The Speckled Blonde, Part 3

The days wore on, slowly morphing into a full week, and then into another with still little progress in the mysterious death of Julia Stoner. Their one and only likely suspect, Julia's fiancé and snake enthusiast, Percy Armitage, had proven to have a pretty decent alibi for his whereabouts during the murder, considering that he had gone out to a pub with a couple of his friends and had been very visible both from surveillance cameras and a number of witnesses as having been sitting in the same table of the pub from nine to closing time at two thirty in the morning, making it rather difficult for him to have been the one to have snuck his pet adder into his fiancé's bed while she slept, and considering that the time of death had been between twelve and one o'clock in the morning, it would have been rather difficult for Percy to have been at the pub at the same time as his girlfriend had breathed her last. Naturally, there was room for the possibility of him to still have had something to do with Julia's death, but Amelia and Sherlock were in complete agreement that the idea that a snake could have slipped into Julia's bedroom in the dead of night and killed her, then slithered out again without any human aid or witnesses was simply too hard for either of them to believe when John, in a moment of frustrated desperation after the third night of being kept up by Sherlock's violin musing, suggested that perhaps the snake had managed to escape from its glass enclosure and found its way into Julia's bedroom of its own accord.

Still, the fact that Percy had snakes and that his girlfriend had seemingly been killed as a result of a bite from one kept pulling them back to the man, but yet no matter what way they tried to look at it, it seemed more and more unlikely that Percy physically could have pulled off the crime. The fact was that there was no way that he could have snuck the snake into his fiancé's bedroom without someone knowing, nor was there any way that he could have retrieved the snake, not without tripping up the very extensive security system that was on the house, something Sherlock had gone to great pains to check out himself, even having tested it out himself by attempting to sneak into Julia's bedroom at the dead of night, only to have the alarms go off like crazy. It just seemed as though they had reached an impasse, nothing they tried seemed to bring to light anything new, and nothing that they tried to follow as a hopeful lead turned up anything of any importance.

And then things got even worse.

"Hello?" Amelia answered her phone, just as she was finishing putting the last bobby pin into her swept up hair at the base of her neck, frowning slightly at her own reflection, painted red lips pressed together and kohl rimmed eyes slightly narrowed in mild confusion.

"Miss Wilson?" a female voice asked on the other end, sounding a little worried, "It's Helen Stoner, you gave me your number and said to call if I needed anything or if I thought of something…"

Amelia closed her eyes in annoyance at her own stupidity, Helen was Julia's sister, how could she have forgotten to have put an ID on her number? It was completely unprofessional of her, "Of course, yes," she nodded, opening her eyes to roll them at herself in the mirror above the double vanity in her bathroom, "I'm so sorry, Helen. Is everything okay?"

"Well, actually, you told me to that if there was anything I thought was off going on that I should call, and well…it's probably nothing…"

"Helen," she frowned deeply, straightening slightly in concern, noting immediately the nervous tone in her voice seeming to increase, "Whatever it is, just tell me".

Helen sighed on the other end, "I just remembered how Julia was complaining about being tired all the time, before she died," she told her, and Amelia nodded slowly, recalling that piece of information from the case, "And well, she said it was probably just stress, but she'd get these really awful headaches and she used to complain about feeling weak and drained, even after sleeping all night. I don't want to sound like I'm overreacting or anything, but I think something might be happening to me now…"

Amelia gripped the edge of the white stone top of the vanity, her eyes widening in alarm, "What do you mean, Helen?" she questioned in a forced calm tone, while her heart rate rose slightly with worry.

"I keep getting these migraines; I've never had them before. I figured maybe it was just stress with Julia dying, but the other day I could barely get out of bed I was so tired, and I just feel…drained, like everything is just too hard, and then I remembered how Julia was before she died and I thought I should tell someone…"

"You did the right thing, Helen," she reassured her quickly, closing her eyes briefly, "Honestly, don't feel bad for saying something, even if it is just stress," she took a deep breath and nodded to herself, meeting her gaze in her mirror, "I'll have a talk to Doctor Watson, okay? Do you think it would be alright if we may be pay you a visit later today, he might be able to check you over?"

"If it's not too much bother…"

"Of course not. I'll give you a call after I've spoken to John and Sherlock, and we'll figure something out. Just…try and rest in the meantime".

"Okay," Helen breathed on the other end, sounding very relieved that someone was going to try and help her, and that she wasn't just being dismissed, "Thank you, Miss Wilson".

"Don't worry about it, Helen," Amelia told her, "Goodbye".

She hung up the phone as Helen said goodbye, and sighed heavily as she looked back at her own reflection, her eyes filled with concern still. She straightened her black and white polka-dot dress, trying to ease some of her concern, while her gold and light blue earrings swung gently with the movement. She was mildly surprised that Helen had chosen to call her, rather than Sherlock, she had yet to actually meet John, but she supposed that out of the two detectives Amelia was by far the more approachable one and if Helen truly was feeling nervous about possibly just overreacting it was understandable that she should pick Amelia over Sherlock.

Amelia finished with the last checks of her reflection and left the bathroom, switching the light off behind her as she ducked back out into her bedroom to slip her orange, ankle strap sandal heels on, sitting on the edge of the bed to do so, before quickly grabbing her bright orange coat and matching handbag from off the end of her bed, before hurrying out of her room and down the short hallway. She completely ignored her usual practice of cooking herself breakfast before heading over to the boys flat, instead going directly for the interconnecting door between their flats and stepping through onto their landing. She didn't even pause to knock before sweeping into the living room, finding John sitting up at the table sipping his tea with a plate of eggs and bacon before him, while Sherlock was sitting in his armchair in his blue silk dressing gown, hidden behind the morning paper. They both looked up at her sudden entrance; even Sherlock lowered his newspaper corner to give her a look torn between annoyance and curiosity.

"Don't tell me…" he said in a drawl as he regarded her over the edge of his paper, "There's a sale on at Prada that you simply can't miss".

"Am I truly that vain that you think I would actually look worried about missing out on a sale, Sherlock?" she shot him a look, dropping her coat and handbag onto the couch, before straightening to cross her arms.

"For a designer label, I expect so," he replied without blinking.

Amelia sighed, deciding that she couldn't exactly deny that…not completely, she might have gotten herself into a bit of an excited state when she had found out that Oscar de la Renta was having a sale a few weeks back, to the point that John had actually been worried for her blood pressure while she had barely managed to keep still in her chair over that breakfast. But for once it wasn't about clothing, it was about a woman's life possibly being at risk, that seemed like a pretty good reason to be worried.

"You think so highly of me, Sherlock," she shook her head, her tone full of sarcasm, which earned her a small smirk from the detective, before it was wiped clean from his face. John simply looked between them in confusion, one eyebrow lifted, "For once, clothing is the last thing on my mind…" she informed them grimly, earning her their full attention, Sherlock even lowered his newspaper completely to eye her with narrowed eyes and John placed his knife and fork down on her plate, "I just got a call from Helen Stoner, Julia's sister. She's starting to complain of feeling rundown, too, just like Julia was before she died," she glanced at John, "I told her that I'd see if you would come and see her, John. She's very worried".

"Yeah, of course I will," John said at once, pushing his chair back and rising, but he didn't make to leave the room, instead he frowned, "But if Helen's now feeling sick, what does that mean?" he looked between Amelia and Sherlock, who had brought his fingertips together up beneath his chin, his gaze growing distant with thought.

"I suppose…" Amelia began slowly, sighing slightly. She felt almost as though some of the air had been knocked from her, rarely did she find herself so caught off guard like this, but she realised now that it made perfect sense. How had they failed to consider it? They had been blinded, just as she imagined the killer had intended, "It means that maybe we were wrong. Maybe it wasn't a snake that killed Julia after all, maybe…it started all before she even died".

"Someone was slowly poisoning her," Sherlock agreed softly, peering off into the distance, eyes unfocused on anything but clearly deep in thought, "And they've made it out to look as though it was a snake that killed her," his lips twitched slightly, "Neat".

John threw his flatmate an exasperated look, "A woman died, Sherlock," he reminded him pointedly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively, not even glancing over to him. He shook his head at Sherlock's lack of sensitivity and looked across to Amelia, who had barely paid Sherlock any mind, used to it by now, "It makes sense if someone really had been poisoning her in the weeks leading up to her death, it might even explain why the blood toxicology couldn't pick up the exact poison".

"And what better means of covering up the crime, too," Amelia added, nodding grimly as she moved to sit down on the edge of the sofa beside her coat and bag, crossing her bare legs as she did so, "A slow acting means of death is safer than a quick, messy one, plus Percy Armitage was really quite the perfect misdirect. One would have only needed to plant those marks on her ankle to make it look like a snake could have killed her and Percy would have automatically have become the number one suspect".

He nodded slowly in thought, frowning deeply, "But now they're going after Helen, but why?" he shook his head, glancing between the detectives, "What's the point of killing either sister, let alone both?"

Amelia could only shrug helplessly at that question, sighing heavily as she dropped her frustrated gaze onto the top of her crossed knees. That had been another thing that had been bothering her about this case, too, there didn't seem to be any clear motive for why someone would have wished to kill Julia, by all apparent reasoning Julia had been a rather ordinary woman. She had a handful of ex's, but none of them had any reason to have wished to kill the young woman, and Percy had clearly loved her, even if they had disagreed about his love for his snakes. But Amelia still couldn't see that as being enough motive for him to kill. The only real motive seemed possibly money, but with Julia's stepfather being in the way of her and her sister inheriting anything, she still couldn't see what the motive would be to kill either girl, let alone both, and that bothered her greatly since it could very likely be the key to solving who the killer was.

"If a snake didn't kill her…" Sherlock remarked thoughtfully, dropping his hands from beneath his chin and finally looking across to his flatmate and Amelia, eyes slightly narrowed, "We need to consider what did," he suddenly rose from his chair, his dressing gown billowing around him as he lifted his eyebrows at them, something in his gaze instantly causing Amelia to grew nervous, "Amelia…" he fixed his gaze on her, dread filling her as she straightened in her seat, eyeing him with open apprehension. It was made all the more worse by the curl of his lips, "How do you feel about going back to your party girl days?"

She licked her lips, regarding him warily, "I'm really, really going to hate this idea, aren't I?" she said tensely.

Sherlock merely smirked back at her, which was far from comforting, before turning to sweep dramatically out of the room without bothering to explain himself, heading off through into the kitchen. Amelia watched him go with a loud, heavy sigh and exchanged a look with John, who looked almost as wary as she felt. Whatever Sherlock had planned…it was no doubt going to be interesting.

….

"I was right," Amelia said flatly as she glared at Sherlock and the neon pink piece of fabric that he had dared to try shoving in her direction, her eyes icy as she regarded the fabric with obvious distaste, "I hate this idea, in fact it's probably the worst idea you've ever had, Sherlock".

It was later that evening and Amelia found herself standing in the bedroom that had once belonged to Julia Stoner, light filling the room and the windows, covered by the cream coloured curtains hiding the night from view. The room itself was nice, barely touched in the two weeks since Julia's death, pieces of clothing were still left dangling over the top of the dressing table chair that remained sitting out from the table on an angle over before one of the windows on the far side of the room, while lipsticks and makeup brushes remained littering the wooden table top. Family pictures had been placed on display in a couple of mismatched picture frames along the top shelve of the bookcase that stood in the corner of the room, next to the bathroom door that remained open, revealing the edge of a old, claw foot bath. In fact, perhaps the only thing that had been changed since Julia's death was the bed, which had been stripped down to the mattress and not bothered to be made up again, not that Amelia really blamed Helen. She probably found it difficult enough to pass by the door every day, as it was.

John was still with Helen downstairs, trying to help figure out what was going on with her and if he could do anything to help her, while Amelia and Sherlock had left him to it and decided to head upstairs to begin their second reason for visiting Helen. It was all Sherlock's idea and while Amelia didn't completely disagree with the logic, she also wasn't a big fan of the fact that he was seemingly insisting that she play a role in it. He wanted to relive Julia's final night alive, after she had arrived home from hanging out with her girlfriends and gone up to bed, and he wanted Amelia to step into the role of Julia Stoner. It was logical that she should be the one to do it, they were the same age and both female, Amelia found it hard to imagine John playing the role, but Sherlock had decided to add just a little too much colour to his plan for her taste. The neon pink monstrosity he was currently trying to shove at her was just too much.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his grip on the dress not wavering, still holding it between them, "Just wear it, Amelia," he huffed, exasperation and impatience plain in his tone.

"No!" she exclaimed, actually taking a step back from him, glaring back at him and crossing her arms firmly across her chest, "I'm not wearing that thing. It's hideous".

"It was in your wardrobe".

"In the very deepest, darkest corner, perhaps. I can't even believe you found it; I thought I'd burnt it years ago. You don't seriously think I'd actually wear something like that, do you?" she gave him a look full of doubt, still eyeing the dress as though it was something foul.

He rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling, "Amelia…"

"I'm not wearing it, and you can't make me, Sherlock," she cut across him sharply, narrowing her eyes and barely resisting the urge to poke him in the chest with a black, painted fingernail, "That blasted thing was from a case I did ages ago when I was trying to catch a serial killer with a thing for leggy brunets dressed like street walkers, not something I would actually pick to wear myself," she groaned and closed her eyes, shaking her head in frustration, "Of all the dresses you could have picked when raiding my wardrobe, without my knowledge, I might add…" she opened her eyes to fix him with an accusing, pointed look at that, "You just had to pick the one that makes me look like a stripper, didn't you?"

"This is ridiculous," he huffed, glaring straight back at her, "Think of the benefit of the case!"

"How is me dressing like I should be on a street corner 'For the benefit of the case,' Sherlock?" she demanded instantly, taking a step towards him again and uncrossing her fingers to point at him.

"We need an accurate representation of what occurred that night, think of it as a costume! The more alive and visual we can make this, the closer we can build an image of what might have happened to Julia Stoner when she died!"

"And I completely agree with that logic, but I'm still not wearing that dress!"

Sherlock looked close to simply grabbing her and pushing the dress down over her head, the rest of her clothing and styled hair, be demanded, not that it would have worked given that the dress was skin tight and backless, with a plunging neckline and barely enough hemline to allow one to even walk without accidently flashing anyone. Why Sherlock actually thought it was a good dress to pick and force her to try and wear, Amelia truly had no idea, given that he would have had to have really dug through her wardrobe to even find the thing, which she was positive had been rolled up in a plastic bag on the top shelf of her walk-in-robe, behind a box filled with stored jumpers she had put away to save space. Thankfully, before Sherlock could try anything close to forcing the dressing down over her head, the bedroom door swung open and John stepped in. He hesitated in the doorway and peered carefully between his friends, who instantly stopped their glaring contest to turn towards the door. The tension, however, was still very present in the air.

"You do realise that your voices were carrying down the hallway, don't you?" he sighed, shaking his head as he stepped through the threshold and gently shut the door behind him, "I could hear you shouting coming up the stairs. You really can't stop bickering for five minutes, can you?"

"That's all Amelia's fault, John," Sherlock replied haughtily, turning to throw Amelia another accusing glare as Amelia scoffed loudly, crossing her arms again. He narrowed his eyes on her, "She's being childish…"

"Childish!" she exclaimed immediately in outrage, her eyes widening in shock, "I'm being childish, am I? You're the one who wants me to play dress-ups, Sherlock!"

"Okay, okay…" John cut in with a tired, resigned sigh, actually reaching up to rub his forehead with an almost pained grimace crossing his features, "Can we hold off on killing each other for just a little bit, girls?" he pointedly ignored the sharp, indignant look that Sherlock shot him, "We haven't even figured out who's sleeping where yet".

Sherlock sniffed and turned his narrowed gaze back onto Amelia, who returned his glare just as fiercely back, crossing her arms firmly across her chest once more, "Amelia's obviously taking the bed," he said, rather stiffly, as though he was struggling to keep his voice level, "If we're to do this properly, we have to fully immerse ourselves into the same setting that Julia Stoner experienced that night, including…"

"I swear…" Amelia began in a very soft, calm voice, eyes fixed steadily on his face, "You say another word about me wearing that dress and I will strangle you with it, Sherlock Holmes. I swear".

John frowned, glancing sideways at Amelia with a mildly alarmed expression, while Sherlock simply looked calmly back at her, his expression unreadable, but he didn't seem overly concerned. If a Moriarty was threatening him like that, he wasn't completely sure if he would take it quite so lightly.

"Er…" he cleared his throat, deciding that it was far wiser to intervene now, and not when Amelia finally reached her limit and actually lunged at Sherlock, which was a high possibility right now, "What dress?" he asked carefully. Sherlock, without taking his gaze off Amelia, lifted the neon pink, barely there piece of fabric up for him to see clearly, and John's eyes widened in shock at just how…skimpy the thing was, "Sherlock," he sighed and shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, "You can't be serious. Amelia's not wearing that thing".

"It was in her wardrobe".

"Oh, come on! That thing isn't even big enough to dry a teacup; you can't expect her to wear that thing".

"See?" Amelia smirked at Sherlock, unable to resist behaving just as childish as Sherlock had accused her to be acting, "John agrees with me," she uncrossed her arms to fling her left arm over John's shoulders, while Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Besides, neon pink is so not my colour. I know I can make just about anything look good, but that thing would only look half decent up in flames," she mockingly pretended to preen, before breaking the act with a teasing smile at Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffed, but he still stuffed the offending dress back into the black duffle bag that he had brought along with him, Amelia having first presumed that it had included a fresh change of clothing for the morning. Obviously, that wasn't all of it. He dropped the bag down by the side of the wall, out of the way, next to the bookcase and straightened to turn his gaze back onto Amelia.

"I was only attempting to add realism," he commented lightly, though he was obviously still rather annoyed by the fact that he had been completely overruled.

"Is that what you call it? I'm shocked you didn't try to insist on getting me tipsy, too".

John grimaced and she looked at him sharply, dropping her arm from his shoulders, and he sighed, "I managed to convince him it wouldn't be a good idea," he muttered, his eyes darting warningly over to Sherlock.

Amelia shook her head slowly and turned her narrowed eyes on Sherlock, "Unbelievable," she said quietly, unable to quite believe just what lengths he had been planning to go to add 'Colour' to their little re-enactment. Still, she could understand what he had originally planned and while she might not be about to change her clothing or get tipsy, she was willing to slip her bright orange coat off and, giving Sherlock a pointed look, hang it up on the empty hook on the back of the door behind her.

"Heels, too," Sherlock added, giving her something close to a condescending look, "If you're going to bother to remove your coat, let's at least continue to do it by halves, Amelia".

"Keep pulling that face, Sherlock," she advised him with a mock sweet smile, "You look just like Mycroft," she only felt smugger by the glare that he bestowed upon her, while John suspiciously cleared his throat and quickly ducked his head. She smiled even more widely and stepped away from the bedroom door to perch herself on the edge of the stripped mattress, leaning down to start unbuckling the slim, single strap that wrapped around her ankles. As she did so, however, she remembered the second reason for their late night visit to the house and glanced up at John, "I forgot to ask, but how's Helen? Was there anything you could do to help her?"

Almost immediately, Sherlock seemed to focus intently on John, who blinked slightly at the sudden attention, just as Amelia dropped her left shoe onto the floor and turned her attention to the right.

"It's hard to say," John told them, frowning thoughtfully as he crossed his arms across his chest, looking between the other two, "I can't really tell for sure what's going on with her body without blood tests, maybe even something deeper, since Julia's blood came back clear. She's not great, presenting with almost like she has a bad flu," he shook his head slowly, "But I couldn't find anything that made me think we should call an ambulance yet. I told her to try and rest…"

"But?" Sherlock prompted him, when John trailed off with a troubled look.

"Helen showed me this rash she's started noticing. It looks just like the same one Julia had, only a little more inflamed. She said it's mostly on the lower half of her body, legs and lower back".

"So whatever happened to Julia really is happening to Helen, after all," Amelia said quietly, her expression growing grim. She felt for the girl, she truly did, how awful it must be to not only grieve the loss of your sister in mysterious circumstances, but then for you to also start developing the same systems? That must be just terrifying.

John nodded, his expression just as grave as hers, "It looks like it to me," he said, glancing at Sherlock, who appeared deep in thought, "She's pretty frightened by it all".

"I bet," she sighed, absently dropping her right shoe onto the floor by its twin, her black painted toes contrasting against the light coloured carpet, soft against her flesh.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose, before nodding, almost to himself, "There isn't time to waste," he commented, and fixed his gaze on Amelia, firm and focused, "Shall we?"

Amelia nodded, rising from the bed and walking back over towards the closed bedroom door. She and Sherlock might bicker, they may frequently disagree about each other's methods or approaches to doing things, but they weren't above being able to put all of that aside and focus on the main, important issue that might be presented to them. As much as she found him difficult and he found her annoying, they somehow worked, somehow clicked, and when they had a common goal like this to focus on, they truly could overcome any of the rest of those petty disagreements.

"Okay," she began, turning around from the door to find that Sherlock and John had stepped back slightly from the main area of the room, watching her closely, "So…I'm Julia Stoner. I've been out with my girlfriends, had a couple of drinks, but I'm not drunk," she slowly stepped further into the room, trying to put herself in the mindset of someone who had just gotten home after a fun evening, a few drinks down and perhaps a little more relaxed than normal, "I've come up to bed after having a chat with my twin sister and I find myself alone, hours before I mysteriously die: What happens next?"

"You tell us," Sherlock said with sharp, watchful gaze fixed intently on her.

Amelia found it hard, at first, to put herself in that mindset…maybe allowing Sherlock to get her tipsy wasn't as bad an idea as John and she originally thought, but she pushed on, "I would…remove my shoes," she paused, shaking her head and closing her eyes briefly, "No, sorry, I probably would have taken them off when I got home, but I'd drop them on the floor…" she walked over to the bed and picked up her own shoes, crossing the room to drop them without any care in the corner, by the door, as though she might have just walked in. She turned back around and frowned thoughtfully, slightly put-off by the weight of Sherlock and John's eyes on her, "Then…well, I used to take my dress off when I'd get back from a night out, but that's just me…" she grimaced slightly, "Party dresses can be very uncomfortable".

She crossed the room to the dressing table and ran her eyes over the top of the messy table, littered with brushes and used sponges, stained still, with flesh coloured foundation. Ivory, if she had to pick a shade. It was pretty clear that Julia hadn't been very focused on neatness, though Amelia had seen a lot worse. Behind her, Sherlock and John were still watching her silently, even as she reached out to pick up a black, low cut top with dark sequences around the neck, left draped over the top of the old chair sticking out from the dressing table.

"She was probably wearing this that night," she considered it briefly, before lifting it up to her face and taking a small sniff of the collar, her nose immediately filled with the slightly faded scent of Marc Jacobs Daisy, "She was definitely wearing this," she told them, dropping the blouse back onto the chair, glancing into the mirror to the boys, "The perfume is to fresh".

"Could it have been slipped into her perfume?" John asked, stepping over to look curiously at the small, brightly coloured, glass perfume bottles that sat along the back of the table. He picked up the Marc Jacobs bottle, which was practically empty, and unscrewed the lid in the shape of a white daisy to take a sniff of it.

"Possibly," Sherlock plucked the bottle easily from his hands, when John made a small face at the smell, apparently not overly keen on the smell. He lifted the bottle up towards the light, carefully considering the dribble left in the bottle.

"It's worth examining, regardless," Amelia said thoughtfully, "It would be a good way to expose someone to a poison, especially if you know that the person wears that perfume frequently. Now, back to this re-enactment…" she turned away from the dressing table and began to walk over to the open bathroom door, "Helen said that Julia had a bath before sleeping, so we can assume that it was a habit for her to have a soak before turning in at night…"

She switched the bathroom light on and the room was immediately illuminated to reveal a nice, spacious bathroom. A white vanity with a deep sink faced the door with a circular mirror hanging above it, while Julia's blue, electric toothbrush still remained sitting upright on the charger plugged into the power point by the sink, while she had left her hair straightener out on the vanity, not plugged in, thankfully. The toilet was positioned on the wall on the other side of the door opening with a small stainless steel bin sat beside it, but it was the white, claw footed bathtub that sat beneath the large window that pulled their gaze. A stainless steel bathtub caddy sat over the end of the tub, holding a partly worn down bar of pink soap, a bottle of shampoo and conditioner, and one of Roylotts own bottle's of dark purple bubble bath, the brand name proudly displayed across the bottle's label in gold, old fashioned lettering with lily blossoms blooming across it.

"That's…odd," Amelia frowned, stopping short by the edge of the bathtub, her eyes fixed on the bubble bath bottle.

"What's odd?" John asked, stepping into the bathroom after her, glancing curiously at the tub and back to her, just as Sherlock also joined them.

She reached over the bath and picked up the bottle, eyeing it carefully, "Well, it's just that I've never seen this one before," she said slowly, looking up to Sherlock and John, "Lily blossom scented bubble bath. That's not even listed on the website; I suppose it could be an in-store only thing".

Sherlock sidled up next to her and Amelia offered the bottle to him, knowing that he would like to conduct his own examination of it. He accepted it without a word and turned it around in his long fingers, the bottle not quite big enough to be a full bottle, but slightly larger than a sample. Once he seemed satisfied with the label, he popped the golden, metallic cap and gave the contents a very slight sniff, his face immediately screwing up in distaste. He glanced at Amelia and held the bottle back out towards her.

"What can you smell?"

"You actually think I might be able to smell something you can't?" Amelia asked with a hint of mock surprise, taking the bottle from him, unable to resist teasing him just a little bit. Usually, this would be the time that he would either dismiss it completely or just suddenly whirl out of the room without a word, expecting them to follow.

He looked briefly pained, before his features smoothed out and he gave a light shrug, "You have proven to have somewhat of a nose for scents," he replied lightly.

"Dear Lord," she grinned, "I do believe that was almost a compliment".

"For God's sake," he huffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation, "Sniff the bottle, Amelia".

She laughed and lifted the bottle up beneath her nose, very lightly pressing in against the stiff plastic of the bottle and allowing a small puff of the scent to waft up towards her. Immediately, her nose wrinkled as she was hit with an intense, almost sickening smell of lilies that was simply overwhelming. She could taste it on the back of her tongue, it was so intense, and quickly lowered the bottle and passed the bottle off to John to smell for himself.

"That's horrible," she cringed, her eyes watering very slightly. She almost felt as though the smell had been burnt into her very sinuses, she didn't think she would ever be able to smell a lily again without being reminded of that chocking scent. How did Julia stand soaking herself in it? Beside her, John sniffed the bottle and immediately coughed, hastily lowering the bottle with a look of disgust twisting his features, "I can taste it on the back of my tongue, it was so bad".

"Overwhelming, isn't it?" Sherlock nodded slowly, taking the bottle back from John from around her back. He dropped his gaze onto the bottle, his expression thoughtful, "So overwhelming, in fact, that you can't detect anything else but lily".

John cleared his throat, his eyes still watering slightly, "You think someone purposely made that bottle smell that intensely so that it would cover up the smell of the poison?" he questioned, his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise.

"Possibly".

"That's…clever," Amelia blinked, feeling rather startled, because it was clever and it made perfect sense. Her eyes narrowed on the bottle in a completely new light. The police would never have even glanced twice at the bottle in the bathroom and it would have been easily soaked up by the skin, providing Julia with possibly long term exposure to the poison over the course of weeks, maybe even months, depending on if the killer had the chance to keep providing the same bubble bath. And then there was the intense, sickening smell…perhaps it was diluted by the water, or maybe Julia had actually loved the smell, like how some people couldn't stand the smell of vanilla but she adored it, even lighting vanilla scented candles in her living room while wearing vanilla scented perfume. The intense smell was enough to cover up any other possible scent that might give away the poison lacing the bottle.

Sherlock fixed his gaze steadily on her, then, "Are you positive this isn't listed on the Roylotts website?"

"Positive," she nodded firmly, feeling a sense of sinking. A killing like this it would require someone very close to Julia and Helen to commit it, someone with access to Roylotts manufacturing side in order to get the bubble bath made in the first place. She didn't like to think it, but it did seem to be pointing in that direction…

Sherlock turned on his heel and swiftly left the room, and Amelia hastily went to follow him, not even having the chance to put her shoes on as he left the room. Instead, she had to carry them as she and John followed Sherlock downstairs and across to the living room door, which Sherlock flung open with little care. Helen, who had seemingly been about to fall asleep on the couch, flinched and sat upright, blinking blearily at their sudden appearance in her living room.

"This bubble bath…" he began without apologising or pausing, coming to stand just opposite from the couch on the other side of the coffee table, holding the bottle up for Helen to see, "Have you been using the same brand, Helen?"

"I…" Helen frowned slightly tiredly, reaching up to roughly push her messy hair back off her face, her skin very pale and large circles beneath her eyes. Amelia noticed a small, red dot on her right wrist as the gesture, not unlike the same marks Julia's body had been covered in, "Well, yes, I do," she nodded, swinging her legs down onto the floor, clearing her throat, "It's not on the market yet and my stepfather likes us…sorry, used to like us to try out some of the upcoming stuff before it's released, see if we actually like it or not, you know?"

"So your stepfather asked you to try this exact same type of bubble bath?" Amelia asked her, any concerns or worries about appearing before a client without shoes on forgotten, her gaze fixed intently on Helen.

She peered carefully at the bottle, before nodding, "Looks like it," she said, shrugging lightly, "Julia was always more into baths then me and he gave it to her to try a few weeks back, but since she died…" she trailed off, swallowing hard and dropping her gaze into her lap. She licked her lips, "Well, I started taking them every night, just to feel closer to her, I guess," she looked sadly up at Amelia, who tried hard to soften her features, "He's been so supportive ever since…Anyway, he gave me a bottle, too, to try and it's been really comforting…"

"And you use this same bubble bath every time?" Sherlock cut across her impatiently, earning himself a sharp look from both Amelia and John.

"Sherlock…" John said warningly, his tone low.

"I…" she blinked very slightly in shock at his sharp tone, before nodding, "Yes, yes, every time, ever since that night".

"Helen," Amelia said gently, giving her a kind smile, before Sherlock had a chance to start demanding things his brash, impatient manner, "Would it be okay if we took your bottle and had a look at it?"

….

Helen, though rather confused by their sudden interest in her bubble bath, did agree to let them take her bottle, which was slightly fuller then Julia's bottle along with them when they swiftly left the house. They hailed a cab and drove straight for Bart's Hospital, where Sherlock almost immediately settled himself comfortably in one of the empty lab's, falling silent as he set to work with his investigation of the samples taken from the two bottles. He even, an hour into his testing, insisted that Amelia simply had to go home and grab her own bottle of bubble bath that she had gotten as a birthday present from Molly and hadn't gotten around to even using yet, hidden in the bottom of her vanity. She didn't even know how he knew about it, probably the same way that he had found that horrible dress stashed away, but she had done as he wished, for the sake of their case, and ducked back to her flat and grabbed it, making the trip all the way back to the hospital as it got close to two in the morning. She thought that the cabbie was probably just grateful to not have another drunk passenger to deal with.

Sherlock barely seemed to notice when she returned and placed the rose pink and scented bubble bath bottle on the white lab bench before him, though he did murmur a soft 'Thank you, Amelia,' as she went to walk away. He must have been paying more attention then she thought. After that, she settled into a chair on the other side of the room from him with John, who sat with his head resting on his open palm of his hand, his eyes closed and his breathing heavy, even though he had a cup of still steaming tea in a Styrofoam cup in front of him. She decided not to wake him, instead she carefully moved the cup just that little bit further out of his reach, should he accidently jolt awake and end up knocking the cup's contents everywhere. He slept on soundly.

Amelia hadn't meant to do it, she truly hadn't, but after an hour of scrolling through her emails and ideally shopping, she had been forced to stop, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. Sherlock was no less closer to making any great discovery, so she felt little guilt in just dropping her head onto her folded arms on the counter top before her and closing her eyes, fully intending on simply giving her tired, sore eyes a little break…the next thing she knew, someone was lightly shaking her awake and something heavy and comfortably was draped over her back and shoulders, the wool smelling faintly of cedar and citrus, something she vaguely recognised as a man's brand of soap that the boys kept in their bathroom back in Baker Street.

"It was in the bubble bath," Sherlock's deep voice spoke from behind her, and Amelia blinked tiredly in confusion, briefly unsure of exactly where she was, before he brain finally caught up with her. She sat upright a little too quickly and very nearly slipped off the chair, the coat, Sherlock's coat, oddly enough, slipping off her shoulders to pool behind her back, her neck aching from sleeping in the funny position for hours and her right hand numb.

"What?" John mumbled drowsily, and Amelia glanced sideways to find him squinting blurrily back over his shoulder to Sherlock, an imprint of his jacket collar lining his left cheek. He had apparently found a slightly more comfortable position to sleep in during the night, if comfortable was truly the right word to describe sleeping over a hard, laminated work bench.

Sherlock rolled his slightly red eyes at them in annoyance, impatiently holding a slip of paper up for them to see, not that either of them were truly awake enough to truly process the small, printed lettering, "The bubble bath!" he repeated, slightly more insistently, "It was laced with a slow acting poison…"

That managed to wake Amelia, at least enough for her eyes to brighten and for her to sit up straighter, ignoring the dull ache still in her neck and arms, "So…" she began slowly, her throat and tongue annoyingly dry, making her Irish accent sound more noticeable, "Every time the girls took a bath with the laced bubble bath, they were slowly killing themselves without even noticing".

"Exactly. The toxin is very quickly metabolised by the body and excreted within a matter of just a few hours, but with repeated exposure over the course of weeks it's enough to cause permanent damage to the blood vessels, hence the rash".

"And the fatigue the girls reported feeling," John added with a thoughtful frown, though he did run a hand down his face very rapidly, as if trying to wake himself up, "The poison probably induced something close to sickle cell anaemia in them and over time, it probably led to the body struggling to take in enough oxygen. It wouldn't look like a strangulation, since there wouldn't be any marks on the body, the lungs and heart would just…stop".

"How awful," Amelia murmured, looking trouble, "And to make matters worse…it was the stepfather who gave both girls the bottles, and then set it up to make it look like Julia's fiancé was the killer with the puncture marks on her ankle".

"But why?" John shook his head, looking between Sherlock and Amelia, "Why kill either girl? What's the point?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked away from them, "Let's go and find out," he said, perhaps a little too lightly, considering the circumstances.

…

Somehow Amelia had half-expected it to be still early in the morning, but yet it was getting close to nine o'clock by the time that they left Bart's and caught a cab for Doctor Roylott's house, Sherlock phoning Lestrade on their way. Still, they arrived outside the quite modern, newly built stark white house before the police, Sherlock and Amelia leaving John to pay for the cab as they immediately rushed up the large, dark pavers that led to the large, black front door. Amelia rang the doorbell, while Sherlock stood impatiently beside her, glaring at the door as though he could blow it wide open with just the power of his mind. Even he wasn't that talented, though.

"I suppose we can always count on Lestrade to be slow," Sherlock muttered in exasperation, stepping forward to thump his open palm against the smooth, wooden surface of the door, less than ten seconds after Amelia rang the bell.

"London morning traffic, Sherlock," Amelia sighed, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. She wished she could have gone home and grabbed a shower before doing this, she had managed to clean up her makeup in the bathroom at Bart's before they left, but she still longed to brush her teeth, at the very least, "One of the many perks of city life".

John joined them, then, slipping his wallet back into his pocket, "Do you think he knew we're on to him?" he asked them, moving to peer through one of the long, floor to ceiling windows that ran beside the window.

"Probably," Sherlock replied with a huff, pounding the door again, "Doctor Roylott!" he called through the door, "We only wish to speak with you!" he lowered his voice as he glanced at Amelia and John, "Helen probably phoned him last night, told him that we were planning to attempt a re-enactment of Julia's last night".

"It would be enough to spook most killers," Amelia nodded slowly, trying to the doorbell again. She sighed and shook her head, "Are we even sure he's here? He's certainly got enough money to escape the country, if need be…"

"Sherlock, Amelia…" John suddenly said, something in his voice instantly making them tense and look at him sharply. His eyes had widened with alarm, "I think I see something, looks like a shadow on the wall, something hanging…"

Sherlock quickly pushed him out of the way of the window and peered through it, something close to surprise filling his features, before he set his jaw and spun back around, pushing Amelia back from the door and stepping back. She didn't have a chance to even blink before he very firmly kicked the door, right next to the large, modern silver door handle. The door flew open with a loud crack and bang, springing back against the opposite wall with enough force to probably dent the plaster. For such a modern door, it truly hadn't been reinforced against physical assault. Sherlock immediately dashed through the door, while John and Amelia hurried on his heels, what did it matter now if they were technically trespassing without the police with them? Lestrade could lecture them all he wished when he turned up, but none of them cared.

There was nothing out of place in the open entrance hall and living room, everything seemed quite orderly and neat, but Amelia only had a brief glance at it as they made their way straight towards the back of the house that had an open doorway at the end, opening up into a large, modern kitchen and dining room, but what they discovered within the room made all three of them stop short, staring up at the sight of Doctor Roylott hanging by a length of rope from around his neck, tied to the modern light-fixture in the middle of the room. A dinning chair had been kicked onto its side on the ground below his feet, his skin pale and blue around his lips and eyes, which were still partly open, peering unseeingly down at the ground, horribly bloodshot.

"I suppose he did suspect, after all," Sherlock commented lightly, though he eyed the hanging body with only a hint of grimness. If anything, he seemed far more annoyed.

Amelia closed her eyes and lowered her head, "Really not the time or place, Sherlock," she shook her head warily.

The sound of police sirens filled the air.

…

A week passed by and Amelia still found her thoughts lingering on the case. She simply couldn't stop thinking about how horrible it was for Helen, not only had she lost her own twin sister to the hands of her stepfather, but discovered that her stepfather had also attempted to murder her, too, before taking his own life in order to escape justice and take his secrets to the grave. Even hours following the discovery of Doctor Roylott's suicide, Helen still seemed simply so stunned by everything when Amelia had gone to see her with John. She simply hadn't been able to understand any of it, how it had all happened, still insisting that there had to be a mistake and that her stepfather had assured her and Julia that the bubble bath had been tested, and was safe. Sherlock, who had also joined them, had been less then gentle in his manner of reminding her that Doctor Roylott had been intending to kill both girls and get away with it. Amelia and John had very quickly had to jump to soothing Helen, who had burst into tears after that, much to their horror.

Still, Amelia found herself feeling for Helen, it wasn't very often that she allowed herself to linger on clients like this, it wasn't exactly professional, but she simply couldn't help feeling for the girl. She lifted her tea cup up to her red, painted lips and took a small sip of tea, frowning very slightly to herself as she sat across the table from John in the boys flat, while John tapped away on his laptop keyboard. He had started writing up the case today, much to Sherlock's annoyance, who had rolled his eyes at the idea of publishing it. Personally, she liked John's blog, she enjoyed reading his write-ups of their cases, even if he did tend to gloss over the details, but she enjoyed it nonetheless. Sherlock, however, still hadn't warmed to it, though it didn't stop him from curiously crossing the room with a piece of half-eaten toast held in his hand and carrying a newspaper, to peer over John's shoulder at his screen. He paused as Amelia glanced up at him and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Oh, for God's sake!" he exclaimed around a mouthful of toast, very nearly spitting some over John's head.

"What?" John asked distractedly, not even glancing up at him.

"'The Speckled Blonde?'" he huffed, shaking his head as he turned on his heel and strolled away, plopping himself on the sofa with an eye roll.

Amelia groaned slightly, though she was quite used to Sherlock's attitude towards the blog by now, "You know," she turned back to John, lowering her voice, "He does that on purpose," she shot Sherlock a quick glance, only to find that he had finished his toast and buried himself within the pages of his newspaper, "He just likes something to complain about, so he picks on your titles," she shook her head lightly in amusement, and John smiled faintly in return. She went to take a sip from her cup, when she paused, frowning very slightly as she glanced back at him, "John, just…ah, promise me that if I happen to get murdered, you won't title mine something to do with my appearance?"

John blinked in alarm, his eyebrows rising, "Who said anything about murdering you?" he asked in worry.

She dropped her gaze to her cup, "Oh, just my brother, for one person…" she cleared her throat and took a sip from her cup, draining it as she purposely ignored his gaze on the side of her face, full of sympathy. She placed her cup back onto the table next to her empty plate and tried to shrug, "Anyway, I've actually got some interesting news for your guys," she smiled mysteriously, her eyes glittering knowingly.

Sherlock immediately lowered his paper, while John's concerned frown grew curious.

"I assume this isn't about anything fashion related," Sherlock commented with a hint of almost, almost teasing in his tone, if Amelia dared to consider it to be teasing.

Regardless, it still made her smile widen, "Not this time," she shook her head, sitting slightly straighter in her chair, now that she had their full attention, "It's bothered me that the case seemed so unresolved, that Helen didn't really have any reason or explanation for what happened. So…I decided to do a bit more digging, just on my own, and I managed to uncover some interesting information".

"Yes?"

"Well, why would Roylott suddenly decide to murder his stepdaughters? I mean, what was the point? He had a highly successful, intentional company, while the girls, themselves, while hardly poor, were not nearly as well off as their stepfather. So…why kill them?"

Sherlock closed in his eyes in exasperation, "Really, Amelia?" he sighed, opening his eyes to fix her with a dark, impatient look, "Do we need the dramatics right now?"

"Just setting the scene, Holmes," she replied cheerfully, "Curiously, it turns out that Doctor Roylott wasn't always as well-off as one might have thought, in fact, it was the girl's mother who had the money when they married when Helen and Julia were five. She was the one who invested in his company, provided him with the means to first start it, under one condition, however," she smirked slyly, glancing between John and Sherlock, both listening intently, "A clause was made in the original contract that it was Julia and Helen who would be the real owners of the company".

"What?" John's eyes widened, while Sherlock slowly sat forward, dropping the paper onto the couch cushion beside him, his eyes fixed intently on Amelia.

She nodded, still smiling, "And the pieces start falling together, don't they?" she remarked, "When Julia and Helen turned twenty one, as part of a trust fund that they were supposed to get, they would become the official owners of the company, but when I asked Helen…she knew nothing about it. Doctor Roylott had kept it hidden from the girls all these years, ensuring that he remained seemingly the owner of the company".

"Jesus," John breathed, sitting back against his chair, staring at Amelia with a look crossed between horror and shock, "And then what, Julia found about it and he killed her? Then why try killing Helen, unless…he thought Julia had told Helen about it?"

Amelia frowned slightly, then, and sighed, "That's where things get a little murky again," she admitted, glancing at Sherlock, "I mean, I think we can only guess how Julia must have found out about it, maybe she went to get a loan for the wedding or was thinking of moving out with Percy and found out then? Then, perhaps, she found out about the company and confronted her stepfather, who managed to convince her to stay quiet," she shrugged, looking back to John, "He might have offered to give Julia the company and completely cut out Helen, if she stayed silent…"

"You don't really think Julia would have done that to her own sister, do you?"

Sherlock scoffed and gave John a pointed look, "Yes, because each one of us get along so well with our own siblings," he said with sarcasm lacing his words, "Really, John, is it that difficult to imagine?"

John sighed, unable to deny that Sherlock did kind of have a point…his sister was an alcoholic that he rarely spoke to these days, Amelia's brother was a psychopath who had tried to kill them all, and Sherlock's brother was…well, Mycroft Holmes, Mr Warm and Cuddly himself.

"Fair enough," he glanced at Amelia, "How did Helen take it when you told her?"

"She's still pretty shocked by everything," Amelia told them, frowning slightly, "But I think…once the shock has faded and some of the grief, she'll feel a bit better understanding why he did it".

"Still, hard to get over something like that. And I suppose she'll always have to wonder about Julia and what she might have been planning to do, if she never said anything to Helen".

"True," she nodded, releasing another heavy sigh, "But it's better than nothing, in the end. I just hope it helps her heal".

After all, when it came to cases like this, when there was no true justice that could be served and still many questions left unanswered, sometimes you just had to take what you could get, and at least now Amelia felt as though she had gotten that for Helen. Maybe one day it would be of some comfort to her, Amelia could only hope.

Finished with the Speckled Blonde! I loved writing this case, I remember when I first discovered John's blog and read all of the cases listed on it and just wanting so badly to find a way to include it in the series. Sadly, at that point I had already finished the first half of the second season, when this one shot would have taken place, so I couldn't write it in the main story, but it was one of the main reasons for why I decided to do this series of one-shots. There are several more cases on the blog that I plan to write, I'm kind of curious if you guys have any preferences? I've got one in mind, but I'm curious to know what you guys think.

Amelia's outfit will be on my Tumblr, Pinterest, and URSTYLE account, which is under the name Loulouflower. Let me know what you thought, I hope you liked it. Please review :)

Guest Reviews:

Izzy: I'm delighted you like it, that's why I really wanted to do it, because I didn't think many people had done it before and it gives me a chance to put my own spin on it and add more to Amelia's story, while still remaining true to what we know happened in the series. I don't blame you for not recognising it at all, you would only really know if you got it from the original novels or from reading the blog, and John's blog is kind of a hidden extra, which is a shame because it is pretty rich with interesting details between the characters, especially if you read the comments section of each 'blog post'. Thanks for the review :)