Chapter Two: Jennifer Wilson

The cab ride was a bit awkward, to say the least. Once the initial adrenaline wore off, the silence was thick. After a moment, Sherlock tilted his head in John's direction. "You have questions," he said without inquiry.

"Yeah, loads. Where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next."

"Why?"

"Because the police are useless."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

That seemed to ignite the spark. "You asked how I knew about you, yes? Would you like me to explain?" At John's nod, he continued, "Your haircut and the way you carry yourself suggest military. When you and Mike entered the lab, you said, 'A bit different from my day,' suggesting you studied there, meaning you have medical training. Army doctor, then. Your hands and face are tan, but the tan stops above the wrist. You don't get that sunbathing on vacation. Your limp is bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, suggesting that your limp is at least partly psychosomatic, so the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, so injured in battle. Army doctor, tan, injured in battle, Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I have a therapist," John said, lightheaded.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. Now, onto your brother… Hand me your mobile, would you?"

John did as the detective bid, pulling the mobile from his trousers' pocket and handing it to him. "This is an expensive phone—GPS, web browser, MP3 enabled. A man looking for a flatshare wouldn't waste his money on a phone like this. Also, it's covered in scratches, as if it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. A money-conscious man such as yourself would never treat his only luxury item like that. It's had a previous owner, then. The next part is easy: the engraving. "To Harry, From Clara," followed by three x's. Harry Watson is obviously a male family member who's given you his old phone, an action indicating that he wants you to keep in touch. Now, who's Clara? Three x's usually indicates a romantic relationship. She could be a girlfriend, but the price of the mobile says 'wife.' This model is only six months old. Six months and he's already giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do—sentiment, you know. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her."

"But how could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"The area around the power connector is scratched. His hands are shaking every night when he plugs his mobile in. Even in the dark, he would've eventually figured out an easy way to plug it in if he were sober. You never see these marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. You were right, by the way," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"About what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

"That was amazing." John breathed after a moment of processing.

Sherlock gave him a startled look. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's brilliant!"

Feeling quite pleased, Sherlock straightened his spine. "That's not what people usually say."

"Then what do they usually say?"

"'Piss off.'"

And then they dissolved into giggles like schoolboys.

It actually took John a moment to recover enough to ask a question that had been on his mind since the previous afternoon. "Are you and Tetsuna…?"

"You can consider me her guardian," Sherlock responded, sounding a tad breathless. "Our relationship is, and will always be, purely platonic. However, I would discourage pursuing a romantic relationship with her." A hard look locked into place in those colorless eyes of his, all traces of his earlier playfulness eradicated. "She's too young for you, and I know of several young men her age who are already chasing after her."

John's face colored, but before he could assure the now (angry? Brooding? Seething?) detective that he had no untoward intentions towards the small uni student, the cab rolled to a stop and Sherlock said, "We're here."

John felt unwelcome as soon as he met Sergeant Sally Donovan.

Donovan, a handsome, dark-skinned woman in a neatly tailored suit, had confronted Sherlock and himself at the yellow caution tape, a scowl of disapproval marring her face. "What're you doing here, Freak?" she demanded, glaring at Sherlock.

The detective looked much less intimidated than John felt at the moment. "Detective Lestrade asked me to come."

"Why's that?"

And Sherlock, the cocky bastard, started smiling and said in a sugary-sweet tone of voice, "Funnily enough, I think he wants me to take a look." As he spoke, he raised the caution tape so he could duck under it.

"Well, y'know what I think?" the woman spat.

"Always, Sally," said Sherlock in a patronizing tone, and John was sure he used her first name to agitate her further. "I even know that you didn't make it home last night."

Were the situation less grave and this woman less intimidating, John would've laughed at the shocked expression on Donovan's face. As if she sensed this, she rounded on him. "Who's this?" she demanded of Sherlock.

"This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"A colleague?" Donovan scoffed, looking between the men before her eyes finally settled back on Sherlock. "How did you get a colleague?" Then she turned to John with an almost sympathetic look. "Did he follow you home?"

"Maybe I should leave—" John started, feeling extremely uncomfortable with this oddly hostile woman.

Sherlock turned his head and raised the caution tape he was still holding even higher with a loud, petulant "Nope!"

Donovan sighed and drew a walkie-talkie from the pocket of her beige coat."The Freak's here, and he brought a friend. I sending them up."

It was a short walk to the building, but Sherlock found the time to say, "Did I get anything wrong, by the way? With my deduction, I mean. I like to check when I can."

Feeling amusement bubble up inside him, John said, "Harry's short for Harriet."

Before Sherlock could begin to rant on how stupid he was for missing the obvious signs that Harry was John's sister, a man with birdlike features and greasy, slicked back hair in a blue hazard suit approached them, scowling. As soon as his eyes landed on Sherlock, his arms crossed. "This is a crime scene, Freak. I don't want it contaminated."

Instead of answering, Sherlock said, "Hello, Anderson. How long is her wife out of town?"

"Don't act like you just figured that out!" Anderson nearly roared, throwing his arms to his sides. "Someone told you that!"

A smirk worked its way onto Sherlock's face as Donovan also approached the building. "Yes, your deodorant did. It's for men."

"Of course it is! I'm wearing it!"

"So is Sergeant Donovan." When the people in question froze, he let his smirk grow wider. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure she just came over for a chat and ended up staying the night. And it looks like she scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees." With a flap of his coat, Sherlock swept inside, and John couldn't resist a quick look down at the sergeant's knees as he followed.

Lestrade was waiting for them (well, Sherlock, in all honesty) inside, wearing a blue hazard suit like Anderson's and holding another in his hands. His eyes nearly bugged out when he saw John. "Who's this?"

"He's with me," Sherlock supplied, already moving toward the staircase.

Lestrade caught one of Sherlock's thin arms. "Who is this, Sherlock? I'm breaking enough rules letting you in here!"

"Because you need me."

"God help me, I do."

"He's with me, Lestrade."

Lestrade seemed conflicted for a moment before a tense breath left his lips. "Fine," he said tersely. "You have five minutes with the body. That's it, Sherlock. I mean it."

A cocky smirk slid onto the taller man's face as John stepped into the proffered hazard suit. "I'll need less."

Sherlock was right; he'd only needed two minutes and twenty-seven seconds along with the body that used to be a pretty woman named Jennifer to find a number of things.

He could tell where she was from from the state of her coat. He saw her troubled marriage in the jewelry she wore. He knew that she'd only planned to stay in London for one night (probably with one of her several lovers) because of the splash marks on her left leg."

"Brilliant," John breathed, unaware he was doing it aloud until Lestrade and Sherlock were both staring at him. "Er, sorry. I'll stop."

"No," Sherlock said, a trickled of amusement in his voice, "its fine. Anyway," he continued, looking to Lestrade, "I'll need the case for further inspection."

"What bloody case?" Lestrade demanded, aggravated.

"Her overnight one, obviously. What have you done with it?"

"Sherlock, there was no case here."

The tall man froze before an excited light entered his eyes. "Oooh," he breathed. Turning to Lestrade, he said, "Look for the case. The killer probably has it," before he sprinted down the stairs with those damned long legs of his. His voice carried up through the stairwell. "I love serial killers. There's always something to look forward to. We just need to wait for him to make a mistake."

Lestrade leaned over the railing, irritated. "We don't have time to wait for him to make a mistake!" he shouted.

"He's already made one! Look for Rachel!" the detective yelled back, referring to the RACHE that was scrated into the wooden floor by Jennifer's head.

"What mistake?" Lestrade demanded.

"PINK!"

And then Sherlock was gone.

It took John fifteen minutes to get out of the hazard suit and trudge back down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

Quite unfortunately, the first person he ran into was Sally Donovan. "Um, is Sherlock—"

"He's gone," the woman replied. "Took off. He does that a lot."

John felt his stomach drop. "Ah, yes. Um, where is this?"

A pitying light entered her dark eyes. "We're in Brixton. You could probably catch a cab out on the main road." She lifted the caution tape up to allow John to leave the crime scene, but before he could walk away, she continued speaking. "You're not his friend, you know. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. Do you know why he does this? He doesn't get paid or anything. He likes it—gets off on it. He's a psychopath. And you know what? Psychopaths get bored. One of these days, being here isn't going to be enough. One of these days, we'll all be standing over a body, and it'll be Sherlock Holmes who put it there. So stay away from him." With that, as if she'd done him enough good deeds, she strode towards a police cruiser.

When Sherlock returned to 221B, Tetsuna was lying on the couch, Nigou snoozing away on her stomach. With the hand that wasn't petting the dog, she was reading a Japanese novel, giggling slightly whenever she came across an amusing part.

Sherlock threw Jennifer Wilson's pink case behind the couch, sat in his chair, and sent a text.

John had been kidnapped several times during his time in the army, but none of those instances had been remotely close to this one.

After his unsettling encounter with the tubby man with an umbrella, John made not-Anthea stop by the halfway house to retrieve the loaded gun he kept in his drawer. The mere presence of the firearm was illegal, and the reason he kept it loaded was even more grim, but none of that was important now.

When he returned to 221B, his gun tucked in his waistband and two texts from Sherlock ("Come to Baker Street at once, if convenient-SH" and "If inconvenient, come anyway-SH"), , the door was (still) open. Tetsuna and Nigou were asleep on the couch, a discarded novel laying open and spine-up and the rug beside them. Sherlock was resting in an armchair, his right hand pressed on the crook of his left elbow, eyes closed.

John edged into the flat carefully, shutting the door behind him. "Uh… what're you doing?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he removed his hand to reveal three large, beige-coloured patches on the skin. "Nicotine patches. It's impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London these days."

John's eyes bugged out of his head. "Why do you have three of them?"

"It's a three patch problem."

John decided to leave it at that and said, "I met a friend of yours."

"A friend?" Sherlock demanded, sounding scandalized.

"An enemy," John amended, moving to look out the window.

"Ah," said Sherlock, much calmer. "Which one?"

"Your arch one. Do people actually have arch enemies in real life?"

"I do," Sherlock replied. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

John froze, wondering how on earth Sherlock had know that. "Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No…"

"Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

Before John could think of a suitable response, a yawn alerted him that Tetsuna was waking up. Her eyelids fluttered open and she rubbed at them sleepily as she sat up, disrupting Nigou from his own slumber and sending him tumbling to the floor. "Welcome home, Dr. Watson."

Watching her be so adorable made John feel guilty. I haven't even decided if I'm going to move in yet, he thought. Instead of voicing this, he gave her a polite nod and turned back to Sherlock. "Who was he?"

"The most dangerous man you'll ever meet and not my problem right now." The detective then heaved himself out of his armchair. "Anyway, I need you to send a text."

John stared at Sherlock blankly, sure he'd misheard. "You dragged me across London to send a text message?"

"Oh, there was no hurry."

"I was on the other side of London!"

"Yes, I gathered that from your previous statement. Anyway, the number is on the table over there."

John resisted the urge to rip Sherlock's head from his skinny neck and hobbled to the desk, drawing his mobile from his pocket.

"Good," Sherlock encouraged. "Now, once you've entered the number, send this exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

John felt worry pulse through him. "Wait, you passed out? Are you okay?"

"Sherlock sent him a cross look. "I didn't pass out. Are you finished?"

"What's the address?"

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street! Hurry up!"

"Alright, alright!" John pushed the send button with a little more force than neccessary. When he turned back around, Tetsuna and Nigou had disappeared and Sherlock was back in his chair, staring intently at a bright pink suitcase. "That..that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case!"

John bit back a laugh at the irritated expression on the taller man's face. "Do people usually assume you're the killer?"

"Sometimes."

"How did you find it, anyway?" John questioned, sinking down on the chair opposite him.

"I simply looked everywhere within a ten minute travel radius of the crime scene where disposing of a case would be easy. Now," Sherlock said, flipping the case open, "what's missing?"

When John didn't answer after a three-second pause, Sherlock sighed. "Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? I wasn't on her body, and it's not in her case."

"Maybe she left it at home," John offered.

Sherlock made a scoffing sound. "She had a string of lovers and she was careful about it; she never left her phone at home."

His condescending voice was really starting to get on John's nerves. "Well, where it it, then?"

An almost bloodthirsty smile cracked Sherlock's face. "The question is, who has it?"

John phone began ringing.

"Did—did I just text a serial killer?"

"Hours after his last kill, and he gets a message that can only be from her?" Sherlock said, eyes sparkling with excitement. "If any old person just found the phone on the street, they'd ignore a message like that. But the killer...would panic." He stood abruptly, slammed the suitcase closed, and gave John a more normal smile. "Are you hungry? You must be hungry. Tetsuna and I are going out to dinner with some of her friends. It's a nice little Italian place; I know the owner. You simply must come with us!"

John felt a bit startled by Sherlock's sudden mood swing. "Ah, I can just get some carry out. I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Nonsense. I insist you come. I'm sure Tetsuna would love to introduce you to her friends, and I'm afraid Nigou's developed a taste for Chinese food—you'd never finish your dinner."

As if summoned by his name, Nigou zoomed down the stairs, baby blue eyes wide and twinkling as he sat on his rump snugly by Sherlock's right foot. Tetsuna appeared not a moment later, looking considerably more well dressed than she had upon waking up, wearing a teal dress that reached to her knees with a white sweater over it. "Is Dr. Watson coming to dinner with us, Sherlock?" she asked in that soft voice of hers, cocking her head slightly.

Sherlock smirked at send John a pointed look. Flustered by the amused glint in the detective's eyes, he stuttered, "Ah, yes, of course."

Tetsuna finished her descent, allowed Sherlock to help her into her coat, and then the three were off, managing to shut the door behind them.