A/N: So I've noticed how there aren't a lot of fan fictions for this TV show (probably because its new), and I decided to help fix that. Originally I only wanted to have 2 stories at a time, but... well I couldn't help it.

So here y'all go:

Joan Watson let out an exasperated sigh as she noticed yet another pile of garbage sitting in the living room. For someone who complained so much about the condition of the flat, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be set on keeping the place in the state of a pig-sty.

She swept the trash into the bulging plastic bag. "What's this?" she asked herself, picking up the sheet of paper. "Well, who would have thought Sherlock was one to write letters?" She read the letter to herself:

Dear Jane,

My work in New York has been rather successful, if I do say so. I also should probably inform you I was told about the complaint. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn't mind, but you've basically gone through-

"Why are you reading my personal mail?" Sherlock asked harshly, snatching the letter out of Joan's hands. He crumbled the paper up into a ball and threw it onto the growing pile coming out of his trash bin.

"Someone's in a good mood today," Joan joked.

He glanced briefly at her. "Well I am not exactly fond of people snooping in my mail."

"So, who is this 'Jane'?" Joan asked.

"A friend." He paused, studying her face. "An... estranged friend."

She pointed at the pile of crumbled papers. "And those, are they all letters to her?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly. "C'mon. There is a homicide that is in need of my attention."

"Wayne Phillips," the cop explained. "41. Successful businessman, had a wife and 7-year-old daughter. We're ready to rule it as a suicide, but the family wanted to run it by you first."

"It's not a suicide," Sherlock announced confidently.

'You're kidding, right?" the cop said in annoyed disbelief. "It's a straight-out-of-the-book hanging. How can you rule out suicide right off the bat?"

"You're absolutely right about one thing," he said. "It looks like the perfect suicide. Too perfect. Besides, he had everything he could want. He was rich, had a family. Had no indication of being suicidal."

"Just because he didn't show signs doesn't mean he wasn't," the cop argued.

Sherlock pointed to the lacerations on Phillips's wrists."Notice the lack of bleeding? That's because these were done post-mortem. And there is one crucial thing missing. The platform of some sort which he would stand on before hanging himself."

The cop thought about this for a moment. "So you're saying he was murdered?"

"It would seem so, yes. You should have your M.E do an autopsy. I expect they'll find that hanging was not the cause of death."

The cop's mouth formed a small line of frustration. "Well then..."

Suddenly a woman with fiery red hair walked over to Sherlock. "Are you Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

He nodded. "I am."

The woman extended her hand. "I'm Anna Phillips, the one who asked you to come investigate Wayne's death." She motioned with her hand toward a small girl playing with dolls in the corner of the room. "That's my daughter, Cleo."

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well I can assure you that I am working to the best of my ability to catch your husband's killer."

She looked confused. "You mean he was murdered?"

He nodded. "I have reason to believe so."

"Oh," Mrs. Phillips said quietly.

"Well," Sherlock continued. "I suppose I shall just get to work then."

"I suppose you shall."

Sherlock Holmes rested his head in his hands as he searched his mind for what to say. He should know what to say to her. And he shouldn't have such a problem with this. Why is it that writing a stupid letter was so difficult!?

Alright, let's try this again.

Dear Jane,

Yeah.. coming up with the crime scene was actually pretty hard for me.

So who do you think Jane is?

Review please!

I'll update hopefully by next week.

~Delila Jules