Author's note- So I'm becoming obsessed with Sherlock from the BBC so I thought I'd write my own fanfictions on it! Please leave a review if you liked it or loved it!

There will be self harm in this, and maybe eating disorders and that sort of thing, just to warn you.

Italics are thoughts.

Disclaimer- I don't own Sherlock, but I own the storyline and Lucy. Let's say Lucy is fifteen in this shall we? Okay then! On with the show!

Chapter 1- A new game

"I'm bored." He moaned. A moment's silence. "I'm bored." Another silence.

Sherlock sat on the armchair with his elbows on his knees and his hands steepled as they usually were when he was thinking. But right now he wasn't thinking about much, and that bored him. He had no new cases to work on as anyone who came to him and John seemed absolutely dull, and it would be a waste of time to work on dull cases.

"John can I borrow your laptop?" He said. Silence. Sherlock huffed in annoyance. John had gone out and had been out for exactly thirty seven minutes- apparently he had gone to get some shopping as they were out of milk and therefore unable to make tea. And not being able to make tea was sacrilege. Why had he been gone for so long? Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to solve this small puzzle, but it was pointless. Inevitably so, as he knew full well that John took his debit card without knowing the pin, so he was therefore unable to use it to pay for what little he needed to buy; so he then either went outside feeling embarrassed and withdrew some money or just decided to go back home. Most likely he had gotten some more money out otherwise he would have returned ages ago. He didn't have any money in his wallet as he wouldn't have otherwise asked to borrow Sherlock's debit card, also he spent his money on taking his girlfriend out the other day whom proceeded to dump him the next day for another man, ooh harsh. Sherlock groaned aloud, see? Now he was trying to make a big thing out of a shopping trip that was taking too long. But he would do anything to cure his boredom. He would even shoot his wall if it meant he would have something to do, but Mrs Hudson forbade it. Sherlock actually wanted to have a look on John's laptop to see if there was anything to write about on his website or just to look at any unsolved crimes that may need his assistance. Yes, Sherlock was undeniably bored.

A subtle squeak of a door swinging open signalled John's arrival.

"Sherlock," He began as he dumped the small bag of items on the kitchen table, "You never..."

"I never told you my pin number, yes I know John, I guessed that seconds after you left." Sherlock interrupted. John stood there, staring at his flatmate.

"You knew... and you couldn't be bothered to ring me?" John said incredulously.

"My mobile is on the table there, I couldn't be bothered to go get it." Sherlock muttered.

"You are unbelievable." John shook his head as he started to make himself and Sherlock a hot drink.

An hour or so later, Sherlock's mobile started to buzz on the table. He glanced down at it, seeming to debate in his head whether or not to answer it. The screen said that it was Lestrade who was calling. With great effort, Sherlock picked it up and answered.

"Lestrade, got anything fun?"

"As a matter of fact Sherlock, I could do with you coming down and having a look at a crime scene for us." The voice on the other end answered. Sherlock was silent, debating whether or not it was worth his time. Lestrade continued to fill the consulting detective in: "There's been a murder; a man killed in his apartment no more than a couple of hours ago. No-one heard anything; no-one saw anything... But we want you to have a look around the place. So far, we have nothing."

"The police really are clueless aren't they? Is Anderson there?"

"What would it matter if he is?" Lestrade sounded confused.

"His presence annoys me."

"Just come Sherlock."

After hanging up, John looked at his friend.

"Are you going?"

"Might as well."

"Might as well?" John repeated.

"I'm bored, I have nothing else to do and you're coming with me."

They were clueless; utterly clueless. It was most likely due to the fact that Anderson was there, distracting everyone from living their own lives and in effect, lowering the IQ of the whole of London. So far they had barely any clues; the only thing they found was a rather curious set of scratch marks that formed a word on the wallpaper. Sherlock could now see why they were anxious for him to take a look around. The word on the wallpaper read 'Sherlock.' Well aren't I popular, Sherlock thought sarcastically as he stared at it with a blank face.

"Any idea why they scratched your name on the wall?" Asked John, who was a little shocked at the sight.

"They obviously wanted me." The detective muttered, then he spoke louder, "But the killer didn't write it himself."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade queried, frowning as he and the others on the crime scene turned to stare at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. Wasn't it obvious?

"The man's fingernails," he said impatiently, "Look!" They followed his orders, "There are flakes from the wallpaper under his fingernails, also, if you haven't already noticed- he is right handed."

"And how the bloody hell do you know he's right handed?" Anderson exclaimed. Sherlock huffed and glared at his idiocy.

"There is more wallpaper under his right hand's nails than there are on his left. Also, you can see that his nails on his right hand are shorter from where he scratched away to make the words."

"Then why is there wallpaper under his left hand?" Anderson narrowed his eyes. Sherlock turned to glare at him again, this was really wasting his time and to be honest, which hand he wrote with was of no importance.

"For goodness sake Anderson you really are stupid aren't you?"

"Sherlock," John warned.

"He has paper under his left hand from where he finished scratching with his left. His nails are too short on the right to scratch away anymore and I suspect he was held at gunpoint and forced to do this, so rather than get a knife he simply switched hands- which would also explain why the last three letters are shakier than the rest." Sherlock breathed in and looked on in amusement at the idiot in front of him. "Can you leave now Anderson." It was an order, not a question.

"Why?" He said angrily, "You are so up yourself Sherlock."

"I need to concentrate and you are annoying me and distracting everyone in the room from doing their jobs. So leave." The corners of the detective's mouth lifted slightly when Lestrade led the idiot out of the room.

Afterwards, Sherlock examined the dead man's body for clues to how he died. There were cuts all up his arms, all of which were fresh. A particularly deep one went across his neck and wrists where the main veins and arteries lie.

"A self harmer?" John said.

"No." Sherlock muttered, he frowned and looked closer.

"How do you know?"

"It doesn't seem right; there are no scars, no older cuts." Sherlock sighed, "He was killed."

"Do you have the evidence for that?" Lestrade questioned calmly.

"No," Sherlock said again. Then he started muttering, just loud enough so that they could hear him, "This killer is clever, very clever. He's left no traces whatsoever of him ever being here. No evidence to support what I say. We are dealing with someone who has experience in knowing how to pull something off with no-one noticing, and has the experience to make sure he remains completely unknown. All we have to go by is the fact that he wanted me. He made the victim scratch out my name on the wall. We also know he used a knife to kill the victim."

"But what if the victim committed suicide?" Lestrade said.

"He didn't. It doesn't explain why he would write my name. He hasn't left a note." Sherlock murmured.

"Everything points to that conclusion though," Lestrade sighed, "Even the knife was found in his hand, we are getting fingerprint analysis later. But there is nothing to really prove otherwise."

"But it wasn't a suicide!" Sherlock told him firmly.

"Well, we will have to see if it happens again. Next time there may be more evidence." Lestrade shrugged.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair back at 221b Baker Street the next day. John was due to return from his work at the surgery any time now. For most of the day, Sherlock had been pondering over the murder. Nothing added up. None of it made sense. And it frustrated him to know that there was no way yet of proving his point. He knew it wasn't a suicide, he knew it was murder. But he wasn't sure how. He was just anxiously awaiting the next murder to take place. Not a moment later, Sherlock could hear footsteps from downstairs. He paused, listening to the conversation. Mrs Hudson was talking to John, but there was someone else. A girl. She sounded young- no older than fifteen maybe. He frowned in confusion and listened, wondering what John was doing bringing a young teenager home.

"Poor thing," Mrs Hudson said motherly.

"So that's why we didn't want her staying on the streets." John murmured, "Too dangerous. She came into the surgery today, not really sure what to say or how to explain her situation." He seemed to be talking very gently, as the girl was with him and he apparently didn't want to upset her. "We knew her family had... passed away, but we didn't realise she was sleeping rough until she came in today. She had gotten badly beaten by a stranger last night who took her phone; he left bruises on her stomach. He had a knife and slashed at her stomach as well, not too deeply mind, but I made sure it was clean."

"Oh sweetie," Mrs Hudson said sympathetically. John carried on talking but in a much quieter voice, Sherlock was unable to hear what was being said. He caught a few words here and there though:

"Can't leave her... too dangerous... has no-one... just for a while..." Sherlock frowned, unsure what to make of the situation.

"What about Sherlock?" He suddenly heard his name being mentioned by his landlady.

"I've told her about him," John said with a tiny smile in his voice, "I just hope he won't be rude or... his usual self to her." Sherlock rolled his eyes with indignation, "I hope he won't mind, if he really isn't happy with it then we will sort something out." A pause in which he turned to the girl, "There's no need to worry though." He said gently.

"Thank you," Sherlock heard the girl murmur quietly, "I'm so sorry for all of this... you shouldn't be doing this..."

"Hey, it was me who suggested and made you do it, so don't blame yourself." John reassured her, "Shall we go face Mr Holmes?" There was a hint of a joking smile in his voice.

"Okay..." The girl sounded... scared? Nervous? Of him? Sherlock wondered what on earth John told her about him. "Nice to have met you Mrs Hudson, thank you for this."

Sherlock turned to look at the door expectantly. The footsteps on the stair case sounded closer and closer. John opened the door, glancing back to smile encouragingly at the youngster. She stepped into the room, her step was measured and cautious and she seemed extremely nervous and anxious and unsure of everything. It seemed to have happened quickly for her and she was scared; but obviously so, after all, she had just entered a house with two complete strangers one of which being a doctor, the other a self proclaimed highly functioning sociopath. But the girl was young, and Sherlock knew that she was definitely around the age of fifteen. Her dark brown hair hung a little past her shoulders and her green eyes were clouded with worry. It was a shame, she was pretty. Sherlock surprised even himself by thinking that... but she was. As her eyes wandered around the apartment Sherlock studied her. She was around five foot five, and incredibly slim with long sleeved clothes that were in a fairly good condition. On her back she carried a backpack. As her eyes met his, he saw the worry and scaredness flare up again, and he calmed his usually intensive gaze. He knew she had been through alot- that much was obvious. And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her even further. After all, she seemed like a lovely girl- but he would have to get to know her more first. He mentally slapped himself, why was he feeling all of this? Feeling... sympathy for her? It was unheard of in the world of Sherlock Holmes. But he felt different looking at her- not in a weird way of course. He couldn't put a finger on it; and he didn't like that fact. But the girl smiled tentatively at him- it was a small smile, one that only just reached her eyes as she made an effort to be friendly and polite. Sherlock returned it with a small one of his own which immediately seemed to reassure the teenager just slightly.

"Sherlock..." John started to speak.

"Yes John I already know, I heard most of what was said downstairs." Sherlock interrupted, "She is a teenager of age fifteen who is orphaned. She used to live on the street but got attacked last night and badly hurt; she came to you at the surgery where you proceeded to attend to her stomach. Unable to leave her to fend for herself again you decided to take her back here in the hopes that she could stay for a while. Or stay for as long as I want her to." Sherlock smirked; the girl looked at him in wonder. "But you seem scared," He turned to the teen, "Scared of me perhaps? I'm not sure what John told you, but apparently he didn't exactly paint a pretty picture of happiness and smiles and normality. You aren't expecting to really stay as neither of you are sure whether I would even be bothered with wanting a teenager here."

"Sherlock..." John said in warning.

"Relax John," Sherlock rolled his eyes. With great effort, Sherlock stood up and held his hand out to the teenager.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said with the famous Sherlock smirk.

"Lucy Patterson," she said as she grasped his hand and shook it.