Nancy Drew (gameverse)
Sherlock (BBCverse)
Post Reichenbach. As much as I ship Johnlock, in this fic, they are just good friends. Will eventually become Sherlock x Nancy. This work is a collaboration by me and Friendlyfaithplate. Enjoy, and please leave feedback! :)

Chapter 1

One of the many things Nancy Drew adored about London was the weather. The titian-haired girl shoved her hands into the pockets of her fitted coat, burrowing the lower part of her face further into her huge scarf. The wind nipped at her cheeks, flushing them a brilliant shade of rose. The girl extended her gait as she read the street sign at her left and found that she was, indeed, on the correct path. Nancy had gladly agreed to travel abroad to meet a good family friend, who was currently under a great deal of turmoil. The middle-aged woman had a son who was recently murdered.

"Some policemen came out to see the body before it was trucked away, but they said they couldn't find the cause of death then, no blows to the head or anything. I really don't trust that lot. Nancy, I hate to bother you, but would you come out and help? I trust you more than them tenfold." The woman softly wept, her West London accent slurring as she hiccupped and sobbed. Nancy cooed reassuringly.

"Of course I will, Bridget!"

A lump began to form in her throat as she approached the correct address. Nancy had hardly ever dealt with murders, nor had she ever really been around dead bodies. But how could she say no? The woman had been so clearly distraught, and Nancy could never say no to a perplexing and interesting case.

She leaped up the steps to the door of the flat and rapped her knuckle against the wood. She stepped back and surveyed her surroundings. The road was relatively busy, but not as ridiculous as Trafalgar Square had been. A few couples walked down the road hand-in-hand, causing Nancy to wrinkle her nose slightly.

Her thoughts instantly drifted to boyfriend Ned Nickerson, who had fought with her in protest about her leaving.

"I'm so sick of waiting for you to come back to River Heights, Nancy. You run around globe-trotting, I'm stuck at home… we have this discussion ALL the time, do you not understand?"

"Um, you could go, I guess? Maybe… She's paying for my ticket and stuff, I can pay for you-"

"That isn't the point. No matter what, I think I'll always be one step behind you."

A door creaking ripped Nancy from her distractions, and a portly woman squeaked out. The woman was once quite beautiful, her lovely brown hair fading to a soft grey. She wrapped her arms around Nancy's middle and squeezed tightly.

"Oh, look at you, bless! You've grown so much since I last saw you, you were such a wee thing. Look at you now! Good Lord, I am getting old…"

Nancy laughed and reciprocated the hug, rubbing Bridget's back. She pulled away and slapped her hands on Nancy's shoulders, beaming up.

"Please come in! I've just put the kettle on."

Nancy followed her into the flat and relaxed on the nearest couch, stretching out her legs and sighing with happiness because she could finally relax. She closed her eyes and leaned back, lolling her head to the left. Her flight had been long and tiring and she began to feel her inability to sleep on the plane creeping up on her.

"So where is your luggage, sweetheart?" Bridget yelled back into the living room from the kitchen. Nancy shot open her eyes and groaned loudly.

"Oh, hasn't gotten here quite yet. The airline said it'll be here soon and they'll ship it. I gave them your address."

Bridget tutted as she carried in a plate of cookies, accompanied with a mug of tea.

"Made the British way, along with a few biscuits. You must be starving." She said as she laid the platter in front of Nancy. She moaned and grappled the mug's handle, draining the hot liquid down her throat. The warmth felt good travelling through her shivering body. As Nancy shoved the cookies into her mouth, Bridget let out a deep sigh. The girl looked up and followed the direction of Bridget's eyes, which were staring out the nearby window. A police car had since pulled up, and out popped a man with salt-and-pepper hair, accompanied by a young woman with tendrils of bouncy curls.

"That'd be him, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Bridget narrowed her eyes. "That woman he's with is a little insufferable, she is." Nancy chuckled and finished her drink, leaning forward to peck Bridget's cheeks.

"Thank you, that was excellent!"

Bridget smiled and opened her mouth, but was interrupted by the doorbell. She rolled her eyes and strode over to the front door. Nancy stood up and smoothed the front of her skirt, eyeing the Detective Inspector and his assistant in a mirror. The woman had a curled lip as she observed the small apartment, making Nancy roll her eyes, just as Bridget had before. The trio entered the living room, a questioning look donning the pair.

"… and this is just a family friend."

"Nancy Drew, very nice to meet you." Nancy smiled. She walked over and grasped each of their hands individually. If she were to be working somewhat near the police, she might as well put off a good impression.

"Greg Lestrade, this is Sally Donovan." Sally nodded towards Nancy, clearly observing her outfit. Nancy kept the smile plastered on her face, trying her best to fight past the woman's catty behavior. Sally's right eyebrow slowly began to rise.

"Your name sounds really familiar."

Oh, no.

"Oh, quite possibly… Erm…" Nancy bit the inside of her lower lip. What was she going to say? How would she even describe her job title?

"I'm kind of an amateur detective?"

Smooth move, Drew… Nancy thought, mentally smacking herself.

"Amateur? Oh God, Greg…" Sally turned and looked at Greg with a fearful look. He returned a knowing one, and smiled a wary smile at Nancy.

"Oh, we know somebody who… I guess he isn't an amateur, per say, but he's… different. Works with us on some cases." Greg chuckled nervously, exchanging his smile from Nancy to Bridget. Nancy sat back down, with Greg and Sally joining her. Bridget sat down in a loveseat that rested perpendicular to them and sighed.

"Alright," Greg began. "We observed his body, and right now we're getting toxicology tests done. We just have a few questions for you."

Bridget nodded and crossed her legs, nervously playing with the hem of her blouse.

"Did Joshua ever have any enemies while he was in school?"

Bridget scoffed and sat back in her seat.

"I should hope not! He was always well behaved, well liked. He had lots of friends, played a lot of football, had a nice girlfriend… he was a normal young man."

The tension was very dense, causing Nancy to fidget uncomfortably in her spot.

This is going to be a long day.

Sherlock Holmes had been dead exactly six months, and he was tremendously bored. The shabby little flat near Victoria Park wasn't exactly in a quiet neighborhood, but it was still too quiet for the detective's preference. He found himself constantly on edge, restless, staring out the windows although he had nowhere to go; he couldn't go much of anywhere these days. It was unlikely he would be recognized in this part of London, but he was still taking a great risk just being there. But Sherlock Holmes was not one to run from danger. He'd rather be somewhat near those he was protecting with his "death," watching from his distance, and always searching for the last loose ends of Moriarty's plans, so that he could tie up those loose ends, very neatly, and maybe drop them out of a window once or thrice.

It was a cold day, and he was in a bathrobe, curled in his corner chair (it had mysteriously disappeared from 221 B much to John Watson's astonishment; many thanks due to the homeless network). He was bored, bored, bored. Long fingers clicked along the sides of his cup of tea that was more a prop to be held than a beverage to be consumed. Finally, he slammed the cup down on the windowsill and dropped his forehead against the glass. A police car shot by; not an unusual sight in these parts. The little jolt of adrenaline wasn't enough for Sherlock. He had had absolutely enough of laying around dormant, with only Molly to text and anonymous tips to call into the Lestrade's office, but not enough that he'd start to wonder. He needed a case. And he would be damned if he didn't find one.

He grabbed the newspaper roughly and tore through the pages, his eyes flicking wildly over the useless parts, deleting them from his mind as soon as they entered. And then—like a glorious beacon of light through his six months of darkness—a murder.

"Oh, this is perfect, this is wonderful!" He told his skull, which had also mysteriously vanished from the flat. John Watson had heaved a huge sigh, annoyed at the apparent Sherlock-hating burglars who wanted to sell his things on the internet or something. Sherlock tried very, very hard not to think of John. But sometimes he accidentally called the skull by his name.

He read:

"A young man was found dead today in central London, on the steps of his mother's home. No cause of death could be determined. Any persons wishing to report suspicious activity blah blah blah YES! This is what we need." The skull voiced its agreement with respectful silence.

"I'll have to keep out of sight, do all my work after hours, reach a verdict, and send in an anonymous tip. Excellent. And then when I've finished off Moriarty's men, they'll know the truth about this case, as well. Everyone will see…" He dragged his hands roughly over his face for a moment, wondering for a moment if his need for recognition would be his undoing. Well, he was already undone, what more could possibly go wrong?

He would go to the scene of the crime. As a casual passerby, strolling along, perhaps snap a discreet picture or two? He was Sherlock Holmes. He could solve a case with his eyes closed. "Let's go, John!" he called, before he throat caught and he sobered up a bit. He left the skull where it was, wound his scarf ceremoniously about his neck, and strode toward the front door of the apartment building. His hand had just pressed against the wood when an envelope zipped under the door and hit his shoe.

A pair of dark eyebrows crinkled intensely. This sort of thing should not be happening to a man in hiding. He would have flung the door open, but was frozen in place as he heard footsteps scampering away at an alarming speed. The pacing of a child, he thought, so someone is having a child do their work for them?

Scooping up the envelope in his gloved hand, he considered checking it properly for safety, but instead just tore into the damn thing. He set the envelope aside and decided he would test for prints later. Inside, a single slip of paper read in typewritten print:

Crime Files Archive
Room 5; 22
-A fan

He instinctually went to work. Tapped the paper on his tongue. Regular printer paper, common. Sniffed it. Modern typewriter ink. Tried to smudge it. No, long since dried. Not wrinkled at all. This was a meticulously planned note. But directions to a police file? Why? He had no way of knowing what the file was just by looking at the filing system numbers. Only that it was from the past year. Curiosity burned from within so fiercely, any sense of restraint was reduced to ashes.

He waited for those hours that dwell in the deepest part of nighttime when anything could be done in secret. And then he slipped out into the street and hailed a cab, riding only part of the way to Scotland Yard, and walking the rest. The night was particularly cold, but there was very little activity on the streets at this hour, and Sherlock enjoyed the solitude of his own mind. The emptiness of the space beside him as he walked briskly on, alone. He reminded himself again and again that he wasn't lonely, that he wasn't capable of such things. Still, it was nice to at least have a sentient wall to bounce ideas off of.

He turned up his coat collar—a new coat to avoid recognition, but still long and dark—and darted nimbly around the back of the building, knowing his way to a vent shaft that would lead into the archives room. He looked warily around him before ducking behind the heating and air conditioning outdoor unit and found removing the screws to the vent all too easy. Silently, he slid off the cover and entered the air duct.

It wasn't the most silent way to travel, and his knees scraping along made a terrible rumbling metallic sound, and he gritted his teeth the whole way to the archive room. Then he dropped in and grinned at himself for a moment, feeling like quite a fantastic success.

The room was dark, so he clicked on his torch, sweeping the beam slowly around shelf after shelf of case files. He made his way back to room 5, sliding a credit card through the door slat to unlock each one on the way. The beam of the torch whipped over the files, trying to get an idea of which way the numbers went, when suddenly, the door in front of him began to click. The lock was turning! Or, maybe it wasn't. Sherlock froze, hiding himself in the shadows, and listening as someone fiddled for quite some time with the door. He would never be able to run away in time. A frantic plan formed, and he unwound his scarf, ready to use it to smother the intruder to unconsciousness after they discovered him. They'd wake up and have no idea he was ever there. But what was going on? The clicking continued. And then, a frustrated little grunt, and the clatter of a metal object dropping to the floor.

Someone was picking the lock.

Sherlock's eyes widened as the door finally opened, and he peered from behind a shelf as a young woman entered, dressed all in black, with titian hair and clever blue eyes, looking almost as determined to be there as Sherlock imagined he must look. Although at the moment, he just looked extremely confused.