The detective and doctor set off for their destination, John lingering slightly behind the river otter due to his limp. They'd stop together every so often to let John rest, though Sherlock was anxious to get to the crime scene as soon as possible. After an hour or so of dashing through the forest, John made the request that he and Sherlock walk the next mile. Sherlock gave in with a sigh, and the duo walked side by side through the grass and bushes. Sherlock glanced over at the hedgehog after a moment and realized that he had a peculiar look on his face. It wasn't hard to see that John was not satisfied with the little amount of information on the otter and the situation he was now in. The otter stared back ahead at the trail, finally breaking the silence between them which had gone on since they left the flat.

"Okay, you've got questions..."

"Yeah. Where are we going?" When he turned to look at the detective, Sherlock had a slight smile on his face, though it faded at the question, likely because he was hoping for something far less obvious.

"Crime scene. Next?"

Maybe he'd get luckier with the second one. John took a moment to consider his question, lowering his head to think, raising it to ask, "Who are you, what do you do?"

It wasn't a second of silence before Sherlock responded. It was another simple question like the first, though this time, he wanted John to figure this one out on his own. Perhaps he would learn to start asking the better questions.

"What do you think?"

John mentally went over the information he'd gathered on the otter, making a few loose connections. His voice came out slightly unsure.

"I'd say...private detective?"

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

This made Sherlock give a full smile. It almost made him proud to see John start working things out for himself.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job."

John couldn't quite figure out how someone could just make a job up and suddenly be working with the police.

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

Sherlock showed definite signs of resenting the police force. He also seemed rather proud of his job and what he did, which must come with the ability to act like a complete know-it-all.

John couldn't help but chuckle at the statement 'The police don't consult amateurs.' The idea that they would was quite an amusement to him. Sherlock couldn't say he had the same reaction to it. Instead, his face turned back to that concentrated and firm look that John had seen before.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said grasslands or woodlands. You looked surprised."

John wondered why he would bring up such a thing now, but answered anyways. "Yes, how did you know?" At least it was an answer to the question he'd been asking earlier, and better late than never.

Sherlock always looked for a chance to show off his ability. He didn't mind explaining it to people who weren't a proper genius like him, and John simply walked alongside the otter as he began his explanation of how he came to know everything about the hedgehog.

"I didn't know, I saw. Your quills, the way you hold yourself says military. The way the fur around your wound is patterned down says you've licked at it yourself, not up as if someone like a doctor were to do it for you. The wound is also well tended to, you do it yourself - so army doctor, obvious. There were traces of dried grass in your quills-not from the forest. You've been abroad. Your limp is bad when you walk, but you don't sit as often as you could so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the incident were traumatic-wounded in action then. Wounded in action, grass in your quills-grasslands or woodlands.

"Then there's your brother. Not many animals nowadays are single offspring, likely you've got a sibling. You're looking for cheap accommodation but you're not going to your sibling for help-that says you've likely got no more than one and you've got problems with him. Brothers and sisters try harder not to fight with one another than brothers. 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, not one you're close to. So brother it is. Animals always need some place to stay, odd that a relative doesn't have one, probably because they left their home. If she'd left him, he would have stayed. No, he wanted rid of her quick. He left her. No siblings would want to stay away from each other for long, you need each other for protection. You're looking for accommodation but you're not going to your brother for help-that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his mate, maybe an old family grudge."

John finally found a moment to cut in from the detective's monologue.

"How could you possibly know about the grudge?"

Once again glad to see that John was using his mind to ask the right questions and let Sherlock further explain, the otter gave a quick side smirk.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Competition among siblings is also common, and you've got several old scars from possible fights with him. Not army scars, no these are much older and are hardly visible to anyone - well anyone but me. The two of you were likely fighting over territory, and when he won, you maintained a grudge. There you go, you see you were right."

John was caught off guard by the last statement, unsure of what the otter could possibly mean.

"I was right? Right about what?"

Sherlock didn't waste a moment in response.

"The police don't consult amateurs."

John stood in utter awe of the correct deductions made by the detective. He'd never experienced anything like it before and couldn't help but give his word in on it after a moment of completely absorbing everything that had happened.

"That...was amazing."

Sherlock was a bit shocked at the compliment. It wasn't that he minded them, but rather that they didn't come often in his line of work. He looked around at the area before turning to the animal next to him.

"Do you think so?"

John was surprised he had to ask. "Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

John was curious to hear what other people had come to think of Sherlock deducing them. "What do people normally say?"

True, Sherlock had tried his skill with many people, mostly when he was learning more and more about what to look for, and it wasn't often the answer varied even then. "Piss off!"

Off in the distance, John could see the forest trees come to a stop, opening up into a fairly large meadow. The area wasn't lush and green like many of the other meadows that were scattered around the area. The grasses were yellow-green and the flowers that once scattered the area with their yellows and blues and reds were dying off. John limped forward, his leg hurting worse now from running with Sherlock. Sherlock was the one who broke the silence between them first.

"Did I get anything wrong?" The otter inquired as the meadow drew closer.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have, Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're finding new places to live." John was about to continue when Sherlock raised his brows and looked slightly shocked, but pleased with himself.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

John couldn't help but give a quick smirk before correcting the otter. "Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock froze in his place. He ran through all of the information he'd gathered from the hedgehog, wondering how he could have missed the fact he had a sister. His head fell slightly.

"Harry's your sister."

John left him to think on it if he wanted. He turned back to the break in the trees, looking at the animals scurrying around. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

Sherlock didn't even seem to be listening anymore. He was still lost in his thoughts and aggravated at himself for missing the simple, yet apparently obvious clue. He hung his head, letting it fall to the side for a moment before lifting it up again and exclaimed in a near whisper.

"Sister!"

He scurried back towards the meadow, the two nearly out of the trees now. John figured the detective hadn't heard him and repeated his question.

"No - seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something..." Still no answer from the otter, who was still going on about the mistake. It'd always been a goal of his to be as accurate as possible, and simple mistakes like mistaking a sister for a brother were not to be tolerated in his mind.

The doctor and detective continued to make their way to the break in the trees. Little were they aware that in the branches up above them, a sparrow was keeping a keen eye on them. It was a small, dark brown bird with beady little black eyes focused on the approaching animals and black beak to match. Its feathers were a dark brown-black color all the way down to the sharp tail of the bird. The only break in the color was a slightly lighter speckled brown on the Nelson's Sharp-tailed sparrow's belly. Before the duo could pass from the dirt forest floors to the meadow, the sparrow called out in its loudest call.

"Hello, freak!"

John looked up and spotted the sparrow; Sherlock just kept his eyes forward with a slight smirk on his lips. He expected this from her, it was nothing new. The sparrow hopped down and glided to the ground, landing right in front of the otter. Sherlock retained his stature and refused to throw an insult back, though with his mind, it would be simple. He simply stayed focused on the business at hand. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The tone in his voice was slightly surprising to the hedgehog. It was official and showed no sign or resentment or anger towards the sparrow.

The sparrow simply kept her focus on the otter, not paying any attention to John just yet as she hadn't finished dealing with the detective. She spoke almost sweetly this time.

"Why?"

Sherlock shifted his shoulders, his face more firm and focused than it was usually, if it was possible.

"I was invited."

The sparrow narrowed her eyes slightly and hardened her tone, going back to the near insulting voice that was first shown.

"I think he wants me to take a look."

The words flowed out of Sherlock's mouth like they couldn't be more obvious, earning a quick and witty response from the sparrow.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?"

Sherlock simply walked past her into the meadow. "Always, Sally." Before he could go any further, he halted and took a quick sniff of the air. The otter turned to the sparrow again, his brows furrowed. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

Sally's eyes widened slightly, just enough to confirm the suspicion of the detective. "I don't..." Embarrassed, she turned her head away from him, finally taking notice of the hedgehog who had been standing idly by while the two had argued. Quick to come up with a way out of her situation with Sherlock, Sally instantly changed topic. John had been trying to cross over into the meadow and follow Sherlock without being noticed, but Sally lifted her wing and halted his attempt. "Who's this?"

Sherlock lifted his paw off the ground and gave a quick glance to the hedgehog, a smirk lightly playing on the darker creature's lips. "Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." Sherlock glanced back at Sally, who had been surveying John like he was some new rare artifact. John felt slightly awkward after the look over, feeling like he was out of place at the scene. He was an army doctor, not a consulting detective.

Sally turned back to Sherlock after several seconds and looked for a sign of lying in the otter's eyes. "A colleague? How do you get a colleague?"

The quick, fluid motion of the sparrow's neck snapped back to John. "Did he follow you home?" The two seemed to never be able to make enough sarcastic remarks at one another. They weren't even holding back. John felt like he had heard enough and didn't want to be dragged into their bickering.

"Would it be better if I just waited -" Before John could utter another word he was cut off by Sherlock's voice with a sharp "No."

The otter turned away from the two animals, focused now on the crime scene. Sally gave in and let the hedgehog pass before taking off into the tree again and calling out loud to the animals at the base of the hill. "Freak's here. I'm bringing him in."

Sherlock and John began the short walk over to the hill, Sally flying just above them. John couldn't help but look over and notice the look in Sherlock's eyes. It was so different from the all-work-no-play stare he'd seen before. Now it was like a child at Christmas. He glanced every which way, eyes wide to take in every detail of the scene. He looked at things that didn't even look like they would matter in a case like this. He seemed to be taking note on the color of the grass, what the area looked like, and at the dead flowery plants that scattered the ground. It was a new kind of energy that John wouldn't have expected from Sherlock, not under these conditions, but apparently this was normal behavior for him when it came to a crime scene.

The two looked up to the base of the hill, noticing a small, dark animal glaring at them - or at least Sherlock - from behind his long nose. It was rather small, its fur a dark brown and a tail that was about as long as its body waving behind it, the stern look on his face not changing much. The animal crept towards them as they approached the crime scene, blocking their path to the hill. Sherlock rolled his eyes briefly from what John could tell as he greeted the water shrew. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." This must be the animal Lestrade and Sherlock were talking about earlier John thought to himself.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Its voice was rather unexpected to John. He half expected a squeak from the little brown animal, though he kept his laughter to himself. Sherlock kept his composure while he spoke, apparently used to this from the water shrew.

"Quite clear." Sherlock broke from his conversation and furrowed his brow for a moment, cocking his head to the side. His nose twitched and he quickly straightened himself back out before continuing. "And is your mate away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that." Anderson was so sure of himself, which only earned a quick remark from the otter.

Sherlock simply looked away from eye contact with the shrew. "Your scent told me that."

Anderson screwed his face up and looked at the otter as though he were bloody mad. There was no possible connection in his brain of how that could have given any of the information away, which was exactly why Sherlock had grown to disdain the shrew. "My scent?"

"It's for a water shrew" The comeback from Sherlock was quite enthusiastic. It was almost entertaining to him how utterly stupid this animal was.

"Well, of course it's for shrews – It's my scent." Sherlock assumed this was the only real type of connection someone like him could make. Normal people bored him beyond tolerance simply for this reason, and Anderson was easily one of the more stupid people in Sherlock's life, if not the most.

"It's apparently for sparrows as well." Anderson's eyes shot open and he turned to look at Sally, who was only a foot or two behind the group. "Ooh... I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-"

Sherlock happily cut of the shrew from uttering another word, walking past him while he was in shock from the comment. "I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she dusted your floors going by the state of her wings."

Sally and Anderson were left speechless and simply glanced at the sparrow's wings. Sally noticed they weren't as well groomed as she normally kept them, and tried to hide them in the grass surrounding her.

Sherlock and John simply continued up to the slope of the hill, Sherlock proud of himself for ratting them out on their affair, though at the same time, completely and horrendously disgusted at the thought.

As John and Sherlock reached the base of the small hill, they could see the silver fur of Detective Inspector Lestrade waiting for them. The three gave a quick exchange of glances, Lestrade giving Sherlock a somewhat confused one after having a full look over of John.

"Who's this?" It wasn't like Sherlock to bring someone with him to a crime scene; the only people who stayed with him (as long as they could tolerate him) were his assistants. John glanced around for a moment and before he could answer the silver fox, Sherlock had taken the liberty of doing it.

Sherlock ignored the question with a stale "He's with me." It would take too long to explain to Lestrade and the otter was eager to see the victim. Lestrade was not going to have it.

"But who is he?" At the least a name would be helpful, though he knew that with Sherlock this would not be easy to get.

Sherlock once again avoided the inquiry.

"I said he's with me."

Determined to see the new case and begin digging into its mysteries, Sherlock quickly diverted the conversation from John. The case was more important.

"So where are we?"

"Uphill."

As the trio walked their way up to where their victim would be waiting for them, John limping slightly behind, Lestrade spoke with barely a glance at Sherlock.

"I can give you two minutes."

Sherlock gazed intently up at the grass, examining anything he could about it. He gave Lestrade his reply when he found a break in his thoughts. "May need longer."

John thought it was surprising, as he'd figured out his own life story in a matter of a minute.

Lestrade knew he would have to give Sherlock the time he needed, even if it was past his original limit. He wouldn't have called him if he could have done it himself, and Sherlock was the only person he knew who could have a chance at solving this crime. He figured it'd be best to fill him in on the details while they were on their way so the detective could have an idea of where they were on the situation. "Hasn't been here long. Some birds found her."

It was a silent trip up the slope of the hill, Lestrade leading the detective and doctor to the clearing of grass at the top. Lestrade nodded to the fellow silver wolf that guarded the area and let them pass onto the dirt.

The grass had receded from the area, leaving the dirt to face the open skies. The only thing that broke the small patch was the body of a medium sized female peahen, lying with her wings slightly spread out.

Lestrade slipped through the grass and looked down at the body for a moment, an almost sympathetic look on his face, as he felt a slight sorrow for the animal lying dead on the ground. He'd seen so many bodies; he knew he shouldn't feel this way, though it was always there for him in the back of his mind. Not a second later, Sherlock joined him on the dry surface. His expression was not different from that he'd had before - eager, observant, and focused with his entire mind. This was his favorite part; he wanted to learn all he could about this creature.

The experience was far different for John Watson. He came in behind Sherlock, trying to keep off his injured leg. When his little nose poked through the grass and his eyes set on the body, he couldn't help but give a sigh, his memories of the war against predators flashing in front of his eyes. He pushed them aside with a lick of his lips. It had been a long while since he had seen a dead body like this, one that had been murdered by another creature. It was a sight that took a moment for him to readjust to, as he was not about to let the memories of old wars hinder his job (not that his job had been explained to him yet).

Sherlock ran his eyes up and down the body, taking in a basic preview of what might be important. He would have gone straight to work if he couldn't see Lestrade in the corner of his eyes. His attention kept being drawn away from the body at the facial expressions Lestrade made, as you could tell much of what a person is thinking about by their facial and body movements. It was quite a distraction and was almost 'talking' to Sherlock in a way that kept him from focusing his complete attention to the dead peahen. When he at last couldn't take any more of the distractions, he turned his head to Lestrade and broke the silence that had been kept between the three.

"Shut up."

Lestrade looked around before turning his attention to the otter, John joining him.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking, it's annoying."

In slight disbelief, Lestrade glanced at John, whose head lowered slightly and his attention remained fixed on the body, not wanting to make eye contact with the silver fox.

Sherlock finally stepped closer to the peahen, looking over the brown feathers with a keen eye. John inched forward behind him, determined to keep out of Sherlock's way though still be of whatever help he could. The otter looked from the peacock for a moment to the ground where her leg was outstretched, the word "Ros" etched into the soil. One look at the hand she used made it obvious to him she was left handed. Upon observing the word, his first thought was that it was meant to be the Afrikaans word for horse, though he dismissed the thought in a moment with a furrow of his brow. He ran through the possibilities of words that could come of the few letters, shortly becoming sure that the word she was trying to complete was the word rose. Sherlock did not want to think about why she was spelling this out; there would be time for it later. He then inched closer to the dead animal; his nose twitching at the faint smell of ran his paw swiftly over the delicate feathers of the animal. Wet. She must have been in rain in the past few hours. He then lifted up several of the brown feathers, feeling with the dry paw. Also wet, the wind must have pushed the feathers up, so heavy wind as well. Then a small, bright pink speck in her feathers caught his eye. The otter drew close and smelled the area, detecting the undeniable aroma of a rose. Why would such an animal need a rose? It was the males who showed off, not peahens such as this. John watched as Sherlock scurried to the rear end of the animal, lifting her tail feathers to examine her. She's had a mate and given birth before. A sniff. It was nearly undetectable, but the scent of two or more peacocks made its way to the snout of the otter. A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face, as he could confirm his theory that she had been seeing multiple peacocks other than her first mate.

"Got anything?"

Sherlock took a step back.

"Not much."

Suddenly a voice came from behind them, the familiar voice of the shrew, Anderson.

"Ros, it's Afrikaans for Horse. She could be trying to tell us something..."

Sherlock cut the shrew off mid-sentence, quickly ran over to him, and pushed him back by the snout to force him back into the grass and back down the hill. "Yes, thank you for your input."

"So she's not English?"

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town. Intended to stay in the forest for one night before returning home. So far, so obvious."

John quickly shook his head in slight shock that he would say that.

"Sorry - obvious?"

"What about the message though?" Lestrade was ignored and Sherlock turned back to the hedgehog.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

John was a bit surprised and confused, giving a quick glance around the area before responding. "Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"We have a whole team right outside." Lestrade was hoping to keep too many civilians from being near the body to fault the evidence. Sherlock locked eyes with the silver fox, not wasting a moment in his reply.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here..."

"Yes...because you need me."

John felt out of place once again. He wasn't part of the police, and neither was Sherlock. He'd never been a detective or done this sort of work, though something inside him compelled him to stay. There was a moment of silence between the three animals before Lestrade broke the silence.

"Yes, I do. God help me."

"Dr. Watson!"

John gave Lestrade a quick glance to confirm that he could work with the body. Unlike Sherlock, he wanted permission before he came too close to it.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself. Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes..."

Lestrade then turned around, his tail following swiftly behind him into the grass to leave Sherlock and John to their work. John and Sherlock returned to the body, John being careful of his leg as he sat down. Sherlock ran around to the opposite side of the body, tilting his head softly as he looked at her neck. John looked up at the otter, who returned the gaze.

"Well?"

"What am I doing here?"

Sherlock's voice lowered to a whisper for just a moment. "Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"This is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

John looked down at the body once again, this time to examine it. The bushes behind the two parted and Lestrade joined them once again, just to keep an eye on them. John approached her face, glancing over the slightly worn beak. His nose twitched as he sniffed the face and dirt around her head. He then limped around to her legs, looking over the talons. Sherlock was watching him carefully, his eyes flicking from the doctor to what he was looking at.

"Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. It could have been a seizure."

"You know what it was, you've heard about it."

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth...?"

Lestrade broke in on the conversation, needing to get the two of them out and as much information as he could get back from Sherlock. "Sherlock - two minutes, I said, I need anything you got."

"Victim is in her early 10s going by her feathers and beak. Travelled today intending to stay in the forest one night from the size of her bag."

Lestrade had no clue where Sherlock had drawn up the idea of a case and spoke up. "Bag?"

"Yes. She's had a mate at least 7 years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew about the first mate."

The silver fox looked at Sherlock as though he were mad; the conclusions he'd made had to be from his own imagination. "Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up..."

"Her smell. It's the scent of a rose, which can't grow in meadows like this. The pink flecks in her feathers are just further confirmation. The scent is strong enough to mask the scent of her other lovers. It's not for her scent; she wouldn't need to mask her own. She rubs it off on herself in order to hide the scent of other males she's involved with. 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."

The way Sherlock had figured such a thing out from only a minute or two of observing left John in complete awe. "Brilliant." The words had accidentally left John's mind and escaped through his mouth. "Sorry."

"How do you know she's from out of town?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me."

Sherlock looked between the two of them at the blank expressions on their faces.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring. Her coat - it's damp, she's been in heavy rain the last few hours - no rain anywhere in this area in that time. Her under feathers are damp too. They've been blown upwards due to the wind. Not just wind, strong wind – strong enough to lift a heavy peahen feather. We know from her bag that she was intending to stay overnight 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? There was a flock of birds that came in not an hour ago from the south, chatter from them said it was to avoid the rain, so we know she's from the forest south of here."

John once again subconsciously said his thoughts aloud.

"Fantastic."

Sherlock came closer to John for a moment and lowered his voice.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

John was slightly embarrassed for a moment, afraid he was distracting Sherlock from his work.

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

Sherlock always did appreciate a positive comment on his skills, and wasn't about to discourage John from complimenting him.

"No, it's...fine."

Lestrade's mind was still on the bag.

"Why do you keep saying bag?"

Sherlock looked around at the top of the hill, looking to see if she had dropped the bag anywhere near her before checking over the slope to see if it rolled down.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had something to tell us where she was going and why she was here. Find out where the rose is."

"She was writing Rose?"

The otter turned back around and stood up to go nose to nose with Lestrade, the sarcasm in his voice blatantly obvious.

"No, she was leaving a note about an animal that doesn't live anywhere near here that killed her - of course she was writing Rose, no other word it can be. Why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Sherlock went back to the body, looking for any sign to answer his question.

"How do you know she had a bag?

"Feathers are worn around her neck. She carries a bag and the strap wears down the feathers. Small bag going by the strap thickness. Must have picked it up when a human left it on a trip. Bag that size, peacock this concerned with keeping the scents covered – could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Where is it, what have you done with it?

"There wasn't a bag."

Sherlock froze. It was a moment before he slowly turned his head toward Lestrade again.

"Say that again."

Lestrade wasn't sure if Sherlock had heard him wrong, but he did as he asked.

"There wasn't a bag. There was never any bag."

Suddenly Sherlock was up on his hind legs, shouting down to the bottom of the hill.

"Bag! Did anyone find a bag? Was there a bag on this hill?" Back to all fours and he ran down the slope, leaving John and Lestrade at the top, though they could still see him.

"Sherlock, there was no bag!" Lestrade howled back.

Sherlock got up on his hind legs to call back to Lestrade.

"But they take the poison themselves, swallow the hemlock themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

The silver fox rolled his eyes and sighed, knowing that Sherlock was once again assuming everyone was on the same page as he was.

"Right, thanks. And...?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings." Sherlock clapped his paws together, a strangely twisted smile on his face. "We've got a serial killer. There's always something to look forward to." The otter began to take off for the forest once again.

"Why are you saying that?

Sherlock was forced to stop once again, shouting as loud as he could back at the fox and hedgehog on the hill. "Her bag! Come on, where is her bag? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her bag. So the killer must have taken her here. Forgot about the bag."

"She could have found a place to rest, left it there." John noted.

"No, look at her feathers. Someone like her would want to keep her feathers well groomed. She'd never have left a temporary nest with her feathers still looking-" Sherlock suddenly cut off and stared into nothingness, mapping out the connection in his head before speaking aloud again. "Oh... Oh!" He was getting more and more excited by the minute, grinning as wide as his lips would allow once he'd made the connection.

John and Lestrade watched on, easily able to tell the otter was onto something in his head.

"Sherlock?"

"What is it, what?"

Sherlock's paws were held out in front of him, making slow circular motions. "Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade was too eager for a result to wait. The longer they spent without a lead would decrease the chances of finding the killer.

"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to her forest. Find the rose!"

John turned around and looked at the body as though the answer was written on her body and they had simply overlooked the obvious answer to their problem.

"Of course, yeah - but what mistake?"

Sherlock didn't turn back to look at them as his body slipped through the blades of grass back into the forest; he simply called out at the top of his lungs the answer Lestrade was looking for.

"Pink!"

Once Sherlock vanished out of sight, Lestrade turned back to the body, deciding that it was time to take it away before vultures got to it. John simply stared down at the grass where the detective had slipped through before deciding he might as well follow him. The hedgehog slowly limped back down the hill, avoiding the dead shrubs and animals that were on the way up to help Detective Inspector Lestrade with the peahen.

It wasn't long before John came to the bush where he and Sherlock had first entered the crime scene. Sergeant Donovan was still posted up in the tree, though she was talking to another bird who John took to be a coworker. Sally was watching the hedgehog as he looked around like a lost puppy. When he came closer she called down to him.

"He's gone."

John looked up at her.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?"

The sparrow shook her head. Her coworker kept an eye for anyone who may be trying to intrude.

"Didn't look like it."

"Right. Right..." John looked around once again and realized that he had no recollection of where he was in the forest. He'd been too busy with his conversation with Sherlock to keep track of where they were going and looked back up to the bird. "Yes. Sorry, where am I?"

Sally had turned to chat with the bird next to her. The birds were known to chat as often as they could about everything they could. They spread gossip from one end of the forest to the other in a wing beat. If you wanted to have something known, all you had to do was spread the word to a bird, and you could be sure that it would get spread around. Sally shifted her attention back to John once again. "South end meadow."

"Do you know where I could find the central river? It's just er..." John hated admitting that he needed assistance due to his leg. There was no dignity in it. "Well - my leg."

Sally gave a sigh and glided down from her branch in the tree, landing just in front of

John and pulled aside the grass for him.

"Try the main path."

"Thanks." John stepped through the grass and back onto the soil of the forest floor. Before he could continue on, Sally's voice caught him.

"But you're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

John turned to face her, careful of his leg.

"I'm...I'm nobody. I just met him."

"Ok, bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what...? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and he'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

Suddenly the head of Lestrade poked up out of the brush, nose to the sky as though he were going to howl, but rather called out for the sparrow.

"Donovan!"

"Coming" Sally turned back to John. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

Sally flew off back to Lestrade, leaving John to find his way home for the night. John thought for a moment on what Sally had said, and something inside him knew it could be true. He knew all there was to know about bodies, he knew how to get rid of the evidence. He shoved the thought out of his mind. Sherlock wouldn't do something like that. The hedgehog turned back around and started down the trail leading to the main river. John was somewhat upset that Sherlock would just take off without him, but with the pace he was going he knew he wouldn't have been able to keep up without resting often. There was no doubt that this would have bothered the otter and possibly ruined a chance of catching the killer. When he looked up from his thought and began paying attention to his surroundings once again, he could have sworn he saw the figure of an animal dash across the path and into a bush ahead of him. It was difficult to determine what it was; the night had concealed the animal's identity well. The doctor froze, and prepared to curl up into a protective ball. After several minutes, he decided it was safe to continue on, though was still cautious. When he came to the bush, he peered inside and around it, determining it must have been a bird or his imagination playing tricks on him. John proceeded once again down the dirt path.

Behind him, not too far off in the distance, two sets of eyes hidden in the grass were set on the hedgehog. One was completely dark brown and observant much like the ones of Sherlock; the other tan and focused, a triangular pink nose sitting just below them with whiskers jutting out from the sides.

.-.-.-.-.

Sorry for the long wait for chapter 3 guys, I hope that it was worth it. Nice little peek at the animals who we meet next~ Shout out to Teabeforewar on tumblr! Your pic is awesome, even if it was only slightly inspired by SiP. Those of you who haven't seen it should totally check it out :3 Also a little hidden reference that some of you DW fans may have caught x3