A/N: Oh fanfiction community, I've missed you. Please enjoy, tell me what you think.

The Blackest of Mail

Detective Inspector Lestrade slammed a stack of papers on his desk in frustration. The unsolved cases of London loomed before him as he sat down in his office chair and leaned back. The cases were unfathomable, to the average mind at least. They had no hope of ever being solved without the assistance of a certain consulting detective. But Sherlock could not presumably solve them all.

Actually, he could.

He was just severely uninterested. Lestrade didn't, couldn't, blame him. Most of the cases were incredibly dull and were a matter of evidence that deemed them "open".

He couldn't force Sherlock to solve them all, even with the threat of another drugs bust. He knew that the unsolved nature of the crimes was in no way Sherlock's fault but his own.

He sighed. The stack, in its unchanging glory, remained silent, mocking him with its presence. Mocking his failure as D.I., an officer of the law, and a man.

If only his investigators could think like Sherlock and perform "deductions" as Sherlock so lovingly calls them.

Lestrade's tight-lined mouth curled into a small smile as an epiphany struck him.

The idea was obscure, perhaps even insane considering the participants but if it had even a miniscule possibility of making that wretched stack smaller it was worth his time.

oOo

Donovan was livid. She couldn't believe she was following "The Freak" onto a crime scene. What was more infuriating was that she was doing so in order to "learn from him". Lestrade had threatened her with her job if she had refused.

She stared at the back of his dark, curly, head with disgust. What could he possibly ever teach her that she didn't already know?

oOo

Sherlock was bored. Not only was the case at hand incredibly simple, for his mind at least, but now he had to instill his wisdom, his science of deduction, on a person who couldn't be any less worthy. He severely did not want to.

But he had to. Lestrade had made it perfectly clear that Sherlock would never see a crime scene again without providing this favor.

oOo

They were both being blackmailed and they weren't happy about it.

oOo

The scene was gruesome, despite there being only one victim. Donovan and Sherlock entered the house by way of the front only to be greeted by the lovely sight of a distraught mother and a room drenched in despair. Not to mention the distinct scent of blood and the deceased.

The mother gave Sherlock a small nod. Donovan, a creature of habit, approached the mother quietly.

She was abruptly stopped by Sherlock's low, reverberating voice,

"Rule number one, Donovan, don't talk to anyone that you don't have to talk to."

She turned her heel and faced him. "Sorry Sensei" she spat "I suppose I'm just used to following the protocol from the homicide case handbook. We're supposed to talk to the family before we scrounge around their house."

Sherlock, always a dramatist, threw his arms up. "That is precisely why the entire department relies on me! You are all more concerned with 'following protocol' than actually solving cases!"

With a twirl of his coat, passing the mourning mother entirely, he proceeded to steal away up the stairs.

"And I prefer 'Master', not 'Sensei!'" he yelled behind.

Donovan smiled at the idea of Sherlock joking with her, but that feeling was overshadowed by him abandoning her at the bottom of the stairs.

"Hey! Aren't you supposed to be teaching me something, Your Majesty?" she shrieked as she tried to catch up with the detective.

"Seek and ye shall find!" was the reply.

oOo

Donovan thumped up the stairs after him.

"I assume that you have already solved the crime then?"

He smirked, that sideways half grin which just barely proved that in some way he was human, or at least human enough to be entertained.

"You've assumed correctly, though I am generally against assumptions. Nevertheless, I solved it almost immediately upon our entrance."

Donovan gave him a pointed look of annoyance.

"Would you care to fill me in?"

Sherlock smirked again.

"You know I cannot. This is a learning experience for you. Also I have to do some additional investigating to make sure my initial deduction was correct. "

Donovan rolled her eyes and followed. They made their way into the victim's bedroom. It was gruesome, to say the least.

The victim lay on his back in the center of the room, having been badly beaten. He had a small, pale, frame embellished with various bruises, scratches, and deep gashes all over his body. He was bare from the chest up, and apart from the matter of his skin everything about his positioning and look on his face was peaceful. It led one to believe that he was merely asleep, that is until one noticed the gaping hole in the center of his forehead and the dramatic splatter of brain matter that he was now using as a head-cushion.

The weapon in question, judging from the wound, was a small pistol. It was nowhere in sight. Donovan and Sherlock faced the body. Not even bothering to look at her, Sherlock asked,

"What are your deductions?" Which is the language of the man meant "Show me just how smart you are."

So this was Sherlock's teaching style? Just throw her out to the deep end without even showing her how to doggie-paddle? She was extremely ill prepared for this pop quiz, but pride prohibited her from letting any short-comings show. She'd frequently seen Sherlock in action, and she would never admit it but when Sherlock was on a roll he was pretty spectacular.

Donovan figured it was time to put on her bullshit shoes and wallow in the details of the crime scene.

She paced on what little area of the floor was clear of blood and began her "deductions."

"The victim is approximately sixteen or seventeen years of age, despite looking younger, judging from the amount of high school yearbooks he has. They are in an inconvenient spot so he must not look at them very often or even at all. His father is absent. Military family, as seen in his mother's demeanor and the Royal Navy poster hanging over the bed. He must be clever, there's a periodic table hanging on that wall over there."

Sherlock smirked at this.

"What?" Donovan spat.

Sherlock regained his composure and cleared his throat.

"Nothing, continue."

The various objects around the room confirmed her deductions. No average teenager would have handmade blueprints on their desk, shelves packed with leather bound volumes, and a large maritime compass on their bed-side table.

Donovan moved towards the body.

"He's been beaten, obviously, but there is no sign of a struggle. No broken fingernails or signs of strangulation. The gunshot is exactly center. The killer has remarkable aim."

"What else?" Sherlock looked towards the small broken window, as if to give her a clue. She followed his gaze and frowned.

"The door had been locked from the inside, but that window cannot possibly be big enough for a person."

Sherlock smiled slightly. Donovan was beyond confused.

"It doesn't add up."

His grin broadened as, once again, he threw his hands in the air.

"That is because you saw multiple things, I'll give you that, but never once did you OBSERVE!"

Donovan sighed heavily, a migraine slowly manifesting itself behind her right temple. She was about to give him a severe tongue lashing.

"I don't think…"

"Exactly! That's the problem!"

Her eyes narrowed into a death glare. She breathed violently through her nose.

"Explain."

His eyes lit up with glee. He was about to destroy her way of thinking and he knew it. He uttered one word only.

"Suicide."

She blinked twice, trying to control herself. She failed.

"How does that make any sense?" She shrieked.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said matter of fact, "The simplest solution is usually the most logical."

"Thanks, Spock," She whipped sardonically, "but how could he have possibly done this? Who beat him? Where's the murder weapon? How did the window break? What did I miss?"

Sherlock took this inquisition as an invitation to show Donovan a real display of his "technique." He straightened his Belstaff and began to tell her what she indeed had missed.

"You did well, considering your intellect, but you missed the key points."

At rapid speed he began deducing the scene.

"A crime scene does not entail the murder scene exclusively, Donovan. Judging from the photos in the living room the victim was an only child, coddled by his parents, particularly the mother. The father was in the British Royal Navy, you uncovered that much, but you forgot to mention that he died two years ago. All of the photos of him on the kitchen refrigerator in the kitchen have dates that lead up and end on Christmas two years past. The Navy just recently had a celebration visit home. If he had come they would have taken a photo but they're camera is covered in dust in the back of the front hall closet."

Donovan looked at him incredulously.

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock smirked again, a frequent activity it seemed, today at least. Donovan only wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face.

"You tell me" He challenged.

Donovan stared at him blankly, then her brows knitted together in frustration. (More so with herself than with her so-called teacher.) She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"The mother. She nodded at you when we first came in, like she knew you. You were here this morning."

"Very good. Rule Number Two: Cheating is encouraged!"

"Alright freak, you still haven't explained anything!"

She must have learned something from him for she had caught on to his quick way of noticing even the smallest of details. Like the minuscule things about his manner when she said the word "freak", the small sharp intake of breath, the slight tension of muscles, the pained look in his eyes, all disappeared in a nanosecond as he expertly regained his composure.

She had seen it. She had hurt him.

He pushed it aside, like always she realized, and addressed her comment about "explaining."

"We'll start with the yearbook, a clever deduction on your part, but low-hanging fruit, we must go further. Why are they untouched?"

"He doesn't care about school?" She guessed.

"Or better yet, school doesn't care about him, in other words he has no friends. This can also be proven by his shoes."

He waited patiently for Donovan's response. She looked towards the victim's feet. She didn't see anything important.

"They're clean." She shot in the dark, knowing that she must have missed something.

To her surprise, Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"Exactly! When we first walked in this afternoon there were quite a few of the local boys outside playing football across the street. It is safe to say that they play frequently, as it has been raining this past week…"

Donovan interrupted him.

"Their shoes would be muddy."

"Precisely, our victim is an outsider."

Donovan still felt like she was missing something. Maybe this is how it always feels to be around Sherlock Holmes.

"But, a suicide purposefully made to look like a homicide? Isn't it usually the other way around?"

"Yes, but as you have previously pointed out this young man was incredibly clever. The blueprints on his desk reveal his liking of physics and kinetic models. So how did he kill himself and dispose of the weapon?"

Donovan took this question as her final exam. She looked towards the victim's desk. Something about his abundant drawings of pendulums gave her the thought that she needed. She couldn't even believe what she was saying.

"The gun was suspended from the ceiling, being released when fired, and eventually flying out the window."

Sherlock slowly pulled the murder weapon, along with a string tied to the gun's barrel, out of his pocket.

"It was in the dumpster strategically placed outside below the window."

Donovan smiled. She felt extreme pride in solving the seemingly impossible crime. A thought struck her, however, and she frowned.

"Why was he beaten? Why would he do that to himself?"

"Apparently our victim was a fan of classic mysteries and was providing us with a red herring."

Donovan tried to take everything in. She had never solved a case so fast before. If it hadn't been for Sherlock she would have still been interviewing the mother and searching for a nonexistent killer. The killer of course was the victim. She looked at the young man's body. He was so young, healthy, intelligent, and loved. Why would he do this? Just because he was never invited to play football?

"Something's troubling you." Sherlock interrupted her thoughts.

She gave him a dirty look for invading her brain.

"We know how he did it and we know some reason behind it, but what was the trigger. Why did he decide to do this today?

"I've been asking myself the same question. Now we may talk with the mother."

And with that he whisked down the stairs. Apparently someone who had been deemed worthless to talk to before could now answer some questions.

Donovan knew that the situation was delicate. Luckily she caught up to Sherlock before he said anything insensitive to the mother. She started speaking before Sherlock could open his rude mouth.

"We're sorry for your loss, and we've deduced that it was a suicide." She said gently.

The mother had already been weeping when they arrived and her sadness did not explode as expected upon this revelation. If anything she looked confused. She looked up from her tissues and into their faces. Her voice shook slightly, but she was trying to be strong.

"I know what he did." She wept, handing them a letter in the victim's own handwriting, "You should have talked to me when you came in."

Sherlock grabbed the suicide note and Donovan sneered as if to say "See? Homicide protocol would have solved this one in seconds."

"Shut up." He mumbled back to her.

The letter was standard, short and obviously written by a distraught youth.

It read…

Goodbye, mother.

I'm sorry.

-The Freak

Sherlock swallowed hard and handed Donovan the letter.

"He was bullied." Sherlock said to the mother. Not a question, a clear statement.

A tear rolled down her already soaked cheek.

"Yes," she sobbed, "Every day. I don't think those boys knew how much it affected him. They called him a…a freak. Just because he was different."

With that sentiment they left the mother in her broken home and even more broken heart. They made it outside when Sherlock stopped. He turned to Donovan, ridged and pale, not a smirk in sight.

"Good work today."

"Sherlock…" She started, but she could tell that he was closed off to her. He was already halfway down the block by the time she had collected her thoughts.

The boys across the street were still playing football, laughing and playing and just being boys, never knowing the impact they had on someone's life. But Sally knew, she knew the power of words, and she was sorry.

End.