When Sherlock returned, he held an opened letter in his hands.

"What is a policeman doing talking to you, Sherlock?" I still doubted how far his ambitions had taken him.

"Because, Watson, it looks like Gregson has himself in a spot of bother." That excitable look was on his face again.

"Mind explaining?" I asked in a manner that showed my obvious confusion.

"Gregson, a sharp man, probably one of the few members of Scotland Yard that can boast a decent mind. He and Lestrade of course, but both are far too conventional."

They were just names to me, and the idea that this student had connections within Scotland Yard sounded about as absurd as his theories. Still, when he presented me with the letter I had less reason to doubt him.

"A murder at Lauriston Gardens? And they have come to you?"

"You seem surprised?"

His manner suggested that there should be no doubt of them coming to him for aid. The whole thing still seemed nothing but a story to me. It was ridiculous. No detective in their right mind would go to a University student for help. I was convinced this was some kind of trick. It had to be, surely? The whole thing was staged by a person that wanted to show off, to appear superior. Others may have fallen for his tricks, but not me.

"Are you going?" I asked.

He looked startled by my question.

"Hmm? Why would I?"

He had just described his reason for being here and now he was completely double-backing on it. For an upcoming detective, he gave off the vibe that he wasn't interested in this case in the slightest. Maybe I had caught him in his lie.

"You have to go. They are begging for your help."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, as if I'd missed some obvious point to it all.

"Yes, he begs. They want my aid, because they know what I can do. Once I am finished, Gregson and Lestrade will pocket all the credit because, after all, who would believe that a nineteen year old beat Scotland Yard to the punch? Three times I have shown what I can do, and each time they have kept hush, and I am no closer to being taken seriously. Society has its own shortcomings. Superiority means nothing because of my age. Gregson would rather cut out his own tongue than give me any credit."

It was sound logic, but I was still sure he was trying to cover his tracks. You must understand, his explanation was the very reason I had cause to doubt him. How could someone not even in their twenties have such knowledge? I had to put an end to it for my own sanity. Either he was lying, or there really was something to Sherlock Holmes.

"Maybe you won't get credit, but it's what you want to do. You want to show what you are capable of. Its perfect practice if nothing else."

He raised a single eyebrow.

"Are you sure you are studying to be a doctor, Watson? Or a psychologist?"

I shrugged, trying not to give anything away.

"We may as well have a look. At least I can have a laugh at the bumbling plods, if nothing else."

It had worked.

"We?" I asked.

"If you have nothing better to do."

I went to grab my father's cane. Sherlock watched me as I crossed the room into my own. I wondered if he had done that often. It surely would have been an oddity to him, seeing me attach it to my bag wherever I went. Not long after, we were in a taxi, heading for the Brixton Road. The vehicle was filled with the same silence as Baker Street, as if it had accompanied us as an unwanted guest. I broke it in a hope it wouldn't return for the night.

"So, have you worked anything out yet? I bet you have the whole thing wrapped up already, don't you?"

"I have yet to see anything. No evidence leads to baseless assumptions. Assumptions that bias your results."

The taxi stopped about a hundred yards from our destination. Number 3 Lauriston Gardens, God it looked a dreary place in the low evening light. A single lamppost made the house and a police car visible at least. It had been drizzling for some time, making the mucky path slippery underfoot. It hadn't been how I had expected to spend the evening, but I had to discover the truth about my roommate.

A To Let sign was leaning miserably outside, letting everyone know that it had been there for a while. The house looked unremarkable with its three windows and a single vine that snaked between them. It didn't appear to be an attractive property to purchase, even for the desperate. I didn't know if it was the building's aesthetics, or the knowledge of what had happened within that played with my nerves. My roommate had no such qualms, in fact, he was smiling.

"He can't come in."

A police put his hand sternly towards me. Drat, I wasn't going to see my roommate 'at work' after all.

"I believe my assistant does indeed have permission, unless you wish to take it up with Gregson."

The man clearly didn't want to be out there in the rain any longer than necessary so he didn't argue. I passed him and followed Sherlock into the darkness of the house.

"I wasn't sure you would come, what with your studies and all." I heard a voice travel in our general direction.

The source was from a tall, pale skinned man who was clearly freezing by the way he rubbed his hands together.

"I carefully manage my studies Gregson. Your men on the other hand had no patience before rampaging the front garden like a herd of buffalo. You are lucky it didn't take place outside, or there would barely be any evidence left at all." Sherlock spoke with such brazenness that you would thing he were the man's boss.

"Not lost that attitude Holmes? You know how I feel about this whole thing… but desperate times call for it. Lestrade is upstairs on the scene."

They spoke to him like he was one of their own, all say for the remark about his attitude. We headed upstairs alongside the detective. The house felt just as damp as the evening air outside, with mildew and dust coating the walls. If it was an unappealing place to the naked eye upon first inspection, then it would cause any respectable property inspector to vomit once they had peeked inside.

I took my father's cane off of its strap on my bag and took it in hand. I was suddenly feeling morbid about the whole thing. I had jumped into this, desperate to unearth my roommate's lies, but now reality was starting to set in. I was about to look at an actual crime scene. The scene of a murder no less. I grasped the cane hard for protection. I wished I could have been as calm and collected as Sherlock.

We were led into a barren room. The window was so dirty that it hardly let in any light at all. Lamps had been placed around the crime scene for forensics. A man and a woman were still searching the floor, each clad in forensic suits as not to contaminate the place. Flowery wallpaper was peeling away from the walls, revealing the sorry state of the plaster underneath. I noticed all of these details later on, for my attention had been immediately drawn to the body that was lying at my feet.

I could only describe it as ghastly. I wanted to look away, but a macabre fascination locked me in place. The victim's arms were stretched up beside his face, which itself was frozen in a look of horror. Whatever had killed him, it couldn't have been pleasant. His clothes looked expensive and more inclined towards winter weather, though with the drizzle outside no one would have blamed him. I couldn't see any raindrops on his clothes, however.

"We've checked him over. There is sign of a struggle, but no physical injuries that could have been fatal. Blood hasn't come back yet but I'm sure it was poison." Lestrade began a dialogue with Sherlock without as much as a greeting. Clearly he wasn't happy about the situation.

I watched in fascination as my roommate studied every part of the body. He scanned every fine detail of the man, with a speed that confronted me with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock really was as good as he said.

With his search complete, he pivoted on one foot slowly, taking in the room. He stopped with a smile, his gaze locked on me.

"John, if you would be so kind as to take an inspection for me?"

I nearly choked.

"Wha… me?" I couldn't think of anything coherent to say.

"You are training to be a doctor are you not? See if you can find anything of interest about our fallen friend here."

I looked at the detectives before daring to move.

"Who is this, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

I was sure I was about to get kicked out, or worse.

"This is John Watson, my assistant, and please don't delay him detective, we have work to do." Sherlock stood back, his face showing none of the cockiness of his words.

So there I was. I had come to London to begin the next stage of my life. Standing in a grotty room, surrounded by Scotland Yard and with a dead body in front of me was not how I had pictured it at all. Why had I done this? I had been so desperate to show Sherlock up, yet the truth had slapped embarrassment my way. I would have thought myself to be disgusted in the past, but I couldn't be. Something stirred in me that drew me closer. There was exhilaration to it. A story had taken place in this very room, and its climax had led to death.

I placed my father's cane beside me and knelt down. The man's cuffs were immaculate, showing no sign of a struggle there. I couldn't find any bruises, cuts or indeed a sign of a considerable fight. I assumed that the diagnosis of poisoning was probably correct, which begged a new question.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" I heard Sherlock say.

That look, he was drawing me into his world. He wanted to see how I would react. My thoughts mixed with ideas of what could have happened, and the idea that this was Sherlock's twisted way of showing me just how wrong I had been. By the time I looked back at him, he was already studying the rows of evidence on a white bench to the side of the room.

"So, what would you say about the affair?" Sherlock asked me, like I was his student.

"This isn't a game Holmes, if you know what's happened here then tell us." Lestrade was growing impatient, clearly.

"We are not quite done here. Watson, take a look at the evidence. I have one more thing to check."

He retrieved a torch from the bench and made his way over to the rotting plaster. I on the other hand took a look at the bench. Laid out were the victim's personal belongings. An expensive looking watch, a business card with the name Joseph Stangerson and a wallet with I.D that belonged to an Enoch J. Drebber, alongside a single photograph that depicted a young woman and two men. There was very little money, making me think it could have been a robbery. The last item was a plane ticket, bought by Drebber and dated for the next day.

"Was the man killed for his wallet?" I asked.

"Think Watson, does that question need to be asked?" That was the vague answer my roommate gave me.

Seven pounds and thirteen pence was all that was left in change. I guess if it was for his money, the robber probably would have taken the whole wallet. My reasoning wasn't up to Sherlock's standards, especially not on that cold, confusing evening. Sherlock clapped his hands together and stepped back.

"This room is full of surprises! Gentleman, feast your eyes upon this wall for me."

I let the detectives go first. What was he up to?

"There's nothing there, boy." Gregson muttered.

"Not at first, unless…"

Sherlock retrieved a lighter from his pocket and made his way excitedly over to a small stool in the left corner of the room. Atop it was a red candle, its wax having dried after running down its side. He felt the wick before lighting it.

"…you shed some light on the matter."

With the low light coming from a new angle, a dark red pattern had become apparent on the broken plaster.

"Extraordinary!" Gregson exclaimed.

"How did you know to light the candle?" I asked in a befuddled state.

"I noticed the curious writing and immediately went about deciphering why it had gone amiss for so long. At first I had assumed it was due to Gregson and Lestrade's 'excellent' detective skills, but in this case they could be forgiven," I had to hold in a chuckle. Neither of the two men looked impressed. "The wick of the candle is not as cold as the rest of the room, meaning that it was lit recently. It would have been the only source of reliable light in the room, given the window's sorry state. The writing is visible with it, meaning the killer was leaving us a message. How polite of them."

The red substance used to write the message had dripped down the walls, coating the rotting floorboards. The young would-be detective had discovered this new clue, but it added nothing from where I was standing.

"Rache?" Gregson read the writing out load.

"And that's meant to mean what exactly?" I asked the room.

"Rachel. I bet someone called Rachel has something to do with this!" Gregson deducted.

I saw Sherlock roll his eyes in a manner hidden from the two men.

"Indeed, Indeed. I would like to inform you however that there is a slight discrepancy with your golden reasoning. Rachel has six letters, so the wall would disagree with you." Sherlock did nothing to hide his condescension.

"The victim could have been leaving a clue of their killer." Gregson tried to back up his reasoning.

As the chattering went back and forth, I couldn't keep my eyes from being drawn back to the dead man behind me. That face wasn't something I would be able to forget in a hurry. Although he was the victim, there was something startlingly evil about it. Was it a reflection of what had happened to him perhaps? A mirror into the hell that had taken him? It wasn't right of me to wonder if this man deserved it or not, I knew nothing of this stranger. All I knew was that he was dead, and I was way over my head.

I wanted to get my eyes off the grim sight, so I forced myself to focus on the broken floorboard beside him. In the new candlelight, something shining wrestled for my gaze. There was something that had gone amiss. I knelt down, making sure to keep the man's face well out of my view. Under the man's overcoat was something hard, and round. I was surprised to find myself with a wedding ring in my hand.

"I think he was married?"

All eyes turned to me. I held up the ring, letting them all see it. Although the ring reflected the candlelight, the brightest thing in the room was Sherlock's face.

"Very well done, Watson," My roommate took the ring in his palm. "Alas, our man is not married. Or he shows no sign at least."

"Why not?" It had seemed a reasonable assumption to me.

"There is no mark on his finger, or any sign of a struggle strong enough to dislodge it. Would a man really take off his ring in the last moments of life? It would be the last thing on his mind. The last nail in the coffin for your idea John, is the fact that this ring belongs to a woman."

It was a distasteful metaphor considering the circumstances, but Sherlock didn't seem the type to care.

"A woman's you say? See! Rachel!" Gregson brightened up.

Sherlock didn't roll his eyes this time, but he did freeze for a moment.

"It is a woman's ring no doubt. The metal's width is thinner to that belonging to a groom. As for Rachel, there is nothing to confirm it. Tell me, have you seen the word 'Rache' in the English dictionary before?" None of us answered. "Of course not, but you would in a German one. Rache is their word for 'Revenge'."

Right, now I was left with my mouth wide open.

"You showed extraordinary interest in my studies, Watson. Why would I wish to know so much? Such a fact as the meaning of the German word Rache would be considered trifling. Here though, well, the crimson writing talks for itself. That is your lecture today Watson, your first foray into the science of deduction. Hmm, I like that. 'A lecture in crimson'."

"Enough of your tangents! What does it all mean?" Lestrade interrupted.

"It means that someone has tried to cast whatever scent you may catch into the river. It's a ruse, and Watson knows why."

Again I found myself dragged into Sherlock's theories.

"Come again?" I asked.

"Come on, you have had a look at the body. You must see it, surely? Gregson here believes a woman called Rachel was involved. Let the poor man know why he is a klutz for thinking so."

He really was pushing his luck. I guess this was his way of laughing at the 'bumbling plods'. I gathered my thoughts. My knowledge of the human body was of little use as there was no sure sign of a scuffle. Instead I applied myself to a different way of thinking. Rachel… Rache… the victim… no blood.

"There is no blood on the victim's fingers, or underneath the nails so they couldn't have written the message. The writing seems off as well. If it was meant to be Rachel then why leave the word short? There is room left for the L and the body's position suggests he had time left to move there before dying, or he wasn't by the wall in the first place."

Sherlock grinned.

"I will make a detective of you yet, Watson."

God I hoped not. This dirty scoundrel's way of drawing me in, it had completely turned the tide on me.

"Oi! You aren't one yet yourself Sherlock!" Lestrade scolded him.

"I would say the same of you Lestrade if I didn't know better," He muttered under his breath. "My assistant is right, of course. No, the message was left by the murderer. To add to Watson's evaluation, the scratches in the weak plaster tell us that the writer had much longer nails than the victim, so we should be on the lookout for someone who keeps them untrimmed."

"Or a woman…" Gregson whispered.

"Just drop it, Gregson! You were the one who summoned him here, so deal with it." Lestrade shouted.

I was beginning to see the rivalry between these two men. They must have hated being mocked by someone far younger than them, but stealing the credit would have been worth it.

"What do you know of the victim so far, this Drebber?" Sherlock asked with little humanity behind his words. The corpse on the floor could have merely been another clue in his mind as far as I was concerned.

"He lived in New York. The ticket confirms that he was heading back tomorrow. There doesn't seem to be a connection between him and this Stangerson mentioned on the card but we are following up that lead. As for career, he was a doctor back in the U.S."

"Hmm, how ironic," Sherlock gave a quick glance at me. "And no marital status discovered I assume?"

"Not yet," Gregson added.

"Now then, what was this man doing in London? Clearly the company he shared this room with wasn't of a pleasant sort…" Sherlock paced.

"Well?" Lestrade attempted to interrupt his long strides across the room.

Sherlock just smiled in response.

"I wouldn't be too rude as to presume I could rob you of the glory in this case, Lestrade. You are doing finely up to this point," he checked his watch. "As for us, we really should get going. We have a morning lecture on Monday and I know how much Watson likes to study on Sundays. Must be off."

The two detectives were dumbfounded.

"Hold up! We haven't finished!" Lestrade held out his hand.

"Quite right! There is one more thing. You wouldn't be able to point us in the direction of who discovered the body would you?"

I had the sense that Sherlock was going to ask that regardless, he was just making a personal joke at the detectives' expense.

"An officer on duty found him, John Rance. He's just gone off duty though. He lives at 46 Audley Road."

"I'm sure he won't mind us popping in." Sherlock said with a grin.

"I'll call him in advance." Lestrade retrieved his phone from his pocket.

"Come, come Watson. Leave the poor man be." He referred to the body.

I made sure to pick up the cane, feeling guilty that I had left it on the rotting floor as long as I did. There was a spring in Sherlock's step as he made his way down the stairs and into the front garden. I hadn't even noticed the mess that he had referred to earlier until we were leaving. As for how I was feeling, it was a mixture of foreboding for what I had gotten myself into, and fascination for my roommate. I had been wrong.

"How the hell did you do all of that!?" I exclaimed.

He seemed pleased with my outburst.

"Some theories may seem ridiculous at first, but often the most ridiculous things are the truth. The idea that man can walk on the moon was ludicrous just a hundred years ago. In this case though, what isn't ludicrous is the fact that our victim upstairs died of some form of poison, and with no struggle to find, there is only one explanation that they have overlooked." I didn't ask because I knew he would explain regardless. "The two men, our victim and the killer, came here together without a fight to be had between them. In the same car, no less."

I was at a loss.

"You noticed that from the dust? The footprints the detectives had made ruined that, surely?"

"Quite the contrary. Their footsteps had nothing to do with it. This was the very first thing I noticed upon arrival." He pointed to the road. "You see how the road is less damp outside the house? Curious shape, is it not? Exactly the size of a car or taxi. It had not been raining until this vehicle arrived, and clearly it did not leave until the rain had stopped. It was here for some time, and only one was present during said time."

I looked under the nearby police car. Indeed it was damper than the patch Sherlock had noticed, after all, it had arrived after the deluge.

"I… just can't…" I couldn't wrap my head around it.