A/N: Not exactly The Blind Banker, but I hope you like it.

Some notes on Reviews:

EdwardAnthonyMasenCullen1918: Goddess, your name is long! ;P I'm glad you like it! Are you thinking what you think you're thinking? In the words of my favorite psychopath: Spoilers!

loveinfinity: Here's the next chapter! It's not The Blind Banker. I'm going to be doing little cases between big cases. They're mostly going to be the ones mentioned on John's Blog, but there wasn't one between A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker. Hope you like it!

lostfeather1: Thanks! Here's your update! She will outsmart him quite a bit, and this is one of those times!

Vedra9: Thanks! I like to think Kat is everything I'm not: Sassy and impossibly clever and doesn't care what people think about her. Here's your update!

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: The New Chapter!

Girl's Night and a New Case

Sitting in the cab on the way to Molly's, I fire off a text.

Hope you're up for chocolate ice cream and chick flicks. –KW

Yeah, why? –MH

Coming back from a crime scene. Talk when I get there. –KW

Alright. –MH

I put my phone back in my pocket and smile. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. Before I know it, we're at Molly's. I step out of the taxi, pay the cabbie, turn and walk up to the door. I ring her bell.

"Hello?" I hear Molly's voice from the speaker. I push the speak button.

"Hey, Molls," I say. "It's me."

"Kat! Let me buzz you in." I hear the buzzer, and push the door open. I head up the stairs to her flat. The door's open and she's standing there, waiting for me. She takes one look at me and gives me a hug. I hug her back, tightly.

"Thanks, Molls. I needed that." She nods, pulling back.

"C'mon in," she says, leading me into the flat. "I've got your favorites: Corny comedy-romances and Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra." I laugh and look around. Her flat is all pink—like a flamingo-puked-Pepto-Bismal-on-everything pink. But it works for her.

I hang up my coat and plop down on couch with a sigh. Molly plops down next to me.

"Okay," she says, breaking the silence. "Talk." I tell her nearly everything. I talk about the flat, how perfect it is, and when Lestrade showed up, and everything about Lauriston Gardens. I tell her about the restaurant—she laughs when I tell her about Angelo—and my meeting with Mycroft. She can't believe I'd said that to him. I talk about what happened with the cabbie, leaving out the same details I left out for Lestrade. She hugs me again. And I tell her about Sean. I swear she sees red. Then I tell her the threat I told him. I probably won't follow through with it, but he doesn't know that. Molly shakes her head, grinning. I tell her about the feud between Mycroft and Sherlock, and she frowns.

"There went my chances," Molly mumbles with a frown. I rub her shoulder sympathetically.

Molly stands up and moves to the DVD player and pops in a disc. She moves to the kitchen as we wait for the previews to end. She comes back with the carton of Ben & Jerry's and two spoons. She holds them up with a dorky grin and I laugh again.

Four movies and a whole carton of ice cream later, Molly says her goodnights.

"You're going furniture shopping with me tomorrow, right?" I ask, punching my pillow. "You have an eye for color…." I look around her flat pointedly. "As long as it's not for your flat." She glares at me and I laugh.

"Oh, yeah?" she says, getting an evil glint in her eye. Uh-oh. She walks into her room and I hear some shuffling. She comes back with her hands behind her back. She pulls her hands out and holds her pillow in front of her menacingly. My eyes widen. "You wanna say something about my flat again?" I grin.

"Yeah, actually," I start, pulling my pillow to my chest and holding it with both hands. If it comes to a fight, I will win. "It's too pink. I get you like the color, Molly, but seriously! I walk in here and feel like I'm walking into the bubblegum room in the Wonka candy factory." I grin wider so she knows I'm joking. She huffs in mock anger. "What're you gonna do abo-mmph!" She hits me in the face with her pillow.

"The great psychic didn't see that coming," she says cockily. "Did you?" The pillow slides off my face and lands in my lap. I look down at it before looking back up at her. I shrug.

"Psychics can't see everything," I reply. "Especially sneaky best friends!" I throw my pillow to her left on the last word, expecting her to dodge. I'm right, and it hits her in the shoulder. So begins our pillow fight.

Half an hour later, we're both lying on the floor, panting. I pick my pillow up from its spot next to me and whack her lightly in the stomach.

"I give!" she cries, laughing. "I give. You win!" I laugh.

"Woo-hoo!" I shout. We lay there for a moment longer, catching our breaths.

Molly stands up and holds her hand out to help me up. I take it and we both look around the room at the mess we've made. One of the pillows had torn towards the end, and there are fluffy feathers all over the place.

"Well," I mutter. "At least it's not all pink anymore." Molly punches me in the arm lightly. "Ow!"

"Night, Kat," she calls with a laugh, heading towards her room. "We'll clean this up in the morning before heading out, yeah?" I nod.

"Night, Molls." I set my pillow and blanket up on the sofa before settling in. I let everything from the last couple days hit me, and I cry.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Weeks pass and everything seems great. Molly and I pick out some lovely furniture for my flat. It gets delivered on the following Saturday, and we arrange it. I move in and start my new life without my cheating ex-boyfriend. Lestrade spoke with the Chief Superintendent and managed to get me special clearance to be on crime scenes. Everything goes really well, until this morning, when I hear shouting from downstairs. Being the ever-curious person I am, I head downstairs to check it out.

"I don't care if you're bored, Sherlock!" I hear John shout as I walk the last three steps. "You can't just go around experimenting on people!" I walk through the door.

"What's he done this time?" I ask and both men turn towards me. John huffs in anger and Sherlock looks away. Almost like he's ashamed. I shake my head. Not possible.

"He's testing this new chemical he's invented," John explains tetchily, "and he just happened to think that my coffee was the best place to test it!" My jaw drops before I turn to glare at Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" I start to reprimand before we all hear the bell ring. Sherlock and John look at each other.

"Client," they both say at the same time, moving to prepare. I stand there in shock for a minute that their argument is over, before shaking my head.

"Kat, if you'd be so kind as to let our guest in," Sherlock asks. I raise my eyebrows at him before shrugging and heading towards the stairs.

Opening the door, I find a small, blonde woman. She's wearing a white suit coat over a light pink knee-length dress. She looks at me nervously.

"Hello. I'm Elizabeth Sinclair. Is this where I can find Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she asks.

"Yes, it is," I answer, nodding. "If you'd follow me, ma'am." I let her inside before closing the door and leading her upstairs. I step through the door to the boys' flat to find a wooden chair seated in front of the coffee table. Sherlock and John are in their respective seats: Sherlock has his hands steepled in front of him; John has a notebook and pencil in his hand. "If you'd have a seat, Ms. Sinclair." Ms. Sinclair sits in the chair and begins her explanation of how her husband disappeared before her very eyes into a building.

"I was in town on Monday, picking up a package and doing a little shopping," she explained. "When I had done my shopping, I walked the street in search of a cab. I wasn't in a very nice part of town. While I was walking, I heard a shout from a building to right. I looked up at a window on the second story and saw, to my surprise, my husband, Neville, looking down at me. I remember distinctly that he wore his coat, but not his shirt underneath. He waved his arms frantically as if beckoning me, before being pulled back quickly. I was convinced that something was wrong, so I ran up the stairs trying to get to where I'd seen him. At the entrance stood a foreign man standing lookout. He managed to shove me out and back onto the street. I pulled my mobile from pocket and phoned the police. Good fortune was mine, because there was a group of officers and an Inspector just down the street who came and made their way to where I'd seen Neville." She takes a deep breath to steady herself before beginning again. "He wasn't there. In fact, there was only one man in the entire building: A crippled man with bright orange hair and a horrid scar on his face. He lives there, apparently. His name is Hugh Boone." Sherlock nods. "Both he and the lookout swear that no one else had been in the building. The two men were so adamant that the Inspector seemed to think I was delusional. That was, until I saw Neville's bag. I ran to it with a shout and turned it over. Out spilled some toys that Neville had promised to buy for our son this morning. The Inspector ordered a search of the entire building. They found blood on the bedroom windowsill. I'm afraid I fainted then, but I have heard the other discoveries from the Inspector: Neville's clothes had been found behind a curtain in the bedroom; his coat had been found on a narrow strip of land behind the building after the tide had lowered—the back of the building overlooks one of the wharfs; in the pockets of his coat they found quite a bit of change. I was told that Mr. Boone had sworn that the blood on the windowsill was his: He'd cut his finger earlier in the day. I'm not sure I believe him." She pauses again, looking down. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think, in fact I'm quite sure, that your husband is dead, Mrs. Sinclair," Sherlock answers. John and I both glare at Sherlock, but Mrs. Sinclair seems unperturbed.

"Then how do you explain this, Mr. Holmes?" she asks, pulling an envelope from her purse. "Just today I received this letter. It's post-marked today. It's Neville's handwriting."

"What?" Sherlock shouted in surprise. "Might I see it?" Mrs. Sinclair nods and hands it to Sherlock. He examines the letter closely. "You're sure it's his handwriting?"

"Yes, I am," she answers, nodding. "Mr. Holmes, there is a connection between Neville and I. Just Monday morning he cut himself in the bedroom." I look up at this, seeing a connection. "I was in the dining room, but I rushed upstairs instantly with the certainty that something had happened to him. Do you think that I would react to something so trivial and yet not react at all to his death? Will you help me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Mrs. Sinclair," he starts, "I'm afraid I have no answer regarding your husband's disappearance. I will, however, look into the case and see what I can uncover." Mrs. Sinclair thanks Sherlock profusely before turning to me to lead her out the door. Before opening the front door, I turn to her.

"Mrs. Sinclair, was your husband ever an actor?" I ask, a slight suspicion nagging at me. She starts in surprise, before nodding.

"Yes," she answers. "But that was long before I met him." I nod.

"And where did he cut himself on Monday?" I ask.

"His ring finger, near the nail. Does that have anything to do with him disappearing?" she asks as I open the door.

"I'm not sure. But don't worry about a thing, ma'am," I reassure as she walks out the door. "Whatever happened to your husband, we will figure it out." She nods and says goodbye. I close the door and turn to head back up the stairs. Walking back into the flat, I find Sherlock bouncing ideas at John.

"Suppose that this man Boone had thrown Neville Sinclair out the window," Sherlock says. "No one would have seen him do it. He'd then get rid of Neville Sinclair's clothes. He would grab the coat and be in the act of tossing it when it would occur to him that it would float. At this time he has already heard Mrs. Sinclair try to force her way up, and would have heard from the lookout that the police are on their way. He doesn't have time to lose." He pauses. "Hugh Boone is a notorious beggar. You've both probably seen him here or there. He must have rushed to some secret stash of coins to put in the coat pockets to weigh the coat down. He throws it out the window and then hears the police downstairs. He has just enough time to close the window and sit across the room when the police appear."

"It's certainly possible," John responds. I shake my head.

"I'm not so sure that's how it happened," I say, and they both look at me. "I get the distinct feeling that Mr. Neville Sinclair is still alive."

"How?" Sherlock asks.

"Special," I respond, grinning, and Sherlock groans. I sit in the chair they set out for Mrs. Sinclair. "Anyway, even if that was what happened, how do you explain the letter?" Sherlock takes the letter and envelope hands them to me. I examine it. "Post-marked today, coarse writing on the envelope doesn't match the handwriting on the letter. The name on the envelope was written quickly, but the address was written much slower. Whoever filled out the envelope didn't know the address, had to look it up. Which means it couldn't have been sent by Mr. Sinclair." John looks at me in shock. Sherlock nods.

"Sound deductions," he says, "and exactly what I saw. No, the letter was written by Mr. Sinclair, but it was not sent by him. He could have written it Monday, and it was posted after."

"Which means he's probably dead," John finishes, and Sherlock nods again. I shake my head.

"I'm telling you, he's still alive," I answer. Sherlock shakes his head at me.

"If you can explain to me how you think so," he says, "without telling me it's because you're 'special', I'll look into it." He smirks at me, thinking he's won. I glare at him.

"I think Mr. Sinclair was not killed by Hugh Boone. Mr. Sinclair is Hugh Boone," I say. Sherlock looks incredulous. "Mr. Sinclair was an actor once upon a time. I asked Mrs. Sinclair just as she was leaving. As an actor, he'd have to know something about stage make-up. Also, when he cut himself Monday morning?" They both nod. "His ring finger, just near the nail. Mr. Boone said he'd cut himself on the finger and that's where the blood on the windowsill came from." John looks at me in awe.

"Wow," he says, "I keep forgetting how good you are at that." I shrug.

"I think," I explain, "that Mr. Sinclair had been changing after finishing his begging for the day. He walks past the window and sees, much to his surprise, his wife. He shouts in surprise and moves his arms to hide his face, but it's too late. His wife has seen him. He tells the lookout not to let anyone in, grabs his stage make-up and becomes Hugh Boone. He needs to get rid of his clothing, so he takes the coat, puts the change in it and throws it out the window. Opening the window reopened the cut on his finger, leaving blood. He hears from the lookout that the police are on their way. He has just enough time to close the window and take a seat somewhere just as the police make it upstairs."

"It's possible," Sherlock replies slowly. I grin at him.

"Bet you twenty quid Hugh Boone has refused to bathe," I say. John looks confused. "If he's wearing stage make-up, it'll come off in a bath." John nods. Sherlock looks at me, calculating.

"Alright," he says, smirking, "you're on."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Fifteen minutes later finds us in New Scotland Yard, asking to see Hugh Boone. The Inspector at the desk recognizes me when I flash my new ID badge. His name is Bradstreet. He gets up and leads us towards the cells, explaining why we might not want to see him.

"He absolutely refuses to bathe," he groans. I smirk at Sherlock and he rolls his eyes. "Good thing he'll be facing judgment soon."

"Why?" John asks.

"Well," Bradstreet answers, shrugging. "Then he'll be required to take baths daily."

We reach the cell and the officer opens the door for us. Sure enough, the man inside reeks. He's asleep in the corner. Sherlock and I glance at each other, before I pull my bag open. Inside I've got face wipes, the ones that are specifically for make-up. Bradstreet looks at me like I've gone insane. I open the wipes and walk quietly Mr. Boone. I kneel down and start cleaning his face with the wipe, making sure to get the scar. After a few moments, his orange hair starts sliding, and I pull it off. It's a wig! I pull back as he starts to stir and walk back to the three men by the door.

"There!" I say, holding the wig. "I give you, Mr. Neville Sinclair." Bradstreet and John look on in shock. Sherlock looks pained. "We agreed on twenty, yeah?" I ask him, and he pulls his wallet out of his pocket, shaking his head. Mr. Sinclair wakes up fully and realizes that his make-up is gone. He throws his arms up to hide his face.

"It IS him!" Bradstreet shouts. "I recognize him from the pictures." Mr. Sinclair pulls his arms from his face and sighs.

"Yes," he says. "I am Neville Sinclair. Tell me, what are my charges now?"

"Why, the murder of Mr. Neville—that would only work if they tried to make it an attempted suicide case," Bradstreet replies, ending with a grin.

"You should have trusted your wife more," I tell Mr. Sinclair. He shakes his head.

"It wasn't my wife, it was my children," he replies. "I don't want them to be ashamed of their father." He groans. "What am I going to do?"

"If you leave it up to a judge," I say, "there'll be quite a bit of publicity." He groans again. "If you manage to convince the police that there was no crime committed, they might just drop all charges and let you walk." He looks up at me in hope. Bradstreet cuts in.

"I'm already certain that there wasn't a crime," he says. "I can put in a word with the higher authorities here, let them know you're good to go. But you'll have to stop becoming Hugh Boone if you want us to hush this up." Mr. Sinclair nods vigorously.

"Oh, yes," he replies. "I've already sworn it to myself." Bradstreet nods then turns to me.

"Thanks, Kat," he says. "I don't know that we could've figured this one out." I nod and grin.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The ride back to the flat is uncomfortable. Sherlock spends the entire trip glaring out the window. John and I keep throwing glances his way.

"Sherlock," John says gently. "It's okay to be wrong every once in a while." Sherlock glares at John, then turns and glares at me.

"How did you know?" he asks. I shrug.

"There are just some things you don't question," I answer. "Like a woman's intuition."

"I swear, if you say it's because you're 'special', I'll-" I cut him off.

"Not just my intuition," I say. "Mrs. Sinclair's intuition, too." Sherlock just glares at me, before turning back to the window.

"Stupid psychic," he grumbles.

"Hey," I snap and he looks up. "Psychics can't see everything. I beat you on one case. You'll beat me on the next ten, maybe fifteen. Chill out." This seems to mollify him. I turn to John, grinning. "Hungry? My treat. I've got an extra twenty quid just waiting to be spent." John laughs and Sherlock mock-glares at me before sighing and telling us about this lovely Indian restaurant. I smile.