I'm going to switch POV's with every chapter, so both perspectives get across. Sorry, for the long wait.

Sherlock's POV

I hated needing something. I hated the feeling of being dependent, even on something as trivial and necessary as food. It was one of the things I loathed about myself; that I absolutely needed something to rack my brain on. Because when I was bored or idle, my powerful imagination went into hyperdrive, working overtime to taunt me with fantasies of companionship, friendship, feelings. The only problem: I could never bring myself to care much for people who hated me for my intelligence, for being… different. Really, just because they were so hopelessly stupid... This was why I didn't try too hard to find a flatmate; even though I could admit, if only to myself, that I needed one, needed the company that a skull couldn't provide.

But I'd gone through six flatmates in eight months, all of whom had run out after failing to put up with my eccentricities. I had made a game of it: whenever I met a potential flatmate for the first time, I made sure to outline my annoying habits and even made some rapid deductions out loud, then, depending on their initial reaction, predicted how long it would take for them to break. The reactions usually ranged from insulted, furious to a certainty that I was raving mad, which was true, just not in the way they assumed.

This was why I was right now eager to meet Dr Watson. Her reaction had been none of the above. Sure, she'd been slightly embarrassed at having her limp pointed out, but I had spotted the intrigue in her eyes. And that intrigue had piqued my interest as well.

As the cab turned into Baker Street, I recalled all the conclusions I'd reached on seeing her the first time yesterday: Bearing and posture: military, high post, confident… conversation: medically trained at Bart's… limp and tremor: psychosomatic… triggers:?

So, I predicted it would be several months before Dr Watson gave up. That would be a record, so I made it a point to try and be nice to her. "Please, call me Sherlock," I said, as I held out a hand. She shook it firmly. "Jean," she replied. She was leaning heavily on her cane and her left hand was stuck into her jacket. "This is a prime spot. Must be expensive." "Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal," I waved it off. I neglected to mention that I didn't actually need help with the rent, that I was perfectly able to afford it myself. "Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Jean frowned a bit. "You stopped her husband being executed?" "Oh no," I smiled and rang the bell. "I ensured it." Letting her trail behind with a confused look, I stepped in as soon as the door opened and briefly hugged the elderly woman who opened it. "Ah, Sherlock, hello, dear," she giggled with a maternal fondness and I stepped back. "Mrs Hudson, Dr Jean Watson."

As soon as the doctor had exchanged pleasantries with the landlady, I ran up the stairs to the first floor. I wasn't sure why, but I wanted to try and cure the limp and tremor that plagued the woman. Probably because of my affinity for fixing unsolvable problems, which this definitely seemed to be. When she caught up, I opened the door to the living room. "Well, this could be very nice, indeed," Jean said appreciatively. "My thoughts precisely," I replied happily. "So, I went right ahead and moved in." "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleared out." Both of us stopped at the same time, embarrassed, as we looked between each other and the mess all around. I suddenly had the urge to try and make a better impression and hurried forward, picking up random notes and stuffing them in a box. "That's a real skull," I heard Jean mumble and looked around to see her inspecting the object on the mantelpiece with curiousity. "Friend of mine," I told her. "Well, I say friend…" Mrs Hudson came in just as Jean took a seat on the small sofa near the fireplace. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing it," she told her with a giggle. A confused look took over Jean's face. "Well, of course, we'll be needing it…" she started to say. She stopped when a man walked in. "Sherlock," he began, but I interrupted. "Fourth suicide?" I asked, knowing I was right. Lestrade nodded, confirming it. "So what's different about this one?" I asked. Lestrade wouldn't have come to me if there hadn't been something out of the ordinary. "There's a note."

I had to fight a smile. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you." Lestrade turned to leave. His eyes fell on the doctor, but only for a second, before walking out. "Oh, yes," I exclaimed as soon as he was out of earshot, pumping my fist in the air with a short jump. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas."

I did a happy spin. "Mrs Hudson, I'm going out," I called. "I'll be late, so have dinner ready. Something cold will do." I darted into my bedroom to dress, as my landlady muttered something about not being my house keeper.

Pulling on my gloves, I suddenly remembered that Anderson would be working the forensics for the scene. I couldn't have that. And I did need an assistant, someone who's knowledge of the anatomy was better than mine. Anybody with proficient medical training would do. But Anderson, being an idiot, wouldn't work with me, and I shuddered at the thought of asking Molly. That left…

"Damn my leg!" I smiled to myself at the outburst. Waiting for Jean's embarrassed apologies to stop, I opened my door and found the doctor bent over the paper. She had a small frown and I knew she had recognized Lestrade from the photo of the Detective Inspector on the front page. Well, time to see if my other deductions about her had been right.

"You're a doctor," I stated, pulling on my gloves. Jean glanced up, her dark blonde hair swinging behind her ears. "Yes." "Any good?" I kept my tone serious, though I knew the answer already: she was much better than Molly, Anderson, or anyone else I could find. "Very good," she corrected, standing up. I quickly noted how she had to push her weight on her cane, but seemed to forget it as soon as she was on her feet. "So, you've seen a lot of violent deaths." "Yes." "Must have seen quite a bit of trouble too, I'll bet," I murmured, stepping into her personal space. She was quite short, so she had to tilt her head back to look at me, but even so, there was a new sharpness in her eyes, that would have been intimidated even me, if she'd wanted it to. But, it was more hopeful than frightening. "Quite a bit, yes," she replied quietly. "Enough for a lifetime, in fact, too much." And there it was: a subtle longing in her voice that completely negated her words. "Wanna see some more?" "Oh God, yes," was the feverish reply and I felt a sudden thrill of kinship as I sensed Jean follow behind as fast as she could with her limp.

"Okay, you've got questions," I commented. I could feel Jean's curiosity everytime she glanced at me, which was quite often. "Yeah, where are we going?" I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I'd thought that was obvious. "Crime scene; next?" This time, Jean frowned a bit. "Who are you? What do you do?" 'Oh, now this is the interesting part.' "What do you think?" I wondered. "I'd say private detective…" she answered slowly, turning to look out the window. "But the police don't go to private detectives." I smirked. "I'm actually a consulting detective," I corrected. "Only one in the world. I invented the job." If Jean heard the unmistakable pride in my voice, she didn't comment, letting me continue. "Whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me." "The police don't consult amateurs," Jean scoffed and I gave her a look of incredulity. "Yesterday, when I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq', you looked surprised," I reminded her. She turned towards me again. "Yes, how did you know?" "I didn't know, I saw," I told her. "The way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Your face is 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. Same goes for your tremor. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

I paused, sensing she had another question. "But how did you know I have a therapist?" This time, I did roll my eyes. "You've got a psychosomatic limp and tremor, of course you've got a therapist." I then went on to explain my deductions about her brother, Harry Watson: drunk, divorced, concerned. "How the hell did you know about the drinking?" Jean muttered and I smiled, at the same time deciding not to tell her the reason behind her tremor and limp. "Shot in the dark; a good one, though." I pointed out the scratches on her phone, explaining their significance. "You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."

A silence fell in the cab. I felt suddenly uncomfortable and turned to look out the window to avoid Jean's silent scrutiny. Where was the anger, the annoyance? 'Best opportunity in so many years and you blew it. Well done, Holmes,' I thought bitterly, as I waited nervously for Jean to say something. I felt the instant she looked away from me, but her words shocked me.

"That… was… amazing." They were spoken with undisguised admiration and I spun my head around to face her. "Really?" I asked, unsure if she was simply joking. She didn't seem to be. "Of course, it was; it was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary." I felt a small smile creep in, along with a sense of relief. Later, I would wonder why I'd felt so relaxed around her, especially as she assured me she meant what she said. "That's not what people normally say," I admitted in a murmur. "What do they say normally?" "Piss off."

A short chuckle escaped the doctor and I felt my smile grow wider.

"Did I get anything wrong?" I was curious as we began walking towards the police. "Harry and I have never gotten along, Harry and Clara are getting a divorce and Harry's a drinker," Jean reeled off. "All right, then," I mused to himself. Though I pretended otherwise, I wasn't so narcissistic as to believe I was always one hundred percent right. Then, Jean added, " Harry's short for Harriet."

I stopped short. "Harry's your sister," I muttered. "Sister!" "Seriously, what am I doing here exactly?" "There's always something," I fumed as we resumed walking and approached the police tape. Sgt. Sally Donovan was standing guard. "What are you doing here, freak?" She sighed. "Lestrade wants me to take a look at the body, I think," I replied mockingly. She grudgingly lifted the tape to let me enter. "Who's this?" "Donovan, this is Dr. Watson, my colleague. Jean, this is Sgt. Donovan, old friend," I introduced, waving a hand between them, heavy sarcasm on my last words. I pulled Jean's jacket sleeve lightly to get her to follow me into the building, only to be stopped by Anderson. "I'd rather you not contaminate the crime scene, freak. Just because you've impressed the inspector with your parlor tricks, doesn't mean I'm fooled too," he says in a haughtily voice. I immediately shot back, "I know. Even know that Sally came over to your house to have a nice chat and happened to stay over." Ignoring the man's indignant spluttering, I glanced back towards Donovan, who had followed us, and looked pointedly at her knees. "Even scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Quickly, I side-stepped the Forensics Officer and entered the building, stifling a smile when I saw Jean peer at Sally's knees as well, trying to spot something out of the ordinary.

Inside, Lestrade began reeling off the facts of the case. "Who's this?" He cast a calculating gaze over my companion. "She's with me," I answered shortly, not quite sure why I hadn't explained her credentials. Jean didn't seem to mind, though, and followed Lestrade up the stairs, trying to hide her limp.

The victim was a blonde woman, in her thirties, dressed in a skirt, blouse and jacket, all in an alarming shading of pink, even her high heels. She was lying face down in the wooden floor and one of her hands was near a scratched message on the panelling: rache. Going by the state of her fingernails on that hand, she'd scratched it in herself. "That was meant to spell 'Rachel'," I pointed out immediately. "Find out who she is and what's the connection to the victim." Lestrade muttered a few short words to one of the Yarders waiting outside, then looked back at me. "Shut up," I muttered, the thick silence disturbing me. "I didn't say anything…" "You're thinking and it's annoying." Immediately, Lestrade shut up again and I felt myself ease into the familiar routine.

For exactly eighty-five seconds, I observed the body, walking around it, checking her jewellery, her collar and sleeves. At one point, Anderson appeared, spouting something about Germany. "Yes, thank you for your input." Shutting the door in his face, I gestured to Jean, who'd been watching just as silently, but with a curious excitement. "Dr Watson? What do you think of the body?" Glancing apprehensively at Lestrade, she approached my spot on the floor and painfully lowered herself to the floor, while I quickly checked my phone. "What am I doing here?" She asked in a hiss. "Helping me prove a point." 'Two points,' I internally corrected myself. 'One: these people need me for their problems as much as I need them for metal stimulation, so if I bring someone with me, it would be someone much more qualified and easier to work with than any of their men. Two: there is nothing even remotely wrong with you, physically at least .'

Jean was sniffing the body, her eyes raking over the skin of her hand. "Asphyxiation, choked on her own vomit. No alcohol. Probably a seizure, maybe drugs or poison." With a satisfied hum, I stood up and Jean copied my movement, while Lestrade eyed me expectantly. "She's from Cardiff," I started and went on to list all I could glean from the body. Age: late thirties. Long nails, pink clothes: works in the media. Old wedding ring: ten years of marriage. Clean jewellery, ring polished only on the inside: marriage troubles and serious adulterer.

"If you're making this up," Lestrade started threateningly and I almost groaned. Did we have to go through every single time? "Look, her wedding ring is obviously old," I explained. "The rest of her jewellery is clean, but not her ring; state of marriage, right there. But the ring is clean from the inside, so the only polishing it gets is when it rubs against her skin while removing it. She's in the media, going by her clothes, she didn't work with her hands, so she removes it for a person. So, affair and they don't know she's married, or she wouldn't have bothered removing it every time. But not one lover; many, because she couldn't keep up the façade for too long." "That is brilliant!" Both of us turned at the exclamation to see Jean blush. "Sorry," she mumbled. "You said Cardiff," Lestrade reminded me. "How?" I blinked at him in a stupor. It was so obvious. "What's it like in your funny little brains?" I wondered. "Must be so boring." I waved my phone in front of his face. "Her coat's slightly damp. So she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time and the size of her suitcase suggests she's from out of town. Under her coat collar is damp as well; she'd turned it up against the wind." I shifted to point at her coat. "There's 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?" I waved the phone again. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic." The awed tone caught my attention and I turned to find Jean staring at me with wide eyes and an open mouth. "Do you know you do that aloud?" I asked quietly, leaning into her space again, so Lestrade wouldn't hear me. Jean winced at my words, biting her lip. "Right, sorry, I'll stop." "No, no don't," I assured her, a little frantically. It had been a while since someone had expressed actual appreciation. As much as I hated it, I was only human. I did need to be complimented now and again.

"You said 'suitcase'," Lestrade said. "Yes, where is it?" I turned back to find him with a slightly smug smirk. "There isn't one," he told us. "There was never any suitcase. What makes you think she even had one?" Dumbfounded, I pointed at the victim's right leg. "Splash marks from dragging a case in her right hand. You can't see them on the left leg and only suitcase wheels give that pattern of splash marks," I said absently. Where could it have gone? She was driven here, obviously, by the murderer. So… "Sherlock!" I ignored Lestrade's call as I abruptly bounded down the stairs. "None of them are suicides; we have a serial killer. You can't catch a serial killer, till they make a mistake!" I shouted as the DI hurried after me, with the doctor still standing at the top, looking down at us. "What do you mean; we can't just wait for a mistake," Lestrade snapped. "We don't have to. He's already made one." "What?!" "Pink," I yelled behind me, before running out to search for the pink suitcase.

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