Author's Note: We're still on familiar ground (though watch out for a few but important tweaks) but please bear a little more with me! Also, I'm not quite sure which I enjoyed writing more — John's point of view, or Sherlock's. I do want to know what your thoughts are though. Don't forget to drop a review!

02: [ Deductions and Introductions ]

Perfect timing.

Just as her taxi pulled up to the curb, Sherlock's eyes spotted a familiar limping figure approaching their rendezvous. He reached for the door knocker before using it to rap thrice. As she opened the taxi door and stepped out of the vehicle, John's head turned towards her direction, his eyes widening when they met hers.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted him before turning to the taxi driver, a man in his fifties with white hair. As she took out her wallet to pay the cabbie, a dash of red caught her eyes. Eyebrows knitting, she lifted her gaze to see the driver holding a handkerchief close to his nose, the white cloth stained with a smattering of crimson. The cabbie's nose was bleeding, she realized.

"Oh. You alright?" she asked flatly as she handed the cabbie her money.

"I'll live," he answered with a reassuring smile. "Good evenin', miss."

"Evening. Thank you." Sherlock nodded at the cabbie before he pulled away from the curb and drove away to find his next fare. When she turned on her heel, she saw the pepper-haired man walking over to her. She decided to meet him halfway and offered him a thin-lipped smile.

"Ah, Miss Holmes," John greeted her, reaching a hand out.

"Sherlock, please." She took his offered hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Well, this is a prime spot," he observed, giving his surroundings a quick scan as they walked towards the door that had written on it in brass letters —

221B

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal," Sherlock began. "Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry — y-you stopped her husband being executed?" John answered.

"Oh no. I ensured it." Sherlock offered him another smile to ease his obvious surprise.

Just then, the door swung open inwards and the voice of an elderly woman drifted from within. "Sherlock, hello," Mrs. Hudson greeted with open arms, and Sherlock stepped forward to wrap her in a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock stepped back after the brief hug to present John to the landlady. She let the two exchange their pleasantries and let the limping man inside first before she followed after, the door to 221B falling shut behind her.

"Well, this could be very nice," John mused out loud as he moved about in the sitting room of the flat. Key word being could be, the doctor had instantly developed a liking towards the flat the moment he stepped in and took in the green walls and the red-and-white patterned wallpaper, the draping curtains, the carpet, everything. However, upon seeing the boxes and various objects scattered about and the general disorganized appearance of the place, John couldn't help but feel a little dismay bubble up within him. "Very nice indeed," he parroted, but in his mind, he wondered how such a nice place could be used as a mere storage place for so many... stuff.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, quite cheerfully. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out... oh." So the stuff weren't just stuff. John felt his cheeks flush as he met Sherlock's eyes, who had fallen silent. Eyes darting back and forth, she then began to walk around the place, hurled a few folders into a box, nudged another box to the side with her foot, grabbed a small pile of unopened letters then stabbed them into the mantelpiece with a knife. John tried not to wince at the sight while he tried to work his way through the realization that all of these belonged to Sherlock.

"So this is all..."

"Well, obviously I can, ahem, straighten things up a bit," Sherlock provided, although not sounding at all flustered.

"That's a skull..." John then commented upon spotting the rather macabre figure on the mantelpiece. He pointed his cane at the mentioned object, not knowing how he would feel if it was actually authentic, which seemed to be the case.

"Oh, his name's Billy. Friend of mine," the woman answered, giving the skull a soft pat before walking away to remove her coat and her scarf. The way she answered with such casualty made John sway in surprise, but he found his lips curving into the faintest of smiles at how eccentric his potential flatmate was turning out to be, something that he didn't seem to be having any problems with so far.

Huh.

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson's voice reached John as she entered the room to pick up a cup and saucer from the coffee table. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," John deadpanned, eyes narrowing as they momentarily flew to a silent Sherlock who was busy fixing something on a shelf in the corner. Mrs. Hudson wasn't thinking that they were an item, was she?

"Oh, don't worry — I won't judge. I know it's common for you young people to do this kind of thing nowadays, moving in together and whatnot to see how things'll work with the two of you under the same roof," Mrs. Hudson chirpily answered with a smile.

Oh, God. John blinked. He glanced again at Sherlock, and when he saw that the woman wasn't even saying or doing anything to stop her landlady from jumping to the wrong conclusions, his mouth simply gaped open. Was she was actually oblivious to what her landlady just said or—

"Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made," Mrs. Hudson's voice then came from the kitchen.

Shaking his head, John turned to the armchairs before the fireplace. There were two armchairs. Grabbing a cushion, he plumped it before dropping it on the nearer armchair and he sat himself down with a small groan. This should be interesting, at the very least.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John then remarked as Sherlock flipped open a laptop on the desk by the wall.

She turned to him, her hands slipping into her pockets. "Anything interesting?"

John tapped a finger on his walking stick. "Found your website. The Science of Deduction."

Her lips curved into a small grin and she looked rather proud of herself. "What did you think?"

Oh, you've got to be kidding me. John shot her a look of disbelief, and her smile turned into a frown.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" John asked skeptically.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "Of course I can — I read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

While the woman had already done a demonstration of just that yesterday, John was still in doubt. "How?"

However, Sherlock decided it was the perfect moment to act enigmatic all by sudden. The ghost of smile lingered on her lips as she turned back to her laptop, and John gave a quiet sigh. Wonderful.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." Mrs. Hudson walked into the sitting room with a newspaper in her hands. "Three exactly the same."

John blinked. It was those suicides again.

Wait. Right up your street? What the hell did that mean?

The sound of a car pulling up to the curb below then reached John's ears. He watched as Sherlock approached the window. "Four," she remarked. Four? Was she correcting Mrs. Hudson? "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson echoed. What? A fourth murder? How the bloody hell—

John watched in confusion from his seat as he heard someone bounding up the stairs of the building before entering the flat. Didn't anybody lock the door earlier?

"Where?" Sherlock asked the stocky man who had arrived, her brows creasing.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

Dear God.

When John came to the flat on Baker Street, he didn't expect anything out of the ordinary. He'd expected a simple tour of the flat, a few introductions, some talk about the rent, but nothing like this. He certainly didn't expect the eccentric woman to leap and twirl about the room like some child during Christmas when the news of a fourth suicide — a sodding suicide — came straight through the door. He certainly didn't expect her to disappear from the flat so soon after the news; she seemed so ecstatic about the suicide that it was frankly alarming. Lastly, John certainly didn't expect her to be back so soon—

"You're a doctor," she had drawled while standing in the doorway as she put on her gloves. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

"Yes," John had answered, clearing his throat as he rose to his feet.

"Any good?"

"Very good," he had replied with utmost conviction.

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." Sherlock had stepped into the room, ambling towards him with a contagious air of self-assurance.

"Mm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime; far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh, God — yes."

And just like that, she had whisked John away from the homely confines of 221B and into a cab that launched them into the busy streets of London. The curtain of night fell upon them not long after, while John had sat beside Sherlock with a hundred questions tearing through his mind. One of them was, What did I get myself into?

"Okay, you've got questions," her low voice had pierced the silence. Then, with John's occasional prompting, Sherlock had proceeded to enlighten him about their destination and her occupation (a consulting detective? that was new) before, with a remark that John that he had not quite realized sounded like a challenge to her ("The police don't consult amateurs."), going on to explain just how exactly she had arrived to her judgments about him the previous day. Haircut, tanned skin, his damn limp, even bloody Harry — Sherlock had gotten it all down to a T. Well, except for one detail.

"That... was amazing."

A beat passed. There was no reply from Sherlock. Silence. Then, "Do you think so?"

John blinked. With everything that she'd just said, how could it not be? How could she not be? "Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off!'"

A thin-lipped smile crossed her lips, and John couldn't help the grin that broke on his own face. His potential flatmate was proving to be very interesting, indeed.

Minutes later, their cab finally arrived at Lauriston Gardens.

"So, did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked once they were out of the cab.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have," John began as they walked. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce... and Harry is a drinker."

She flipped her curly locks behind her shoulder, one corner of her lips tugging into a smirk. "Oh, spot on. Lovely. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet."

John limped on down the street while Sherlock stopped dead in her tracks, her features straightening. "Harry's your sister," she deadpanned.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John stopped walking as well.

"Sister!" Sherlock then hissed through gritted teeth.

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

She began to walk again and John fell in stride with her. "There always has to be something," she muttered under her breath irritably.

"Hello, freak."

John trained his gaze further and saw, beyond the police tape strung across the road, a woman with curly hair.

Freak?

"Nice to see you, Sally, but I'm here for Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock was unfazed.

"Why?" the woman demanded.

Sherlock rolled her head on her neck before her lips curved into a false smile. "I was invited."

"Why?" John tensed, instantly discerning the antagonism between the two women.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock retorted sarcastically.

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

"Always, Sally."

Lifting the police tape, she ducked beneath it and crossed over to the restricted area in one stride. Straightening, Sherlock drew in a deep breath of the cool night air and—

And she smelled it. Something musky, something masculine. Deodorant — a man's deodorant. But it was coming from Donovan...

It was not Donovan's; Sherlock knew that scent and she knew whose it originally was.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

A look of confusion crossed Donovan's face. "I don't — er, who's this?"

Sherlock turned her head to see John who had approached them.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," she introduced John before turning to him. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend," she drawled slowly, her tone coated with sarcasm.

Donovan looked at her disbelievingly. "A colleague? How do you get a colleague?" She turned to John, sounding like she could laugh. "Wha — did she follow you home?"

John looked uncomfortable. "Would it be better if I just waited and—"

"Don't keep me waiting, doctor," Sherlock snapped, lifting the police tape for John who simply stared for a moment before crossing over.

"Freak's here, bringing him in," she then heard Donovan say to her radio as Sherlock dropped the tape once John was beside her. As Donovan led the way, Sherlock trailed behind her, her astute stare taking in the street before them as she turned around.

Her eyes narrowed. Tracks, asphalt street, car tires, no, no, shoe marks, no—

Then her stare landed on a man coming down towards them. He wore a coverall over his clothes as he stepped down on the pavement.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock greeted him, the man's disdainful glare on her going unmissed. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson told her in a stern tone.

"Crystal," Sherlock replied, taking in a deep inhale when she caught the scent. So she was right. "Hm, is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that," Anderson remarked peevishly.

"Your deodorant told me that."

"...My deodorant?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "It's for men," she whispered a tad dramatically.

"Well, of course it's for men — I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock caught the look of horror that settled on Anderson's face as he spun on his heel to face Donovan who stood not far behind him.

Another deep inhale. "Ooh! I think it just vaporized, it's gone now. May I go in?"

Anderson turned back to her, wagging a finger at her. "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply—"

"Oh, Anderson, I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally simply came around for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." Sherlock then strode past Anderson and Donovan but stopped before she went through the doorway. She turned back and glanced at Donovan, adding, "Scrubbed your floors too, perhaps? Maybe some lotion would help with your knees, Sally."

At the bewildered looks that Anderson and Donovan shot her, Sherlock was unable to help the smug smile that tugged at her lips. Then she turned on her heel and walked inside the house. Feeling John on her heels, Sherlock smoothly made her way to a room where Lestrade was waiting along with several of his men. Tall, portable lamps were situated in the corners of the room, and Lestrade was putting on a coverall in the middle of the space.

Sherlock pointed to several more coveralls that were folded neatly on a table behind Lestrade. "You need to wear one of these," she told John.

"Who's this?" Lestrade then asked, referring to John.

"He's with me," came Sherlock's simple reply as she took off her gloves before pocketing them.

"But who is he?" Lestrade pressed.

"I said, he's with me."

"Aren't you going to put one on?" John then interposed, dropping his jacket on the table as he picked up a coverall.

Sherlock stared at him. Was she going to put one on? What kind of question— "Don't want to ruin the outfit," she replied, going for a simpler explanation but one that still sounded justified in her head. She'd never used a coverall and she wasn't about to start now. Before her, Sherlock caught Lestrade give a roll his eyes at her words.

She grabbed a pair of latex gloves off the table. "Don't give me that look, Giles. Where is it?"

"Giles? What — never mind. Upstairs."

Moments later, Lestrade was leading her and John up a circular staircase. The place was clearly decrepit, with mold on the walls, faded wallpapers, and the wood creaking beneath her feet. While John and Lestrade went up the stairs silently with cotton coverings over their shoes, Sherlock's boots quietly clapped against the wooden steps as she made her way up.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade then told her.

"May need longer," she answered coolly as she pulled on the latex gloves.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

Two storeys later, they entered a room, and Sherlock's eyes immediately fell on the corpse in the middle of the room.

She took a few steps forward, holding one hand in front of her as she spread her fingers. Her mind began to tear through the crime scene, the smell, the sounds, the sight of it all setting her nerves on fire and her mind running at the speed of light...

The room itself was bare, emptied priorly of any furniture that it may have had (cleared out by the police). Sherlock took in the holes in the walls, the wooden floorboards, the scaffolding poles, (this place is falling apart) and the portable lighting out of the corner of her eye, but her stare was focused on the woman at the center of the room (very dead). Her lifeless body was lying face down and was covered with a bright pink coat (what a ghastly shade; travel wear; where had she come from? where was she headed?). She wore pink high-heels to match while her hands, which were flat on the floor on either sides of her he—

"Shut up," she then blurted out to Lestrade.

"I didn't say anything," was Lestrade's startled reply.

"You were thinking, it's annoying," Sherlock retorted.

Now, where was she?

Right. Fingers coated with pink nail polish. The woman was also wearing tights. A pale tone, the sheer fabric had small splotches of black on her right leg (splashes from mud? on her calf and heel, nothing on the left leg — she had a suitcase, one that she pulled behind her, a wheeled suitcase then; where was her suitcase?). She wore jewelry too. Gold, authentic... she needed to get closer.

Sherlock then stepped closer to the corpse, walking cautiously, while her ears picked up the sound of John's walking stick behind her; he had followed her. Sherlock had no doubt that John had taken a moment to himself earlier at the sight of the woman's corpse but he was trailing her now, making his own assessments — he was a doctor after all.

She spotted the letters above the woman's hand, the note, and Sherlock curiously eyed the woman's index finger which was positioned at the tail of the last letter.

Rache

Hmm. Left-handed, since she had scratched the word into the floorboards herself, judging by the broken nails of her index and middle finger on her left hand. The ends were ragged, the nail polish chipped off, while her right hand's fingers were still cleanly and fully coated in pink.

Sherlock's eyes widened, drifting back to the word.

Rache. German. Noun. Meaning — revenge.

She dismissed the thought with a small shake of her head (doesn't make sense). She tried again.

Rache. Rached. Rachef. Rachek. Rachel.

Now that sounded right.

Flipping away her cloak, Sherlock then squatted beside the corpse and ran down a latex-gloved hand across her back. When she inspected her hand, they were moist; the woman's coat was damp. Wherever she was before she came to the house, it was raining there. But shouldn't she have an umbrella? Sherlock proceeded to reach into the pocket of her coat, feeling for any objects when she found it. Pulling it into the light, she held out a white folding umbrella that looked dry. Dry?

She ran her fingers down the umbrella then held her hand up. Dry indeed.

There was only one reason why a person wouldn't use their umbrella in the rain.

Returning the umbrella into the woman's coat pocket, Sherlock then checked the collar of her coat and placed her fingers beneath the fabric to confirm her suspicion. She looked at her gloved fingers — wet. The woman must have turned up her collar in some place where there were winds. Strong ones, Sherlock presumed, because the woman had been unable to use her umbrella since the winds would have only made it difficult for her.

Next.

Sherlock then grabbed a magnifier from her coat pocket. Sliding it open, she bent closer to the corpse to inspect the jewelry next. Gold, authentic, check. The woman had a bracelet (clean), a pair of earrings (clean), a necklace (clean), two rings (?) — all were regularly polished save for the rings on her finger, a wedding ring and and engagement ring. They told a different story, judging by their dirty state. Who didn't clean their rings? Obviously, people who were unhappily married.

Five, eight, no, ten? More than ten years, perhaps?

Sherlock pocketed her magnifier before reaching for the woman's hand. After she slipped the gold band from the woman's finger, Sherlock held the ring up and saw that the inside was clean. Not from polishing though, no. The woman regularly removed it, Sherlock concluded. But why?

She knew why.

Satisfaction washed over her as her lips tugged into a smirk. Her mind raced to the fully-formed conclusion.

The woman was a serial adulterer.