Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Danny Phantom and Sherlock belong to their respective creators.

Danny's POV

It's been years since the disasteroid incident. Almost everyone in the world had forgotten as the years passed. I had decided to take medicine instead of being an astronaut. I mean, saving people has always been my thing since I went into the portal and turned into Phantom. Over the years, the ghosts in the zone came to respect me. So, ghost attacks became almost nonexistent. They are still some who attack occasionally but not like when I was fourteen.

Anyways, I got a Doctorate's degree in military medicine and decided to join the army. But I didn't want to be in the American government, you can guess why, so I made a deal with the president and the prime minister to give me a whole new identity and put me in the British military. My new name is John Watson.

They even made a new name for Jazz. Hers is Harriet or Harry for short. Since our parents died in that accident she's, never been the same. She turned into an alcoholic. But enough of my past. Let me tell you about my adventures with an incredible man. One who I was surprised didn't notice my real identity sooner. Well I guess I've been playing as Watson for so long I must have forgotten I was a Fenton.

John's POV

I sigh as I come out of my therapist's office. Write a bloody blog, who does she think she's talking to Shakespeare? I couldn't write down my feelings for the whole world to see. No thank you. Passing by St. Bart's hospital I hear someone call out my name. "John, John Watson!" Pausing I turn to the source of the voice. It seemed to be this bloke who was walking quickly to keep up.

When he finally caught up he bended down using his knees for support. "Hold... on a... second... let me... catch my breath." He said before straightening.

"John Watson. Wow... it's been a long time hasn't?" He looks at me up and down.

I am utterly confused. "Um sorry uh you're...?" I say before the man smiles at me. "Oh, you probably don't recognize me since I've gained weight, it's me Mike Stamford."

Recognition falls on me putting the name and face together. "Ah yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello, hi. Uh how are you doing?" I say shaking his hand before sitting down at a bench.

"Oh, I'm doing fine, I teach at St. Bart's now. What about you? Last I heard you were in Afghanistan getting shot at." He said taking a seat next to me. I sigh before saying. "I got shot." He gives me a sympathetic look. God I hate those. Feeling awkward I stand to get us some coffee.

Giving him his he nods in understanding. "Sorry about that mate." I shake my head. "No, its fine forget about it. So, teaching at Bart's huh?" I say to lighten the mood.

Mike smiles. "Yeah, bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" We both burst out laughing. "What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

I sigh. "I can't afford London on an Army pension." Mike takes a sip as well. "Couldn't Harry help?" He says.

Jazz... I don't think she's in good shape to help me. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen!" I say sarcastically to hide my sorrow.

Mike shrugs. "I dunno – get a flat share or something?" I laugh at the idea. "Come on who'd want me for a flat mate?" I say taking another sip.

Mike chuckles at my response. "What?" I ask confused. He gives me a knowing smile. "Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

I stare at him. "Who was the first?" He smiled at me and motioned for me to get up. "I think he's still in the morgue so why don't you come and see?" He offered making his way to the morgue.

"Alright then..." I mumble following him.

You know I expected many things when I entered the morgue. None of them were a tall bloke whipping a corpse. "What you had a bad day mate?" I ask sarcastically as he straitens and glances in our direction. I take this moment to look at him more closely. He was pale with black hair. His cheek bones looked like they could cut anything and his eyes were a piercing blue that rivaled my icy ones.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He says stretching his arm for the phone as he inspects the body. Well he ignored me.

Mike looks at him with a puzzled look. "And what's wrong with the landline?" The man gives him a bored look. "I prefer to text."

Mike sighed. "Sorry. It's in my coat." I fish out my phone from my back pocket. "Err, here. Use mine." I say giving it to him.

"Oh. Thank you." He says taking it and sending a text. He glances briefly at Mike who introduces us. "John Watson meet Sher-" He gets interrupted by the man.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I frown. Nearby, Mike smiles knowingly. I look at the stranger as he continues to type.

"Sorry?" I say bewildered. How does he know that? What else does he know? The man sighs. "Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" He briefly raises his eyes to me before looking back to the phone. Hesitating, I look across to Mike, confused. Mike just smiles smugly. "Uh, Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?" I question looking at him questionably.

The stranger looks up as a woman comes into the room holding a mug of coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you."

He turns off my phone and returns it while Molly brings him the mug. He takes it and looks closely at her. I look at her as well. She seemed nice. She was around my height and pale with red hair. She had a lab coat on, she must work here.

He looked at her curiously. "What happened to the lipstick?" Molly smiled awkwardly at him. "It wasn't working for me." "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." Ouch poor girl. I think as the man turns and walks back to the body, taking a sip from the mug and grimacing at the taste.

"...Okay." She turns and heads back towards the door. "How do you feel about the violin?" I look round at Molly but she's on her way out the door.

I then glance at Mike who was still smiling smugly at me, and that's when I finally realize this stranger who I don't know the name of, was talking to me.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask confused. He looks up from examining the body for bruises. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He states looking at me. "Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." He throws a hideously fake smile at me. I cringe internally, looking at him blankly for a moment before turning my gaze to Mike. "Oh, you... you told him about me?" I say pointing a finger at him. His smug smile seems to widen. "Not a word."

I turn to the stranger again. "Then who said anything about flat mates?" I ask looking at him in shock. He picks up his coat and puts it on. "I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." He says as if it were obvious.

I started disliking this guy more and more. He sounded like Vlad when I was fourteen. "How did you know about Afghanistan?" I ask he ignores my question wrapping his scarf around his neck he then picks up his mobile and checks it.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walks towards me. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash."

Putting his phone into his coat pocket he walks past me and heads for the door. Turning to look at him I say. "Is that it?" He turns back from the door and comes closer to me. "Is that what?" "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" "Problem?" He asks.

Is this guy serious? I smile in disbelief, looking at Mike for help I sigh when I see he's still smiling smugly. I turn back to him. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." I state to the bloke. He looks at me closely for a moment before speaking.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks you need to interact more." He says.

How the hell did he figure all this out? I wonder shuffling awkwardly. He smiles smugly now. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He asks turning and walking to the door, he opens it and leaves the room, but then he leans back into the room again.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." Sherlock says clicking his tongue and winking at me. He then looks round at Mike. "Afternoon." He says before leaving. I turn to Mike my mouth open in shock. He smiles before saying. "Oh, yeah he's always like that."

After my little adventure, I return to my small flat near the edge of London. I can't stay long but it will do until I apparently move in with Sherlock. Sighing I pull out my laptop. Curious about this guy I open a browser and type in his name. "Let's see who exactly are you Sherlock Holmes." I say to myself wondering how much fun Tucker would probably have with this.

I walk along the road and reach the door marked 221B just as a black cab pulls up at the curb behind me. I knock on the door as Sherlock gets out of the cab. "Hello." He says to me before turning to pay the cabbie. I turn as he walks up to the door. "Ah, hello Mr. Holmes." I say formally. He smiles politely. "Sherlock, please." he states before shaking my hand.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." I look at him amazed.

After searching him up I came to respect the man a bit. "Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?" I ask impressed. Damn, would have been helpful during the Walker incident and the mayor, so long ago. Sherlock looks at me and smiles, it's so faint I can barely trace it. "Oh no. I ensured it." The genius states as the front door is opened by who I must assume is Mrs. Hudson, she was an elderly woman her hair was a reddish color, she opens her arms to Sherlock.

I stand to the side watching the two greet each other. "Sherlock, hello." "Hello Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock turns and walks into her arms, hugging her briefly, then steps back and presents me to her. "Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." She turned to me with a big smile. "Hello."

"How do you do?" I respond. She gestures for us to come in. "Come in. Come in." "Thank you." Sherlock enters. "Shall we?" Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yeah."

We go inside and Mrs. Hudson closes the door. Sherlock trots up the stairs to the first-floor landing, then pauses and waits for me to catch up since I was looking around. As I reach the top of the stairs, Sherlock opens the door ahead of me and walks in, revealing the living room of the flat.

I follow him in and look around the room and at all the possessions and boxes scattered around it. "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." Sherlock looks around as well. "Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So, I went straight ahead and moved in." "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out... Oh." I rub the back of my neck as I realized we talked over each other. Wait a minute. "So, this is all..."

Sherlock looks around slightly embarrassed before he starts to clean up the mess. "Well, obviously, I can, um, straighten things up a bit." He walks across the room, half-heartily attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box and then taking some apparently unopened envelopes across to the fireplace where he puts them onto the mantelpiece and then stabs a multi tool knife into them.

I had noticed something else on the mantelpiece and point at it. "That's a skull." I state looking at the thing curiously. Huh kind of reminds me of Skulker. Sherlock looks at the skull. "Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'..." Mrs. Hudson has followed us into the room. She picks up a cup and saucer while Sherlock takes off his greatcoat and scarf.

She turns to me. "What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

Oh, God she's not implying what I think she's implying. "Of course, we'll be needing two." I say. Thank god Jazz is not here, she'd psycho analyze me if she were sober.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here." She drops her voice before saying. "Mrs. Turner next doors got married ones." I look across to Sherlock hopping he would confirm that he and me weren't a thing.

But it seemed that Sherlock was oblivious to what's being insinuated. Mrs. Hudson walks across to the kitchen, then turns back and frowns at Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made." She says before going into the kitchen and starts tidying up. Looking over to the two armchairs I walk over to one of the two, plump up a cushion on the chair and then drop heavily down into it. I look across to Sherlock who is still tidying up a little. "I looked you up on the internet last night." This seems to grab his attention because he turns to me. "Anything interesting?" "Found your website, The Science of Deduction." Sherlock smiles proudly. "What did you think?" I throw him my best 'you have got to be kidding me' look. Sherlock looks hurt. Oh, wait this guy's serious? What's next a ghost attack? "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. "Yes; and I can read your military career in your face, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." "How?" I ask genuinely curious. It's kinda like talking to clockwork. He's so cryptic about what he says. But Sherlock just plain says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Sherlock smiles and turns away. Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen reading the newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three the same." She says. Suicides? Like the ones on the news? Sherlock walks over to the window of the living room at the sound of a car pulling up outside. Is that a police car? "Four." He looks down at the car. It's probably a police car because of the siren and flashing lights through the window. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." Mrs. Hudson looks at him curiously. "A fourth?"

Sherlock turns as a man who seemed to be a detective (who apparently must have picked the lock on the front door... like you do when you don't have ghost powers to aid you) trots up the stairs and comes into the living room. "Where?" Sherlock asks before the new arrival can speak. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The new guy says without missing a beat. Huh must be used to it then. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." "You know how they never leave notes?" "Yeah." "This one did. Will you come?" The detective asked. Sherlock seemed to ponder something before asking. "Who's on forensics?" "It's Anderson." Sherlock grimaces, shaking his head. "Anderson won't work with me." "Well, he won't be your assistant." "I need an assistant." "Will you come?" "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." The investigator sighs in relieve. "Thank you." He looks round at me and Mrs. Hudson for a moment, he turns and hurries off down the stairs. Sherlock waits until he has reached the front door, then leaps into the air and clenches his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

At this point I really wonder my life choices. This guy's more of a fruit loop than Vlad. And yet he's interesting. "Brilliant!" He exclaims happily. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He says walking around the room and grabbing his things. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." He ignores her statement and heads for the door. "Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He then disappears. Mrs. Hudson turns back to me. "Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same." She says in nostalgia. For a woman who wanted Sherlock to ensure her husband's death she seems to have liked him a lot. "But you seem more of the staying at home type." She turns towards the kitchen. "I'll make you that cuppa. You make yourself comfortable." Damn it all I can't sit here and do nothing! "Damn making myself comfortable!" I say loudly, I regret it immediately. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just I'm not used to not do anything if I can help." I shift uncomfortably. "I understand, dear; I've got a hip. But I can't stand doing nothing, especially since Sherlock is always solving his mysteries." She turns towards the kitchen again. I sigh, might as well have that cuppa. "Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you." Mrs. Hudson smiles at me. "Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper." I grab a nearby newspaper. "Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em." I add as an afterthought. "Not your housekeeper!" I hear her exclaim from the kitchen. I look at the article reporting Beth Davenport's apparent suicide. Next to a large photograph of Beth is a smaller one showing the man who just visited the identified him as D.I. Lestrade. Before I can read on, Sherlock's voice interrupts me looking up I see him standing at the living room door.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor." He states. "Yes."

I get to my feet and turn towards Sherlock as he comes back into the room again. "Any good?" He asks eyeing me. "Very good." I respond confidently. "Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths." He continues. No shit, most of them on myself from when I used to ghost hunt. "Mmm, yes." I simply state, no use telling him that. "Bit of trouble too, I bet." What is These twenty questions? Quietly I respond. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." And it was only half of it was seen in Afghanistan. He looks at the floor before looking back at me with a smile on his face. "Wanna see some more?" Is this guy kidding he knows I've seen some fucked up shit and he's asking if I want to see some more? Sign me the fuck "Oh God, yes."

Sherlock spins on his heel and leads me out of the room and down the stairs. Calling out as I follow him down. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Heading out." She was standing near the bottom of the stairs. Looking up at us she asks. "Both of you?" Sherlock had almost reached the front door before turning back to her. "Four impossible suicides? There's no point sitting at home all day when there finally something fun going on!" He says going over to her and kissing her dramatically on the cheek.

"Look at you so happy! It's not decent..." That didn't stop her from smiling as well as he turns away and heads for the front door again.

"Oh, who cares about being decent? The game Mrs. Hudson is on!" He walks out onto the street and hails an approaching black cab. "Taxi!" He calls and the cab stops. I quickly follow after him. Looks like I'm headed for an adventure. If only Sam and Tucker could see me now...

The taxi pulls up alongside and we get in, then the car drives off again and heads for Brixton. We sit in silence for a long time while Sherlock sits with his eyes fixed on his smartphone and I keep stealing nervous glances at him. Finally, Sherlock lowers his phone. Should I ask him some of my questions? "Okay, you've got questions." He states. Well that answers that.

"Yeah, where are we going?" I start of. "Crime scene. Next?"

Okay... "Who are you? What do you do?" Might as well pick his brain.

He gives me a smug look. "What do you think?" He asks.

I ponder for a minute. "I'd say private detective..." I start but it doesn't seem right. "But?" Sherlock insists.

"...but the police don't go to private detectives." I finish. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." He corrects.

The hell? "What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." He says in that voice that makes you think it was obvious.

This guy can't be serious. "The police don't consult amateurs." I say. Sherlock seems offended by my comment.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised." He states.

Of course, I was he knew that without me or Mike telling him. "Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room..." I recap what I said as I entered. 'Bit different from my day.'

"...said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You seemed tired when you walked in but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so that means you have discipline. That says you were probably wounded since you look relatively young about twenty years old. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." He finishes clicking his tongue.

Wow... but wait what about- "You said I had a therapist. "I state my thoughts. "You were wounded so badly they sent you home – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother." He says as if it were obvious.

"Hmm?" I ask. He holds his hand out assuming he wants my phone again I give it to him. "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flat share – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." He says turning the phone over. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

I nod in understanding. "The engraving..." It had the words:

Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx

They were engraved there.

He continued with his explanation "Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses say it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking." He says. This guy got all this from looking at my phone for a couple of seconds?

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" I ask. He smiles. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunks without them" He finishes handing the phone here you go, you see – you were right." He says.

Wait what? "I was right? Right about what?" I ask confused.

"The police don't consult amateurs." He simply says. Looking out of the side window, he bites his lip nervously while he awaits my reaction.

I take a few seconds trying to process all of this. "That... was amazing." I end up saying.

Sherlock looks round, apparently so surprised that he can't even reply for the next four seconds. "Do you think so?" He asks to make sure.

"Of course, it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." I say.

Sherlock looks at me surprise still a bit evident on his face. "That's not what people normally say." "What do people normally say?" I ask already guessing the answer. He smirks at me. " 'Piss of!' " I laugh turning away to look out of the window as the journey continues.

We finally arrive at Brixton. The cab has arrived at Lauriston Gardens and me and Sherlock get out and walk towards the police tape strung across the road.

"Did I get anything wrong?" He asks out of the blue. I think for a bit remembering the conversation we had in the car. "Harry and I don't get on, haven't in a while. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker." I say. Sherlock looks pleased with himself. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." He says impressed. I smile before saying. "And Harry's short for Harriet."

He must have been shocked because he stops dead in his tracks. "Harry's your sister." He states.

I ignore him and keep walking. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I ask. Sherlock still seems to be processing the information because he bites out: "Sister!"

I sigh. "No, seriously, what am I doing here?" Sherlock exasperated, started to walk again. "There's always something." He mumbles.

We approach the police tape where we are met by a dark-skinned woman. "Hello, freak." She greets. I flinch slightly before regaining my composure. I don't really like the word much...Sherlock ignores her statement. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." He states. "Why?" She asks. "I was invited." Sherlock says sounding a bit impatient. "Why?" I think she likes that word to much.

Sherlock sighs. "I think he wants me to take a look." He says sarcastically.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Well, you know what I think, don't you?" She says. Sherlock apparently tired of this lifts the police tape and ducking under to the other side. "Always, Sally." He breathes in through his nose. "I even know you didn't make it home last night." He says smirking knowingly at her. She gives him a pointed look. "I don't..." She notices me. "Err, who's this?" She asks surprised. Sherlock looks at me as well. "Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson."

He gestures to the woman. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." His voice drips with sarcasm. "Old friend."

Donovan looks between us surprise written all over her face. "A colleague? How do you get a colleague?!" She asks Sherlock. She then turns to me. "What, did he follow you home?" She asks glancing at Sherlock disgust clear on her face.

Wonder what he does to her to rile her up so much. Hmm I wonder could it be that she...

"Um, would it be better if I just waited and..." I say pointing towards where the cab once stood. Sherlock lifted the police tape and gestured for me to follow. I shrug before ducking under. Donovan sighs before radioing something. Probably telling Lestrade that were here.

She leads us towards the house. Sherlock looks all around the area and at the ground as we approach. We reach the pavement, then a man dressed in a coverall comes out of the house. He doesn't look pleased.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock says mischief in his eyes.

Anderson gives him a pointed look. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" He says pointing his gloved finger at him.

Sherlock responds by taking a deep breath through his nose again. "Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" He asks innocently. "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." Anderson barks at him.

Sherlock smirks at him. "Your deodorant told me that."

Anderson looks at him in shock. "My deodorant?" He asks bewildered.

Sherlock pulls a quirky look and sing songs. "It's for men." I snort at that.

He looks offended. "Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" He all but yells. I'm struggling to contain my laughter.

Sherlock's smug look returns. "So's Sergeant Donovan." He says his smirk widening. That got him. Anderson looks at Donavan in shock.

Sherlock takes another deep breath through his nose. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?" He says. Oohhh get some ice for that burn. The fourteen-year-old in me says.

Anderson looks ready to tear him apart. "Now look whatever you're trying to imply..." He starts but Sherlock interrupts him. "I'm not implying anything."

He heads past Donovan towards the front door. "I'm sure Sally came around for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He says with a hint of sarcasm. He turns back. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Anderson and Donovan stare at him in horror. He smiles smugly, then turns and goes into the house. I walk past Donovan, briefly but pointedly I look down to her knees, then I follow Sherlock inside. Sherlock leads me into a room on the ground floor where Lestrade is putting on a coverall. Sherlock points to a pile of similar items.

"You need to wear one of these." He says to me.

Lestrade looks at us then asks "Who's this?" He gestures to me as I put on the coverall.

Sherlock glances at him as he takes his gloves off. "He's with me." He simply states.

Lestrade sighed. "Yes, but who is he?" He asked again trying to get an answer out of the consulting detective.

"I said he's with me." Said detective said again.

As this went on I took if my jacket and picked up the coverall. I hate these things... Glancing over at the two I notice that Sherlock has put on some latex gloves but hasn't done much else.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" I ask referring to the coverall. If he's not wearing one I'm taking this thing of. Sherlock gives me a stern look. That answers that. Sighing I take mine of and just put on the gloves. "If he doesn't need to wear one I sure as hell not wearing it." I mutter as Sherlock keeps talking To the D.I.

"So, where are we?" He asked looking at the D.I.

He picks up another pair of latex gloves. "Upstairs." He simply says before leading us up the stairs.

Opening the door to the room he looks at Sherlock. "I can give you two minutes."

Sherlock gives him a glance before entering. "May need longer." He says casually.

Lestrade ignores that comment and goes on to telling us about the victim. "Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

3rd POV

The room is empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lighting has been set up, presumably by the police. Scaffolding poles hold up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes have been knocked through one of the walls. A woman's body is lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She is wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands are flat on the floor either side of her head. Sherlock walks a few steps into the room and then stops, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focuses on the corpse. Behind him, John looks at the woman's body and his face fills with pain and sadness. The three of them stand there silently for several long seconds, then Sherlock looks across to Lestrade.

"Shut up." He says suddenly startling the detective inspector.

"I didn't say anything." He replies surprise evident in his voice.

Sherlock sighs not looking at the others in the room. "You were thinking. It's annoying."

Lestrade and John exchange a surprised look as Sherlock steps slowly forward until he reaches the side of the corpse. His attention is immediately drawn to the fact that scratched into the floorboards near the woman's left hand is the word "Rache". His eyes flick to her fingernails where the index and middle nails are broken and ragged at the ends, the pink nail polish chipped in stark comparison to her other nails which are still immaculate. The woman's index finger rests at the bottom of the 'e' as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died. Sherlock makes an instant deduction:

left handed

He looks back to the word carved into the floorboards and an immediate suggestion springs into his mind:

RACHE German(n.) revenge

Instantly he shakes his head in a tiny dismissive movement and the suggestion disappears. He looks at the carved word again and overlays the five letters with a clearer type. Next to the 'e' a rapid progression of letters appears and disappear as he tries to complete the word, then the correct letter settles into place to form the word:

Rachel

He squats down beside the body and runs his gloved hand along the back of her coat, then lifts his hand again to look at his fingers:

wet

He reaches into her coat pockets and finds a white folding umbrella in one of them. Running his fingers along the folds of the material, he then inspects his glove again:

dry

Putting the umbrella back into her pocket, he moves up to the collar of her coat and runs his fingers underneath it before again looking at his fingers:

wet

Reaching into his pocket he takes out a small magnifier, clicks it open and closely inspects the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist ...

clean

... then the gold earring attached to her left ear ...

clean

... and then the gold chain around her neck ...

clean

... before moving on to look at the rings on her left ring finger. The wedding ring and engagement ring flag a different message to him:

dirty

Sherlock blinks as a rapid succession of conclusions appear in front of his eyes:

married unhappily married unhappily married 10 years

Carefully Sherlock works the wedding ring off the woman's finger and holds it up to look at the inside of the ring. While the outside of the ring is still showing

dirty

the inside registers as

clean

As Sherlock lowers the ring and slides it back onto the woman's finger, he has already reached a conclusion about the ring:

regularly removed

Lifting his hands away from the woman, he looks down at her and makes his final deduction about her:

serial adulterer

He smiles slightly in satisfaction.

John's POV

After about two minutes Sherlock finishes inspecting the body. He straightens and looks at us with a smile of satisfaction. Lestrade looks at him expectantly. "Got anything?"

Sherlock shrugs as if there really wasn't anything of importance there. "Not much." He replies.

Pacing a bit, he takes off the gloves and then gets his mobile phone from his pocket and begins typing on it.

Anderson who had been leaning on the door frame speaks up. "She's German. 'Rache' it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something..." He says but gets cut off by the door getting slammed into his face by Sherlock. I chuckle quietly.

"Yes, thank you for your input." He says sarcastically, he turns and walks back into the room, still looking at his phone.

Lestrade shifts slightly. "So, she's German?" He asks for confirmation. Um dude the guy just shut the door on Anderson for suggesting that, I'm sure she's not German.

"Of course, she's not." Ha new it. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night..." He smiles smugly when he apparently finds the information he needed. "...Before returning home to Cardiff." He pockets his phone.

"So far, so obvious." He states looking at the body against before returning his attention to Lestrade.

What? Really obvious? "Sorry – obvious?"

Lestrade seems to be used to this because he continues his interrogation. "What about the message, though?"

Sherlock ignores him and turns his focus on me. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

I glance at the body. "Of the message?" I ask.

Sherlock sighs before saying. "Of the body. You're a medical man."

Before I can do anything Lestrade buts in. "Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside."

"They won't work with me." The genius in the room states like it would mean anything.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Lestrade said distraught. Sherlock waved him off ignoring his statement.

"Yes... because you need me." he states. Lestrade stares at him for a moment then lowered his eyes helplessly.

"Yes, I do, God help me." He mumbles.

Sherlock turns his attention back to me. "Doctor Watson."

I look at him. "Hm?" I glanced at Lestrade as if asking for permission, he sighs again and turns towards the door. "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." He says annoyed before opening the door and going outside.

As the door closes we can hear him below to Anderson. "Anderson keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Huh he was persuaded easily I ponder walking over to the body. Sherlock squats down on one side of it and I lower myself on the other.

He looks at me expectantly. "Well?"

I glanced at him and softly say. "What am I doing here?"

Sherlock sighs before softly saying in return. "Helping me make a point."

Wait isn't he supposed to be the genius here... why does he need me? "I'm supposed to be helping you pay rent." I whisper. Sherlock smiles at me saying. "Yeah well this is more fun. I look at him bewildered. "Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you to go deeper."

Before I can respond Lestrade comes back into the room and just stands inside the doorway finally deciding I was going to look. leaning forward to look more closely at the woman's body I put my head close to hers and sniff tilted my head and curiosity I straighten a little before a lifting her right hand looking at the skin. I kneel and look across to Sherlock. "Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs." I say not sure is my answer would suffice.

"you know what it was. you've brought the papers." Sherlock says urging me on.

Oh, that's right. How could I forget. "What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth ...?" I ask just in case.

Lestrade looks impatient. "Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

We both stand up

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

Lestrade looks at him curiously. "Suitcase?" I look around the room looking for it but I can't find it. I swear this man can be a fruit loop at times.

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

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

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

"That's brilliant." I find myself saying.

Sherlock looks round at me. Uhhhh great job Fenton. "Sorry." I rub my hand on my neck.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock in confusion ignoring my comment. "Cardiff?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" He asks.

Um no genius it's not. "No genius it's not." I say my sarcasm flowing into my words.

Sherlock looked at us seeming unfazed by my comment. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He said before turning his attention to the body.

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

"Cardiff." He says simply. Wow he discovered all that in just under five minutes. "That's fantastic!" I say out loud without realizing it.

He looks at me bewilderment can be seen on his features. "D'you know you do that out loud?" He asks in a whisper.

I look at him my eyes widening in shock. "Sorry. I'll shut up." I rub the back of my neck in embarrassment.

He shook his head. "No, it's... fine." He whispered before turning his attention back to the case. He must not be used to praise. I'll have to keep that in mind.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" The million-dollar question was asked by the detective inspector.

Sherlock spun around in a circle to look around the room. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is." He said.

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" He asked as Sherlock looked.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" He said sarcasm tainting his first sentence.

Hmm. "Maybe she had to wait for the culprit to leave the room?" I ponder not realizing I said it out loud.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade pause to look at me. I look up from staring at the message. "What?" I ask.

Sherlock snapped out of it first. "Yes, that would explain it, good work John. Perhaps your intelligence is not as small as I thought." He said.

Lestrade snapped out of his shock as well and proceeded to keep interrogating Sherlock about the case he keeps mentioning. "How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

Sherlock pointed down to the body as a response. Her tights have small black splotches on the lower part of her right leg. "Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He squats down by the woman's body and examines the backs of her legs more closely.

"Now, where is it? What have you done with it?" He asks looking at Lestrade.

He shrugs. "There wasn't a case." He states simply.

The consulting detective stood frowning. "Say that again." He said.

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." He the policeman repeats.

Immediately Sherlock straightens up and heads for the door, calling out to all the police officers in the house as he begins to hurry down the stairs. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

I exchanged a look with the detective beside me before following him out and stop on the landing. Lestrade calls down the stairs. "Sherlock, there was no case!"

Sherlock slows down, but still makes his way down the stairs. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them." He calls back. Wow he sure like to insult people.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Right, yeah, thanks! And...?" He asks.

Sherlock seemed ready to strangle someone. "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings –serial killings."

He holds his hands up in front of his face in delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to." Does he know the meaning of decent?

Apparently Lestrade was thinking the same thing. "Why are you saying that?"

Sherlock ignores him, instead he calls back. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Like John said someone else was here, and they took her case." He then continues more quietly as if talking to himself. "So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car." Thanks to my enhanced hearing I hear him.

Lestrade keeps his questions and suggestions coming. "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there."

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." Sherlock says looking up at us again before trailing of as if something hit him.

"Oh." His face lights up like a Christmas tree. "Oh!" He claps his hands together in delight.

I'm starting to think he blew a fuse. "Uh... Sherlock?" I ask.

Lestrade leans over the railing. "What is it, what?"

Sherlock, the git, smiles cheerfully. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." He answers before continuing down the stairs.

Lestrade seems distraught. "We can't just wait!" The Coocoo bird stops. Yes, I'm calling him coocoo bird in my head. "Oh, we're done waiting!" He yells before continuing.

I look at Lestrade confusion clear on both our features. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" We hear Sherlock call before he disappears out of the building.

Lestrade rolls his eyes before practically screaming. "Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!"

Sherlock comes back and runs up a couple of stairs so that he can be seen before he stops and yells up to Lestrade. "PINK!"

Oh of course yes... wait what?!

And that's it my very first chapter! I'm very proud of how it turned out. Anyways leave a review tell me if you guys liked it. I'll try to post a new chapter every Saturday, be sure to remind me of I don't. Anyways see you next chapter!

Word count: 8400