When they see her, sitting in a swing set in a playground left empty so late at night, his first impression is one of contrasts. Since he was bend over, pulling in air trying to catch his breath after their sprint to the park where Sherlock had somehow deduced, through some combination of the man's footprint and a smell left on a jacket found near the crime scene (if you were to believe the consultant detective), that the city's latest murderer would be found, he took his time in inspecting the young woman.

Nothing seemed to fit. From the bright blue high-tops to the suspenders, the fitted tweed trousers to the maroon jumper, not a single article of clothing seemed to go with another. And let's not even get started on the band of what appeared to be bells around her left ankle or the twenty-odd foot multicolored scarf wrapped around her neck. Pale skin and freckles contrasted with even paler blue eyes and dark lashes. Her hair was as odd as the scarf. John had never seen anyone dye in platinum blond streaks into curly chocolate brown hair in such a way. When she grinned up at them, her tongue peaked out the corner of her mouth in a way that had him doing a double take.

Sherlock was of course more interested in the man lying unconscious at her feet. It had never before been the case that someone had beaten him to the punch. The woman had incapacitated their murderer, and yes, judging by the brown work boots and leather gloves that Sherlock had predicted, it was him, before the genius had even reached the park. When Sherlock questioned her, her reply was a rather serious, "Well, you know, that smell. Where else would he have been?" Her voice had a pleasant enough bur to it, perhaps a bit Irish.

Having apparently accepted the answer as a logical explanation, he stepped forward, "Sherlock Holmes. And this is Doctor John Watson. And you are?" John could tell his flatmate was looking her over, picking apart the small details of her.

Swinging her legs once more and hopping up, she reached across the prone form on the ground to shake Sherlock's unoffered and before doing the same to John, "Eaving Smith, lovely to meet you both."

Sherlock continued to study her, "Eaving, what an interesting name," Sensing a reaction just out of reach, he continued, "'safety in rough seas; shelter from the oncoming storm.'" Something passed over her face too fast to name.

' Slightly unsteady now, she babbled a bit, "Yes well, that was my name, so my parents had little choice in giving it to me. It's a bit of a tradition though in my family, all my siblings have names that tell you a bit more than any Sue or Mark might. My sister is Blythe, and really, she is a joy."

"And the others?"

"Sorry?"

"You said siblings."

"Oh, well." She didn't try to hide the grin spreading across her face. "My brothers are the oldest, twins, Skoll and Hati." Sherlock seemed to ponder them for a moment.

"Those are names you don't hear every day." John offered, trying to keep the conversation from lapsing into silence.

"Yes, well, 'the sun and the moon, but why do they hurt?' Bad wolves." That made absolutely no sense. At least not to John; it seemed to have sparked something for Sherlock.

"How strange to name your children after the bringers of a mythical apocalypse."

"That's not really it. My mum, she spent a bit of time in Norway while she was pregnant with them. My parents were separated at the time." A sad look crossed her face for a moment before the launched back into the story. "Anyways, she had a bit of time to read. It's not really the end. Time's a bit circular; an end is just a new beginning. Everything comes back in its changed form, sooner or later." She eyed Sherlock speculatively, looking like she wanted to say more, but the sound of sirens approaching filled the air and blue lights could just be made out at the end of the street. Lestrade and his men had finally deciphered the obscure hint Sherlock had texted them as to where they were. Of course, Sherlock would claim that the text had been quite clear, if, considering that it was just a series of numbers, a bit too concise for the overworked DI to easily comprehend.

"Well, it's been an absolute pleasure meeting you both, but really the police are not so much my thing. So, I'll just be leaving you to your murderer. I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot of you. Ta." And with a wiggle off her fingers she was off, her improbable scarf trailing behind her into the night.