A/N: Hello! And welcome to my new OC/Sherlock story Holmes, Sweet Holmes, a little play on Home, Sweet Home...which will probably make more sense once my OC comes into play :) My OC, well...I'm going to do something different than I do with my other OC stories (see my profile for them, DW and Supernatural so far), I won't be describing her or giving her name in this note. Because we don't actually learn what her real name is (despite my little summary and what Sherlock says in this chapter) or what she looks like for a couple chapters more. So, to keep the mystery going, no description here and no cover till Friday :)

But to speak more of the story, this will be, as mentioned before, a Sherlock/OC story. I will try to keep as true to Sherlock as I can, but I do stress that...you are a different person around your friends than around your family or co-workers or others. I am going to try to make the Sherlock we see around my OC, who (I can safely say) is a VERY old friend of his, as believable as possible, keeping in mind both his 'sociopathic tendancies' but also his history and relationship with my OC. This story is going to assume an established relationship/friendship of some kind before the show begins, that we will learn more about as the story goes on.

Little warning, we won't see my OC in this first episode, but her presence will be very much felt through various means.

I hope you enjoy.

~8~ is a scene break

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, not Sherlock Holmes or the BBC's show...if I did...Sherlock would always wear his purple shirt (you know which one I'm talking about :) -wink wink-).


A Study in Pink: The Mystery Texts

A tall man with dark curly hair sat in a cab, aimlessly driving through London. He reached into the pocket of his black coat, the fabric of his blue scarf rubbing against the underside of his chin as he looked down at his phone. He flicked through it, tapping into the police broadcast occurring live at that very moment.

He watched as Sergeant Sally Donovan sat beside Detective Inspector Lestrade, giving a press conference on the latest string of mysterious deaths that had plagued the area.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London," Donovan was saying, "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Phillimore. In light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" a male reporter called.

"Well, they all took the same poison," Lestrade began, "They were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indicat…"

"But you can't have serial suicides."

"Well, apparently you can."

"These three people," another man called, "There's nothing that links them?"

"There's no link we've found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one."

The dark-haired man grinned as he heard a number of dings go off, everyone in the room of the press conference looking down at their phones as a text appeared.


"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," Donovan called, tensing at the sight, receiving the same text as the others.

"It just say 'wrong,'" the first man replied.

"Well, just ignore that. If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end…"

"If they're suicides, what are you investigating?" the second man asked.

"As I said, these suicides are clearly linked," Lestrade stated, "It's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating."

The dark-haired man's ice-blue eyes narrowed as he smirked, seeing everyone receive yet another text.


"Says 'wrong' again," the second man frowned, confused.

"One more question," Donovan called, trying to keep order.

"Is there any chance that these are murders?" a woman asked, "And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I know that you like writing about these," Lestrade frowned, "But these do appear to be suicides. We know the differences…"

The dark-haired man snorted. Sure they did.

"The poison was clearly self-administered…"

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" the woman cut in.

"Well, don't commit suicide."

"Daily Mail," Donovan muttered under her breath, just knowing that was where the reporter was from.

"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

The dark-haired man laughed loudly now as they received one more text.


But then his own phone buzzed. The picture minimized so that the text could enlarge.

The txts r sent

He grinned with a secretive and very smug smile, quickly texting back:

I can c that

ur an ass Locksley

He smirked at that, knowing it was said in jest, before sending another quick one to a man who, if the image playing on his phone of Lestrade was anything to go by, which it was, was very frustrated right now:

You know where to find me.

He let out a little laugh, shaking his head as the cab pulled up before St. Bart's hospital, the location for the great Sherlock Holmes to launch his newest experiment.


"How fresh?" Sherlock asked as he stepped into the morgue to see Molly Hooper, the woman in charge of the morgue, standing before the body of an old man.

"Just in, 67," she answered with a small gasp, having turned at his sudden entrance, "Natural causes. Used worked here, I knew him, he was nice."

"Fine," he started to grin, "We'll start with the riding crop."


Sherlock mercilessly beat the riding crop against the corpse as Molly watched, slightly squeamish, from a neighboring room.


"So…" Molly entered, seeing Sherlock had finished and was on his phone, "Bad day, was it?"

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes," he remarked distractedly, sending a text.

Riding crop, bruises.

"A man's alibi depends on it," he nodded to himself, "Text me."

"Listen," Molly began hesitantly, "I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished…"

She was cut off by his phone pinging.

I hope u wore gloves this time

She watched as Sherlock glanced down at his hands, red and slightly chaffed from where he'd been tightly holding the crop.

Of course

He glanced over at Molly, frowning, "You're wearing a lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I, er..." she began, touching her lips, but the phone beeped again.


She frowned, seeing him smirk at the phone, "I refreshed it a bit."

U cant prove that

He blinked and looked over, as though just realizing Molly was there and that he'd been talking to her for the last minute or two, "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," Molly said quickly, just knowing the phone would ping again…which, in fact, it did.

U txt back in 3 secs. 5 when u lie. Liar :)

"Black," he called absently, focused on the phone, "Two sugars, please."

Call me

He grinned, "I'll be upstairs."

"…ok," Molly sighed, watching him head for the steps, putting the phone to his ear.


Sherlock looked up from the microscope he was using when the door to the lab opened. He rolled his eyes, seeing Mike Stamford, a man he'd spoken to earlier that day, enter with another man. He spared the second man a glance, noting his light, army-cut hair, his stiff posture, the tan lines at the cuff of his sleeves, the slightly larger pocket on his pant where his mobile phone was deposited. He had a cane and walked with a limp…clearly a psychosomatic one given he hadn't made for the neartest chair to sit and rest his leg.

"Bit different from my day," the second man commented, looking around at the technology in the lab.

Sherlock shook his head and went back to his work.

"You've no idea!" Mike grinned.

He sighed, realizing why Mike had brought a complete stranger to him and, while his preliminary evaluation of the man was adequate, he wanted to know more about this potential flatmate. He glanced at Mike, observing how his pockets were flat, not a bulge anywhere, clearly he didn't have his phone on him.


"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

Mike frowned, "And what's wrong with the landline?"

Sherlock gave a minute smile, "I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Here, use mine," the other man offered.

Sherlock feigned the smallest surprise at that, as though he hadn't expected the man to offer his own, "Oh, thank you."

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike introduced.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked offhandedly, texting away on the phone, having given it the onceover flip in his hand, noting all the dings and personalizations.

"Sorry?" John blinked, surprised that the man knew he was a soldier.

He looked over, "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, sorry," John frowned, "How did you know?"

"Ah!" Sherlock grinned as Molly entered with his cup of coffee, "Coffee, thank you," he spared her one more glance, taking in the differences, "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me," Molly shrugged, offering a smile.

"Really? It was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."

"Ok," Molly blinked surprised at the almost compliment.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked John, handing his phone back as he went to the microscope once more.

"I'm sorry, what?" John shook his head, unsure where that came from.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he glanced at John, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John turned to Mike, "You told him about me?"

Mike just grinned, "Not a word."

"Who said anything about flatmates?" John turned back to Sherlock.

"I did," Sherlock grinned, "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John shook his head, stunned.

Sherlock just ignored him, getting his things together, finished with his experiment, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary…" he quickly tapped something on his phone.

Riding crop?

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" Sherlock glanced over.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"


"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

Mortuary. After u lied 2 me!

He grinned, nodding, before he turned to John, walking closer to the door, "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" he moved to step out the door but turned back with a grin, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," he gave a wink, "Afternoon," and left the room.

"Yeah," he heard Mike speak as he headed down the hall, "He's always like that."

He smirked.


Sherlock nodded at his latest text as the black cab pulled up before 221 Baker Street, John standing there, waiting.

Good luck Locksley! Say hello 2 MrsH 4 me!

"Hello," he greeted as he stepped out of the cab and walked over to John.

"Ah…Mr. Holmes," John reached out to shake his hand.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock returned the shake before turning to knock on the door.

"Well, this is a prime spot," John commented, looking around, "Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given 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?"

He grinned, "Oh, no, I ensured it."

The door suddenly opened and an old woman with short blonde hair was standing there, "Sherlock!" she cried, throwing her arms out.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock hugged her back, "Leena says hello," he told her quietly in her ear, not wanting John to hear, not wanting to bring her up around the man, he'd just ask all sorts of questions and be curious...not that being curious was a bad thing, he was often curious, but...he was rather possessive of his things and Leena, he didn't share her with anyone till he had to. He was a selfish man. He straightened and gestured at John, "Dr. John Watson."

"Hello," Mrs. Hudson greeted with a smile, motioning them in, "Come in."

"Thank you," John smiled as well, stepping into the house. Mrs. Hudson eagerly led them up a flight of stairs towards 221B, the loft above her own.

"Shall we..." Sherlock asked as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and allowed them in.

It was a very quaint room, full of boxes and books and some other odds and ends. John eyed a human skull sitting on the fireplace mantel a moment before nodding to himself, "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely."

"So I went straight ahead and moved in," he said, at the same time that John remarked, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..."

John blinked and turned to Sherlock, "So this is all..."

"Well, obviously I can er..." he stepped more into the room, closing a book and trying to push it into a straighter pile, "Straighten things up a bit."

"That's a skull," John pointed to the mantel, pulled there once again.

Sherlock grinned, recalling how he'd gotten that skull, "Friend of mine. When I say friend..." he laughed, "Got it from a friend though."

That had been a night. The looks on his parents and brother's faces when he'd pulled out that birthday gift and profusely thanked the giver for such a thoughtful present had been forever etched into his mind. He'd been admittedly going through a Shakespeare phase at the time, obsessed with Hamlet and wanted his own Yorrick. He still didn't know how that had happened, SHE had been the literature prodigy of the two of them. But he supposed that was what happened when one associated with another for as long as they had, their quirks rubbed off on the other. She'd become remarkably sharp at picking things out, not quite to his level, but better than an average person. To this day he didn't know how she'd managed to procure an authentic human skull for him, but that was to be expected.

She was the one person he didn't make deductions about.

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson called, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts, "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," John said quickly.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled, "Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones..." and then she caught sight of the room, "Oh...Sherlock! The mess you've made!" she stepped into the room and started straightening up.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," John remarked to Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked, not sounding interested.

"Found your website. 'The Science of Deduction.'"

NOW he was interested.

He turned to John, grinning slightly, "What did you think?"

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

"Yes," he turned to the window, looking out, "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone."

"How?" John shook his head, completely befuddled as to how that was possible.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson remarked as she wandered back over to them, "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three, exactly the same."

"Four," he smirked, seeing Lestrade getting out of a car and heading for the door, there was only one reason for the man to seek him out, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

Mrs. Hudson gasped, "A fourth?"

Sherlock turned around right as the door opened and Lestrade walked in, "Where?" he asked the man.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me otherwise."

"You know how they never leave notes?"


"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"


"He doesn't work well with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I NEED an assistant."

Lestrade sighed, "Will you come?"

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

"Thank you," Lestrade smiled, nodding at the others before turning to head out.

Sherlock waited till he was out the door before doing a small jump into the air, spinning around in excitement, clenching his hands into fists as he cheered, "Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!" he grabbed his phone, sending out a quick text.

4th. Note. Anderson.

Before he grabbed his coat and scarf, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear," Mrs. Hudson huffed, "Not your housekeeper."

Sherlock just ignored her, getting distracted by his phone, "Something cold will do…"

Congrats. Send me a pic. Dont kill him.

He laughed silently at that last note, only she could keep up with his one word messages and understand what he was saying, "John," he looked over, "Have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" he strode out the door, making it down the stairs before his phone buzzed again.

What about JW?

What about him?

Army dr. Seen it all. Better than Andy.

He smirked, she was right. He dashed back up the stairs, "You're a doctor," he called to John, "In fact you're an Army doctor."

"Yes," John looked over from where he was sitting on an armchair.

"Any good?"

He really didn't care. ANYONE was better than Anderson.

"Very good," John nodded.

Sherlock grinned, "Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, God, yes," John nodded, getting up, "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"Both of you?" Mrs. Hudson called as they left the room.

"Impossible suicides?" Sherlock scoffed at her words, "Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on! Taxi!"


"Ok," Sherlock began as he and John sat in the back of a black cab, "You've got questions..."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you, what do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say...private detective."


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

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

"What does that mean?"

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

"The police don't consult amateurs."

He smirked, he loved it when he got to prove himself, keep himself sharp, improve his skills, he had always been remarkable at spotting little details about others, piecing them together into a conclusion about that person. His deductions, they way he thought, others were just so slow at keeping up, "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how DID you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation...'bit different from my day'...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, 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?"

John stared at him, "You said I had a therapist."

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


"Your phone," Sherlock reached out and took the phone, "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't buy this, it's a gift. Scratches," he pointed to the ones on the back, "Not one, many over time, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?" John guessed, looking at the engraving, 'To Harry, From Clara XXX.'

"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, not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, it's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on he's given it away. If she'd left HIM, he would have kept it. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left HER. He gave the phone to you, so 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, or don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John shook his head, stunned.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection," he pointed to tiny little nicks by the power socket, "Tiny little scuff marks round it. Every night he plugs it in but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs," he smirked smugly.

"That...was amazing."

Sherlock glanced at him, "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!" he laughed.

There was really only one person who had been as impressed with him as John had been, maybe even more so. But then again, she had been only 7 years old at the time.

He pulled out his phone, sending a quick text.

Ive impressed JW

A moment later a small smile appeared on his face as he saw the answering reply.

U impress evry1 :)

Even u?

Especially me

The cab pulled to a stop at the crime scene and the men exited the car, "Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked as they walked towards the police tape surrounded area.

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

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped suddenly, John walking on until he noticed and looked back, "Harry's your sister," Sherlock stated.

John shook his head at how the man was caught up on that instead of the crime scene ahead of them, "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!" Sherlock grumbled, starting to walk again.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something."

"Hello, freak!" Sally Donovan greeted snidely as they approached the police tape. She didn't like Sherlock much, not at all, he unsettled her, irritated her. There was just something...off...about the man. His lack of empathy for the victims, his glee at murders disturbed her. But what's more...she hated the fact that he was often right, he solved crimes faster than their entire team and that left a bitter taste in her mouth. He was just...freaky...

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock remarked dryly, as though he put up with this very greeting on a daily basis.


"I was invited," he said, as though speaking to an infant, absently fiddling with a text.



"I think he wants me to take a look."

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

He sighed, looking down at his phone, as it pinged, "Always Sally."


He smirked, leave it to her to bring up the woman's adultery, and, speaking of...he eyed Donovan closely, "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't..." Donovan began, flustered, before seeing John standing there, "Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine," Sherlock pocketed his phone, "Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan," he smirked, "Old friend."

"A colleague?" Donovan gaped, eyeing Sherlock, "How do YOU get a colleague? Did he follow you home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited…" John cut in.

"No," Sherlock replied.

"Freak's here," Donovan called into her radio, "Bringing him in."

Sherlock stepped past the police tape and made his way into the building with John limping quickly behind, "Ah, Anderson," he greeted a man in a sterile white suit, a member of the forensics team, another man that irritated him much like Donovan, perhaps that was why the two were so...close, "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," Anderson glared, "I do not want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for a long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson sneered, "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men," Anderson rolled his eyes, "I'm wearing it."

Sherlock smirked, "So's Sergeant Donovan. Ooh...I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Whatever you're trying to impl…"

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock cut in, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees. You'll need to wear one of these," he handed John a sterile white suit.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, coming down the stairs to them, eyeing John.

"He's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said he's with me."

"Aren't you going to put one on?" John frowned, putting on the white suit but seeing Sherlock not make a similar move.

"So where are we?" Sherlock ignored him, turning to Lestrade.

"Upstairs," Lestrade nodded to the stairs, heading up them, "I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer," Sherlock remarked, pulling out his phone.

"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," he opened the door, allowing Sherlock and John into the room where the body had been found. There was a blonde woman, dressed all in bright pink, lying face down on the floor of the dirty disused room, a scratching in the wood before her.

The trio stood there, silent, just looking at the body.

"Shut up," Sherlock glanced at Lestrade.

The man frowned, "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking," he stated, holding up his phone and taking a picture, fiddling with the picture message, "It's annoying, stop."

Lestrade rolled his eyes as Sherlock walked over to the body, examining it. He inspected the woman with a small magnifying glass, touching her coat and jewelry with his glove-covered hands, inspecting the 'RACHE' scratched out on the floor, noticing every detail about the woman.

"Got anything?" Lestrade called.

"Not much," he muttered, standing, turning away from the body as he pulled his phone out.

When was the last time it rained w/ heavy winds?

Im sort of in the mid. of a case Locksley

Just answer the ?

How'm I supposed 2 no what the weather in Cardiff was like?

He grinned, knew it. She was always keeping an eye on the weather if only to text him at ungodly hours and remind him to take an umbrella or not to forget his sunscreen or something as ridiculously unimportant.



"She's German," Anderson called, appearing in the doorway, pulling Sherlock from his moment, "'Rache.' It's German for 'revenge.' She could be trying to tell us something..."

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock remarked.

"So she's German?" Lestrade frowned.

"Of course she's not," Sherlock scoffed, "She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"Sorry," John shook his head, "Obvious?"

"What about the message though?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him and turned to John, "Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John blinked.

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

"We have a whole team right outside…" Lestrade began.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock waved him off.

"I'm breaking every rule letting YOU in here…"

"Yes..." he smirked, "Because you need me."

"Yes, I do," Lestrade sighed, "God help me."

"Dr. Watson!"

"Hmm?" John looked at Lestrade for permission.

Lestrade shook his head, "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself. Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes..."

"Well?" John looked at Sherlock, "What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock replied as his phone buzzed.

I like hr shoes

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

"This is more fun," Sherlock countered.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead..."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I WAS hoping you'd go deeper."

"Yeah..." John sighed, moving towards the body to kneel down, moving his leg to help himself, before looking over the body, "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."

Sherlock nodded, tapping on his phone.

What do u no. JW not a complete idiot

"You know what it was, you've read the papers," Sherlock muttered, getting a text back.

U r mean :(

He rolled his eyes at that as John spoke, "Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth…"

"Sherlock," Lestrade called, "Two minutes I said, I need anything you got."

"Victim is in her late 30s," Sherlock stated, "Professional person, going by her clothes, I'm guessing the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today intending to stay in London one night from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade frowned.

"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 sake, if you're just making this up…"

Sherlock sighed, people were SO slow!

Getting back 2 the case...

"Her wedding ring," he pointed absently at the body, "Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. The inside is shinier than the outside. 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 who DOES she remove her rings for? Not ONE lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that long so more likely a string of them."

"Brilliant," John blinked, before noticing the others looked unamused, "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade shook his head.

"It's obvious too, isn't it?" Sherlock looked at them, to see them staring blankly.

"It's not obvious to me."

"Dear God," he sighed, frowning at them, "What is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring," he turned to the woman again, pointing out what he'd learned, "Her coat, it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain 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 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 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 held up his phone, "Cardiff."

"Fantastic," John smiled, impressed.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock turned to him when his phone pinged.

Where's it?

"Sorry, I'll shut up," John commented.

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

Where's what?

"Why do you keep saying the suitcase?" Lestrade asked.


Sherlock blinked and looked around, just noticing it appeared to be missing, "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel?'" Lestrade eyed the scratching.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German," he replied sarcastically, "Of course she was writing 'Rachel,' no other word it can be. Why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?"

Sherlock smirked, glancing at the woman's shoes, "Tiny splash marks on her right heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand, by that splash pattern. 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. Where is it, what have you done with it?"

As though hearing him speak, his phone pinged.

Evn THEY rn't mad enough 2 touch evidence

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade remarked.

"Say that again," Sherlock spun to him.

If THEY hadn't seen it…then how was it missing now?

Some ELSE had to have taken it!

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

"Suitcase!" he laughed, quickly sending a text.


"Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"There was no case…"

"But they take the poison themselves, swallow the pills. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, thanks. And…"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings. We've got a serial killer. There's always something to look forward to."

Serial killer!

"Why are you saying that?"

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left it there," John shook his head.

"No, look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..."

The phone pinged.

GL w/ that

He shook his head, realizing something, "Oh...oh!"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade eyed him, "What is it, what?"

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

She would know that better than anyone, she'd dealt with more of them than he had in her job.

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade shouted.

"Oh, we're done waiting," he sent another text.

Preliminary profile?

"Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?"

"Pink!" he shouted, grinning as he checked his phone, rushing out of the room.

Working on it

He smirked, tossing his phone and catching it before slipping it into his pocket. She'd get back to him with her best guess soon enough and then…then he'd have a serial killer to spot.

So excited was he that he didn't even realize he'd left John behind.


Sherlock was lying on the sofa, unwrapping nicotine patches to use, he could feel the temptation to light up coming and had gone immediately for the patches. He'd promised to give up the smokes. Yes, he wasn't a man who kept his word very often, but he did with her. They did with each other. She'd promised to come back, he promised to be clean when she did.

His phone pinged and he scooped it up, eyeing the rather long text, not really a text, an email.

Prelim Prof…

Older man, mid sixties, very ordinary. Must be unnoticed in a crowd, blends in. Has access to transport, is very familiar with the city and locations. Must be as he has placed the bodies in locations he knew to be empty at certain times. Would also have to be someone who is overlooked, that you see every day but don't notice. It would have to be someone that the victims would trust for a short time without question, follow them places without noticing, to these unusual locations. Lestrade was right about that, they had no reason to be there. The manner of the deaths, the locations, doesn't fit the profile I see in him. He'd want to prove his ability, be able to go on longer than anyone...to put them in such places where discovery is eventual, he WANTS them to be found. I doubt it is for mass fear otherwise they wouldn't be portrayed as suicides. No, he wants them public information as proof of the murder's completion.

Sorry Locksley, you're dealing with two people. A planner, and an enforcer. The murderer is the enforcer.

"Damn," he muttered, unsure whether to be pleased that there were technically TWO serial killers out there, much to his interest, or annoyed that he'd only picked up on the one killer. He sighed, she was better at working out the killers, like he was better at working out the victims and the crime scene.

He reached over and grabbed another two patches, this was a three-patch problem now. He lay back on the sofa, reading the rest of the email.

The planner, he'd have to be well connected, wealthy, and have quite the influence to be able to manipulate someone to murder. To do so, so intricately, leads me to believe that he's clever, and since it isn't graphic or gruesomely done, this isn't the result a traumatic incident in his past. This is for sport. But he doesn't want to be personally connected, he wants other to think it's your murderer, he won't get his own hands dirty but has others do it for him. He's narcissistic. Careful. Methodical. Even practical and sophisticated, masking them as suicides. I'd wager a young man, late-20s, early-30s, wants to prove himself, possibly an up-and-comer.

But you should really focus on the enforcer for now Locksley, you'd get more information, maybe even a name out of him. Send me more info when you get it, I'll update the profile.


He nodded, sending a quick 'Thanks,' knowing she wouldn't get offended by his one word reply. She knew that, by now, he was in the throes of working on this case. He dropped the phone onto his chest, clenching his fist to get the nicotine flowing, staring up at the ceiling, thinking…

Until John stepped through the door and looked at him lying there, "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch," he pulled up his sleeve to reveal the patches, "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for breathing."

"Oh...breathing," he sneered, "Breathing's boring."

"Is that...three patches?"

"It's a three-patch problem."

"Well...you asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he nodded absently, "Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" John blinked, looking at Sherlock's phone lying on his chest.

"Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

"I WAS the other side of London…"

"There was no hurry."

John sighed and handed over his phone, "Here...so what's this about…the case?"

"The case…" he closed his eyes.

"HER case?"

"Her suitcase, yes," he opened his eyes, "Obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"Ok," John shook his head, "He took her case. So?"

"It's no use," Sherlock sighed, "There's no other way. We'll have to risk it. On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text," he held John's phone out to him.

"You've brought me here...to send a text?"

"Text, yes. The number on my desk."

John stared at him a moment longer before sighing and walking over, taking the phone back. He turned to walk towards the desk, glancing out the window as he'd been doing periodically on the way.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, seeing his constant peeking.

"Just met a friend of yours," he remarked, thinking to how he'd been basically kidnapped.

He'd been walking down the road from the crime scene, trying to hail a cab, when the payphones began to ring. He'd answered one, a man telling him to look at the security cameras that were moving away from him. Then he'd been picked up by a car, a lovely woman sitting in the back, texting, till they arrived at an old warehouse. He'd met an older man there who had reminded him a little of Sherlock, he'd made deductions about him as well, but the man was also far more stiff, wearing a suit, more...professional...

"A friend?" Sherlock frowned, the only friend he had was halfway across the world, she wouldn't be here…not without telling him…

"An enemy."

Ah, that made more sense.

"Oh. Which one?"

John gave him a look at the fact he had more than one, "Well, your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"


"Did you take it?" he glanced over.


"Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

John rolled his eyes, "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number…"

John looked at the number, frowning, "Jennifer Wilson? That was...hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes," John sighed, putting in the number.

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah…hang on!"

"These words exactly. 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'"

John looked at him, alarmed, "You blacked out?"

"What?" his head snapped to the side, "No...no!" he quickly got up and stepped over the coffee table, "Type and send it. Quickly. Have you sent it?" he asked, walking past John to pull a pink suitcase from near the fireplace.

"What's the address?"

"22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" he set the case down and opened it, falling back into a chair to look at its contents.

"That's..." John blinked, turning to see the case, "That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously," he glanced up at John before rolling his eyes, "Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did," he defended.

"Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Now and then, yes."

"Ok…" he shook his head, "How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?" he frowned.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car," he had to agree with the email there, car, it would be quite obvious to anyone trying to lug a body through London on foot, "Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely," and he agreed there, "So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink," John realized, "You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?"

"It had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that…"

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock replied quickly, before noticing John looking at him, "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. You just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at the home?"

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."

"Er..." John blinked, realizing, "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is where is her phone NOW?"

"She could have lost it," John suggested, REALLY not wanting his next thought to be true.

"Yes, or…"

"The murderer...you think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she...left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry..." John shook his head, alarmed, "What are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

John's phone suddenly started ringing, the number unlisted.

A/N: When I first watched Sherlock, I noticed he used his phone a lot for his searches and things, and when he mentioned that he prefered to text...it made me wonder, what if he was texting someone during those scenes instead? And who would it be? My answer, an OC of course lol :) We've now been introduced to Leena, but who exactly is she? Is that really her name? Is it Jackie Holmes? Or something else? What is her story with Sherlock? It'll definitely be coming up. I really wanted to introduce her in a new way, where we get hints of her personality, her history with Sherlock, how well she knows him, but we don't actually meet her outright.

We WILL actually physically see her soon though, so don't worry, she will exist and be there at some point. But I wanted to show that, she clearly has a long history with Sherlock and, despite not being there, is an active presence in his life and a resident of his Mind Palace :)

Also, tiny little treat...this will be a VERY minor crossover with another show I love, where Leena is and what she's been doing, what show it is, will be revealed more so in The Great Game :)