Okay, I decided I kinda have to write this chapter now, before I leave for London (YEY) on Wednesday, and I won't be able to update from there. So I will be away from fanfics for a whole week. Going to miss fanfics, but I'll be going to the Sherlock Holmes museum and I'm so excited! Haha :)

Anyway, here it goes! Don't behead me if I'm no good at writing cases.

"How on earth can you know that by just looking?" Lestrade asked, looking shocked. Sherlock shook his head.

"Obvious! Even an imbecile like you should've seen it." Lestrade still looked confused, and Sherlock mumbled:

"I'm surrounded by idiots. See!" He went up to the hanging body. "Look, he could've put his leg on the chair without problems. Even you probably know that you don't die immediately when hanging yourself, so he'd had time to put his feet back and save himself. But he didn't. Why? Somebody stood here and made sure he didn't."
"But how do you know he just didn't want to survive. Maybe he actually just wanted to die?" John asked, not understanding why that would be so shocking.

"Oh, John, look around you. Did you see the alarm system? It's worth hundreds of pounds. He was scared someone would come to get him. If you check the safe he most surely has by his bed, I can assure you it will lie a gun there. Probably a baseball bat by the bed, too. People that are so afraid of being killed usually don't make the job easier for the guys that are going to kill them by doing it themselves."

"That's amazing!" John blurted out, and stared in surprise when Sherlock gloomed.

"Well, his name is Peter von Woller, he has four kids with his ex-wife. The oldest one is a girl, 17 years old, then there're two boys, twins, age 13 and the youngest is a girl on 9. He told me once they're here every other weekend." Lestrade shipped in, not totally following Sherlock.

"It's one of his four children that have done this. None of them want anything to do with him, but he want admit that. You can see it from the pictures and the movies in the shelf. Not new pictures, at least four years old and the movies are for kids age 7-10. Also, he's kept the rooms as they probably were when the kids lived here, but they haven't been here for two years, I imagine. Interrogate the kids. I want to be there. Still, boring case. Hang on, just one more thing." Sherlock had just seen the man´s wedding ring. It wasn't as dirty as the mediawoman with the cabby-case, but still long time since it had been cleaned. He took it off and checked behind it. "Forever yours truly," read the inscription. Clean on the inside.

"Yes, ah. Find his lover, she might be able to tell something." He hurried off.

"John!" He shouted from above, and John ran after him, happy he hadn't left him there like he usually did.

"You waited on me," he said, slightly astonished.

"Yes, why wouldn't I. Aren't you supposed to wait for your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, but, you don't wait," John said, letting the end just hang there.

"Guess I don't," Sherlock smirked. "But I have something I started earlier today, and want to finish. I'm not one for starting something and forgetting about it."

"Aha," John smiled.

"Yes. I most certainly have to check out the saliva experiment with the head in the fridge. It's been standing there for ages, now."

John felt like someone had stung him in the heart. He tried not to look hurt when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's grin.

"Idiot," John said, punching Sherlock a bit harder than friendly in the arm, but couldn't help but smile. It wasn't usually Sherlock joked. He got a cab, and they jumped in, both eager to come home and finally finish what they started this morning.

Later that day, when John was watching telly and Sherlock sat in is chair raping the keyboard of John´s PC, Lestrade called and said they were starting with the interrogations.

"If you want to be there, you better come now. And, if I hear a word of you saying something ugly to those kids, I'll be keeping you off cases for a long time, you hear me?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and hung up. Then he jumped up and down, and kissed John eager on the lips.

"This is actually my first case since you, ehm, left. That's why this is more fun than it ought to be, considering it's an extremely boring and predictable case." Sherlock said, without putting any feelings in, as they sat in the cab on their way to the police department. John felt the sting he figured he'd always feel when he got reminded on how much damage he'd done to Sherlock by leaving.

"Don't feel guilty, John. You did what you had to do." The voice was just a low whisper, and when John turned to look at Sherlock he sat looking out of the window, turned away from John. If Sherlock hadn't taken his hand and squeezed lightly for a second, he would've thought he'd imagined it.

The first one Lestrade put in front of Sherlock and John was a little, blond haired girl. She had bright, blue eyes and freckles.

"Hi. What's your name, then?" Sherlock smiled his human smile, and sat down opposite the girl.

"Samantha Crieff," the girl said, meeting Sherlock´s eyes without sign of fear or resignation.

"Tell me about your father, Samantha?" This was said in an asking voice, rarely heard coming out of Sherlock´s mouth.

"He was bad. He threatened us, with all the weapons hanging around the house. I'm glad he's dead." She looked up, without shame or sadness in her face. John stood shocked behind the glass. Clearly Peter von Woller had done something terrible, since his daughter disliked him so badly. Lestrade was also clearly speechless, but Sherlock just nodded.

"He came to visit my school, after we'd stopped being there. He came to talk to my teacher about me, to get her to convince me to go to him no matter what my mum and sister said. He was a bad man. Now that he's dead, I don't have to fear for my life anymore." John shook his head, partly still in shock. Poor girl.

"When were you last with your father?" Sherlock asked the two twin brothers. They were like clones; both had short, clearly coloured hair, grey eyes and a little spark, clear through the relieve.

"One and a half year ago," Sherlock turned his head and sent John a what-did-I-say-look, before turning his attention to the boys again, called James and Jacob.

"We stopped coming there little by little. Vay was first."

"Hang on," Lestrade stopped what John though was James. "Vay?"

"Yes, our sister. Her name is Valencia, but we've always called her Vay. Everyone does, actually. She stopped coming for around two years ago. They'd had a fight over something; he'd been sneaking in her papers and following her. I can't believe she gathered enough courage to do that, cut him off. She was so scared of him. We all were, actually, until, well, now. We never knew if he should snap, and kill us. He made it clear that it wouldn't be a hard thing to do. I guess Vay suffered the worst. He kept following her, and it didn't help when she stopped coming. He just got even worse, and kept texting her about where she was and that he could see her, threatening her to come back. He was desperate to keep us there, didn't want it to look like he was a bad parent. He wanted everything to be perfect. But then again, so did his whole family."

"Do you still have any contact with the rest of the family on your fathers side?" Sherlock asked. This time Jacob answered.

"No. Apparently they chose his side. I don't know so much about that; you'll have to ask Vay. I still get a text every now and then, but they don't say anything. They're mostly from my grandparents. They sent one for Christmas; same message to all of us, except Vay´s was shorter. Nor James or me answered, don't think Sam or Vay did, either, but then again, you'll have to ask them about that. I remember Vay got really angry and answered when Peter sent her a text for her birthday last year."

"You don't call him dad?" Lestrade asked, surprised.

"No," Jacob smiled a little, "we all stopped doing that the second we stopped going there. He was such a bad man; I don't want to be connected to him. He locked me in a car when I was sick, once, and had me sitting there for five hours when the others was in a restaurant celebrating, the birthday of a friend of the family. Didn't even come to check on me, sent his maid instead."

"You have a maid?" Sherlock asked, interested.

"No, I'm referring to Karen. But she's always acted more like a maid and a babysitter then a wife, so we sometimes call her maid. He never did anything at home, Karen did everything."

"Aha. Okay, well, I think that was all," Sherlock said, as Lestrade was about to ask a question. He sent Sherlock a stern look and said:

"Just one more thing, did your father have any enemies?"

This lead to a rather huge outburst of laughter from the twins.

"Well, at least he thought so! I can surely imagine he had enemies, as he was an asshole, but not as many as he seemed to think." Once again, Lestrade was shocked speechless, so Sherlock showed them out.

"It's not a loss that he's dead, Mr. Holmes. He made our lives miserable. He wouldn't even sign our passport. He was a danger to us. Don't be too hard on whoever did this, please?" James looked begging up on Sherlock, and Sherlock nodded, while giving him a pat on his shoulder.

Sherlock went into the room again, and Lestrade looked up on him.

"This is very unlike something I've heard before. None of them seemed a bit sad, they seemed relieved all as one. He must have really been a threat for them."

The door opened, and a young woman entered. She looked older than she was, more mature and worn out than 17 years old usually looked. Her hair was long, with light curls and a deep chestnut colour. Her eyes were clear green, and despite the worn out look, had a lively spark, a burning fire. She wore light make-up, almost not noticeable, a pair of well-worn tight jeans and a big, blue t-shirt with BLUE STAHLI written on it, which was an odd contrast to the rest of her by being so unstylish. John frowned when he saw Sherlock´s glance. It was spellbound.

"Hi, I'm Valencia Crieff, but please call me Vay." She held out her hand, and to both Lestrade and John's surprise, Sherlock took it.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. This is D.I. Lestrade." The handshake lasted longer than it should, and John felt a bit sick. This was Irene Adler all over again. Maybe, with a bit luck, this girl was gay too. Or, of course, what did he have to fear, she was probably like any other 17 years old, and would bore Sherlock as soon as she started talking.

"Vay, you are 17 right?" Vay nodded, with a tiny smile. "Doesn't look like it, does it? I feel like I'm looking more worn out every second." She added this when she saw Lestrade´s unbelievingly look.

"When did you last see your father?" Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes fixated on Vay.

"That's a hard question," she answered. "You see, last time I was there, was my 15th birthday, but I have seen him after that. Not talking to him or anything, but I did see him at my work, once. He didn't want me to see him of course, but I did. That's around, a year ago. After that, he got a bit better with hiding when he followed me around." The last part was said with a bitter smile.

Sherlock looked at the woman in front of him. He couldn't call her a girl, because she wasn't. She was so much older, and it was clear to him that she'd experienced so much more than 17 years old usually had. She didn't look like the other women he was used to seeing, they put work in to their outfit, but Vay didn't. He couldn't read her. The only thing he could figure out, was that she was so much more than what he could see, probably a whole other person and it drove him crazy.

He was used to understand and be able to read the persons he was put in front of, but he couldn't read her. This was somewhat like what he'd experienced with Irene Adler, except Vay Crieff was different from Irene Adler on that simple point that even though Vay had given him a lot to go on, he couldn't read her. He hadn't been able to read Adler either, but that was mainly because she didn't give him anything to go on. Vay sat in front of him, with clothes and a lot of words, that didn't tell him anything. It didn't help when she said:

"I didn't kill him. Someone else took care of it before I had the chance. Though I have to say, I'd love being the one who did it. He deserved it. It was just a question of time before he killed one of us. He couldn't bare not being perfect."

After what seemed like ages to John, the interview was over. He was hurt and scared, because he'd seen how Sherlock had looked at that girl. He was not reassured by the fact that Sherlock was quiet the whole trip home. He didn't say a word, he just sat, looking out of the window, far away from John. When they came home, John coughed, and asked silently, even though he didn't want to hear the answer:

"So what did you think about Vay Crieff? She was, ehm, something?" He could hear his own voice shiver, but Sherlock didn't notice.

"She was… Special. Different." The words were said with an odd kind of admiring, which was slightly annoyed.

"I can't figure her out…" Sherlock let the sentence hang in the air, and it felt like someone had pulled a rope around John´s neck and tighten. He couldn't breathe. That was the most flattering thing he could imagine Sherlock say about someone. He'd seen how Sherlock had looked at her, and he felt the rope tighten as he the thought of being dumped hit him like a punch in the stomach.

"Okay, I'll leave you to it, then," John managed to get out, and stormed to his room.

Sherlock was too lost in his thoughts to notice. There was no evidence in this case. He wanted to know how it had happened. He wanted to know how the person had managed to get Peter von Woller to kill himself, and he wanted to know Vay Crieff. Who she really was, beneath the mask that she clearly put up every day before meeting people. He didn't care so much whether the case was solved and brought to court, though, because Peter had sounded like an evil psychopath, and it was probably for the best that he was dead, but the curiosity nearly drove him out of his mind.

He went to his jacket to pick up his phone and his nicotine patches, but found a paper bit instead of his beloved patches.

The note was written by hand, probably with actual ink.

Li brx zdqw wkh wuxwk, frph wr wkh uhg rdn wuhh.

Sherlock stared at the letters as every kind of cipher and codes ran through his head. Finally, he found the right one. Caesar cipher.

If you want the truth, come to the red oak tree.

Forgotten about John, he grabbed his phone, turned on recording and disappeared out of the apartment and into the dark outside.

Cliffhanger? Maybe a little one?

Tell me, people, what do you think? Do I suck at writing cases? What do you think of Vay Crieff? Could she be the end of John and Sherlock?

This chapter got way much longer than I intended. Well well, me on my part am just happy how longer it is, I kind of find short chapters partly annoying, at least when it's me writing them.

If convenient, review. If inconvenient, review anyway. JK
(And that's not JK- just kidding, that's me signing with my name)

:)