DISCLAIMER: While I would LOVE to start a licensed roller derby team with the characters in this story, most of them are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! Everybody else is mine so… ok, I'll start a roller derby team with them. Thanks for reading!

This story is un-betaed. I do apologize for any problems this may cause.

PROLOGUE…

The music throbbed as the woman circled her hips, inches from the rotund man's obvious erection. While it was quite clear where his thoughts were turned, her plastered smile and quick winks gave no indication of the woman's true thoughts.

"It's just a job; that's all this is. All it ever is." That mantra probably didn't work for a lot of people but it seemed to keep Samantha, stage name Satin N. Lace, going.

As her hips moved, Satin calculated exactly how much of her mortgage this man's money will, and had, paid off. The man's hands lifted toward her generous, naked breasts but she smirked and grabbed them, pushing them to the cushions beside him. "Nah, ah…" Satin purred, turning so her naked bum caressed his erection, somewhat gagging at the slight wetness on his pants. "Georgie, you remember the rules. No hands." She turned back around and placed her foot on the cushion beside him. "The moment you touch, this dance is over…" The man's meaty, wet tongue left his mouth and licked his lips at the proximity of her naked core to his mouth. Of course he was too busy drooling to realize she was as dry as a bone. The man, just like all the others, revolted her.

His fee of $3k was the only spark of excitement in that room.

Thankfully, with a generous bend of her bum in his face, the dance was over. Samantha knew she would see him in two weeks. They had a standing appointment.

"Ohhh Saaatin…." Georgie groaned as he came, right there in his pants. Like he always did. Satin hid her shivers of disgust as she moved away. The sudden smell of his body odor and release overcame the room and she turned quickly toward the bathroom in the hallway hidden discretely behind Chinese screens. Satin had learned after the first dance to install outlet air fresheners to mask the disgusting essence of the insanely rich man; he was in prime nauseating form. Samantha shut the door, locking out the throbbing of muffled music, and promptly threw up. She gathered herself, cleaned up and wrapped herself in the black silk robe she kept behind the door. Just as she rounded the corner Samantha heard a man arguing with Georgie.

"Where's the money Georgie?"

"I don't have it! But give me a chance…" Georgie was desperately pleading with the newcomer whose back was to Samantha.

"No second chances Georgie. Falcon…" Falcon? Samantha rolled the name around in her head for a moment, trying to remember where she had heard it. "…gave you a week to come up with the money. That's more time than he gives most people."

"Falcon and I go way back. He set up my business here…"

"…and the Kansas City syndicate is very happy for your monetary assistance. But…" The man raised a gun, with an abnormally long barrel, to Georgie's head. "Sorry Georgie. That's really a shame for you. I've been authorized to kill you if you didn't have it."

"But…" POP! The rotund man's body fell to the floor with a thud and a squish. Quickly but calmly unscrewing what made the barrel abnormally long… a silencer! Samantha thought, having seen enough crime television shows to know what a silencer was… the man carefully placed the gun and silencer in his pockets, then pulled something out of his pocket and dropped it casually on top of the body.

With what sounded like a snort (but Samantha couldn't determine from where she was hiding), the man sauntered out of the private room, easily finding the hidden door designed for discrete getaways. Not taking the time to wonder how he knew the layout of the building, she quickly followed him. Because the pulsating music from the other private rooms shook the walls, Samantha didn't, necessarily, have to be quiet in following the man. When he reached the door he calmly walked out into the humid Midwestern night. Samantha caught the door with her foot about four inches before it closed and caught sight of the man approaching a car half hidden in the shadows. Thankful for the full moon, Samantha had enough sense to catch the make and model of the car but not the look of the man. She then noticed an occupant in the front seat. It was clearly a man, given the built of the shadow, but she couldn't discern anything else about him.

Samantha quickly shut the door and ran for the cordless phone. Stepping closer to the body, she dialed three numbers then looked at poor Georgie. A look of confusion passed her face when she saw what the man dropped on the body. A feather. A falcon's feather to be precise. This high-paid stripper never realized that the PHD in Zoology she was working towards would come into play in a MURDER. It must be a calling card. Now Samantha wondered if she should've been a cop instead of an animal doctor.

"911. What is your emergency?"

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

"It's done boss."

The occupant, who had been looking away while the man came back to the car, looked at the building. Narrowing his eyes he saw a shadow pass underneath the light above the door then the door shut.

"SHIT! Were you seen?"

"No."

"Somebody saw us."

"They couldn't have."

"Unless there's a ghost making shadows we've been seen." Boss turned to the man. "What the hell are you waiting for? Get us the fuck out of here!" With a squeal of tires (which, given the reputation of the strip club, wasn't unusual), the car raced out of the parking lot, just as the very distant wail of sirens cut through the night. "We've got to find out who that was. We could've been made."

"But…"

"Shut up moron. You will find out who that is. And you will kill them."

"Yes boss."

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

13 YEARS LATER…

"Hello? Michelle? It's Molly Hooper." The pretty brunette smiled easily when she thought about her appointment to go shopping with her gregarious and fun-loving neighbor, Michelle Livingston. Molly had been pulling a lot of overtime at the hospital, where she worked as a pathologist, and had been looking forward to spending the afternoon with her friend. It was 11 a.m. and they were going to hit the shops on Oxford Street, a tony section of London. The practical pathologist saved up all year for this shopping trip, and she was bound and determined to find some great deals. Michelle, always one for shopping, agreed in a heartbeat when Molly asked for her company the week before. It was all the women could talk about, much to the chagrin of Michelle's loyal and somewhat longsuffering husband, Eric.

Frowning slightly when nobody answered, Molly tried the bell again. Still not getting a response, she knocked on the door before turning the knob, only to find it unlocked. This, in itself, wasn't unusual; she was constantly scolding Michelle about her habit of leaving her front door unlocked.

"You're living in London now, Michelle, not Oklahoma. You can't leave doors unlocked here, like you did back home."

Michelle would sigh and nod. "I know, I know but old habits die hard. Besides, everybody I've met in London is so nice and eager to help."

"Shelly, I've seen enough at my job to know that people will do anything to anybody. Please be careful."

"Ok Molls. I'll be careful."

On this day, when Molly crept into the house, something did not feel right. Tremors of apprehension ghosted down her back and she inadvertently wrapped her arms against the cold feeling. "Shelly? Are you here?"

Nothing was out of place; nothing seemed to be disturbed. It was simply eerily quiet. "Shelly?" Not finding anything amiss Molly took the stairs to the second floor. Molly had wished she could have the house the Livingstons had. It wasn't big but it wasn't small. As the Three Bears would pronounce, it was just right. Given that Molly lived in the small building of flats next door, anything would've been better than what she was currently living in. Brushing that aside she made it to the second floor and tripped on something. She gasped when she turned…

…and found Michelle Livingston lying on the landing of the stairs, her eyes and mouth open in fright, a nylon cord wrapped around her neck.

The terrified young pathologist pulled out her mobile and rang New Scotland Yard. "Greg? It's Molly Hooper."

DI Greg Lestrade instantly heard the panic in the young woman's voice. "Molls? What's going on? Are you ok?"

Molly instantly began screaming, "SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD!"

"MOLLY?!" Lestrade yelled before he heard a thump and the phone going dead.