofbeing single for that long, so more likely a string if them."

"Fantastic..." John muttered

"Did you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked,half joking. The other half of him wondered if he was mocking him. He had never been very good at reading hidden meanings. He much preferred reading people.

"Sorry," John said, crossing his arms and shifting his feet a little.Tell tale sign of embarrassment.He's not mocking me then.The deduction popped into Sherlock's head before he had time to process it, and he got rid of it immediately.

"No its... fine." In fact, it was more than fine; the detective had never received such high praise for his skills before and he wasn'tsure how to accept it. The pair shareda moment ofeye contact before Sherlock broke it be turning towards Lestrade.

"Cardiff?"

"Her coat is damp except her collar, only the inside is damp. She turned it up against the wind. Can't have traveled more than about three hours or her coat would have dried. She has an umbrella but its dry. Strong wind then. Where have we had heavy rain and strong wind in the radius of three hours? Cardiff." He took a quick breath before his next string of impressive claims.

"NowRachel.The fact she thought of her when she was dying shows she was probably family. Close family is most likely. But the real question is why did she scratch the name into the floorboards? Answer: we need to find out who Rachel is."

"She was writingRachel?"Greg exclaimed.

"No," Sherlock replied, voice dripping with sarcasm, "She was writing an angry note inGerman."

"So where's her case, I want to look in it."

"You keep going on about a case," Lestrade asked with a furrowed brow, "What do you mean exactly?"

"Hersuitcase.Did you take it down for evidence or something?"

"But there was no case, Sherlock, there was never a case." Sherlock froze where he stood. John and Greg thought he would be disappointed with his miscalculation, but instead started grinning.

"We need to find who has her case."

"How do you know she has one?" John inquired.

"She has tiny muddy splash marks up her left leg, you only get that kind of spread if you wheel a small suitcase behind you with your right hand," Sherlock explained his reasoning rather like a primary school teacher would explain a simple maths equation.

"Maybe she left here case at the hotel?" John said, testing his theory. Sherlock quickly dismissed it.

"She never got that far, her hair is a mess. This womancoordinatesher lipstick and her shoes, she would have never left the hotel room looking liketha-Oh."

Sherlock froze. "Oh," he said again, louder. Then he sprinted to the door and down the stairs two at a time, each large step sending a creak echoing through the house. John limped after him, but was far behind. By the time he reached the banister, Sherlock was a flight bellow.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John yelled, causing several police officers to turn his way.

"Itwasmurder, all of them," he replied, "Serial killers, got to love them. Always a tricky case and always so desperate to get caught. You've just got to wait for them to make a mistake." His fingers were dancing up and down the banister, sending flakes of paint floating to the floor.

"Well we can't just wait around!" Shouted Lestrade, sound more irritated by the minute.

"We're done waiting. When she was found she could have been here long, is that right?"

"No not long at all. Less than an hour."

"Less than an hour... An hour... A news blackout, can you do that? Don't say that you've found her. Nothing for a day."

"Why?"

"Just look at her...reallylook. Houston we have a mistake, big mistake number one!" He ran down the stair case and then turned around as an afterthought and shouted: "Find out who Rachel is!"

"What mistake?" John didn't know it was possible for someone to sound as annoyed as Lestrade did now.

"Pink!"With that, Sherlock descended the rest of the stairs in a few abnormally large strides before he lost sight of him completely. He assumed

John didn't bother going after him. Heknewthe man would be all but gone by the time he had limped down the stairs and out of the house. Lestrade didn't move to follow him either, so assumed his was a fairly regular occurrence. The Detective Inspector stomped towards the door. However, he paused just before he reached it and looked back.

"Good to meet you, John." Greg's voice sounded sincere despite how irritated he obviously was. He gave the man a small nod and proceeded to leave.At least someone on this police force isn'tan asshole,thought John.

Luckily, he wasn't stopped by any police officers on his slow descent. He didn't fancy explaining why he was here. His path out of the house was clear until he met Sally Donovan at the very edge of the overgrown front garden.

"He's gone." Sally had seen him looking around and taken it upon herself to help.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Mm," she hummed, returning to her clipboard. "He just took off, he does that."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

"Right..." John looked around, looking for any indication to where he might be. There was nothing, not even a road name. "Sorry, where am I?" he said eventually to Donovan, regretting having to speak to the woman again.

"Brixton," replied Sally.

"Do you know where I can get a cab round here? "It's just my leg..."

"Try the main road." He pushed past her and exited through the front gate. He reached out to pull up the police tape when the irritating officer spoke again. She came a few steps closer.

"Hey," she said, her voice pointed. "Your not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So what are you?"

"I'm... Nobody. I've just met him." The statement was true, the men had met butthirty-sixhours ago.So why do I feel so defensive already?he wondered.

"Well in that case, stay away from him." Therequesttoo John by surprise. Why would she take such direct action. Sure, Sherlock had some unusual talents and a strange hobby, but he seemed honest enough.And hot.

"Why?"

"You know why he's here don't you? He like this stuff. He gets off on it and one day... just solving it isn't goingto beenough. One day were gonna be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmesis going to bethenman thatput it there.

"Why wound he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "and psychopaths get bored."

"Sally!" An unknown officer called her name from a nearby police car. She began to walk away.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she called back, not even bothering to turn her head, her voice a lazy monotone.

With that, John began to limp back to the main road. The rain was heavier now, and the sky darker. Two stars had emerged among the blanket of sky, the Dog Star in the centre of the sky and one just to the right, smaller but just as bright.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!Please review as it really does make my day to know someone enjoyed what I write or take time out of their day to help me improve Xx