It was barely seven on a chilly Saturday morning, with most of London comfortably tucked in bed, dosing. At this time, however, a certain self-proclaimed consulting detective was frantically pacing in his flat on Baker Street. Books and pictures littered the carpeted floor as well as the two chairs before the fireplace. A tense and stressed atmosphere clung to the living room, in which Sherlock Holmes, the world-renown detective, was working in. For the third time today, Sherlock paused in front of the most recent picture, make an aggravated noise, and move on. He resembled an art-lover who just entered the Louvre for the first time: desperate to see each picture but still leave time to digest it and appreciate each painting.

Mrs. Hudson silently climbed up the stairs, hoping Sherlock had fallen asleep last night. When his form became visible in the doorway, pacing in and out of view, Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily. Shaking her head and tsking under her breath, she slipped past Sherlock and into the kitchen. The table's mess was mostly confined around the microscope, giving the landlady some space for once.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said as she cleared the counter and dug out the kettle from the sea of rubbish. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement, too deep in his work.

They worked in silence, Mrs. Hudson waiting for the kettle by preparing a single cup and two saucers, one with milk, the other with tea, and Sherlock wracking his mind for answers. The sun continued to rise outside as the streets began to fill up with families and couples, lazily and slowly heading out for breakfast.

"Tea's ready," Mrs. Hudson announced. It was met with another grunt form Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson moved everything onto a wooden tray and began to move it into the living room, careful to avoid him. Knowing her job was done, she headed back into the kitchen, intent on making herself a cuppa.

Sherlock gazed at the back wall, where he had tacked on a map, pictures, addresses, and autopsy reports. Some extra detailed photos were scattered in somewhat organized section of the room. He was searching for a connection between these murders. The obvious one was the date and location. Each one happened on a Monday, outside the library, indicating the same murderer (or group of murderers, Sherlock reasoned) was involved. Sherlock had less than three days to solve the case before someone else died. The cause of death, however, varied.

Molly had typed up the first two autopsy reports, but the most recent one was still being made. Lestrade, being the thick prick he is, didn't invite Sherlock to the crime scene, leaving him to build off of nothing but photos. He was able to make basic deductions, but going off of only one sense left Sherlock feeling… slow.

The first victim, George Swort, was a middle-aged, working class man. From the pass card on his breast pocket, it was in the field of construction. The dark-circles under his eyes indicated family issues that left him exhausted. He had no kids and an alcoholic wife. The deductions ended there. Although the pictures were good, they lacked the detail Sherlock used to base his knowledge off of. The cause of death, however, was quite obvious. A quick, powerful, and beautiful, cut, if Sherlock could say so, himself. It would have to have been performed by a skilled assassin, who definitely didn't forget to take his weapon with him. George's worst criminal offense was a parking ticket. His hobby, Sherlock was able to find, was mostly revolving around electronics. This day and age, whose doesn't?

The second victim's pile was suspended on the mirror over the mantel. The picture portrayed another man, Andrew Lozban, on the pavement, a few mere inches from the first victim's location. This man was in his mid-sixties. It was easy to see he was a war veteran, and by quickly hacking into Lestrade's files, that deduction was confirmed. White, wispy hair outlined the former soldier, whose eyes were wide open and glassy. Many would say it sent a shiver down their spine, but Sherlock had already spun his attention to the autopsy report being held down by the skull. Although he had it memorized, Sherlock flipped to the first page and began scanning. The death was inflicted by many bullets, performed by an amateur. The weapon, however, was silenced, for no one in the library claimed to have heard it. The handgun could have been stored in a jacket pocket, thus making it another missing weapon. Unlike George, the detective noted Andrew had few files other than the basics: enough not to bring suspicion to himself. He also had no immediate family.

Sherlock gave a sigh, and plopped down onto his chair. The first two victims held potential, but lacked detail. They would have been easy to solve, if the third one wasn't completely different. The victim was female, still a college student. Her name was Clare Floreg, and she lived in a small apartment in downtown London. She frequented the library as well as the café across the street. She was found against the back wall of the same alleyway George and Andrew were found in. She obviously saw her attacker, and tried (but failed) to make a getaway. Sherlock, thankfully, did get to go to this crime scene. There were no physical wounds, but also no signs of poison. She was in perfect health, except for the pale tint in her skin. Her laptop bag was slung over her shoulder, but held no such device. This would have been Sherlock's next step, but first he required the autopsy report. The laptop's location would be tricky to narrow down, but the dumpsters and garbage of the immediate area would be a good stepping stone in the investigation.

These deductions were the most important ones. Sherlock could easily name details, including their dominant hands, where they lived, their ancestry and culture, or even their social status, including affairs, or even hobbies. For now, Sherlock mused, they were useless. Once the autopsy report was complete, he could finally begin the exhilarating quest for the serial killer. The case may be frustrating, but the thrill overwhelmed and overshadowed the stress. Patience…

Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, upsetting the tea in the tray, spilling some onto the wooden tray. Mrs. Hudson looked up in alarm to find him taking deep and steadying breaths. His eyes were closed, fists clenched.

"Oh, dear…" Mrs. Hudson muttered, preparing for the worst.

Sherlock surprised her by slowly standing, and headed towards the window. With precise and calculated moves, Sherlock picked up his violin. After plucking it and tuning it, he placed the violin under his chin and lifted up the bow with his right hand. The detective stared out the window at the street, closed his eyes, and let his fingers make the tune.

The melody was unexplainable, but beautiful. The notes wafted through the air, pouring out of Sherlock as if it was his very soul. The song was slow, but desperate as well. It felt like the song was itching to speed up and get to the loud and finalizing crescendo. Reigning in his emotions and music, Sherlock plunged deeper, his bow digging into the strings. The world was moving, but he was suspended, a fixed point with no end or beginning. Sherlock was absentmindedly playing, in reality deep in his mind palace, safe but stressed. Mrs. Hudson smiled and leaned back in her chair, her tea all but forgotten.

Sherlock's performance was cut off by his mobile's chime. Without missing a beat, Sherlock gently lowering his violin onto the desk, and reached into his trouser pocket. Skilled fingers flew over the screen, only pausing to allow Sherlock to read the text. A wide smile bloomed on his face before he stowed the phone into his pocket.

"Sherlock…?" Mrs. Hudson began to ask.

"Busy!" he called back, racing around the room.

Mrs. Hudson was about to snap at him, but he already gathered everything he needed, folded it, and stuffed it into his coat pocket, donning the article of clothing in the process. The blue scarf followed and soon Sherlock was ready.

"Where are you going?!" Mrs. Hudson called after Sherlock as he raced out of the flat at break-neck speeds.

She got up from her spot and peered out of the doorway. All she could see was the tail of his coat as he turned the corner. Her question was ignored. She sighed and walked back to the coffee table to pick up Sherlock's tea, which still lay untouched.

Hey guys! I know I said I would post this up by the end of April, but standardized testing quickly got in the way of that. So, I'm testing out this story. Do you guys want more? If so, leave a review saying so! This story has already been plotted out, so I will never have any serious cases of writer's block for it that I have experienced from my other stories. I'm very excited, so please let me know what you think! If it gets a good response, the next chapter should be up by next week.

Let me just thank SquirrelWho, TheTempestTime, and TheWhealWeaves (I apologize if I spelled your names improperly) for inspiring me. I see that many of you have updated, and I am trying to find time for me to read them. I hope you enjoy my own Roselock fanfic. I apologize if I incorporate anything that may seem like it came from your fanfics! They are wonderful and beautiful.

*takes deep breath* Well, I'll end my rant here. So, read on and the story is on!