Shirley flagged down a taxi outside the flat and soon we were off. We drove for probably a good fifteen or twenty minutes in silence before I started to get curious. Actually, that's an understatement. I expected my companion to start explaining exactly what was going on, like where we were going and what we were supposed to be doing, but she didn't. She just sat in silence, deeply engrossed with her phone.

I began braiding my hair, throwing her an occasional questioning glance. I reached the end of my thick, shoulder length hair and bound it with a rubber band I had around my wrist before she finally noticed my questioning stare.

She put her phone down. "OK. You've got questions," she said.

"Yeah," I replied. Where to begin. There were so many swirling in my head. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"Crime scene," Shirley stated, "Next?"

That was not very helpful, but I decided not to press for details and asked the next one. The one that had been in my head almost since I first met her and especially since I had seen her random belongings in the flat, as well as being called upon by the police and such.

"Who are you?" I wondered, "What exactly is it that you do?"

"What do you think?" Shirley asked.

Well, Mr. Hudson had thought that the case of the linked suicides would be "right up her street", but she definitely wasn't with the police. She sure did have some very detective-like qualities, but somehow she didn't quite fit my deduction completely.

"Well, I'd say private detective..." I said slowly.

"But?" Shirley encouraged.

"But the police don't go to private detectives," I said.

Shirley smiled. "Yes. That's because I'm not a private detective. I'm a consulting detective. And I fancy I'm the only one in the world, I invented the job."

"Consulting...? What does that mean?" I wondered.

"It means when the police are out of their depths, which is always, they consult me," she replied with a small smirk.

Now that sounded a bit outrageous to me. "But the police don't consult amateurs," I said, thinking she was just joking with me.

However the look she threw me, told me she was not. She raised her eyebrow then looked back ahead. "When we first met yesterday, I asked you how you enjoyed your trip to India and you looked surprised," she said.

"Yeah. I'm still wondering how you knew that," I told her.

"I didn't know. I saw," Shirley replied, "Your comment when you first entered the room said trained at Bards, so you're a doctor, obviously. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Then that bracelet you were wearing, it was recently purchased and very distinctly from India."

"How did you know about the accident?" I wondered.

"You're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't have wasted money on such an expensive trip unless it was to get your mind off of something. Something traumatic probably. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair and you stand like you've forgotten about it so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. An accident most likely."

"You said I had a therapist?"

"You have a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist," Shirley replied. She reached into my coat pocket and removed my phone. "Then there's your brother. Your phone is expensive, email-enabled mp3 player. Like I said before, you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this, so it's a gift. There are scratches, not one, several. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins and such. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

She was right. I did know it. "The engraving?"

Shirley turned the phone over to reveal said engraving. "Harry Watson, From Clara XXX"

""Harry Watson". Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone," Shirley said, "Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a doctor who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now "Clara". Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model is only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months old he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wanted you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Could be several reasons why, such as, you don't like his drinking."

OK, so far she had blown my mind beyond belief, but she had explained it logically enough for me. But I could not see how there was any way she could possibly know about the drinking problem. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?" I asked.

She smirked slightly. "Shot in the dark," she replied simply, "A good one though. Power connection will tell you. Tiny little scuff marks around the edges. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

I nodded. "I was right," I agreed. Wait... what was I right about? "Right about what?" I asked.

"The police don't consult amateurs," Shirley stated. She handed me back my phone.

I stared at the phone, dumbfounded. How in the world had she been able to deduce all that from just looking at a few details? The same details I saw everyday of my life and would never have made those connections in a million years. It was beyond impressive.

"That... was amazing," I told her.

She was silent for a moment, comprehending my words. "You think so?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

Did I think so? Of course! "It was extraordinary!" I said, "It was beyond extraordinary."

"Hmm. Well, that's not what people normally say," Shirley said thoughtfully.

"What do people normally say?" I asked.

""Piss off"," Shirley replied, smirking.

I chuckled in return.

We reached our destination shortly thereafter. Shirley paid the cab driver and we began to walk towards the crime scene. Or rather, I followed Shirley towards the crime scene since I had no idea where we were or where we were going.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Shirley asked me.

Well, actually... "Harry and me don't get along," I told her, "Never have. Clara and Harry split up about three months ago and now they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

Shirley nodded and almost looked surprised. "Spot on? Hmm. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

But I wasn't finished. "Harry is short for Harriet," I informed her.

Shirley stopped walking abruptly. "Harry is your sister," she mumbled, frowning.

It was then that it dawned on me that I really didn't know what my purpose in coming was. I remembered wanting to do something active, but why did I come with Shirley? "So what exactly am I doing here?" I asked Shirley as we began to walk again.

"Sister!" Shirley was reprimanding herself, not paying my concerns any attention.

"No seriously," I said, "Why am I here?"

"There's always something," Shirley continued, still not listening to me.

We reached the edge of the crime scene where some caution tape had been set up around the perimeter. A woman with long dark curly hair and dark skin, holding a radio stood by the tape.

"Hello, freak," she greeted Shirley casually.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Shirley stated.

"Why?" the curly-haired woman asked.

Shirley frowned at her. "I was invited," she said simply.

"Why?" the woman asked icily.

"I can't be sure, but I think she might want be to take a look," Shirley replied sarcastically, in the same icy tone.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," Shirley replied, slipping under the tape. She suddenly paused beside Sally and puckered her lips thoughtfully. "Didn't make it home last night, Sally?"

Sally didn't answer because I suddenly began to follow Shirley under the tape. Sally held her had out to stop me. "Wait, who's this?" she asked Shirley.

"Just a colleague of mine, Dr. Watson," Shirley responded, "Dr. Jennifer Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan... old friend."

A smirk crept over Sally's face. "A colleague?" she repeated, amused, "How do you get a colleague?" She turned to me. "What? Did she follow you home or something?"

More and more by the minute, I felt I would just be a nuisance and this sergeant was not helping at all. "Would it be better if I just waited...?" I started to ask.

"No," Shirley said firmly, raising the tape so I could walk under.

Sally rolled her eyes. "Freak is here," she said into her radio, "I'm bringing her in."

She started walking towards the building that had police officers swarming in and out of it. Shirley and I followed behind her. When we reached the entrance to the building, we were greeted by a medium height man with dark hair and close set eyes, wearing a blue crime scene jumpsuit.

"Ah, Anderson," Shirley greeted him in an almost pleasant tone, "And how are we this evening?"

He was scowling at her, but I did notice that his eyes flitted up and down over her and her curves briefly. He crossed his arms. "This is a crime scene, Holmes," he said sternly, "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear?"

"As crystal," Shirley replied lightly, "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson sneered, "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that," Shirley replied.

"My deodorant?" Anderson asked, confused.

"It's for men," Shirley said simply.

Anderson scoffed. "Well of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"Yes. And so is Sergeant Donovan."

Everyone turned and looked at Sally in shock, Anderson looking a bit more horrified than everyone else. I tried to suppress the smirk that was threatening to show on my face.

"Hmm, and I think it just vaporized," Shirley said, sniffing the air, "May I go in now?"

"OK, now whatever you're trying to imply here..." Anderson said, recovering.

"Oh, I'm not implying anything at all," Shirley said casually as she walked around Anderson towards the door, "I'm sure Sally just came over to your place for a nice little chat or something and just happened to stay over, right? And I assume she scrubbed your floors, judging by the state of her knees."

Throwing him a final self-satisfied smile, Shirley disappeared into the house. I followed after her, avoiding the eyes of both Sally and Anderson.

Shirley and I headed into the interior of the house and soon met up with Detective Inspector Lestrade who was pulling on one of the blue jumpsuits over her street clothes, herself.

Shirley picked up one of the jumpsuits from a nearby pile and handed it to me. "Here. You should wear one of these," she said.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to me.

"She's with me," was all Shirley replied as I took the jumpsuit and started to pull it on over my jeans and jumper.

"I can see that, but who is she?" Lestrade asked.

"I said she's with me," Shirley repeated more firmly. The inspector decided to drop the subject and I decided that I didn't mind not being properly introduced to her.

Shirley removed her own black leather gloves and began pulling on a pair of white spandex ones. I noticed that she did not even seem to be making any move for one of the jumpsuits and I began to wonder if she was going to put one on at all. She would have to, wouldn't she? I mean, she was going into a crime scene to look at evidence, right?

"Aren't you going to put one on?" I asked her, pointing to the pile of jumpsuits.

Shirley just looked at me without answering, then turned back to Lestrade. "So where are we?" Shirley asked.

"Upstairs," Lestrade replied.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Well, I decided to not switch EVERYBODY'S gender around. I thought about switching around Sally and Anderson, but eventualy decided against it. Sooooo... what do you all think? Reviews are very welcome! More coming soon!