The Speckled Blonde, Part 1

Morning on Baker Street always seemed to range from utterly dull and ordinary, Sherlock reading his paper with his dressing gown over his day clothing, John busy focusing on his breakfast, and Amelia eating her eggs and bacon between ideally scrolling through her emails on her phone, to something else entirely. Some mornings on Baker Street reminded Amelia Wilson that she truly did have quite an odd life, even before having meet Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; her life hadn't been anywhere near as interesting as it was now. Sure, she had still been a detective, she still had her cases, and lived her life largely the same as it was now, but when you meet a man like Sherlock Holmes and become involved in his life, somehow it does change you. She didn't think you could be a part of his life without it changing you somehow.

Of course, she would rather kill herself then ever admit that aloud. The man already had a large enough ego.

Amelia's morning usually followed the same routine, her alarm would wake her at seven thirty and she would shower before having breakfast. When she had lived in her own home, she wouldn't have cared about getting dressed for breakfast, staying in her bathrobe with her hair wrapped up in a towel, but now that she typically took her meals with the boys next-door, she tended to dress and do her hair and makeup before organising her breakfast, because as much as she imagined it would be amusing to witness Sherlock and John turn purple from the embarrassment of having breakfast with her in her bathrobe, even she had some limits in regards to how far she was willing to push Sherlock. Plus, he did tend to be usually rather grumpy in the mornings, which made for little amusement on her behalf.

The kettle finished boiling, clicking loudly as it shook slightly on the small black stand, emitting a swirl of steam into the air as she grasped the black, curved hand with red nail polished fingers and poured boiling water into her stripped white and blue tea cup, instantly turning the water an amber hue from the teabag sitting at the bottom of the cup. She typically cooked her own breakfast and took it next door with her in the mornings, not wishing to impose upon Mrs Hudson, since she wasn't actually a tenant of the land lady's. With the tea still brewing, Amelia turned back to the stove and turned the rashers of sizzling bacon and eggs in the pan over, before yawning to herself, absently covering her painted red lips with her left hand.

She was tired, though what else was new? It seemed like ever since James had popped up again and her secret had finally been revealed to Sherlock and John, that all she ever was was tired. She would lie in bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling above her head, her mind whirling with thoughts and worries about what her maniac brother might do next, what he might be planning, what horrible plan he intended to embroil herself and her new friends in. And they were her friends, even Sherlock, who she had tried so hard to distance herself from at the beginning, was a friend to her now. She had given up on pretending as though he wasn't. He knew her secret, he knew who her brother was and he still trusted her enough to work with her, he still valued her work as a detective. He could have easily hated her for the deception or jumped to the conclusion that she had been planted into his life by James in order to get to him from a deeper, more personal level, but he hadn't. He trusted her still, and if that wasn't enough to earn her friendship, what more would?

Amelia pulled herself from her thoughts and grabbed a white and blue trimmed plate from off the kitchen bench by her cup, transferring the pan's contents across onto it, before sitting it back down on the plate. She ducked back into her bedroom and checked her reflection again, making sure she hadn't accidently spilt any oil or grease onto her red tweed dress, straightening the navy blue and white bow that went around the bodice of the dress. She wondered if it was perhaps a little plunging in regards to the V-neckline, before dismissing it, it was still tasteful, but with a hint of cleavage. Her Valentino heels matched perfectly, red with a navy blue strap and white trim, while the small ruby studs in her ears complimented the colour of her dress and lipstick. Of course, she wasn't trying to impress the boys, Sherlock barely looked at women and John was closer to a brother, in her eyes, but she liked to try and always look professional.

"Okay, stop staring at yourself, Amelia," she rolled her eyes at her own reflection, smoothing back a strand of dark brown hair that had already started to escape her low bun, "Breakfasts getting cold".

God, she was talking to herself…again. She felt like she needed to get a dog or something, people were less likely to think you were going nuts if you had the excuse that you were just talking aloud to the dog. Or maybe she was just mental, look at her brother. That was a cheery thought to have at eight in the morning. She shook her head at herself and grabbed her navy and red trimmed coat, along with matching handbag, off her bed and easily draped them over one arm as she returned to the kitchen to grab her plate and cup, moving with practiced ease through into the open planned living and dining room, towards the interconnecting door between her flat and the boys.

Amelia found Sherlock sitting at the small dining table between the windows of the boys flat as she entered, though this morning he seemed to be busy scowling at something on John's laptop screen, ignoring his clearly untouched breakfast beside the computer. John was nowhere in sight, though she heard the sound of the shower running down the hallway, just before it cut off.

"Morning, Sherlock," she greeted as she moved to take her usual seat in the chair at the end of the table, John typically sitting in the chair directly across from Sherlock. She placed her cup and plate down on the table, before draping her coat over the back of her chair, dropping her handbag onto the floor to lean against the table leg.

"Amelia," he said without looking up, looking positively annoyed by whatever he was reading on the screen.

She lifted an eyebrow, dropping onto her chair, crossing her bare legs, "Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully, eyeing his expression, "Now, judging by your expression, either Mycroft has been declared Prime Minister of Britain, or…" she let the sentence dangle as he finally fixed her with a small glare, "…you're currently reading John's last blog update. Again".

"'The Geek Interpreter,'" Sherlock glared back to the screen, grimacing distastefully, "I have never read a more romanticised, absurdly inaccurate retelling in my life!"

"Oh, dear God…" Amelia sighed, closing her eyes in exasperation, "It's way too early for this," she shook her head and opened her eyes, reaching for her tea cup.

""Sherlock sent Amelia and I to do some research, which involved us going into a comic book shop…Oh, the things we saw, and Amelia got chattered up by some bloke dressed up like Captain America. In the middle of the day, no less. It was a silent ride home that day; I don't think she'll ever be able to look at Captain America the same again…'"

Amelia felt her cheeks warming as Sherlock lifted his gaze up to her, clearing her throat, "I told you I didn't want to go to the comic book store," she muttered, giving him a pointed look, "For God's sake, do I look like the type of woman to fit in at one of those places? Plus, it smelt like dirty socks!"

"I told you to wear a different skirt…"

"Hey, I shouldn't have to change how I dress just because some men seem to think that women are just sex objects to ogle at! I'm a woman and proud of it, I don't dress for men!"

"But this is what I'm talking about," Sherlock huffed loudly, gesturing sharply towards the laptop screen. For a second, Amelia feared he might actually smash his fist into it…which probably wouldn't be the first time he'd smashed something in annoyance, "It's all pointless drivel which had no meaning to the case. Where is the analytical reasoning? Why must he insist on writing about the utterly useless and meaningless information that has no relevance to the facts of the case?"

Amelia groaned to herself, casting her eyes upwards as she lifted her cup up to her lips, taking a sip of slightly overly warm tea, just to try and avoid having to answer right now. She felt like she'd had this argument with him a dozen times before, every time John wrote a new blog update it seemed like Sherlock managed to find something to complain about. Of course, he was waiting for her to say something, his pale blue eyes narrowed on her profile expectedly, obviously waiting for her to react. She swallowed her mouthful and placed her cup down on the table next to her plate.

"Sherlock," she began carefully, looking across to him with a stern look, "Let it go, please. It's John's blog; let him write what he wants, since he is telling it from his perspective of the case. Besides…" she shrugged her right shoulder lightly, reaching for her knife and fork, ignoring his eyes glaring into the side of her face, "People don't want to hear about the 'analytical reasoning' of how we solve the case, they want to read a good story, which includes adding irrelevant information. It humanises it".

"'Humanises it?'" he repeated, scoffing loudly, throwing the laptop an icy look, "Why does that matter?"

"People have to be able to somehow relate to a story, they need to be able to try and picture themselves right there, because it makes it more real".

"This isn't a story, Amelia, this is work…"

Amelia almost groaned aloud again, but she managed to resist, having just stuck some cut egg and bacon in her mouth. She chewed as Sherlock continued to go on his little rant, largely allowing his words to just wash over her, like white noise. God, it must be a talent, being able to speak for so long without seemingly needing to stop for air, she was almost impressed. But eventually, she did need to cut in and stop him as she finished her mouthful, swallowing it.

"Sherlock!" she interrupted him loudly, raising her voice slightly. He stopped midsentence and actually looked slightly taken aback, which was almost amusing to see on his face. She took a deep breath, before fixing him with a look, "Shut up. Look, I get it, okay?" she sighed heavily, "You don't like the fact that John glosses over all of the significant, tiny details that we consider to be so hugely important to solving a case, but the thing it, no one else cares about those details, if they did they would be able to solve the case for themselves. John writes his blog from his view point, which is how the rest of the world views our cases. He writes it like a normal, ordinary person would write it, that's why people like reading his blog, because it's something they can understand and connect with," she lifted her tea cup up to her lips to take a sip, before pausing, "And to be perfectly honest, I find it rather flattering".

Sherlock scoffed again, crossing his arms across his chest, like a sulky child, "Of course you find it flattering," he said, before putting on a higher pitched voice, "'Amelia Wilson and Sherlock Holmes, from first meeting, could have been cut from the same cloth. Just like with Sherlock, Amelia's way of introducing herself to me was by reading me my entire life story, but unlike Sherlock, she actually seems to have a concept of being normal, you know, for someone who's shoes cost more than my rent…'" he dropped the voice and threw her a look, while Amelia attempted to conceal her blush by focusing on cutting up her bacon, "Oh, yes, incredibly flattering".

"That's not what I was referring to," Amelia closed her eyes in exasperation, glancing back across to him, stabbing a piece of bacon with her fork, "I think it's flattering that anyone would actually take the time to write about our cases. Now…" she gave him a strained, forced smile, "Can we please drop the subject? You're putting me off my breakfast," she lifted the fork up to her mouth pointedly.

He huffed slightly, though he thankfully refined from saying anything else on the matter, eyeing her carefully. Blissful silence washed over them, but of course it couldn't last. It never seemed to last long with Sherlock Holmes in the room.

"I see you're going out with Molly later".

She swallowed her mouthful and nodded, "We're having coffee at ten," she informed him, though she didn't imagine he would actually care that much, "Then we're going to get our nails done, have lunch, and probably do a bit of shopping. I…feel a little responsible for the whole 'Jim' incident," she admitted sheepishly, frowning as she glanced up to him, finding him eyeing her closely still, "I haven't been spending as much time with her as I used to, we've been so busy, I just think that if I had been around more for her I might have realised what James was doing…"

"You blame yourself," he narrowed his eyes, "You do realise that guilt is an utterly useless emotion, Amelia. You can't possibly place responsibility upon yourself for your brother's actions".

"I don't, not usually, anyway. But Molly's different, he went after her because he knew she was my friend and that she had a connection to you, he made her feel special, pretended to be interested in her. He hurt her, Sherlock. And I should have seen it, I should have known".

"You can't have known, Amelia," John's voice cut through the air, stern but gentle. She and Sherlock looked up to find him frowning slightly as he moved to take his usual seat at the table across from Sherlock, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, but he was dressed in his usual jeans and a dark blue and white checked shirt, "Nothing that man has ever done is your fault," he told her, just as he lifted his fork up, only to pause and point it towards her, "Do you hear me?"

Amelia smiled very slightly, feeling touched by how insistent he was that it wasn't her fault, when it had only been three months since the truth had come out about her connection to the mysterious and deadly, James Moriarty. John had been a bit guarded around her at first, recovering from the shock of being kidnapped, having a bomb strapped to his chest, finding out someone he had come to trust and befriend was actually related to the same man who had placed him in that position, and then almost blown up again by his own flatmate. But he had slowly warmed up to her again, she had probably apologised a million times and even Sherlock had spoken up for her, reassuring John that Amelia was innocent and hadn't been working with her brother behind their back. It seemed to have gone a long way in helping to regain his trust, which meant so much to her. They might have only known each other a little over seven months now, but she found that she had grown rather fond of the army doctor. He was a good man and a good friend.

"Yeah," she said, finally, "And I promise, I'm trying not to let it get to me, honestly. I just…I feel horrible for what happened to Molly".

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he reached for his folded up newspaper, sitting off to the side of his still untouched plate, "You're a sentimentalist, Amelia," he remarked, sounding disapproving as he opened his newspaper with a loud rustle, before disappearing behind it. Amelia stuck her tongue out at him, "And childish," he added from behind his paper, not so much as lowering it.

"So says you," Amelia shot back, smirking to herself as she went to sip her tea. This was a man who kept a stash of cigarettes hidden away inside an old slipper, not to mention his habit of wondering around his flat in his dressing gown, or his inability to apparently walk around his own coffee table. Honestly, she could go on and on about his possibly childish habits, but she held herself back, draining her cup and placing it back onto the table by her plate.

Silence settled over the room, comfortable and easy as John and Amelia continued their breakfast, while Sherlock would occasionally turn to the next page in his newspaper. Amelia wasn't sure how much he actually read and took in, though, since he seemed to be completely ignorant in regards to most of current news events, such as who the British Prime Minister was, or the memorable morning when he had no idea that the Earth travelled around the Sun. She supposed he probably just checked for any unusual crimes that had been committed, and deleted everything else. That, in itself, was still something she found herself rather curious by, even if it was obviously detrimental to ones basic knowledge of the world. Seriously, how did he just 'delete' knowing that the Earth travels around the sun? How?

And then…Sherlock's phone began ringing.

Amelia and John instantly tensed, catching each other's eyes as they slowly looked across to Sherlock, who had lowered his paper and placed it on the table, not seeming the slightest bit bothered by letting it fall over the top of his plate as he reached for his trilling phone in his dressing gown pocket. He clicked a button and lifted it up to his ear.

"Lestrade," he said briskly, his way of greeting. Amelia pushed her chair back from the table and rose, grabbing her coat and handbag, while John hurriedly starting trying to finish off the last few mouthfuls of food he had left. After barely twenty seconds, Sherlock nodded, "We'll meet you there," he lowered the phone and clicked it off, breaking into a smile, "We've got a case. Come on!"

He practically flew out of his chair, never more alive than when they had a case as he dashed across the room, shrugging his dressing gown off as he tossed it over towards the sofa. He pulled the living room door closed slightly to grab his coat and scarf from where they were hanging on the back of the door, while Amelia pulled her own coat on over her dress, her handbag dangling off the crook of her arm.

"Can't we hold off another five minutes?" John sighed; though he was already sitting his knife and fork down, pushing his chair back to stand.

Amelia raised an eyebrow at him, "What, are you new here or something?" she laughed slightly at the disgruntled look that crossed his face, "Come along, John. Murder waits for no one".

John heaved a large sigh and rose from his chair, casting his breakfast a regretful look as Amelia smiled, crossing the room to join Sherlock by the door as he pulled his coat on. Today certainly wasn't going to be an ordinary morning on Baker Street.

….

It was a lovely summer morning with a pleasant breeze in the air, Amelia almost felt silly for having bothered to wear her coat, but then again, Sherlock was dressed in his scarf and thick, long coat as though it was the middle of winter, so she supposed that compared to him, she didn't look that odd climbing out of the back of the cab behind the man in question as they pulled up outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital, John slipping out behind her. They made their way inside and headed down the very familiar route to the morgue, finding Lestrade waiting for them just outside the doors.

"Morning," he greeted them as they approached, Amelia's heels sounding loudly against the laminated flooring.

"Lestrade," Sherlock began right away as they came to a stop before him, seeming rather impatient to get a move on with the case, though that was hardly surprising. Amelia and John didn't even have a chance to return Lestrade's greeting, "You said you have a case for us," he lifted an eyebrow, looking expectedly towards the other man.

"And a good morning to you, too," Lestrade gave him a sarcastic smile, earning an exasperated puff of air from Sherlock. He shook his head and turned towards Amelia, seeming to decide that he'd rather address her, then Sherlock, "Julia Stoner," he told her, "Her sister, Helen, found her this morning lying on her bed, dead. There's no obvious sign of how she died, just these funny looking red dots all over her body. I thought you three might want to take a look," he cast her eyes over Sherlock and John at that.

Amelia glanced at her companions, "It certainly sounds curious," she remarked, turning back to him with her eyebrows raise, "Can we see the body now, Lestrade?"

Lestrade turned on his heel and pushed the double doors to the morgue open, while the three of them followed close behind him, the chilled air instantly hitting their cheeks. Amelia tried hard not to wrinkle her nose against the strong stench of cleaning fluids and antiseptic that seemed to hit them like a harsh slap in the face, instead she focused on the young woman's body lying on a metal table in the middle of the room, her skin a greyish blue beneath the harsh florescent lights of the room, curious red dots that seem to cover most of her flesh, while a white sheet covered her body largely from view. Her blonde hair was obviously dyed, pooling around her head on the table, pushed back off her face as though it had been wet and then brushed back. Lestrade hung back slightly as the three of them moved towards the table, eyeing the body closely.

"You weren't kidding about those spots," Amelia murmured, frowning as she peered down at the woman's body, frowning slightly at the strange, seemingly random pattern of spots that covered the woman's flesh. Julia Stoner wasn't much older than her, only in her early thirties, if she had to guess, with not even a hint of a bruise or anything to indicate how she might have died, just as Lestrade had said.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, his pale blue eyes quickly running up and down the body, before slipping his hand inside his pocket, pulling out his small magnifier glass, leaning closer to examine the woman's skin intently under the glass.

"No bruising," John commented, standing on the other side of the table, "No obvious wounds…"

"It does rather suggest something internal," Amelia said thoughtfully, before pausing, "Or environmental, in nature," she glanced at Sherlock beside her, closely examining the woman's fingers, "Should make for an interesting story for you blog, John," she looked across to the shorter man, giving him a slight smile.

Sherlock sniffed at that, apparently still not completely over his early morning annoyance, "Do people actually read your blog?" he asked him, his voice rather tight as he continued peering closely through his magnifying glass, now examining the woman's arm.

Amelia closed her eyes tightly in exasperation, resisting the urge to groan, "Oh, not this again," she muttered, opening her eyes to glance at Sherlock, bent over the dead woman's arm, and across to John as he looked carefully at the woman's face.

John's eyes flickered over to her, before turning his gaze back onto the body, "Where d'you think our clients come from?" he shot back at Sherlock, his tone carrying a hint of his own annoyance, apparently not missing Sherlock's own tone.

Sherlock gave a slight shrug, "I have a website".

"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash," he replied, still carefully eyeing the woman's pale, speckled face, missing the sharp look Sherlock gave him as his head snapped up, "Nobody's reading your website".

Amelia looked quickly between both men, her internal warning bell ringing loudly in the back of her mind as she noticed the way that Sherlock's eyes had narrowed into a glare, aimed directly at poor John, who seemed to be either purposely ignoring the sensation of someone burning a hole into the top of his skull…or he was simply being more oblivious then normal this morning. She sighed, straightening herself from where she had been leaning slightly over the table, giving Sherlock a firm look.

"Let it go, Sherlock," she told him sternly, though he hardly seemed to hear her, straightening at the same time that John did. She barely held back her groan, her tone almost pleading, "Just let it go".

"Right, then," John continued to eye the body, still seeming to miss Sherlock's expression, or Amelia's resigned one, "Dyed blonde hair…" he began listing off, "No obvious cause of death except for these speckles…" he frowned, bending over the body again, "…whatever they are," he used his gloved hand to gesture towards the odd spots scattered across even the dead woman's face, before lifting his head to look across the table…just in time to see Sherlock heading towards the door, his coat collar turned up. He blinked slowly, taken aback as he looked at Amelia for explanation.

Amelia sighed heavily, shaking her head as she cast Sherlock's back a look caught between amusement and annoyance, "I don't think he liked your little remark about his blog," she informed him, giving John a strained smile as Sherlock shoved the morgue doors open and loudly let them close behind him as he left the room.

"You've got to be kidding," he said with a huff, throwing the still swinging door an irritated look.

She nodded sympathetically, "I'll deal with him," she said, rolling her eyes slightly at the thought of actually needing to try and get a grown man in his early thirties to actually behave himself, as though he was a child. She missed working on her own sometimes, "Could you get a start on getting some blood toxicology tests running, John?" she asked him hopefully, letting her eyes drop back onto their murder victim, "These speckles kind of make me think of some sort of poison, maybe even an allergic reaction?"

John nodded thoughtfully, turning his attention back onto the body, "Seems pretty likely," he agreed, "If someone slipped her something, it could have caused a reaction like this. And a poison seems like the most likely cause of death, given any lack of trauma".

Amelia lightly hummed in agreement, before turning on her heel, "I'll go let Sherlock know what's happening," she said over her shoulder, her heels clicking on the floor, moving towards the door, "Hopefully he's done acting like a child".

"I'll leave you lot to it, then," Lestrade spoke up, almost startling Amelia, who had almost forgotten that he was still in the room with. She paused with one hand grasping the door handle, watching as he moved to follow her, "You seem like you've got it covered".

She shot him a cheeky smile, "That's why you come to us, Lestrade," she reminded him, probably speaking far to cheerfully for the fact that she was still standing within a morgue with a woman's body lying beneath a sheet not ten feet away. She pushed the door open, winking at him over her shoulder, "We are the experts".

He gave a slight scoff at that, levelling her with an unimpressed look as he came to stand by her, "You're spending too much time around Sherlock, Amelia," he said, "You're starting to sound as smug as him".

Amelia instantly frowned and narrowed her eyes at him, before whirling around and striding out through the door, leaving him to catch up to her. She might have been trying to be friendlier with Sherlock and get along with him more, but she couldn't say that she enjoyed the idea of being likened to him like that. She preferred to think of herself as her own person, not anything like Sherlock Holmes.

The Speckled Blonde, ladies and gentlemen, I did say I wanted to try and start writing up John's blog entries from his website, so here is one of the first. And it will be set into parts, at this point I have a rough idea that it will be around three to four parts, possibly, but we'll see. Also, if anyone one is curious about dates, this is set around about the 5th of July, 2010, since according to John's blog, he uploaded the case on the 13th of July and it then hit a slight lull for a couple of days during the case, and I'm also trying to take into account how quickly John might have been able to type it up. Judging by the Wiki time line, Amelia would have first meet John and Sherlock around the 30th and 31st of January of 2010, so they've been working together for the last six, seven months now. I don't know if anyone is actually interested, but it does help me having an idea of dates and how much time has passed. That, and it helps me keep track of what references I can't use…I had to take out one about Amelia not being able to watch Captain America due to the film not being released until late 2011.

As always, Amelia's outfit will be on my Tumblr, Shoplook, and Pinterest. I hope you liked it, please let me know what you though, please review :)