Also, I'm kind of mixing up the pilot episode and the aired episode, plus I'm changing a bit of the dialogue, because, my memory isn't that perfect and I'm not allowed to type while watching it. Also, because it becomes easier to fit it into a written story.

Jean's POV

I gripped the edge of my bed in an attempt to calm myself. It didn't work; I could still feel the man's fingers gripping my wrist, could feel Sgt. Sally Donovan's judging gaze. Both their words spun in my head, as I sat in the bedroom of the pensioned flat. 'Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?' 'You're not his friend.' 'When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.' 'He doesn't have any friends.' 'Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?' 'One day, we'll be standing over a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it.' 'You're under pressure now, yet your hands are perfectly steady.' 'He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored.' 'You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it.' 'Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.'

What was it about that man that prompted everyone to think he was dangerous? Donovan seemed to think avoidance was the only way to go. The strange man thought him dangerous enough to want me to spy on him for money. Yet he claimed to care. Yes, Sherlock was a bit strange, but he was also lonely. It had only taken me half an evening to see that; didn't these people who apparently had been working with him for some time now, know that? It wasn't really surprising, the lack of friends, I thought. Sherlock's 'deductions' gave him a treasure trove of knowledge and knowledge was power, power which, I had a feeling, he wouldn't exploit, but also wouldn't hesitate to use if needed. Not to mention that arrogance and general rudeness.

'You met him yesterday and since then, you've moved in with him and are now solving crimes together.' I winced at the memory. Maybe the man was right. I'd been observing Sherlock too much if I already knew this little bit about him. Maybe I should stay away.

As soon as I had the thought, my phone rang with an incoming message. 'Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH'

I took a second to wonder how the man had my phone number, then placed the phone face down on the bed. I was going to stay away from him. Bending down, I removed my shoes, just as the phone rang again. Grudgingly tamping down the faint thrill of anticipation, I read the message: 'If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH.' I pursed my lips angrily and went to stand out the window, the phone clenched in my hand. I wasn't angry at Sherlock, no. I was upset with myself for wanting to go to him. Both Donovan and the man had been right, I'd known it the instant the words left their mouths. Sherlock was a dangerous man to be around, not because he was a psychopath, but because he attracted danger like moths to a flame and I was thirsty for danger. But still…

The phone chimed a third time and I grit my teeth, trying to fight the urge to check the message. Brushing my hair back, I gave in and read it. 'Could be dangerous. - SH.'

"Sherlock?" The man was sprawled over the couch, both eyes closed, one hand pressing into wrist of the other. And the other arm, I noticed with surprise, had what I recognized as three nicotine patches. "What are you doing?" I asked in horror. "It's hard to maintain a smoking habit in London. Bad news for brainwork," he said in lieu of explanation. Dimly noting the click of the 'k' at the end, I crossed over to the armchair by the fire. "Good news for breathing," I muttered. "Breathing's boring."

Rolling my eyes, I turned to look at him. "Well, you asked me to come, so I'm assuming it's important," I said. He looked at me with one eye open. "I need to borrow your phone." He stretched one hand out, but I was still processing his words. "Why not use your own?" I asked, though I guessed that, if he actually had arch-enemies, it would be risky. "There's a chance it might be recognized," he confirmed my thoughts, as I fished out my phone to hand to him. "Since it's on my website." I frowned. "Mrs Hudson is downstairs," I pointed out. "I was on the other side of London." He shrugged flippantly. "There was no hurry."

Biting down on the sudden annoyance I felt, I asked, "So, is this about the case, then?" "Her case, yes, the suitcase. Taking it was the murderer's first mistake," he whispered, keeping his hands in a prayer position under his chin. As I watched him, I felt a prickle of discomfort at the back of my neck. Moving over to look out the window at the street, I tried to quell the feeling. Though, I couldn't relax my hold on the cane, nor could I stop fingering the object I'd stuffed into the waistband of my jeans before leaving for here. My gun.

"Something wrong?" I looked back to find Sherlock watching me with a frown, both eyes finally open. "I met a friend of yours," I told him. The frown deepened, now with surprise mingled in. "A friend?" He repeated, confused. "An enemy," I corrected myself. Immediately, his confusion cleared. "Which one?" He was calm again. "Your arch enemy." The frown returned. "Did he ask you to spy on me for money? Did you take it?" His voice was sharp with suspicion and I hurried to assure him. "Yes, he did, no, I did not." "Hmm, pity," he replied. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." I blinked a little in confusion, then shrugged it off, sure I had only imagined the relief in his words. "So, who was he then?" I asked instead. "The most dangerous man you'll never meet," he spoke in a whisper. "And not my problem right now."

He sat up and tossed the phone. I caught it with difficulty and joined him on the chair across him. "I need you to send a text to this number," saying, he handed me a slip of paper. I began to type it in. "Jennifer Wilson," I read out. "Hang on, isn't that the dead woman?" "Yes, but that's not important," he waved it off. "These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

I stopped typing to frown at him in concern. "You blacked out?" "What?!" He started. "No, no of course not." I finished typing, as Sherlock got up and dragged a large suitcase over to the coffee table. I hit send and looked up to see it full of a woman's belongings. A second passed before I noticed the colour. Pink. "That's… that's Jennifer Wilson's case," I pointed, rather pointlessly. He looked up at me. "Perhaps, I should mention, I didn't kill her," he said sarcastically. The tone made me bristle, but I chose my words carefully. "Never said you did." "Why not?" He challenged. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her suitcase, it would be a perfectly logical assumption." "Do people usually assume you're a murderer?" I ignored his jibe. "Now and then," he smirked and I was reminded of what Donovan had said. But the years in the army had taught me to identify who joined to serve and who joined simply for a reason to kill. The man in front of me was not a murderer. So, I changed the topic again.

"How and where did you find it?" I asked. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," he started. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case," he gesticulated wildly, "Without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – 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 realise his mistake. 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. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

I stared at him in awe for nearly a minute. "You got all of that because you thought the case would be pink?" I summed up in a weak voice. "Well, it had to be pink obviously," he stressed. I thought about the woman lying dead on the floor and decided he was right. "Why didn't I think of that?" I mumbled quietly. "Because you're an idiot." I threw him an insulted look, to which he threw both hands up in a placatory gesture "Oh don't give me that look, practically everyone is," he scoffed and I found I couldn't exactly argue. "Now," he continued. "There was no phone on the body and there's none in the case." It suddenly dawned on me that I had sent a message to a dead woman's phone. "Sherlock, why did I just send that text?" I asked suspiciously. "Well, the question now is where is her phone?" He spoke slowly, trying to get me to understand his point. I did. "With the murderer." I felt a wave of horror. "Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

As if on cue, the phone began to ring and both of us stared at the lit-up screen. (Withheld) calling. "He's panicked," Sherlock hissed and I looked up to see a childlike glee on his face. He stood up and began pulling his coat and gloves on. "Why are you talking to me about this?" I was curious to know what part he'd planned for me to play. He nodded towards the mantelpiece. "Mrs Hudson took my skull," he muttered. "So, basically, I'm filling in for your skull," I stated blandly. "Relax, you're doing fine," Sherlock assured me.

"Well?" He looked at me, waiting. "Are you staying here and watching telly or coming?" I laughed incredulously. "What, you want me to come with you?" "I like company when I go out," he shrugged. "I think better when I talk out loud and the skull just attracts attention." He flashed a brief smile and I laughed in response, but I still didn't move. He seemed to pick up on something wrong. "Problem?" He asked, as he finished wrapping his scarf. "Sgt. Donovan," I answered. "She said you get off on this. You enjoy it." He stared at me in noncholant disbelief. "And I said 'danger'," he pointed out. "Yet here you are."

He left the room, his long coat swishing behind him. I tried to sit still and count to a hundred. I gave up at fifteen and with a growl of "Damn it," I pushed off from the chair and tried to catch up to him in the street, just as, I didn't doubt, he had known I would.