A/N: I'm playing with a writing style. This is just an experiment, so I apologize if it sucks. xD Also, it's not a direct sequel, but you might want to read the final chapter of The Dead Killer. You won't know who Wren is otherwise. Basically, she's just someone who's interested in Sherlock for many reasons.

John Watson is quiet, but then, so is every man in the room. Sherlock is thinking, and they all know better than to speak when Sherlock is thinking.

There is no body, but from the amount of crimson blood splashed on the walls, it is clear that there is one.

Somewhere.

The sleuth is the only one to move, and he doesn't hesitate to. He bounds about fluidly, almost as if he were dancing. He swings his arms and studies the wall, imagining the crime within the depths of his brain. With every movement, his mind develops the details.

"The body was not killed here," he finally announces, deciding that the patterns on the wall could only have been made deliberately. "The blood was thrown onto the walls like paint. It was only made to look like a murder scene."

Lestrade nods, accepting this as fact. "What about the puzzle piece?"

In the center of the room, there is a solitary puzzle piece the colour of pure snow. A single drop of blood lies in the middle.

Sherlock sniffs. "It was placed here after the room was decorated." Even Anderson could have deduced that.

"It was?"

Well, maybe not Anderson. "Obviously." He points to it. "If the blood had splattered onto it, it would be messy. Look at it; the drop is clean around the edges; perfect. It was placed onto the piece with a dropper after the piece was set on the floor."

"Just like the one last week," someone pipes up.

John looks over, but does not see who has spoken. He has no chance to ask anything; Sherlock is taking care of that.

"There was another of these found? Why wasn't I told then?" He demands.

Lestrade shrugs. "It was a drugs bust, Sherlock. That's not really your area of interest. No one thought a puzzle piece was important. Not until now."

Idiots. All of them. Sherlock tears at his dark curls. "Have the blood tested. We need to know how many victims we're dealing with." He instructs, and the officers move aside as he strolls by. John follows quickly behind.

"What do you think we're dealing with?" He dares to ask, and a smile curls at Sherlock's lips.

"Something fun," he answers simply. "Dinner?"

The waiter leads them to their table; the usual, near the window yet tucked away in a corner. Sherlock likes it best here; He can observe people both on the street and those dining within the room.

John has a feeling he will be the only one eating. His flatmate has that look in his eye, the one he gets when his mind is analyzing details. He never eats when he has that look in his eye.

"What are you having?" John tries to ask casually as they weave through the crowd.

"I'm not. I'm thinking," Sherlock answers.

"As a doctor, I should advise you to eat," John points out, and Sherlock turns to look at him over his shoulder. John sees the smirk before Sherlock turns away.

"I'd advise you not to advise me, doctor. You'd only be wasting your breath," he replies, and John laughs.

The detective stops suddenly, causing his friend to collide with his back. Sherlock barely feels it. His light eyes are focused on the center of their table.

"Now where did that come from?" The waiter muses. "I just came from here, and the table was clear. I'll..." He reaches forwards to pick up the object, but Sherlock grabs his arm tightly.

The puzzle piece with a single drop of blood stares back at him, tauntingly.

The realization smacks him across the face.

It's personal.

John supposes he should be used to this; people coming after Sherlock and by association, him. While he does find it exciting, and at times thrives off of the feeling of the unknown, he wouldn't mind if they could be left alone long enough to enjoy a good cup of tea. But with a flatmate like Sherlock, what should he expect? Sherlock doesn't have friends, but he does have a long list of enemies, something he rather prides himself on.

One of those had to be the reason his flatmate was currently lying on the sofa, the beige of the nicotine patches visible against the pale skin of his arm.

John should advise against overuse of them, but he knows it would fall to deaf ears.

Sherlock's eyes snap open, and he whispers something. Before John can ask him to repeat his words, Sherlock has slipped on his coat and was on his way out the door.

John follows. One day he'll learn. For now, he'll just follow.

Sherlock has questions, but more than that, he has a hunch. Leaning against the silver rail of the bridge, he waits. She will come.

And she does.

"Sherlock my dear," she greets him with her sultry voice. "How nice to see you again."

He isn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Is this your doing?" He demands, holding up the cardboard piece.

Her dark eyes study it quickly. "A piece of a puzzle. Why would that be my doing?" He stares at her hard. "Really, Sherlock. I like puzzles, I do, but do you think I would be so obvious about it?"

Every fact he has learned about her says both yes and no. She likes to be creative, and works with riddles. As for obvious... she had dyed the hair of a dead couple to match his hair and her own. Though, when it came to bloody murder, she did like to keep her hands clean. With a sigh, he pockets the piece.

"I might be able to find out who is the owner, however," she offers.

His icy eyes shoot back to her. As if he needed assistance finding out whom it belonged to. The very thought was insulting. "I'm not asking for your help. I merely wanted to see if it was yours."

A smile curves her lips. "Well you have your answer. Besides, there's blood on it. I dislike blood," she sniffs.

"I dislike games, Wren," he warns her.

She laughs. "No you don't. You love them. It's something we share. However, I can promise you that I'm not playing this one." She turns and walks away, her heels clicking against the bridge. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

He won't change his mind.

From his hiding spot nearby, John is sure that Sherlock will.