A/N: welcome to my Sherlock fic! i just watched the first season and i'm in love! i hope i do the series justice and i can't wait for the next season! enjoy!

Chapter 1: On the Case

"Sherlock?"

Silence followed John's call.

"Sherlock?" he called again from the kitchen. "Your phone is ringing."

"Yes, I can hear it," Sherlock replied, lying on the couch, his hands in a praying position, his eyes closed.

"Can you answer it?" John replied. "I'm a bit busy with lunch."

"I'm a bit busy with thinking, John," Sherlock retorted, unmoving. "Why don't you answer it?"

John sighed before calling, "It could be Lestrade with an interesting case."

"It could just as easily be Mycroft with a case for me as well," Sherlock replied. "I would rather ignore it than answer it."

John said nothing as he came back, a plate in his hand full of leftovers from their dinner the night before. He grabbed the phone and tossed it toward Sherlock who caught it in mid-air then sighed as he pressed it to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered then fell silent as John sat in the big chair next to the fireplace.

"I hear you take interesting cases, Mr. Holmes," a feminine English accent crooned in his ear.

"Cases that I deem interesting," Sherlock retorted then gave a small frown asking, "Who is this?"

"Someone who needs your help," she replied. "I'll pay you handsomely, of course."

"I don't take a case without knowing the particulars," Sherlock explained, sitting up to lean on his knees, catching John's attention as well.

"And you'll have them when we meet in thirty minutes at the lovely little café down your block," she assured him.

"What makes you think I'll meet a nameless woman with a case that may be child's play for me?" he shot back.

"Because I've piqued your interest, Mr. Holmes," she answered, and he could hear the smirk in her tone. "Thirty minutes. I'll be waiting in the back booth."

The click of the line disconnecting sounding after that and Sherlock lowered the phone to frown at it, looking over the number, but it was blocked.

So, a young woman had a case for him, did she? She had to be young…ish. Possibly between twenty and twenty-five by the tone of her voice and the way she spoke. An attractive woman by the confidence she had in her tone as well…someone who was used to getting people to do or say exactly what she needed them to, a reporter, perhaps? It was the first thing that came to mind by her vague speech.

He looked at his watch foe the time…

Half past three.

"A half hour, she said," he recalled in a murmur, and John frowned at him in wonder as he wiped his hand with a napkin.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, but the other man just stared into space in thought for a moment before standing and heading toward the door.

"Coming, John?" he asked, taking down his coat and scarf to put them on.

"Where?" John asked, setting his now empty plate aside and standing as well as Sherlock adjusted his scarf properly.

"To meet a girl for our next case," Sherlock replied, sauntering out the door, John hurrying after him. "She said to meet in a half an hour, but she is a busy woman."

"Who is she?" John asked as they trotted down the stairs then out the front door of their building to head down the street.

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock admitted then added, "Well, that is to say I've never met her."

"And she has a case for us?" John asked, walking next to him.

"That's what she said," Sherlock replied, looking around the street. "She said she would be waiting in the back booth of the café at the end of the block." He scoffed, continuing, "An interesting choice in seating. She's obviously cautious and wants to know everything that's going on around her. Oh, yes. I'm positive she's a reporter."

"You barely had a minute with her on the phone and you already know what she does for a living?" John smirked. His colleague's mind never ceased to amaze him.

"Of course, John," Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly. "And I could tell you she's single, no children, and has a short haircut."

"Now you're guessing," John guessed, flatly.

"No woman would go out of her way to sound so sultry on the phone if she was married and/or had children," Sherlock explained. "And I heard the faintest sounds of swishing hair against the phone."

"And I suppose you can tell if she's pretty or not," John retorted.

"Of course she is," Sherlock huffed. "Have you ever seen an unattractive reporter?"

John had no answer for that as they reached the door to the café and entered together. It was busy today, and Sherlock instantly went looking for the mystery girl, John right behind him.

"Shouldn't we order something?" he asked. "We can't just loiter around here, I'm sure."

"No need," Sherlock replied as they reached the very last booth in the back corner of the café. "She's ordered something for us."

A young brunette woman sat in the middle of the booth, a coffee in front of her, one to her left and one to her right, a smirk over her lips when she spotted the pair coming toward her. She had short (as predicted) brown hair and piercing amber eyes, and (as predicted) she was very pretty. She wore a red, long-sleeved blouse with a thick white scarf around her neck to fight the cold, a matching red pocket book on a gold chain sitting next to her.

"I knew you couldn't wait," she smirked, gesturing to the coffee on her right. "Black, two sugars. Just how you like it, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, pulling off his scarf and sliding into the booth as John frowned in wonder, sitting to the other side of her.

"How did you know that's how he takes his coffee?" he voiced, drawing her attention to him.

"The same way I know that you prefer tea, Dr. Watson," she smiled as she gestured to the cup he sat in front of.

"Don't you listen, John?" Sherlock asked, catching both their attentions, but Sherlock kept his gaze on the mystery woman. "I told you she's a reporter. She probably came 'round the flat and asked Mrs. Hudson about us. You also visited the coroner's office and spoke to the attendant there, Molly Hooper, I'm sure. All part of your researching skills."

"I see you already know a bit about me," she smiled in amusement, lifting her cup to take a drink. "What else have you figured out, Mr. Holmes."

"You went to college," he instantly replied. "Oxford by the way you hold yourself and speak using titles, which also means you had money to go there, and still do by the Couture pocket book sitting next to you. You don't work much with your hands by the regular manicure, which means no hard labor or children, and no wedding ring on your left hand which means you are single. There may be a boyfriend, but with your line of work, as a reporter, I highly doubt it."

"How many years would you say I went to college?" she asked, obviously testing how much he could get from her by one phone call and one look at her.

"Two years," he answered without hesitation.

"My age?"

"Twenty-two."

"Am I left or right handed?"

"Right."

"How do I take my coffee?"

"Two creams, two sugars."

"And my tea?"

"The same."

The brunette smirked, and nodded, "Impressive, as expected, Mr. Holmes."

"Why am I here?" Sherlock asked, his intense gaze never moving from her.

"Ah, yes," she chirped. "Allow me to, at last, properly introduce myself. My name is Quennel Yule. I'm a reporter for the BBC. I've called you here because I need your help in finding a friend of mine who's gone missing a few hours ago."

"Why haven't you called the police?" John instantly asked, drawing her attention to him.

"This is to be handled as quickly and discreetly as possible," Quennel replied.

"Who's been kidnapped?" Sherlock asked, pulling her attention back to him.

"Deirdra Radcliff," Quennel replied.

"She's been kidnapped?" John breathed, causing the other two to look at him, Sherlock staring at him with a frown.

"You know her?" he questioned his friend.

"She's one of the most famous reporters for the BBC," John replied. "Honestly, Sherlock. You need to watch the telly once in a while instead of shooting at it for target practice."

Quennel turned a frown to Sherlock and asked, "You shoot the telly?"

"How do you she's been kidnapped and not simply run off somewhere?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the question.

Quennel glanced around before reaching for her pocket book to open it and pull out a folded piece of paper to slide it toward him, explaining, "This was left in her dressing room. It was just sitting folded in front of the mirror."

Sherlock took the note and opened it to read…

Deirdra Radcliff will be released when I receive 50,000 pounds by the end of the week. Leave money near Westminster Bridge at one o'clock Saturday.

After reading it, Sherlock handed it to John to read as Quennel waited in silence and After John examined it, he handed it back to Sherlock.

"A ransom," he voiced.

"Yes," Sherlock hummed, examining the note. "Obviously someone who's never committed a crime before, and doesn't want any blood shed."

"How can you tell that?" Quennel couldn't help but ask.

"The wording," Sherlock explained. "No mention of whether or not they'll kill her, only saying she'll be released. Had they cared whether or not she lived or died, they would have mentioned her inevitable demise. The hand-writing is shaky, indicating a case of nerves while writing the note and the fact that they've given you a week means they've planned no room for error in seeing that they don't need to kill her. Plenty of time to gather that amount of money. The paper…"

Sherlock turned to hold it up in the light before sitting forward again. He felt at it before bringing a corner to his face and sniffing at it then taking a small lick before continuing from where he trailed off.

"The paper is not of high-grade quality, which means we're looking for someone of little means. The ink is from a ball-point pen…office supplied, possibly. Yes. Both are office supplied."

Quennel turned to John as Sherlock continued examining the note and asked, "Is it always this entertaining to watch him?"

"You have no idea," John smirked as they both looked to him again.

"May I keep this?" he asked, holding the note up and folding it to slip it into his pocket.

"Yes, of course," Quennel replied. "See what else you can deduce from it."

"Can you show me where Miss Radcliff lived?" Sherlock asked, standing and starting to pull on his scarf, John following.

"Of course," Quennel nodded then glanced between them and asked, "Now?"

"Yes, now," Sherlock replied.

"Right," Quennel smiled, awkwardly before sliding out of the booth herself and leading them toward the door. "It's nearer the studio. We'll have to take a cab."

"Very well," Sherlock nodded, following her onto the street, John right behind them. "I have something to ask, before we go any further."

"Oh! Of course!" Quennel chirped, as if recalling something as she reached into her pocket book for a pen and a piece of paper. "How much will you want for your services?"

"No, it's not about that," Sherlock corrected her, making her frown up at him. "We'll discuss that but later. I want to know how you knew I would take this case."

Quennel smiled, confidently as she lowered her bag, letting it hang from the chain around her shoulder.

"I heard you were bored," she smirked. "Bored men need entertaining."

She turned and placed to fingers in her mouth to whistle loudly down the street, and a cab that had been parked a few yards from them slowly drove toward them.

"You have to admit," John smirked to his friend. "She was right."

"Oh, shut up, John," Sherlock muttered, irritably. But he did silently admit she was right.

A/N: reviews?