A/N: I may accidentally do the actual names from Sherlock because I forget. So, sorry about that.

Disclaimer: JK Rowling, Steven Moffat, ArianeDeVere

Also, don't expect updates three days apart. This will prolly be a one or two time thing.

A Study in Pink: Part 2

Ginny sat on her bed, thinking about this "Harry Potter". He was rather insensitive to that—Hermione, was it?—woman. Although he was rather cute. Those cheekbones were to die for. But who was he? Who was he really? She picked up her phone out of boredom. A text message from Harry Potter?

If brother has green ladder arrest brother.

HP

What the hell? How did he know she even had a sibling? He was wrong about one thing though. She didn't have a brother—she had a sister. Who is he? She decided to look him up.

She limped up the street to two two one B Baker Street. A black cabbie pulled up as she knocked on the door.

He paid the driver. "Hello."

"Ah, Mr. Potter," she greeted.

"Oh, Harry, please," they shook hands.

"Prime spot in London, must be expensive," she said casually.

"Oh, Mrs McGonagall, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry—you stopped her husband being executed?"

He grinned. He was cute when he smiled too. "Oh, no. I ensured it." The door then opened and an old woman dressed in purple came out and hugged Harry.

"Harry, hello!" He hugged her briefly, then stepped away. "Mrs McGonagall, this is Doctor Ginny Weasley."

"Hullo, Ginny."

"Shall we," Harry interrupted.

"Yes, yes, come in." Mrs McGonagall led the way, up the steps, and into a room with things scattered everywhere.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," she nodded.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely."

"So I went straight ahead and moved in./Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..." They said simultaneously.

"Oh... So this is all..." She trailed off.

"Well, obviously I can, erm, straighten things up a bit," he said, picking up a folder and a couple of papers and dropping them in a box. He picked up another stack of paper, slapped them on the mantle, and stabbed it with a knife.

"That's a skull," Ginny commented.

"Friend of mine. When a say 'friend'…" he muttered.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Weasley? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms," she said, grinning.

"Of course we'll need two, I 've just met the bloke." She hummed as if she knew something Ginny didn't.

"Oh, Harry. Look at the mess you've made..." She watched as Harry tidied up the flat.

"I Google-d you last night," she said.

"Anything interesting?"

"Found you website, 'The Science of Deduction'," she said dramatically.

"What did you think," he asked as if he needed some declaration of approval.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," Ginny said, as if it were the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" Harry simply smiled and continued cleaning.

Mrs McGonagall walked in, intently reading a newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Harry? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." What the hell, Ginny thought.

Harry looked out the window. "Four."

Four?

"There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time," he said, still looking out the window.

"A fourth? Oh dear."

A man with tanned skin and greying hair trotted into the room.

"Where?" Harry said immediately.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different," he said quickly.

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" He sounded desperate.

"Who's on forensics?"

"Malfoy." Harry cursed silently.

"Malfoy won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant," Harry said.

"Will you come," the man said again.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." What did he have against police cars?

"Thank you." He sounded really desperate.

Harry jumped, clenching his fists in the air, and gleefully twirling like a child. After the man left, of course.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He was like an overgrown child.

"Mrs McGonagall, I'll be late. Might need some food," he said, putting on his coat and scarf.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. Ginny, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up," he bounded out of sight, a brilliant smile on his face.

"Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg," she said as she turned towards the kitchen.

"Damn my leg!" Ginny yelled. "Sorry. I am soooo sorry," Ginny said immediately. "It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." She hit her foot with the cane.

"I understand, dear. I've got a hip," she said, patting it. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper," she repeated.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em..." She started reading the newspaper Mrs McGonagall read earlier.

"Not your housekeeper!" Harry appeared next to her.

"Jesus Christ," she said quietly. Harry smiled.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor."

"Yes," she stood up.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."

"Mmmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," she said quietly.

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes."

"Sorry, Mrs McGonagall, I'll skip the tea. Off out," she called as she walked down the steps.

"Both of you?" she called back. She was closer, at the bottom of the steps, maybe. Harry spun on his heels and strode towards her.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek, with a loud smacking sound.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she smiled.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs McGonagall, is on!" he said, throwing his hands in the air.

They stepped outside. "Taxi! Okay, you've got questions," he said after they slid into the car.

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene," he said promptly. "Next?"

"Who are you? And what do you do?"

"What do you think?" That's not an answer!

"I would say... private detective..."

"But?"

"The police don't go to private detectives..."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job," he said proudly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." Harry looked offended.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. The way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room... trained at Bart's, so Army doctor—obvious. Your face is slightly tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq," he clicked the 'k' sound in 'Iraq'.

"You said I had a therapist?"

"You've got a psychosomatic limp—of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother," he held out his hand.

"Hmm?" She handed him her phone.

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare—you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving," she supplied.

Dennis Weasley

From Clara

XXX

"Dennis Weasley: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara—who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently—this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then—six months on, he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do—sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you; that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking," he said all of this very quickly. It sounded like rambling, but he wasn't confused at all.

"How could you possibly know about the drinking," she was in disbelief.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without 'em," he handed the phone back.

"There you go. See—you were right."

"I was right? Right about what," she said incredulously.

"The police don't consult amateurs." He bit his lip and looked out the window.

"That was...amazing..." Harry grinned and looked at her.

"You think so?" He sounded like a child that needed to be reassured.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary..." She was awed.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say, Harry?"

"'Piss off!'" They grinned at each other and looked out their respective windows.

"Did I get anything wrong," he asked as they walked toward the crime scene.

"Dennis and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Dennis split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Dennis is a drinker."

"Spot on, then! I wasn't expecting to be right about everything."

"Dennis is short for Demelza."

Harry stopped. "Dennis is your sister!"

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here," Ginny asked.

"Sister!" He said furiously through gritted teeth.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something," he started walking again.

As they approached the crime scene, a woman with pale skin a pug-like face, and chin-length black hair said, "Hello, freak." Harry cringed.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Robards."

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look," he said sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Pansy," he said as he ducked under the yellow tape. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't... Er—who's this?"

"Colleague of mine. Doctor Weasley. Doctor Weasley, Sergeant Pansy Parkinson. Old friend," he said sardonically.

"Colleague? How do you get a colleague?" She was rather mean to him. "What, did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and..." she said nervously.

"No," he held up the tape.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in," Pansy Parkinson said into her radio. She led them toward the house.

"Ah, Malfoy," Harry greeted a man with pale skin and platinum blonde hair. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that," he drawled.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long," he asked sweetly.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?" Ginny bet it did, based on they talked about in the cabbie.

"It's for men," he rose his eyebrows and shook his head.

"Of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Ah, toxic masculinity.

"So's Sergeant Parkinson." Oh!

Malfoy turned to look at her. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

He turned back and pointed angrily at Harry's chest. "Look, whatever your trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything," Harry smirked. Ginny disguised her laugh as a cough. "I'm sure Pansy came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," he said as he walked past them. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Malfoy and Pansy stared at him in horror. Ginny looked at Pansy's knees as she walked past them.

"You'll be needing one these," Harry handed her a blue suit of some type.

"Who's this," the man with tan skin and greying hair said.

"She's with me," Harry replied.

"But who is she?"

"I said she's with me," he said firmly.

"Aren't you gonna put one on," she asked Harry. Harry just looked at her.

"Where are we," Harry asked the man.

"Upstairs."

He led them up a circular staircase. "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer," said Harry.

"Her name's Delores Umbridge according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." They stepped into the room where a woman wearing bright pink clothes lay face-down.

"Shut up," Harry said suddenly.

"I didn't say anything!" the man said.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Ginny and the man looked at each other.

Sherlock inspected the body.

left handed

RACHE
German (n.) revenge

She's not German.

Rachel

He felt around her collar.

wet, dry, wet

He looked at her jewelry.

clean, clean, clean

He looked at her wedding ring.

dirty

He wiggled it off her finger. The inside was clean, but the outside was dirty.

married
unhappily married
unhappily married 10+ years

regularly removed

serial adulterer

"Got anything," the man asked?

"Not much," he said nonchalantly.

Malfoy came in, his arm crossed, leaning across the door frame. "She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something..."

"Yes, thank you for your input," he pushed Malfoy out and slammed the door. He pulled out his phone and started tapping.

"So she's German," the man said. Maybe this was this "Detective Inspector Robards" Harry was talking about.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night... before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"Sorry—obvious?"

"What about the message, though," the man asked.

"What do you think, Doctor Weasley," Harry ignored the question.

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical woman."

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," the man said.

"They won't work with me," he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

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

"Because you need me."

"Yes, I do. God help me..."

"Doctor Weasley."

"Hmm, yes?" Harry gestured towards the body. She looked at Robards.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself," he turned and walked out the door.

She crouched next to the body and painfully pulled out her leg.

"Well?"

"What the hell am I doing here?"

"Helping me prove a point," Harry answered.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay rent!" she whispered.

"Well this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," he said sarcastically.

She inspected the body. "Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

"You know what it was. You've read the papers."

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth...?"

"Harry—two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

"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."

"Suitcase?"

"Suitcase, yes. 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."

"For God's sake, if you're just making this up!"

He pointed at her hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has 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. The only polishing it gets is 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?—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 shrugged.

"That's brilliant..." Ginny whispered. Harry looked at her. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Robards asked. He was probably used to Harry's rapid explanations.

"It's obvious isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me."

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring," he said if he was concerned.

"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 traveled 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 pulled out his phone and showed them. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic," Ginny exclaimed.

"D'you know you do that out loud?"

"I'll shut up."

"No, it's... fine..."

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is," he spun to look around the room.

"She was writing 'Rachel'?"

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

"How do you know she had a suitcase," Robards asked.

"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.

"Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Robards shrugged.

Harry looked up slowly. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case," he repeated. "There was never a case."

He dashed out the door and down the steps, yelling, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Harry, there was no case," Robards called down.

"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. We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to," he said in delight.

"Why are you saying that?"

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case! So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car," he said quietly.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," Ginny said.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color—coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking... Oh." His face lit up. "Oh!" He clapped his hands.

"Harry?"

"What? What is it," Robards asked.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake," he said with a dazed expression on his face.

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting." He hurried down the rest of the stairs. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff; find out who Dolores Umbridge's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Yeah, of course—but what mistake?"

Harry slid back into view. "PINK!" And then he dashed off.

Ginny walked out of the house, toward the police tape.

"He's gone," Parkinson said.

"Harry Potter?"

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't seem like it."

"Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton."

"Do you know where I could find a cab? It just...er," she looked at her cane, "my leg."

"Er," she held up the police tape, "try the main road."

"Thanks," she ducked under the yellow tape and started walking.

"But you're not his friend... He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm... I'm nobody. I just met 'im."

"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that bloke."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and Harry Potter'll be the one that put it there" she explained.

"Why would he do that?" Would he do that? No, she thought firmly.

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored."

"Parkinson," a voice called.

"Coming," she yelled.

"Stay away from Harry Potter."

A/N: Please review, tell me what you thought about it. Anything I should change?