Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.
― Lao Tzu

Anna

I sat down on my bed and dug into my pocket to retrieve my phone. I opened it and scrolled down to sent messages. I opened the most recent one and read, 'If brother has green ladders arrest brother. SH'.

I looked over at my laptop on the desk and decided that since Sherlock knew so much about me, I might as well try and look for him.

I spent the majority of the night searching through anything I could find on him across the internet.

The next day dragged on and on until finally seven o'clock arrived. I decided to walk there, just to save some extra money. It was a nice night anyway, but my limp was bothering me a bit by the time I finally got there.

I walked up to the door and hit the knocker against the door three times to try and get someone's attention. "Hello." I blinked and turned around to see Sherlock paying a cabbie. He was dressed in the same scarf and jacket he'd been in yesterday. Must've been his favorites.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." I smiled as he drew nearer.

"Sherlock, please," he said firmly, shaking my hand as he passed to the door.

"This is a good spot," I noted as I glanced around at the conveniently placed coffee shops, food booths, and clothing stores.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." He never looked at me as he spoke, merely looked past me at the people and the shops.

"Help out in what way?" I asked.

Sherlock looked at me curiously, as though I was some interesting experiment. His eyes once again traveled the length of my body once before meeting my eyes again. That action, when performed by a man, usually meant he was attracted to you. It somehow felt different when Sherlock did it. The only heat in his eyes was one of curiosity.

"I ensured it," Sherlock said with an almost smile. The door to 221B opened at that moment and a short woman in a purple outfit opened the door. She had a kind face and short red-blonde hair. She must've been in her fifties or so. She gave off a very maternal air that naturally drew you in.

"Sherlock!" She greeted warmly, bringing him in for a hug. He returned it, and it looked like one of the few times he seemed genuinely comfortable. Sherlock stepped back and gestured to me with his hand.

"Mrs. Hudson, Anna Watson," He introduced me.

"Hello! Come in!" Mrs. Hudson said, ushering me in the door.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, almost rhetorically. I rolled my eyes. Of course we would. We were already there.

Sherlock went up the stairs first and I limped behind him, going much slower. Sherlock waited patiently in front of the door on the first landing, but I could see in his eyes that he was eyeing my leg critically. I sent him an annoyed look right back. When I reached him, he sent me a tight smile and swung the door open.

It was rather cozy inside. There was a black leather chair sitting in front of a full bookshelf. A tall window with tan drapes was on the far wall that let in a large amount of sunlight, another just like it to the right. Boxes and baskets of objects were around the whole area.

"Well, this place is very nice," I said, though the tidy monster inside of me was having a fit at the mess of cluttered boxes.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

I raised my eyebrow. "What if I'd said no?"

"You weren't going to say no," Sherlock snorted, as though he was quite certain of this.

I frowned. "I could have said no."

"Yes, you could have," Sherlock agreed. "But I knew you wouldn't."

He began to straighten a few things up a bit, stacking some papers into a pile on the mantle before stabbing a knife into them to keep them in place. I jumped a bit. Effective. I glanced just to the left of that and blinked. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said quickly. "When I say friend..." He trailed off and walked back towards the door. I followed to see Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs.

"What do you think, then, Ms. Watson?" She asked, her eyes bright. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'd be needing two bedrooms." Sherlock began to remove his coat and scarf, completely at ease. I glanced between him and Mrs. Hudson.

"Um, you can just call me Anna," I said with a frown. "Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh, it's alright, dear," Mrs. Hudson said quickly. "I'm not the judging sort. I know all about you young people getting adventurous and moving in together before you're married."

Mrs. Hudson moved into the kitchen as I stood there, face blank. She thought we were together. She thought Sherlock and I were together. I looked over at Sherlock, but he didn't seem to care one bit. "Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice exclaimed from the kitchen. "The mess you've made!" Her voice sounded more motherly than scolding. Sherlock merely glanced up at his name, displaying no interest once he deemed her words unimportant and returning to sorting through boxes.

I put a small pillow with Union Jack sewn on into a chair and sat down, rubbing my leg just above my knee. The pressure had built up a great deal since morning. Sherlock continued to unpack boxes of books, my eyes following him all across the room. When he opened his laptop, I felt the need to say something. "I looked you up on the Internet last night." I almost winced. That's a great way to start a conversation. Make him think you're a stalker.

Sherlock turned to look at me, not saying anything for a few moments. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. The Science of Deduction."

He had a brief, rather proud smile. "What did you think?"

I pursed my lips and smiled, squinting my eyes a bit. "It seemed almost unreal. Can you really identify a software designer by his tie? Or an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes." Sherlock said confidently, his proud smile growing slightly larger. "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone."

I was honestly curious. "How?" I asked, staring straight at him, trying to find some way of knowing if he was telling the truth. But, looking at Sherlock, he gave nothing away. Nothing except for a crooked smile before he turned away.

"What about these suicides, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming into the room holding the daily paper. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." As she spoke, Sherlock looked to the far right window and down at the street.

"Four," he said simply. Mrs. Hudson and I glanced at each other before looking back at Sherlock. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."

Just as he said this, a man came up the stairs into the apartment. He had greying hair, though he was handsome. He didn't even get a chance to speak. "Where?" Sherlock asked, eyes squinted.

"Brixton, Laurestine Gardens," said the man. I glanced at the paper Mrs. Hudson held. Oh. Detective Inspector Lestrade. I glanced back over at the two. What would he want with Sherlock?

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock asked, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah."

"This one did." Sherlock's face took on a look of detachment. "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked, his face wary.

"Anderson," Lestrade answered, sending Sherlock an understanding look when he winced in frustration.

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock muttered.

"Well, he won't be your assistant," Lestrade said in an attempt to appease Sherlock.

"I need an assistant." Sherlock said firmly as he returned his gaze to the Detective Inspector.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked once more.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." Lestrade nodded to Sherlock and then to Mrs. Hudson and I before he left. I looked back at Sherlock curiously. What was he? Obviously someone involved with the police somehow. Someone the police trusted, at least. I was broken out of my pondering by Sherlock suddenly smiling and jumping through the air, completely giddy.

"Brilliant!" He exclaimed. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!" He spun around the room, grabbing his coat and scarf as he went along. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." He moved past her and into the kitchen, shrugging on his coat as he went.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she reminded him.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock said, brushing her comment off as if he hadn't heard it. "Anna, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home." He grabbed a pair of gloves off the table and left the the kitchen door. "Don't wait up!" The door slammed shut behind him.

"Look at him dashing about," Mrs. Hudson commented fondly. "My husband was just the same." Mrs. Hudson, though kind and only trying to engage me in conversation, upset me as I remembered how active I had once been. 'I was, too,' I thought sourly, glaring at my leg. "You're more the sitting down type, I can tell." I shut my eyes tightly, trying my hardest not to snap at the nice old lady. It wasn't her fault I had a bad leg. "I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg," she said kindly before heading into the kitchen.

"Damn my leg!" I shrieked, not able to hold it in any longer. I heard Mrs. Hudson give a frightened squeak and I winced. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said quickly, pressing my fingers to my eyes and rubbing them. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just... It's just sometimes this stupid leg, and I just..." I trailed off, not able to say anymore.

"I understand, dear," said Mrs. Hudson sympathetically. "I've got a hip." I smiled a little.

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," I said, attempting to rectify the situation.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got any."

"Not your housekeeper!" She, too, left to go down to her rooms in the first floor.

I looked over the newspaper, trying to find something, anything to distract me. I saw the article about the newest suicide victim and began to skim over it when I noticed the front door open again. "You're a nurse." I looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, fitting some gloves onto his hands. "In fact, you're an army medic."

I stood up and shuffled my feet a bit "Yes." I looked at him expectantly.

"Any good?" He asked me, glancing from my leg to my face.

"Very good," I answered, seeing where the conversation was going.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked, his eyes never once leaving mine.

"Oh God, yes." I agreed fervently.

On the cab ride over, I asked Sherlock again how he knew about me being in Afghanistan. This started a very long, lengthy explanation.

"The way you held yourself said military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so army nurse, obvious. You face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury to your leg were traumatic, wound in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

There was silence in the cabbie for a moment as I processed this. It was almost unbelievable for it to be possible. I felt my lips twisting into a smile of their own accord. I couldn't stop it. "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a limp." He said an almost annoyed voice. I nodded, giving him that one. "Then there's your brother."

"What about it?" I asked.

"Your phone." I drew out my cell phone and passed it into his waiting hand. Once more, Sherlock went into a very long rant. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this; it's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pockets as keys and coins. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?" I supplied, hoping that I was giving him what he asked for. I had my doubts - he probably wanted me to pick up on some minute detail involving a corner of the screen.

"Jamie Watson - clearly a family member who's given you her old phone. Not your mother, this is a young lady's gadget. Could be 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 sister it is. Now ... who's Carter? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says husband not boyfriend. He must have given it to her recently. This model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months on, she's just given it away. If he'd left her, she would have kept it. People do, sentiment. No, she wanted rid of it. She left him. She gave the phone to you. That says she wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your sister for help. That says you've got problems with her. Maybe you liked her husband, maybe you don't like her drinking."

"How could you know about the drinking?" I asked after shutting my mouth. It was getting freaky. That was a lot to go on based on the condition of a cell phone. "What about the phone says anything about drinking?"

Sherlock gave another of his tight, fake smiles, the smiles that were almost creepy, like a doll's painted face. He wasn't smiling because he was happy. I felt like he was smiling because he thought it was the societal convention to smile on occasion. That made me wonder just how detached he really was from the world. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though.

"Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night she goes to plug it in to charge, but her hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober woman's phone, never see a drunk's without." He passed my phone back to me and folded his hands in his lap neatly, gazing out the window, as though he was suddenly quite bored with me. On closer inspection, I saw that his hands were clasped tightly, as though he was preparing for something to happen.

I looked down at my phone in wonderment. If he could tell all that just by looking at some tan lines and a cellphone, what could he tell by my haircut, or the color of my nail polish? Maybe he followed the same guidelines I did when deciding how a girl was feeling based on the color and condition of her nails.

"That... was amazing," I said seriously, putting my phone back in my pocket and looking at the street ahead. I noticed Sherlock turn his head towards me out of the corner of my eye before looking at me directly.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, of course," I nodded. "It was extraordinary. Completely amazing. Never seen anything like it in my life."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock said, looking away again, eyes guarded.

I snorted. Of course not. Most people didn't take kindly to have personal facts about them and their family laid out as though it was obvious to see. "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

I snickered as he said this and smiled when he glanced at me, almost hesitant amusement flickering across his face before turning his head to look out the window. I saw the corner of his cheek lifted though, telling me he was smiling. The rest of the car ride was silent, though not uncomfortably so.

It was dark by the time we got to the crime scene. Sherlock got out first and shut the door after I'd stepped out. Up ahead, I kept see a tall building taped off with squad cars parked around it, their lights on to tell people to keep back.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked as he adjusted the leather gloves on his hands.

I thought about everything he'd said between then and the first time I'd met him and nodded. "Jamie and me get along great, always have. Yes, I hate the drinking. That's a problem. Carter and Jamie split up three months ago. They're getting a divorce right now. And yes, I did like Carter. He was sweet. Jamie is a drinker."

"Spot on then," Sherlock said, almost smugly. "I didn't expect to be right about everything." He had an odd skip in his step, making him appear almost jaunty.

I smirked up at him. "Jamie is short for James."

He stopped walking suddenly and I turned to look at him. His face was very distant. "Jamie's your brother."

"What am I doing here, anyway?" I asked, beginning to walk again, ignoring his statement.

"Brother!" Sherlock hissed, ignoring my question. "There's always something..."

Realizing he wasn't going to answer my question, I limped along behind him as he approached the police tape. A woman with very tight curls stood within the tape, flicking through her phone. She glanced up when she saw us approaching and her face immediately darkened.

She then put on a sneering smile. "Hello, freak!"

I blinked, glancing between her and Sherlock. She'd obviously meant him. Sherlock seemed utterly unphased by this, simply giving her that not-real, tight smile. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said quickly, stopping at the police tape.

"Why?" The woman asked.

Sherlock turned his gaze upon her. "I was invited," he said surely, his eyes boring straight into her. She didn't even blink.

"Why?" She asked again, this time with more of an edge to her voice. I glanced between the two nervously. There was obviously a lot of tension. If eyes could shoot fire, I was sure they'd both be incinerated by that point.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock said, almost sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" The woman asked. It was obviously rhetorical. I knew exactly what she was thinking, even after just meeting her. Her disdain for Sherlock was obvious.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock said as he lifted the tape up and ducked underneath it. He sniffed the air and glanced at her. "Even know you didn't make it home last night." Sherlock raised the tape high for me so I wouldn't have to duck down and shimmy awkwardly with my limp. The woman, Sally, stopped me almost immediately, though.

"Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine - Anna Watson." I smiled at her, hoping to thaw some of the frostiness in her eyes. No luck. "Anna Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." The way he said friend made it quite clear he was calling her that for formality's sake, nothing more.

Sergeant Donovan gave a humorless laugh and looked back at Sherlock. "A colleague? How do you get a colleague?" Sherlock shifted around. He was getting tired of talking with Sergeant Donovan. "What, did he follow you home?"

Tired of Sergeant Donovan's rude behavior, I smiled brightly and replied, "Actually, I followed him home!" It wasn't technically a lie - technically, Sherlock had already moved in by the time I'd gotten to 221B. So technically, it was his home first.

Sergeant Donovan looked at me like I'd grown two heads. I saw Sherlock's lips twist into an amused smile before it was gone and he lifted the tape for me again. Sergeant Donovan didn't stop him this time. I stepped under the tape and Sherlock let it snap down behind me as Sergeant Donovan sent us a sour look, grabbing her walkie talkie out of her coat pocket. "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

Sherlock began to look all over the place, taking in the building, the surrounding area, and even the sidewalk. As he did so, I saw a snobbish looking man come out of the house. When he saw Sherlock he immediately sneered. Hm. He sure wasn't popular around here.

"Ah, Anderson!" Sherlock greeted with false warmth. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," Anderson said in a snobbish voice. Hm. Matched his face. "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear." Sherlock continued to stare at Anderson for another few long moments. "And is your wife away for long?"

I pressed my lips together and looked the other way. Sherlock either had a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, or he enjoyed showing off. I decided to go with a mix of the two.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson sniffed. "Someone told you."

"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock countered, no longer finding Anderson interesting enough to look at. I followed his gaze to see him looking at Sergeant Donovan.

"My deodorant?" Anderson questioned speculatively.

"It's for men," Sherlock scoffed, looking at Anderson as though it was obvious.

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

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

I felt a giggle rise up and I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop it. 'Inappropriate,' I told myself. 'Inappropriate time to laugh'. Anderson spun around to look at Sergeant Donovan and Sherlock, seeing my amused expression, decided to make another joke.

"Ooh, I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Now, look, whatever you're trying to imply..." Anderson began warningly before Sherlock cut him off.

"I'm not implying anything," he said as he walked past Anderson. I followed, biting my lip as I tried to hold in my laughter. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice chat and just happened to stay over." As he passed Sally, Sherlock smirked and she shut her eyes, clearly annoyed and embarrassed. Served her right. Being rude to Sherlock obviously wasn't good for you social life. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Sherlock grinned at them briefly before going back into the house.

I sent Sally an amused but sympathetic look as I passed. She might have been rude, but she was lucky the others around weren't paying close enough attention to Sherlock to hear what he'd said.

"Ms. Watson, what do you think?"

I blinked, glancing between Lestrade and Sherlock. "Of the message or the body?"

"The body. You're a medical woman."

"Well, no, we have a whole team outside," Lestrade argued, confused as to why Sherlock wanted my opinion.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock said, disregarding the comment. He looked back at me.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," Lestrade grumbled.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Because you need me."

There was silence between the two men before Lestrade relented. "Yes, I do." He snorted to himself and let his gaze drop to stare past the floor. "God help me."

"Ms. Watson," Sherlock said once more. I glanced up at him then at Lestrade, wanting to know if it was all right.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself," he sighed in defeat before leaving. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

I kneeled down beside the body, Sherlock opposite me. The woman looked middle aged. She obviously liked the color pink, considering everything but her hair was some shade of the color. She'd scratched the message Rache into the floor with her left hand, so she was left handed. None of this was really any help to figuring out anything interesting, however. I glanced up at Sherlock who looked at me expectantly.

"Well?" He asked, curious as to why I hadn't started guessing anything.

"What exactly do you want me to do here?" I asked.

"Help me prove a point," He replied softly.

"I thought I was going to help pay the rent," I hissed back.

"Well, this is more fun," Sherlock countered.

"Fun?" I questioned, shocked. "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

I pursed my lips and sent him an annoyed glance before looking back at the woman's body. I heard Lestrade come back into the room and sent him a wave. Sherlock then sent me an annoyed look so I went back to the cadaver.

I checked over the body, looking at the coloration of her neck and smelling her face. I then took her hand and spread it flat, glancing over her fingers and wrists. "Asphyxiation most likely," I said, leaning back on my feet. "Passed out and choked on her own vomit. I don't smell any alcohol on her, so it could've been a seizure, maybe drugs."

"You know what it was, you've read the papers," Sherlock said darkly. I shared a look with him and added on.

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth one, I believe." I glanced down at the body. "She's left handed. Doesn't do work with her hands since her nails are so nice. Even though the polish is chipped off, the nail is extremely healthy. She obviously didn't work much with her hands. They're soft, no callouses. Something in entertainment? I don't know, a reporter or something like that?" I was grasping at straws by end of it, but Sherlock was looking at me with interest. Maybe I'd gotten something right after all.

Lestrade spoke up from the doorway. "Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood up while I struggled to get to my feet. Damned leg...

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase." Sherlock rattled off.

Lestrade frowned. "Suitcase?"

I glanced around the room but didn't see any suitcase either.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake," Lestrade groaned. "If you're just making this up..."

Sherlock pointed down to the woman's left hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

I couldn't help it I was in awe. I gaped a bit and said admiringly, "That's brilliant!" Sherlock turned around and looked at me sharply before swiveling around to face Lestrade again. "Sorry," I muttered.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock looked between the two of us. "It's obvious, isn't it?

I shook my head. "Not to me."

Sherlock paused as he looked between DI Lestrade and myself. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." I pursed my lips and decided to ignore that.

Sherlock turned back to the body.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" Sherlock got his phone out his pocket and showed Lestrade and I the webpage he'd looked at earlier displaying the daily weather for the southern part of Britain. " Cardiff."

I did it again. I really couldn't help it. I tried to imagine what it must be like to live inside his mind and just know all the stuff just by glancing at a person. "That's amazing," I said, looking at him in wonder.

Sherlock turned to look at me and said in a lowered voice, "You do realize you're doing that out loud?"

I felt my cheeks flush. "Right. Sorry. I'll stop."

Sherlock shook his head, looking slightly surprised. "No... it's fine."

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock began to spin around the room, eyes cast in every corner. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock spun to a stop in front of Lestrade and said, quite sarcastically, "No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

In answer, Sherlock indicated the woman's legs with his arm. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." Sherlock squatted down by the woman's body and examined her close more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade said with a frown as he crossed his arms.

Sherlock froze then slowly raised his head to look up at Lestrade, frown marring his features. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase," Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock straightened up and headed for the door. "Suitcase!" He called as he began to descend the stairs. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade and I followed him out and watched his descent from the landing. "Sher, there's no case!" Lestrade called down to him stubbornly.

Sherlock stopped and turned to look back at us. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clears signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." Sherlock began to hurry down the stairs again.

"Right, yeah, thanks," Lestrade grumbled. He leaned over the banister. "And?"

Sherlock stopped once more to look at us. "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings - serial killings." He began to smile in delight and clapped his hands together in front of his face. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to." He started down the stairs again.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, quite confused. I really just didn't know what to make of the situation anymore.

Sherlock stopped and called up to the rest of the forensics team above him, "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." He began to quietly speak to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She couldn't have checked into a hotel," I supplied. Lestrade looked at me curiously. "Come on. Her shoes match her lipstick! And look at her hair! She wouldn't have gone out in public looking like that."

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, and I looked down at him. "Say that again."

"She wouldn't have left a hotel looking like she does now," I said.

"Oh," said Sherlock, his face completely delighted, as though some great realization had come upon him. "Oh!" He clapped his hands together again. Must have been a habit when he got excited.

"Sherlock?" I called, questioning.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade leaned further over the railing to get a better to look at the detective.

Sherlock smiled cheerfully to himself. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade exclaimed, outraged at the idea of it.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock called back. He began to hurry down the stairs again.

"Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from view.

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" Lestrade shouted, clearly getting annoyed. I jumped at the way his voice seemed to bounce off every corner of the house.

Sherlock came back for a moment to poke his head into view. "Pink!" He shouted back before hurrying off again.

Lestrade, baffled, turned and went back into the room while Anderson and his team, who had been waiting on the next landing down, hurried up the stairs and followed him into the room.

I realized that I didn't serve a purpose anymore since Sherlock had left. A few of the people from Anderson's team bumped into me in their haste to get into the room. I righted myself and began to hobble down the stairs awkwardly. An officer rushed past me to get upstairs and knocked me off balance. He didn't even apologize to me, as though he hadn't even seen me. I latched onto the banister so I would fall over, and the officer just behind him grabbed my shoulder and sent me an apologetic smile, leaving after I'd righted myself.

When I'd finally gotten down the stairs and out of the blue outfit, I went outside and scanned the crowd for Sherlock, searching for his curly hair. I went towards the police tape, hoping to see him waiting for me somewhere on the other side.

"He's gone." I turned to see Sally Donovan looking at me, arms crossed.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, hoping she would say some other name.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" I asked, grimacing as I realized how alone I was.

"Didn't look like it." Sally said unhelpfully.

"Right." I sighed, looking around and trying to decide what to do. "Right." I looked back at Sally. "Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton."

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er... well..." I looked down at my walking stick awkwardly. " ...my leg.

Sally glanced at the officer beside her for a moment before lifting the police tape for me. "Try the main road."

I ducked under the tape and quickly said, "Thanks."

"But you're not his friend." I frowned and turned to look at Sally. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm ... I'm nobody. I just met him," I said, realizing how true that actually was.

"Okay, bit of advice then; stay away from that guy." Sally looked completely serious now, not even a little biased.

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" I asked. Sure, he was eccentric at times, but I couldn't imagine him killing someone just for the fun of it. If anything Sherlock got off on solving the mystery of it. If he killed the person, he'd know how it happened, and there wouldn't be any draw to it for him.

"Because he's a psychopath." Sally said gravely. "And psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" I glanced over her shoulder to see Lestrade calling to her.

"Coming!" She called back. As she walked away, she looked at me over her shoulder. Her face was softer now, though her eyes were firm. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she advised, and then disappeared into the building.

I pursed my lips as I watched her walk away. Maybe there was a bit of truth to what she said. Maybe Sherlock was a psychopath. However, as soon as I thought that, I disregarded it. No, he couldn't be. This Sally Donovan was just a rude woman with no manners. I turned and began to walk towards the main rode, deciding that I'd just have to walk till I got a cab.

As I started walking, I heard a ringing to my left and saw a phone box ringing. I frowned. They weren't supposed to ring. I figured it was just a prank of some kind and walked away. After a few steps, it stopped ringing. Another way down the street, it started again. And when I answered that phone, a black car pulled up beside me on the curb. The window rolled down and a pretty girl with dark hair sat inside, clicking away on a Blackberry. She looked up at me and smiled sweetly. Not-Anthea wasn't much for conversation on the way to our mystery location, and the whole way, I couldn't help but wonder what I'd gotten myself into.