Approximately half an hour before the party, a dark silver rental car swerved down the paved road. Street names and buildings went by, and the occasional car would pass the rental with a honk or rude gesture. The man driving the car tried to pay no mind to the people passing, while the tall passenger tapped his finger on his leg with annoyance and his other hand checking his phone every few seconds.

"Can you please drive a bit faster, John," the tall man urged to the other in an irritated tone, "at this rate we'll be there at the end of the party."

"I'm going the speed limit, Sherlock," John retorted, turning on the blinker to make a left at an intersection, "I don't want to get pulled over in a different country. And it's a bit harder to maneuver the roads here when everything is flipped. Unless you'd want to give it a try."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in defeat, then glanced down at his phone again with the time reading 5:38 PM. "No thank you. Take your time then. I'm doing additional research anyway."

A body was found in a hotel room in London two days prior to John and Sherlock's arrival to America. A maid discovered the body early in the morning to clean the room, upon seeing the body she immediately screamed and called for help. He was laying in the corner of the room, face down with deep gashes everywhere on his body as though he was attacked by a bear. The body was male with average height and build. Anyone would think that he seemed like a normal person. However, he was identified as Harold Daft from his American passport, which was the only thing he had on him other than his wallet filled with nothing but cash. Harold had no credit cards or bags, killed in a hotel room by blood loss from an unknown weapon, and to top it off the hotel surveillance didn't capture anything except Harold entering his room and never leaving. This kind of case of course piqued Sherlock's interest.

When Sherlock was called he didn't hesitate to pick up the case. He examined the body thoroughly without having to touch him.

"Cause of death was without a doubt blood loss," Detective Inspector Lestrade inquired, "but nobody can conclude the murder weapon. Some are saying it was a wild animal."

"In the middle of London?" John examined the body closely. The body's skin was pale besides from the blood and gashes that covered him. His family, if he had any, would've been sick to their stomach at the sight of him. "Poor bloke."

Sherlock remained silent, his eyes were gazed on the dead body in front of him. He crouched next to the body and pulled out a small magnifying glass.

Approximately 5'9, middle aged, grayed hair on the verge of white, a little on the overweight side yet in healthy condition, must work in a business. Wore a button down shirt with a suit jacket, yet indicated fresh sweat marks, must not have changed clothes from the flight. The body seems to have been fresh but already started to emit a smell. Twelve hours, maybe less since his death-

"Sherlock, got any deductions?" Sherlock snapped out of his trance and scanned the area of the room. He stood up and examined the bed. Absolutely no marks or indents whatsoever.

"His death wasn't too long ago," he looked at his phone, 9:34 AM, "I'm certain he died at exactly midnight. He checked into the hotel a few hours before, but if he were here for business he would've left or at least changed. However, he had no baggage, he knew he was going to die."

"Maybe he was trying to escape from someone," John added, "that would at least explain why he had no credit cards."

"But why wouldn't he have at least a carry on?" Lestrade put his hands in his coat pockets, "If he was running he must've had some hope that he would survive."

"No, he was quite certain he was going to die." Sherlock gently touched the covers on the bed, "The only essentials he needed was a passport and cash to pay for everything. With that amount of money he was successful in a business. He didn't own one, but perhaps was partnered with one. And look at the bed, he was stressed, nervous, he couldn't sit or lay down."

"So we have an American who tried to escape to London, but knew he had no chance." Lestrade affirmed. "Now the question is why London?"

"He wanted to get as far away from America as he could. Nevertheless the killer still followed him, and by this point he would already be back in America. They knew each other, hence why he was definite that he would die." Sherlock clasped his hands together, "John, pack your bags. We're going on a trip."

Twelve hours had passed, and in those tiring hours Sherlock dug up as much as he could on Harold Daft. He discovered that Harold worked alongside a man named Elijah Haven who owned a biotech lab called Signite Co. The company was based in Maine, but appeared to be affiliated with many other companies across America. Sherlock thought he had reached a dead end, until he came across an article from a town in Maine, the same town where Elijah's company was located. The article read about an anniversary party being held at the Haven Estate in honor of Signite Co.'s 50th anniversary. Suit and tie event, nothing a consulting detective and his blogger couldn't handle.

John pulled the rental onto a long path that led up to the mansion. Eventually the path guided into a round about driveway in front of the estate. John was amazed with the design of the home and the gardens, while Sherlock showed no interest. John pulled up as far as he could and parked the car. The two men exited the vehicle, both dressed in black suits and ties. John adjusted his tie in the car side view mirror and Sherlock examining his surroundings.

Eventually the two made their way to the front doors. Sherlock checked his phone that read 5:50 PM, just fashionably early.

"Sherlock, before we go in I need you to promise me something." Sherlock stopped midway before he rang the doorbell and gave John a puzzled look. "Don't be, you know, you. We don't want to raise any suspicion, especially if the murderer is here."

"I understand, but I can make absolutely no promises." Sherlock rang the doorbell, the chimes rang loudly that they were heard faintly from the outside, "Not even in another country." John couldn't help but give a smirk.

The soft noise of heels approached the doors, when opened the two men were greeted by a woman with blonde hair in a red dress. "Welcome to the Haven Mansion. My name is Olivia Haven, please come in and make yourselves at home." The woman stepped aside to allow the two entry.

Again, John was just as amazed with the interior as much as the exterior of the mansion. "This is a beautiful home."

"Thank you. It's been passed down for generations, mister...?"

"John Watson, and this is my friend Sherlock Holmes." John gestured to his partner, who was already examining every detail of the home with his hands behind his back.

Olivia raised her eyebrow in suspicion, "How did you know my father, exac-?"

"Business partners. How old did you say this house was?" Sherlock turned to the two, then placed a hand on the wooden railing of the stairs, trailing his fingers against the smooth surface.

"I didn't say." Olivia crossed her arms, noticing the man's abrupt question.

"By the woodwork of the door frames and the scuffs on the tile, the mansion was built around the late 1850's. Now, if you've said it's been passed down for generations, my best guess would be your great-great grandparents are the ones who originally owned the estate." Sherlock gave a devilish grin while Olivia looked at the tall man completely awestruck. John on the other hand, looked more annoyed at Sherlock for doing the exact opposite of what he asked of his friend.

Sherlock couldn't help but do what he does best, deducing everything and everyone. His unasked deductions sometimes amazed people, while other people find it annoying, not because they didn't ask, but the deduction was so accurate.

"You know all of this from the woodwork?" Olivia finally spoke up.

"I thought it was quite obvious." Sherlock retorted.

"How do I know you didn't look it up on the internet before you got here?"

"I give you my word. Besides, I couldn't find anything about who owned the estate beforehand, so I figured I could do what came naturally to me."

"It's his thing he does," John chimed in, "Sherlock is a consulting detective. He deduces things and solves cases. Most of the time he's right."

"It's more of all of the time, really." Sherlock found it hard to admit his defeats, yet there were so few that he had to confess.

"I'll be sure to check my family records on your 'deduction'." Olivia smiled somewhat genuinely. Before anyone else could say another word, the doorbell chimed once again. Sherlock checked his phone, 6:00 PM on the dot. "Please excuse me, make yourselves at home." Olivia strolled to the doors, and group by group more people arrived.

Within minutes the foyer was filled with people dressed in suits and gowns. Some people went to the ballroom at the other end of the mansion where Olivia put on classical music on the speakers, while the rest were in the foyer filling themselves up on desserts and glasses of bubbly champagne. Even with more people on the way the mansion felt like it was full. People were laughing, exchanging stories, networking, Olivia was trying to entertain everyone, however, there was one sister who was still nowhere to be seen.