Happy New Year everyone!

Since I began writing this before Season 3 came out, Anderson and Donovan for the moment are still the douchey characters we remember from Seasons 1 and 2.

For a season 1 throwback disclaimer, unless Anderson has passed by your street, I think you've already figured out that I do not own Sherlock.

This chapter was written with help from the transcript at

arianedevere . livejournal 43794 . html

They'd had pretty much the same reaction as John. What is this? How was this made? Where did they get these clips? Why was it left here? Who had put it here? Could Sherlock have made this before he died?

John ignored them, trying to work it out for himself. A lot of the clips could have been taken from places like the press conference, TV, hidden cameras, really good quality, well-placed CCTVs. It was possible his therapist had some small camera recording all of her clients, some therapists did that. Some of it could also have been re-enacted by actors to fit in as well. John assumed Sherlock must have known about this, kept it as some sort of secret project and also re-enacted some of his own scenes – but why? Why would he have gone to such an extent?

After getting over their surprise, they began asking questions like, "Is that really how you first met Sherlock?"

"You became flatmates after knowing him for a day?"

They didn't seem as skeptical about the video, didn't wonder how it got here. He was starting to feel like Sherlock was right, practically the whole police force were dunderheads.

"Who do you think made this?" He asked them.

"The freak or his brother." Donovan shrugged.

"Would you stop calling him a freak?!" John snapped. "You did your best to torment him when he was alive and you played a big role in sending him to his death! You don't need to be here, you don't need to watch this, and I would prefer that you just get out."

There was a profound silence at his words; everyone looked taken aback at John's outburst. Even John himself was a little surprised, but getting a chance to snap at them made him feel just a little bit better.

Lestrade recovered first, "Let's just try and stay calm, everyone. We don't know where these videos came from and it would be best not to fight."

John scowled at the ground and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Anderson, who was looking fairly uncomfortable, asked quietly, "How would it have been possible for... Sherlock... to make something like this?"

"I don't know, Sherlock did a lot of things that boggle the imagination." Lestrade said thoughtfully.

"But it's one thing to make up a bunch of deductions and pretend to be clever. It's another to make an entire recording of private events. Especially with skillful close ups and background music!"

"Well it could have been his brother, he works for the government right?" Lestrade said, directing the second half of that sentence at John, whose face was reddening slowly at the put-down in Anderson's words.

Taking another deep breath to calm himself he said, "Yeah... Maybe." Then he turned back to the TV, picking up where he had originally left off.

The Army Doctor was sitting in front of his computer, he typed into the search engine, 'Sherlock Holmes'. The scene changes, revealing a woman in a bright pink dress suit and pink high heels bending down, hand trembling as she picks up a small bottle of pills.

John could practically hear Sherlock yelling, "Pink!" Life with Sherlock had always been eventful. He'd known him, what, two days? Less? Before Sherlock had dragged him off to a crime scene.

Well maybe dragged is too strong of a word, I did go pretty willingly. He thought to himself.

Once again the scene changes. John limps down the street and stops at a handsome black door. Sherlock is getting out of a cab behind him.

"Hello." The detective calls. He pays the cab driver some money and strides towards the doctor.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." They shake hands pleasantly.

"Well this is a prime spot," John remarks, "Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal; owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida, I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it."

"What?!" Donovan exclaimed.

"Well it's really not that strange," Lestrade remarked calmly, "We testify in trials and convict murderers all the time."

"Well, I guess..." She trailed off.

The front door opens and Mrs. Hudson steps out cheerfully, "Sherlock." She smiles and holds out her arms for a hug, which he returns.

"He just hugged her." Anderson said, dumbfounded. "The freak just hugged her."

"Who would ever refuse Mrs. Hudson a hug? She's the sweetest old lady you'll ever meet." John responded huffily, glaring at Anderson. The response lacked the sass and sarcasm that John yearned to use, but he at least would try to remain dignified. For now. But Anderson and Donovan were really getting on his nerves...

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock introduces them.

"Hello," she greets him.

"How do you do?" He inquires politely.

"Come in."

"Thank you."

"Shall we?" Sherlock gestures towards the door. Then two men go inside, Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind them to reveal the number 221B.

The flat had a polished wooden floor and a few nice rugs. It had an old, but cozy feel. There was a mantelpiece against the back wall, emphasized by wallpaper. Various cardboard boxes and stacks of stuff were scattered around. In the kitchen a microscope and some bowls are set out on the counter.

John smiled slightly as he imagined Mrs. Hudson bustling around and saying, "Oh dear." Even with all the times she reminded them she wasn't their housekeeper, he knew she would have been just itching to tidy up the mess.

"Well this could be nice, very nice indeed." John says.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely."

"As soon as we clean this junk up

"So I took the liberty of moving in."

There was an awkward pause.

"Oh. So this is all...?" John trailed off as Sherlock began speaking at the same time as him again.

"Well obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." Sherlock half-heartedly attempted to tidy up; throwing a few folders in a box and placing some unopened envelopes on the mantelpiece which he then stabbed with a jack-knife, holding them down. John was about to comment on the jack-knife when something else caught his eye.

"That's a skull." He states, pointing his cane at it.

"Friend of mine. When I say friend..."

"Friend?" Donovan exclaimed. John ignored her.

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson walks in. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

He looks at her, confused. "Of course we'll be needing two." What exactly was she imagining would happen? They would share a room?

She waves her hands around, slightly embarrassed, "Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here." She drops her voice to a confidential whisper. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

Anderson sniggered rather loudly.

"Do they really have to be here?" John asked Lestrade pointedly.

"It's a police building, they have every right to be here."

"You're their boss, make them leave." John snapped

"Sorry John, I'm only their boss when they're on the clock." Lestrade sighed.

"We're right here you know." Anderson said.

"Just begging to be kicked out, too." John harrumphed.

By the time John processed exactly what Mrs. Hudson was insinuating, she had already moved into the kitchen. "Oh Sherlock, the mess you've made."

Deciding not to say anything else to her, John plops down in a nearby armchair.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." He told Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?"

"I found your blog, The Science of Deduction."

Sherlock smiled. "What did you think?"

John looks at him disbelievingly, causing Sherlock to frown in confusion.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?"

"Sometimes I miss that." Said Lestrade quietly.

Sherlock just smiled mysteriously and turned away. Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen, holding a newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four." He corrects, gazing out the window to where a police car sat, lights flashing. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."

They were alerted to the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, Lestrade bounding into the room.

"Where?" asks Sherlock, before the detective can speak.

Lestrade pauses, "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"Well this one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

Lestrade sighs, "It's Anderson."

Sherlock grimaces, "Anderson won't work with me."

"There was a reason for that." The man in question muttered.

"Well he won't be your assistant." Lestrade reminds him.

"I need an assistant." Sherlock insists.

The detective inspector sighs once again. "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." He left without another word. As soon as the door clicked shut Sherlock leaped into the air triumphantly, spinning around.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

Sally narrowed her eyes at the screen. "Freak."

"Shut up!" John shouted. "Just shut up! I don't care if this is Scotland Yard or not! If either one of you call him a freak in front of me again I can promise you that you will regret it."

They all stared at him in shock, Donovan with some anger in her eyes. Her fists clenched at her sides and she made a small move towards him before Anderson put out a hand to stop her.

"John, I have to warn you that if you try anything, I will regretfully be forced to lock you up for a night or two. That being said," Lestrade directed his attention to the two other officers, "You two might want to shut up now."

Anderson moved a few steps away from John, pulling Donovan by the elbow to move her away as well.

Sherlock wraps his blue scarf around his neck and pulls on his coat. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food."

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Grabbing a small pouch from the table, he opened the door and dashed down the stairs.

"Look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same." Mrs. Hudson remarks. "But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John yells, making her jump. He is instantly apologetic, "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." He trails off, hitting his leg with his cane to make a point.

"I understand dear, I've got a hip." She heads to the door.

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em." He says, picking up a newspaper.

"Not your housekeeper!"

John has just settled in to read the paper when Sherlock interrupts him. The detective is leaning against the living room door, pulling on gloves, having silently re-entered the room. "You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army Doctor."

John clears his throat as he gets to his feet. "Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths?"

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John says unconvincingly.

Sherlock peers at him intently. "Wanna see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

Sherlock smiles and spins on his heel, leading John down the stairs.

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." John calls happily.

"Both of you?" She asks, coming out of her flat.

Sherlock turns away from the door to face her, a huge grin on his face. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He takes her by the shoulders and presses a loud kiss to her cheek.

Mrs. Hudson softens and smiles a little. "Look at you all happy; it's not decent."

Sherlock grins again, and strides to the door, "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

John closed his eyes briefly, thinking of Moriarty's games. The similarities certainly were strong between the two of them. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal. Why did it have to have ended this way? He took a few more slow breaths before shaking off the unhappy thoughts. There was nothing he could do about it now, he just wanted to watch these videos.

"Taxi!" Sherlock hails one down, and the two men get inside.

Kind of an unusual bonding activity. John thought to himself. 'Hey, I just met you, but I'm bored, let's go to a crime scene.' A nice day trip, but he imagined any form of Get-To-Know-You exercise with his eccentric roommate would have ended with interesting results.

They sit in silence for some time, before Sherlock glances up. He takes one look at John's face and sighs. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

John paused, "I'd say private detective..."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job." explained Sherlock.

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"But the police don't consult amateurs." John blurted out.

Sherlock looked at him again, "When I met you for the first time yesterday I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You seemed surprised."

"Yes how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room..."

There's a flashback to the lab at Bart's with John looking around the room. "Bit different from my day."

Sherlock continued, "...Said trained at Bart's. So Army Doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists; you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

There's a silence in the room. John had thought he would never hear a deduction again, and now he would be able to hear them all again. He gave a short thanks to whoever was listening above, but his chest ached with longing. He missed his friend - his best friend – so much.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock holds his hand out, requesting John's phone, which John gives to him. "Your phone. It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this, it's a gift, then."

Sherlock turns the phone over in his hands. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving."

Harry Watson

From Clara

xxx

For some reason John wanted to smile. For all of Sherlock's brilliance, this was one of those few times when he'd gotten it wrong.

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it."

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly at this point.

"People do – sentiment."

Many conversations echoed in the back of John's head regarding sentiment, and a high, sweet melody for a certain dominatrix played itself in his mind.

"But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked, staggered.

"I notice you didn't deny the first part." Lestrade remarked lightly.

"Clara's lesbian!"

"You're still not denying it."

"I don't have feelings for Harry's ex-wife!"

"That doesn't mean you didn't before." Lestrade was smirking at him.

"Are you really going to go there? Feeling 10 again?

"You said she's lesbian," Donovan interjected, "But she still married your brother. Did they break up after she came out?"

John sighed, shaking his head. "No, you'll see soon enough."

Sherlock gave a tiny smile. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny, little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." He handed the phone back to John, "There you go, you see, you were right."

John, still a little dazed at Sherlock's deductive display, was confused. "I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

There was an awkward silence in the car as John struggled to gather his thoughts. Sherlock looked out the window, resigned.

"That..." John breathed. "Was amazing."

Sherlock glanced back at him, stunned by this reaction. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!"

The two shared a grin and spent the rest of the trip in a companionable silence.

While it had been a bonding moment for the two of them at the time, in hindsight it was a rather melancholy thought for John. His friend had never really been accepted by many people, and even as much as the detective had seemed not to care, John could see that he did. In this video, the small emotions his friend had so well were far clearer now.

The cab arrived at Lauriston Gardens. John and Sherlock got out and began walking towards the crime scene, cordoned off with yellow police tape.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock paused in slight surprise. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped abruptly. "Harry's your sister."

"You know, that still doesn't mean that you didn't have feelings for Clara!" Lestrade teased, "We just got Harry's gender wrong!"

John just rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say."

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked.

"Sister!" Sherlock hissed the words through clenched teeth.

"No seriously, what am I doing here?"

Sherlock strode forward angrily. "There's always something." He muttered.

They approach the police tape, where they are met by Sergeant Donovan.

"Hello, freak." She greets.

No one said anything. The current expression on Donovan's face was unreadable, but if John had to hazard a guess, he would say that she seemed to be torn between feeling irritated and slightly ashamed.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock states.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

The sarcasm and condescension rolled off the detective in waves. "I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally." He lifted the tape and ducked underneath it. Lifting his head, he breathed in through his nose. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

Donovan's expression was becoming more comical as her face slowly reddened. She and Anderson refused to look at each other. Lestrade glanced between the two of them, rolled his eyes, and turned his attention back to the screen.

"I don't..." She turns her head slightly, catching sight of John. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." He turns to face John, introducing them. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." John had forgotten just how scathing Sherlock's sarcasm could get at times. Not the insults though, John could never forget how quickly insults fired from the detective's tongue.

"A colleague?!" Donovan asked with scornful surprise. "How do you get a colleague?" She turned to John. "What, did he follow you home?"

John was looking increasingly uncomfortable as he listened to the conversation. "Would it be better if I just waited and -"

"No." Sherlock cut him off. He lifted the tape with a flourish, indicating for John to cross underneath it.

Donovan pursed her lips before raising the radio to speak into it. "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

The trio walk towards the house. Just as they reach the bottom of the steps, Anderson walks out, wearing a plastic forensics coverall.

"Ah, Anderson, here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," he said, glaring at Sherlock. "I don't want it contaminated, are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" Sherlock asked conversationally.

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out! Someone told you that." Anderson glared at him with contempt.

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

A bizarre expression - a cross between a sneer and fake enthusiasm - crossed Sherlock's face. "It's for men."

At that moment, looking at his old friend, John was suddenly assailed with images of Sherlock doing very sarcastic jazzhands. Anderson's deodorant - it's for men!

"Well of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!" Anderson exclaimed indignantly.

"So is Sergeant Donovan."

There was an awkward pause at this pronouncement. John was struggling to contain his shocked amusement, a flicker of a smirk crossing his face before composing his features. Anderson spun to look back at Sergeant Donovan, shocked.

Sherlock sniffed loudly. "Oooh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

"Now look!" Anderson turned back to him. "Whatever you're trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything." Sherlock strode up the stairs, his large coat sweeping behind him. "I'm sure Sally came over for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." He spun on his heel, turning back to look at them. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

There is another awkward pause at his words. Sherlock smirks and turns away, entering the house. John follows him, glancing down at Sergeant Donovan's knees before awkwardly looking away.

The room was silent as Lestrade shook his head in exasperation at the two officers. John sat quietly, not entirely sure how to react. He wanted to smile at seeing this memory replayed again on the telly, as well as revel in the embarrassment of the idiotic officers standing next to him. However, this memory also made him sad. It had been a year since the Fall. But a year was not enough for John to have healed yet.

They enter the house, following a narrow hallway with old, faded wallpaper. Taking a left turn, they enter a room full of Scotland Yard officers. They walk up to Lestrade, who is shrugging into the same kind of plastic forensics coverall that Anderson was wearing.

"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock says to John.

Lestrade looks up. "Who's this?"

"He's with me."

"But who is he?"

John picks up another plastic coverall and begins putting it on. He looks up at Sherlock, who hasn't done anything more than pick up a pair of plastic gloves. "Aren't you going to put one on?"

Sherlock merely gives him a look.

John shakes his head slightly and continues putting on the coverall.

"So where are we?" Sherlock addresses Lestrade.

"Upstairs."

The camera cuts to a circular staircase, somewhat grimy and worn with age. Lestrade leads the two men up the stairs, John wearing the coverall, and Sherlock putting on the latex gloves as his coat sweeps behind him. "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer."

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

This time the camera pans up through the floor, revealing a woman in a pink business suit, lying dead on the floor of an empty room. Like the rest of the house, the walls are dilapidated and covered in faded wallpaper. The three men enter the room and stare down at her silently.

A few seconds go by...

"Shut up." Sherlock says abruptly, turning his head to look over at Lestrade.

Lestrade looks up, surprised. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking, it's annoying."

Lestrade and John exchange a glance.

John couldn't help it, he let out a small snort. No matter how dignified and refined Sherlock could seem, at times he had been nothing more than an overgrown child. A wickedly intelligent child, but an overgrown child nonetheless.

Their attention is drawn to the floorboards on the left side of the woman's body, where the word 'rache' is carved into the wood. The woman's fingernails are chipped and ragged on the ends, and her index finger lies just at the end of the e.

The camera zooms in as Sherlock's deductions begin. First, it focuses in on her left hand, where the words 'left handed' appear over it in white letters.

"What are those letters?" Anderson asked.

Sherlock shifts his focus up to the words on the floor, and more white lettering appears.

RACHE

German (n.) revenge

He narrows his eyes, as if contradicting the words written. The letters reposition themselves to line up with the letters carved into the wood. Rache

In the blank space after the e, an a appears, and cycles quickly through the alphabet to land on the letter l.

Rachel

Sherlock brushes back his coat and kneels down next to the woman's body. He runs his fingers across the back of her coat and lifts his hand up, rubbing his fingers together under the light. The word 'wet' appears just above his fingertips.

He turns his focus to her sides. He reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out an umbrella.

'Dry.'

He runs his fingers under her coat collar, eyes scrutinizing. He rubs his fingers together under the light again.

'Wet.'

The camera briefly shows Lestrade's face as he watches Sherlock examine the woman's jewelry with the aid of a pocket magnifying glass.

First, the bracelet on her left wrist: 'clean'.

Then her gold earring: 'clean'.

Her delicate chain necklace: 'clean'.

And finally, her wedding ring: 'dirty'.

Sherlock blinks rapidly. More white lettering appears.

'married'

'unhappily married'

'unhappily married 10+ years'

He slides the ring off her finger, holding it up to the light. The inside is a shiny gold.

'clean'.

He turns it, showing the outside once more.

'dirty'.

He puts the ring back onto her finger as more words appear.

'regularly removed'.

The camera focuses in on the woman's face.

'serial adulterer'.

Sherlock smiles.

"Was that...?" Anderson broke the silence.

"That doesn't make sense." Donovan stated.

"Is that really how he does it?" Lestrade asked. "That's incredible! It seems so farfetched the things he tells us, but when you actually see it play out like that, it seems so easy!"

"He never really explained to me how he does his deductions, or what it's like for him. I just know that he could process information incredibly quickly. Something that might take me 5 minutes to puzzle out, he was able to finish in a few seconds. It was amazing."

"That's..." Anderson seemed at a loss for words. "But that's not possible. It's all just trickery, right? How did he do that?"

"It's not trickery, it's real." John hissed. He turned his attention back to the screen.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stands up, reaching into his inner coat pocket to pull out his phone. "Not much."

The camera cuts to Anderson, who is leaning against the doorway. "She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something - "

"Yes, thank you for your input." Still looking at his phone, Sherlock shuts the door in Anderson's face.

John snorted loudly. He suddenly felt much better. He glanced over and saw that Lestrade had cracked a smile as well.

"So she's German?" Lestrade asks.

"Of course she's not, she's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff."

As he is speaking, the search from his phone appears onscreen. The menu UK Weather pops up, with options listed below.

UK Weather

Maps

Local

Warnings

Next 24 Hours

7 Day Forecast

He selects Maps. The selected menu blinks a few times, and then all the words fade from the screen.

"So far, so obvious." Sherlock continues.

"Sorry, obvious?" John looks up.

"What about the message though?" Lestrade asks.

Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock asks. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"Wait, no," Lestrade interjects. "We have a whole team outside."

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here."

"Yes, because you need me."

There's another pause as everyone looks to Lestrade.

He hesitates, and then nods his head in acknowledgement. "Yes, I do. God help me."

Sherlock observes the Detective Inspector for a few seconds. "Doctor Watson!"

"Hmm?" John looks up at Sherlock, and then turns toward Lestrade, seeking permission.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Lestrade walks to the door and opens it, stepping out of the room. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Sherlock and John squat down next to the body - John a bit stiffly, setting his cane down next to him.

"Well?" Sherlock asks.

"What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

Donovan opened her mouth as if to say something, most likely another cutting remark. But she stopped after a warning look from Lestrade.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

Lestrade chuckled quietly.

Lestrade comes back into the room and stands near the door with his arms crossed.

John grunts and lowers his other knee, to get closer to the body. He leans down, putting his own head near hers, sniffing. Sherlock watches as John lifts up the woman's hand, examining the fingers.

Finished with his examination, he pushes himself back up and looks over at the consulting detective.

"Yeah, asphyxiation probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit." Sherlock looks over, making eye contact with Lestrade. John continues, "Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure, possibly drugs."

"You know what it was, you've read the papers."

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth?"

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said," Lestrade interjects. "I need anything you got."

Sherlock stands up. "Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink."

John, using his cane for support, pushes himself to his feet.

"Travelled from Cardiff today," Sherlock continues, "Intending to stay in London one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asks.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh for God's sakes, if you're just making this up..."

"Her wedding ring," Sherlock points to her hand. He backs up a couple feet and kneels down next to her. "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"Brilliant." John says. Sherlock looks at him with mild surprise. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asks.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me." Says John.

Sherlock regards the two men before him. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

Lestrade started laughing. "I almost forgot how he used to say things like that!" His laughter quieted, continuing more soberly he said, "Man, you wouldn't think you'd miss his condescending comments so much..."

"Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He pulls his phone out of his pocket to show them. "Cardiff."

"Fantastic!" John exclaims again.

Sherlock turns towards him. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, it's...Fine."

The implications of that statement hit John suddenly. How many people had ever complimented Sherlock's abilities before? "Piss off!" Sherlock said he had been told. It had been funny at the time, but now it was just kind of depressing. John felt a burning in his eyes. He couldn't be sure of course, but the look on Sherlock's face, the hesitation when he told him it was fine. John had a feeling he was one of the few people to have ever shown Sherlock his appreciation.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asks.

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock spins in a circle, looking around the room. "She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be. Question is - why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?"

"Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night."

He squats down next to the woman's body - looking at the splash pattern on her leg. "Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade tells him.

Sherlock looks up slowly with wide eyes, narrowing them thoughtfully as he looks at Lestrade. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case, there was never any suitcase."

Lestrade turned to John. "That was one thing I never understood. How could he have figured out that a suitcase was missing from that already empty room?"

"I wish I could tell you, but I really don't know. Splash marks apparently."

"Suitcase!" Sherlock gets up and runs out the door, yelling. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade and John follow him out, Lestrade stopping on the landing. "Sherlock, there's no case!"

Sherlock is still making his way down the stairs, but he slows his pace, turning back towards Lestrade. "But they take the poison themselves. They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." He takes off down the stairs again.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And?" Lestrade calls after the retreating man.

Sherlock stops once more on the landing below, tipping his head up to look at the Detective Inspector. "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're killings - serial killings." He claps his hands together once, looking delighted. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to!" He starts running down the stairs again.

"He would love the serial killers, wouldn't he?" Anderson remarked loudly, forgetting himself.

John turned toward him slowly, menacingly. "What. Exactly. Are. You. Implying?"

Anderson raised his hands slowly, almost mockingly in his defense. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Just that the last case he was involved with was never cleared. This "Moriarty" was never found, and we've still got a young screaming girl who was quiet until she saw Sherlock."

John dropped his cane and lunged at Anderson, but before he could do anything he felt a heavy weight land on him from behind, as Lestrade tackled him from behind.

"Let me up!" He growled. "Kill 'im. I'm gonna kill him."

"Anderson, leave! Just go!" Lestrade shouted as he put John in an arm lock. "I'm doing this for your own good John. Just calm down!"

John heard the door open and close behind him as, he assumed, Anderson stepped out. Gradually he stopped struggling. He was still breathing heavily, mildly alarmed at how volatile his own temper was today.

When he'd relaxed completely and stopped fighting to get away, Lestrade finally let him up. He clambered clumsily with his feet, making eye contact with Donovan as she stared at him with wide, vaguely disdainful eyes. She looked at him as if she'd never seen him before.

John huffed and looked around for his cane. Lestrade picked it up and held it out to him.

"Thanks." He muttered. He took it, but his leg wasn't aching for once. He held it gingerly in his hands for a few moments before setting it down, but for the first time in several months, he wasn't putting any weight on it.

"Sorry John, but if you'd laid a finger on him I would have had to arrest you."

John gave a short, stiff nod. "I get it. Thanks." He was in a sour mood now, but his temper was under control once again. Lestrade picked up the remote and rewinded the video back to where they'd left off.

Lestrade leans over the railing to call down to him. "Why are you saying that?"

Sherlock stops once more. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here and they took her case." He pauses, eyes widening as the realization hits him. "So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left the case there." John suggests.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." He stops, eyes widening again. "Oh..." He lifts his hands up into the air, stepping backwards with the weight of his realization. "Oh!" He claps his hands together.

"Sherlock?" John calls.

"What is it? What?" Lestrade takes a step down, leaning further over the railing.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade called down to him, indignantly.

"No, we're done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston we're done waiting! Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" Sherlock takes off running down the stairs again. He is now between two to three landings below Lestrade and John.

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?!" Lestrade yells down.

Sherlock, who has just made it to the ground floor, runs back up three stairs to shout up to Lestrade.

"PINK!"