{001}

Curiosity.

Love is a dangerous disadvantage.

Hannah Winters. Hair as dark as her eyes, skin a smooth cream, her toes curled, calves stretched as she shifted her position, sitting up in bed. She sighed and ran her fingers through her tangled hair, tugging at the knots. She stepped lightly, the cold hardwood beneath her feet giving her chills, she wrapped her robe around her and entered the bathroom.

Staring herself in the mirror, she examined her throat, the thin pink line that ran across the middle seemed lighter than the day before. Her fingers brushed along it before her hand fell to the sink, both hands now gripping the white porcelain. She turned the bath on, wrapping her hair up and submersing herself in the hot liquid. Her head lolled to the side, staring out into her bedroom, where on her bed sat the clothing she would wear today. She sighed.

.

Hannah Winters. For lack of a better term, you could describe her as young. Too young to have already finished Uni, too old to not have started it. More recently however, she had not been attending her classes. Her friends felt as though she dropped off the face of the earth and other than the occasional friend checking up on her, she has not really had any contact with them.

Sitting in the cab and staring out at the streets she grew up on as if she were a foreginer. Her hands were shaking as she wrung her pale coloured gloves in her hands. "Where to miss?" Her eyes turned away from the window and looked at the cabby before her. She stumbled over her words,

"Uhm... 221B Baker Street Sir, if you would please." She bit her bottom lip, tugging on it slightly as the cab took a right turn. As the car progressed further and further towards her destination she smoothed down her skirt, straightened up her hair, and fixed her makeup. A left turn brought her to Baker St. and no more than 20 seconds later she was giving the cabby money and stepping onto the curb.

221B Baker Street was situated next to a deli, the address made notorious by Dr. John Watson's online blog which boasted of his partner, a Mister Sherlock Holmes. Collecting her composure on the steps, she rang the bell once, stepping back from the door to stand in front of the entrance. An older woman opened the door and locked her eyes onto the young female in front of her. "How can I help you dear?"

Hannah checked the address on the door and asked, "Is this the address of Dr. Waston and Mr. Holmes?" The older woman gave a smile.

"Yes, it is. I am their land lady, I own the building. Come in dear, before you catch a cold." Hannah smiled softly and followed the woman into the building. "You can call me Mrs. Hudson, I'll go and ask the boys if they would wish to speak with you."

"Thank you Ma'am." Hannah stuffed her hands into her pockets and looked around at the decor of the small living area she was walked into. The quaint furnishings and old fashioned wallpaper gave the sitting room what she knew to be the taste of the older woman that had never changed.

.

"Sherlock. John." Mrs. Hudson entered their living room to see Sherlock Holmes pacing the floor, staring off into space and John Watson typing away on his computer about their last case. The pair looked up at the sound of Mrs. Hudson.

"Client?" Sherlock asked. Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"I believe so, pretty young thing sitting downstairs in the parlour." Mrs. Hudson gestured to the stairwell behind her. John perked up in his seat on the sofa.

"Send her up then, Mrs. Hudson." She nodded with a smile before disappearing down the stairs.

"Be sure not to embarrass yourself." Sherlock smirked, settling himself down in a chair. John glared at his partner, shaking his head, before saying,

"Embarass myself? What do you mean embarass myself?" John closed his laptop before placing it on the end table.

"Mrs. Hudson mentions that a 'pretty young thing' is sitting downstairs, a prospective client, and the first thing that ran through your mind was if you could manage a date with her." Sherlock looked to his friend.

"I did not." John looked offended.

"You did." With the sound of heels clicking on the steps, their conversation ended. A dark haired girl turned into the room, hands clutching on her gloves, held in front of her.

Hannah looked at the two men before her, the shorter of the two, the blond stood from his seat and held his hand to her. "Dr. John Watson." She shook his hand.

"Hannah Winters," her eyes travelled to the man who was still seated to her right. "You must be Sherlock Holmes."

"Fantastic deduction." His eyes rolled and her upper lip curled slightly.

"Don't mind him, he's currently trying to kick cigarettes." Hannah nodded and John gestured to a spot on the sofa, "Please, have a seat." She thanked him and took the seat, Mrs. Hudson came from downstairs seconds later with a tray of tea and buiscuts.

"Thank you Ma'am." She smiled and pat her arm. John poured Hannah a cup of tea, which she gladly accepted.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. Hannah swollowed the moutful of tea, and rested the cup in the saucer. She sighed.

"I am here because I need your help." Hannah looked at the dark haired man whose eyes seemed to study her.

"Obviously." Hannah bit her lower lip and looked into the amber liquid in her cup.

"Go on Miss." Hannah looked between the two men.

"A series of murders have-"

"If there were murders I would have heard about them." Hannah glared at the dark haired man across from her.

"A series of murders from when I was a child, Mr. Holmes." Hannah rested her cup and saucer on the table. "When I was a child my family was murdered." Sherlock's hands moved, the hand that had cradled his cheek, joined the other in his lap. "One by one, they wouldn't wake up. First my grandfather, which we didn't have too much concern about, he was very old after all, then my Mother, then my Father, my Aunts, my Uncles, my sisters, my brothers. All of them, gone. One after another. In one year I lost more than 40 of my family members, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was shaking, her hands gripped her knees.

"Surely there must have been an investigation." John leant forward, elbows on his knees. Hannah nodded.

"There was and nothing was found. No evidence of poison, asphixiation, nothing." Hannah's eyes looked to both men.

"A maid or possibly gardener." She looked with furrowed brows to the dark haired detective.

"How would you know that I had a maid or a gardener?" John Watson sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Here we go..." Sherlock smirked, but didn't change his position.

"You come from money, if one couldn't tell by your incredible posture and the way you cross your ankles like they teach you in finishing school, you can tell by the necklace you're wearing. A family heirloom, cleaned religiously once a month by someone who your family trusts. Your hands are clean and incredibly soft, you don't have a job and you never did. You're a university student, although something happened in the past eight months that has caused you to become almost reclusive. Judging by the scar on your neck I would say that you were attacked, possibly by someone who wanted to finish off your family once and for all." Hannah's lips were pressed together tightly, trying to keep herself from smacking the smug grin off of the detective's face.

"Mr. Holmes, I didn't come here to hear things I didn't already know. If you think for one second that the thought of the maid or the gardener or even my Nanny had been the one to kill my family. The thing is that they were killed too. I was not a suspect because I was only six years old, so if you have any other theories, please... inform me." John leant back in his seat as a smirk became more evident on the face of Sherlock. "Will you take the case Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stood from his seat, her eyes following his figure as she crossed the room to his mantle. "Who attacked you?" She bit her bottom lip once more, before saying,

"A crazyman. He was convinced that we had all died off for a reason and he felt as though God needed him to finish the job."

"So he broke into your apartment?" John asked. She shook her head.

"Took me off of the street and slit my throat in a back alley, left me to die." She picked up the saucer once more, finishing her tea before standing from her seat. "If you are interested gentlemen I shall be on my way home. You know where to find me, don't you?" Sherlock gave a curt nod and Hannah made her exit.

"Do you always have to do that?" John glared at his partner. Sherlock brushed dust off the mantle.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Sherlock went to his computer and pulled up the search engine, typing in 'Winters Murders' and looking at the articles that popped up. A particular article caught his interest, one with a small corresponding picture of a young Hannah Winters, aged six, being held by a person outside of the shot, her brown hair pulled up in pigtails and tears on her cheeks in her Sunday best. Her big brown eyes staring into the lense of the camera. "John." The man moved from his place of washing the tea cups to look at Sherlock, whose hands were held in front of him.

"What?" The blond man responded.

"We'll take the case."