The Artist, Writer, and Consulting Detective.

''I don't think you should put that.''

John Watson looked up from his computer screen to meet the polite, blue-eyed gaze of the woman opposite him.

''I'm sorry?'' he said, blinking a few times.

''I said, I don't think you should put that.'' she repeated.

''W-what-''

Before he could say another word she grabbed the laptop with both hands and turned it round to face her.

''The Artist, Writer, and Consulting Detective,'' she read aloud, eyes narrowed. ''I don't like it.''

''Why not? It's bloody hard finding a good name!'' John asked indignantly. He swore he heard her say, ''It must be,'' under her breath, but before he could protest she explained.

''It makes it sound like I'm two different people. An artist and a writer. It's unnecessarily confusing, especially when you read on and - I presume - find out I'm actually only one.'' she said simply. ''It also kind of sounds like one of those jokes,'' she continued, smiling. ''You know, the artist, the writer and the consulting detective walk into a bar...'' she trailed off.

John sighed deeply. ''God, it's bad enough having one of you.'' he muttered.

The woman smirked. ''I don't see what you're complaining about.''

That was the thing, thought John. After a while you started to wonder it yourself.

Three weeks earlier.

Alex

Alexandra Lamb woke up that morning feeling utterly fed up. She pushed her cat Apricot off her lap and rolled out of bed. She then trudged into the kitchen and pouring herself a bowl of cornflakes after digging through the cupboards to find one that wasn't broken or covered in food. The very thought of the tedious day ahead of her made Alexandra want to drown her sorrows in the milk. Somehow, she gathered the energy to put on some clothes: a tight grey turtle neck jumper, black jeans, a muddy pair of black and white Vans and her favourite - her old leather jacket.

The street outside her apartment seemed particularly grey that day. Not cold, not hot, just still and grey. The old couple opposite her waved merrily from their little garden, and Alexandra smiled and waved back, even stopping briefly to pet their grumpy little cat.

The bus stop was only a few streets away but that morning, as Alexandra dragged herself along, it seemed like miles.

Bloody hell it's boring, she thought miserably.

As she neared the top of the street, she saw the bus . She broke into a run, her bag swinging painfully against her side, but it drove away just as she reached the stop. She swore loudly, causing a passing old lady to recoil slightly, scandalised.

After ten minutes, another bus drew up. Alexandra stepped on, glaring at the bus driver. She plonked herself down at the back of the bus, next to a man and a boy in conversation. She paid no attention to them and pulled out her sketchbook and put on her headphones.

If she had taken time to look at them properly, she would have seen the man was in his late 30s, with unruly dark hair and a long jacket with the collar turned up. The boy looked about 12, and had no interesting features apart from a few spots.

''Mr Holmes, can you do it? Is it real? Is it a trick? Can you show me? Can you teach me? Can I film it? the boy asked eagerly, almost bouncing up and down in his chair.

The man simply looked out of the window. ''Yes, yes, no, maybe, no, no.'' he said.

''Do it then!' Go on, I dare you.''

The man sighed pointedly. ''The woman opposite us. She is conscious about her health, or at least her hearing. She has been on holiday to Italy recently, were sometime after she broke off an engagement. She has a sister named Jillian who she hasn't spoken to in a while, a mother whom is unwell, and a tortoise shell cat. Oh, and she is a writer, probably an artist too, but is not very well off.''

The boy stared at him, stunned. ''You're bluffing,'' he said.

Chuckling lightly, the man turned to look at him. ''I assure you I'm not. You see, she is listening to music but I can't hear it through her headphones despite our close proximity, so she is careful not to damage her ears. There is a mark on her ring finger that is lighter than the rest of her skin. It is real tan, because if it was a spray tan or a sunbed she would have removed the ring. So she was wearing it on holiday, but her phone lock screen is just a photo of a beach, not her or her partner, and with that and no ring suggests they are no longer together. I know it's Italy because of the photo, and also I remember last week John entering a radio competition for a holiday for two in Italy. The winner was a woman who told the listeners she was taking her new fiance. I doubt she would have gone otherwise, given her financial situation-''

''But how do you know about her financial situation?''

''The jacket she is wearing is old, and the label says 2007. That suggests it means a lot to her, but she can't afford to clean it, or alternatively, she can't afford a new one. Now, the family. Her phone buzzed, with a message from someone called Jillian saying 'Mum is a lot better. She said it was nice to see you. Can we meet up soon? xxx' when she looked at it she didn't reply she just sighed dismissively, implying she does not like her sister. I know it's her sister because she uses 'Mum' in a way that applies to both of them. I know she is employed in a job which involves a great deal of writing because of the lump on her middle finger. Her nails are bitten, implying she does a lot of sitting around and thinking. There are lots of ink smudges on her hands too, and the top of her notebook reads, 'Property of Alexandra Lamb. Until then I thought she was just a writer but I know for a fact that Alexandra Lamb is a writer and illustrator. I have one of her books at home in Baker Street.''

''And the cat?''

''Easy. White, orange and brown hairs and her jumper and cats on her phone case.''

The boy slumped back into his chair. ''Bloody hell, Mr Holmes. You're just as smart as the papers say you are.''

''Actually, that's where you're wrong,'' the man answered, smirking, ''I am much, much smarter.''