With Maria

"Lets get you to bed ankle-biter." Maria said rubbing the girls head, turning away from the window once Sherlock and John had left in the taxi.

Walking down the corridor Maria opened the door to Mia's room and putting her under the blankets.

"Stay till sleep." Mia sleepily mumbled.

"Of course."

"Wuv you"

"I love you too." Kissing her forehead and massaging her scalp, trying to soothe her into sleep. After about 20 minutes she was out like a light and Maria retreated into the sitting room to tidy up the flat a bit and grade some papers before Mia awoke or the boys returned.

With Sherlock and John

"Okay, you've got questions!" Sherlock exclaimed looking up from his phone.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Crime scene, next." He said simply.

"Who are you? What do you do?"…I'd say private deceive but…"

"But." Sherlock interrupted

"The police don't go to private detectives."

"Im a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job." Earning a confused expression from John.

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth- which is always- they consult me." Sherlock bit out trying to not be annoyed.

"But the police don't consult amateurs." To which Sherlock gained a sour expression. A flash of anger appearing in his eyes before it went away.

"When I first met you I said Afghanistan or Iraq? you seemed surprised."

"How did you know?" John inquired.

"I didn't know. I saw. Tanned face, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military- but your conversation as you entered the room says you trained at Barts. So army doctor. Obvious! Your limp is really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it-so its at least partly psychosomatic. That says the circumstances of the original injury were traumatising- wounded in action then. Wounded in action, a suntan. Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock explained clicking his tongue.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. Then theres your brother- your phone. Expensive, email enabled, mp3 player - you're looking for a flatshare, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches - not just one, but many over time. Been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man in front of me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so there's been a previous owner. Next bit's easy - you know it already."

"The engraving."

"Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a

young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero 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, the expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. It's a marriage in trouble then - six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he'd probably have kept the phone - people do, sentiment - but no, he wanted rid of it: he left her. He gave the phone to you - that says he wants 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. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark - good one though. The power connection. Tiny little scuff marks all round it - he plugs it in every night to recharge, but his hands are shaking. Never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." Sherlock finished. "There you go? You were right."

"I was right? Right about what?" John asked confused.

"The police don't consult amateurs."

"That was amazing" He said gobsmacked.

"Do you think so?"

"Well, of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary." he complimented.

"Thats not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John chuckled at this. "What did Maria say?…You've must of done it to her." To which Sherlock glared outside the window.

"I can't read her." Sherlock said not wanting to admit he was wrong. "You are like an open book, quite easy to read. Maria is much more complex as her likes and disinterests are contradictory… doesn't help when we are at about the same mental capacity."

"Im not following."

"When you look at her what do you think her interests are, she's young, confident and beautiful."

"…um her looks.. she likes makeup…into the latest trends."

"Yes good, what about her disinterests?"

"Probably anything bland, reading…probably things like action movies." to which Sherlock just nodded. "I am utterly wrong aren't I."

"Yep!" Sherlock remarked. "Don't worry, I haven't met anyone whose been right… She's a History and English high school teacher, so she quite enjoys reading- has made a library out of her spare room in her flat- also wrong about the action movies, they are actually her favourite and she has a stash of collectable memorabilia, among other things… you were right though, she does like makeup and keeping up with the latest trends."

"She's a contradiction." John said. "You said you were at the same mental capacity, is she able to do the deduction thing."

"The deduction thing?" Sherlock stated, to which John just shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, she just has more social graces than I do."

John nodded in understanding. "You said you've never met anyone that has been right… Does that mean you were wrong about her at first."

Sherlock turned to John smirk on his face "Ah, Now your starting to get it." Before exiting the cab leaving John to pay the cabbie.

"Hello Freak." Sally spoke.

"Im here to see Lestrade." Sherlock responded

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"Well someone sounds a bit more like a broken record lately, I think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock retorted, amusement gone from his voice.

"Well you want to know what I think, don't you."

"Always, Sally. I even know you didn't make it home last night."

Sally turns looking at John who currently looks very out of place in the crime scene. "Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson - Sergeant Sally Donovan. Wench." Sherlock said with a smile.

"A colleague, how'd you get a colleague? Did he follow you home?" Completely ignoring Sherlocks jab.

"Look, would it be better if I just -"

"No!"

"Freak's here. Bringing him in." She said into the walkie talkie, lifting the tape so John could enter.

Once in the crime scene Sherlock began to observe the area around hime, it looked like a dark, abandoned, but not too rundown. However, cold and empty. With a man leaning on the doorframe, glaring at Sherlock.

"Anderson! Here we are again." Sherlock exclaimed.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. We clear on that?" To which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Is your wife away for long?"

"... Don't pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that!" He said angrily.

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan." John looked between the two seeing the panicked looks on there faces.

"Amazing." He whispered

"Oh! And I think it just vaporised! May I go in?"

"You listen to me. Whatever you're trying to imply —" Anderson said red-faced

"I'm not implying anything - I'm sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat, and happened to

stay over. And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees —" Sherlock said smiling and entering the house brushing past Anderson. John, bemused follows.