Author's Note: Thanks for all the feedback, guys! I really appreciate any form of human contact, be it PM or review.
I don't own Sherlock. I wish I did, but I don't…

The Man with Two Names
By the Salt Monster

Ch. 3
Greycoat Street, London

We sped down the road in a taxi. Sherlock was absorbed in his cell phone, and I was staring out the window at the streets of London whipping by, when I finally had to ask:

"Where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock glanced up from his phone. "Hmn? Didn't I tell you? Greycoat Street—someone was found dead."

"So you investigate murders?" I asked.

"Only the interesting ones," he muttered, returning his attention to his phone.

"What's so interesting about this one?" I wondered aloud.

"There was a note found with the body."

"So I'm guessing notes aren't very common with murders?"

"Especially not ones with my name on it."

My eyes widened and my mouth formed a little "o." "Apparently someone wants to get your attention," I said.

"It would appear so, yes," he said flatly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Well at least he was answering me now. I figured it was a start, considering that a few hours earlier he would barely even talk to me.

We fell back into silence as the cab sped steadily on. Several minutes later, blue flashing lights came into view and the cab slowed down. Sherlock was suddenly alert, closing his phone and sitting up, leaning in towards the crime scene. The taxi came to a complete stop and Sherlock was outside before I had time even to blink. I followed after him as fast as I could.

He strode quickly over to the police tape and pulled it over his head, holding it up for me as I scampered after him. Almost at once, a formidable looking woman stopped him in mid-step.

"Freak," she spat in greeting.

"Hullo, Sergeant Donovan," Holmes sighed, agitation flickering over his face.

"Who invited you?" she demanded.

"Lestrade. Now if you don't mind, I have better things to do than talk to someone as insignificant as yourself." He tried to push past her, but she stopped him.

"Hold on," she barked. "Where's Watson? And who's this?" She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she eyed me over.

"Emily Barber," I said loudly, holding out my hand and giving a very insincere smile. She took my hand gingerly and dropped it rather quickly, turning back to Holmes, who was giving me a very strange look.

"So you are straight then?" the Sergeant said to Holmes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past her, grumbling. I followed him as he entered an apartment building and bounded up three flights of stairs to where more caution tape surrounded a doorway. Once again, Sherlock stepped right under it and into the scene. I stayed outside the door, watching from the door frame.

"What have we got?" Sherlock asked, pulling on latex gloves. A graying man started talking to him in a quiet voice with a few "of course"es and "it would appear so"s interjected by Holmes.

"I can see you've done your best, Lestrade, but my colleague Miss—" Sherlock glanced around and suddenly did an about face to find me. "Miss Barber," he said giving me an inquisitive look, "what are you doing out there? The body's in here."

I scrambled under the tape and to Sherlock's side, a bit nervous about what I was going to see. If it was gory, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to keep my lunch in my stomach…if I'd had lunch… Luckily there wasn't much blood-just a bullet to the back of the head. Although it was pretty gruesome, I'd seen worse on television.

The body was slumped over a desk, his face resting on several papers scattered over the polished wood. His golden hair was matted with blood, but that was all I could see of him.

"Miss Barber, this is Detective-Inspector Lestrade," Holmes muttered distractedly while inspecting the body himself. "Lestrade, this is Amelia—,"

"It's Emily."

"Ah, yes, Emily. Detective-Inspector, this is Emily Barber." We shook hands and he gave me a tight smile.

"Where's Watson?" he asked.

"Honeymoon," I explained.

"Ah, yes. I forgot about that. So, are you a doctor, too, then?" he asked.

"No, I'm an artist."

"Oh…" His face fell a bit and I was left feeling quite mediocre compared to this John Watson.

"I can always use someone who thinks outside the box, Lestrade. The police are so closed-minded, you know," Sherlock said loftily casting me a side-long glance and a small smile.

"Yes, yes, I know, Sherlock," Lestrade muttered, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you just…fill Miss Barber in, then," he said, and left.

"Eighteen-year-old male by the name of Sean Zilber. Learning disorder—dyslexic (you can tell by his papers on the desk; he got "d" and "g" mixed up several times in his writing). His girlfriend recently broke up with him—the picture frame on the table has lots of fingerprints on it, so he's touched it a lot recently. After that, his grades dropped and he started drinking. Quite heavily, by the looks of it."

I stared at him in amazement. "How did you figure that out?" I asked.

"The failing grades on his report card," he pointed to one of the papers on the desk, "and the empty beer bottles in the corner."

"Oh," I said, feeling more than a bit stupid. "Well that sounds more like a suicide."

"Exactly," Holmes said. "But it wasn't suicide. It was murder."

"How can you tell?" I inquired.

"First of all, the bullet came through the back of his head-,"

"Whoops, sorry; obviously."

"Second, there's no gun he would have been able to do it with—,"

"Oh, yeah…good point…"

"And lastly, Sean Zilber doesn't leave a suicide note telling me to come and find him and then sign it 'Joe Green.'" He smirked at my expression.

"It's…been a long day…" I sighed, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands. "Where's the note?" I asked. He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me.

"Looks like watercolor paper," I commented, opening the letter. He raised an eyebrow at me. "And the handwriting looks masculine—I don't know many girls who would forget a comma like that…or maybe that's just me."

"I think that's just you. Tell me what you make of the message."

The card read:

1475369 . 14863456 . 987456321 . 987456321 . 14863456 . 7412369 . - 987456321 . 852789 .

Come and find me Mr. Holmes.

-Joe Green

"Joe Green," I murmured, "I've heard that name before."

"It's a common name," Sherlock said. "We'd never find it."

"Maybe it's a pseudonym," I offered. "I'm sure I've heard that name before, though…wasn't there a football player by that name?"

"It doesn't matter right now," Holmes muttered. "What matters is what all of these numbers mean…" He took out his phone and started taking pictures of the scene. I watched as he worked quickly, taking pictures of the smallest details, such as the victims socks. When he was done, he stripped off his latex gloves and threw them in the trash can.

"Note." He held out his hand and I placed the folded letter in it. He stuck it in his pocket and swept out of the room as I scurried after him.

"Any motive?" I asked as we descended the stairs.

"None," he called over his shoulder. "I expect this was done just to get my attention."

"Poor guy. Did it?"

"Yes, it most definitely has." He held the door open for me as we left the apartment building and passed the police cars. "I'll tell them all eventually," he said when I asked him whether he should leave without consulting with Detective-Inspector Lestrade.

"Where to, now?" I asked as we walked down the middle of the street together.

"Food."

"Really?" I asked, alarmed. "I thought you don't eat!"

"I don't, but I'm not about to listen to your stomach rumble all night like it has been the past fifteen minutes." I flushed a deep red, but I could have sworn I saw him smile.

Author's Note: See that button down there? The one that says "review"? Yeah, click it…it would make my day! :D
Anyway, thanks a million to The AlmightyEditor, who has saved my sorry butt on many occasions, has edited everything I have ever laid in front of her, and with whom I have Benedict Cumberbatch marathons on Sundays.
~Salty