A/N: Right, my first Sherlock fanfic, based on the BBC series, but with influences from the original stories too. Unfortunately I don't own Sherlock or anything to do with it, this is just for fun. Hope you like and please review, I like to know how I'm doing.

Well it was murder; the idiots in the police force were right about that at least. Sherlock crouched next to the body of the young girl, his grey eyes taking in every detail. All around, the rain fell, washing the streets of London clean and spilling from the roof of the open sided forensics tent in waterfalls. Sherlock heard the rain but paid it no heed as he examined the girls' hands, frowning slightly.

John Watson watched his friend as he studied the dead girl. This was one of the first cases he'd taken since they had faced Moriarty at the pool. They had escaped narrowly, surviving only because John had leapt up and jumped into the pool, dragging Sherlock with him. By the time Lestrade had found them and pulled them from the wreckage of the building Moriarty had vanished.

Sherlock hadn't spoken for a week after the pool showdown, he had withdrawn into himself, and John could only assume he was going over everything that had happened. It was a relief to finally see him active again.

"What do you think?" Sherlock's voice jolted John from his thoughts and he moved to crouch down next to the body, Sherlock did not look up as John carefully examined the girl.

"Stab wound just above the clavicle, looks like the sub clavian artery was pierced." John looked around the alley, spotting the unmistakable pattern on one of the walls of the alley way. "Judging by the arterial spray on the wall she was over there when she was stabbed." John pointed to a spot some twenty feet away.

Lestrade stood watching the consulting detective and the Doctor as they crouched over the body. It was hard to hear what they were saying over the pounding of the rain and he was getting impatient.

"What have you got then?" He gazed back steadily as Sherlock looked up, slight annoyance fleetingly crossing his face at being interrupted.

The consulting detective rose to his feet, unfolding himself with an almost feline grace.

"The victim is in her mid twenties; she lives alone and has no regular contact with any family members. She's out on the hunt for a man judging by her alarming lack of clothing and the club entry stamps on her hands. Grazes on her hands and knees, recent, she smells of alcohol so most likely a drunken stumble. Her lip stick is worn and slightly smudged and there's a bruise on her neck so she found what she was hunting for. There are blonde hairs caught on the bricks on the wall. After leaving the club she came here and proceeded to get intimate with her killer before he killed her then arranged her body like this, deliberately posing it."

"How can you tell she's been posed?" Lestrade looked at the dead girl; she was sprawled on her front, her arms flung above her head and her hands touching. If she had collapsed mid- stride while trying to run away it seemed like a perfectly logical position to be in. He looked up at the younger man, inwardly sighing when he saw the look of contempt in the silvery grey eyes.

"Her hands; look at her hands." He gestured towards the girl's hands. "It's natural for the fingers to curl, but the thumb always sits over the top or underneath them. The tips of both her thumbs are touching the tips of her index fingers and the tips of her fingers on one hand are resting against their counterparts on the other. It's a conscious action, not something that would happen as she fell." He turned and began to walk away, pulling the plastic gloves from his hands as he did so.

"Is that it?" Lestrade called after the younger man. Sherlock turned, his long coat billowing behind him.

"The way her hands were left is a message. I need to find out what it means and who it was intended for; it obviously wasn't family so it must be for someone else." He turned once again, striding out of the alley way. John looked apologetically at Lestrade before hurrying after him.

John caught up with Sherlock just as his friend reached the main road. Sherlock raised an arm, proving once again his ability to seemingly hail a taxi from anywhere. They climbed in and gave their address. John looked over at his friend; Sherlock gazed out of the window, his pale face reflected in the glass.

"Questions?" His tone had a hint of amusement in it.

"How do you know she doesn't have family?" John saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth turn up in a smile.

"Her phone and her purse were very forthcoming. She has eleven numbers in her phone, not exactly a vast directory, and not one of them labelled 'mum', 'dad' or 'home'. There's a picture in her purse of a child, the child's features and the date on the back tell me that it's her at age six. There are two adults in the photo, one either side of her but the heads have been torn off; logic says that they're her parents, they can't have died or they would still be in the picture, so angry parting and no further contact." He stopped, and a smile crossed his features when he saw the impressed look on John's face.

They passed the rest of the journey in silence, although John almost fancied that he could hear Sherlock's mind working. It was only a few minutes more before the taxi pulled up outside 221b Baker Street. Sherlock handed the driver some money and hopped out onto the pavement, pulling his keys from his pocket as he hurried to the door.

John shook his head at his friend's enthusiasm as he followed Sherlock into the building and closed the door, the sound of the stairs being leapt up two at a time sounding through the house.

When he got up to the flat, Sherlock had already attached his phone to his laptop and was printing the pictures he had taken at the crime scene. John sat in one of the chairs as Sherlock almost pulled the pictures from the printer and moved across the room to hang them above the fireplace before settling in his chair his chin resting on his long fingers as he studied the images.

"What do you see, John?"

"Stab wound to the sub clavian, the killer knew what he was doing. I'm guessing that he intended to kill her when he went with her into the alley."

Sherlock nodded and gazed at the images. His phone began to ring, the sound emanating from his pocket but he ignored it, remaining still. John sighed as the phone continued to ring and reached over, pulling it out of Sherlock's jacket and putting it into the other mans' hand. Sherlock sighed and answered the phone, his gaze still on the pictures.

"What?" John watched as a smile spread over Sherlock's face. "Give me twenty minutes." He put the phone down and leapt up, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.

"What is it?"

"There's been another one. Are you coming?" Sherlock grinned as John rose from the chair and followed him from the room.

They arrived at the crime scene in twenty minutes, just as Sherlock had promised. John saw Sergeant Sally Donovan watching with her arms folded as they crossed the police line and made their way over to Lestrade.

"Another one, Sherlock; exactly the same." The Detective Inspector rubbed a hand across his eyes.

"No, not exactly." Sherlock stepped forwards, crouching next to the dead girl. "Her hands have been placed differently." He pulled out his phone, quickly taking pictures while Lestrade looked on.

They watched as Sherlock looked at the body, one finger traced down the girls' arm and his eyes closed briefly, John was sure that it was almost sorrow that had crossed his face.

"What have you got, Sherlock?" It took a moment longer than usual for Sherlock to respond to Lestrade's question.

"She's in her late twenties, a prostitute, selling herself for drug money. She wasn't killed for her earnings; they're still tucked down her top. Killed in the same manner as the last one and posed too. Although this time the hands are different; her left hand facing palm up, fingers outstretched, her right hand palm down, the index finger on her right hand touching the little finger on her left."

"So what does all this mean?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the younger man.

"Both victims are nobodies, girls who are not going to be missed or cared about. The killings aren't robberies; both girls still had their money on them. No, these are messages and it's all in the positions of their hands."

It was well past midnight when they got home. John sank into the chair but Sherlock paced for a while before sitting down. John watched and rolled his eyes as his friend took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve, pulling at the nicotine patch on his fore arm. As the patch came away John could just about make out the tiny scars along Sherlock's arm.

"Ask your question." Sherlock did not look up as he placed a new patch on his arm.

"Those scars..." John didn't quite want to say it.

"Yes." Sherlock's reply was slow and deliberate.

"Track marks?" John felt a kind of sadness as Sherlock nodded, confirming what he had suspected after the false drugs raid on the flat. "What was it?"

"Mostly cocaine." The answer was short, the grey eyes, normally so certain were downcast.

"You injected it? Don't people normally..." John trailed off.

"I never liked inhaling it, it's messy and I prefer to be in control of the dose."

"So that was the hesitation at the crime scene, with the girl." John watched as Sherlock drew a deep breath before answering.

"Although I never had to go to such lengths to obtain drugs I saw plenty of people who did. It was a harsh reminder." Sherlock sat for a moment, seeming vulnerable.

"Well, whatever you did, it's still fine. It's all fine." John's voice was gentle, the grey eyes flicked up, meeting his gaze, he could swear he saw relief in them.

"Thank you." Sherlock's voice had an uncommon note of humanity in it before he seemed to shake himself and straighten up, shedding his previously vulnerable air.

"So what do we do now?" John asked the question, eager to move things on.

"We go and see someone who might know what's happening. Ugh, I'm not looking forward to that."

"Why? Because you have to ask for help?" John allowed himself a slight smirk.

"No because I have to ask for help from her."

Hope you liked it.