#Sherlock Holmes x oc

[star-girl-05]

Experiment

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

There are many ways to describe THE Sherlock Holmes: Eccentric, Determined, Odd, Genius. Those unfortunate enough to meet him in person would describe him as childish. It’s quite amusing to think that someone as smart as Sherlock would be so childish. He throws tantrums and pouts when he doesn’t get his way. Even when he’s solving a case, he’s giddy like his mommy brought him home a toy. So it should be no surprise he acts childish when he’s in love. 

Of course he doesn’t tell you about his new found feelings for you. No, he performs little experiments on you. Trying to inquire if you could share his feelings. He starts off slowly not wanting to alert you. He begins by increasing his physical contact with you. Just a simple brushing of knuckles when passing each other. Or a gentle hand on your back. Light innocent touches, that's all he dares to do. You don’t seem to mind which gives him confidence to continue testing the relationship between you too. 

He moves on from light touches to soft words. He’s not bold enough to openly flirt with you. That's not his style but he does tease you in his own way. He’ll whisper his explanations in your ear letting his lips graze your ear ever so lightly. Giving him the out if you should bring it up that it was accidental. He’ll give you compliments in the form of observations. ‘That colour blue suits you’, there simple barely there compliments but he still notes the reddish colour to come to your face at them. 

So far it seems you share Sherlock's feelings, but he needs something more concrete if he’s going to confess. So tonight he’s going to be more bold. Johns out with *insert girls name* Sherlock and you will have the flat completely to yourselves. Giving him the perfect atmosphere to collect the last bit of data he needs to know before he reveals his feelings. He needs your pulse, he’s been trying to get it the past week but you always evade him. Moving at just the right moment preventing him from gathering this crucial data. Tonight though he’s determined to get it. 

You have a bright smile on your face when you enter the flat holding a bag of take out. If you're being honest you find yourself nervous to be alone with Sherlock in this manner. Of course you’ve spent time alone with him before, though he was always working on a case. This was different, this time his focus would be on you. It is intimidating to have his undivided attention. Honestly you were so surprised when Sherlock texted you to come over. The simple short text of ‘John’s out come over’ It didn’t leave room for you to say no not that you would have. The thought of declining never even crossed your mind. As soon as you got his message you were responding, at first you thought he had a case. Though with a simple text he refuted the idea texting you that he was just inviting you over. 

After staring at the text for an absorbent amount of time you finally get ready. Picking up takeout on your way and that's where you are now. Sitting next to Sherlock watching some random tv program while eating your takeout. You’re the first to break the silence, “Is everything alright Sherlock?” You're trying not to ruin the evening but you can’t help but be curious as to what brought on this on. He’s been acting differently all week. It was subtle changes at least in the beginning.

Yesterday when the two of you were walking to the lab he grabbed your hand. Fully interlocking his fingers with you. He didn’t even acknowledge it so neither did you just letting him lead you to the lab. 

“Do you think I invited you over because something was wrong?” your face told him his answer. “John was out so I thought we could spend time together” you let out a soft ‘oh’. Not that Sherlock was listening, no he was focusing on your body language. Watching closely at the blush forming on your cheeks. Time to get his last few points of data. 

He feels more confident, especially when he moves closer to you and your pupils enlarge. Your voice is background noise to Sherlock, he focused on your pulse. That's beating rapidly under his finger tips. Experiment complete. 

He cuts you off mid-ramble placing a kiss against your soft lips. He smirks against your lips when he feels your pulse pick up. When he pulls away your eyes are still closed. “What- you just kissed me” your voice is shaky. 

“Yes and I want to do it again, if that’s okay?” While Sherlock was confident in his deducing skills. He was still uneasy about romantical advances.

“Please” you're already tangling your hand in his hair, pulling him back to you. 

Sherlock Holmes can be described as many things: Eccentric, Determined, Odd, Genius, and an amazing Kisser.

[hey-its-roseaurum]

Guilty Until Proven Innocent: Part II

A/N: Hello again everyone, it's been a minute. I couldn't post this part until @lainiespicewrites finished her part. This part was fun and extremely difficult to write, so if it ends up being a dumpster fire, then I'm sorry. Hopefully not. Anyway hope you enjoy it and let me know your thoughts.

Synopsis: After the agreement to work with Sherlock, Olivia was given an address to meet and discuss the plan. Once she arrives, she discovers something about Sherlock that not a lot of people get to see.

“221 Baker’s Street.  You didn’t mention that it would be on the second floor Sherlock”  I huffed to myself as I made my way up the stairs.  The night before Sherlock had briefly explained that I had to meet him at a specific location tomorrow.  He said he would give me all the information I needed.  When asked why he couldn’t mention it here, he mentioned he wanted to be safe before revealing crucial details about a case. 

So here I am, trudging up the stairs.  

And I hate every second of it.

But I push through my heavy breathing until I make it to the final step.  It wasn’t until I could breathe evenly that I knocked on the door.

A heavy pause lingered in the air before the door creaked open.

“You’re late.”  A gruff voice sliced the air.  Sherlock stood right in front of me, one hand on the door, the other holding a pipe.  

“Sorry.  I had a hard time finding this place.”  He stepped aside, leaving a glimpse of inside his flat.  A silent invitation.  “You never mentioned that this place was on the second floor.  Those stairs were brutal.”

“One should always have steps, to avoid people stepping on you.”  Sherlock merely stated, his eyes tracking my movements as I passed the threshold into his place.

“Umm…I’m not sure I entirely follow.  But I’m pretty sure-”  I stopped suddenly as my brain caught up with what was happening around me.  The hairs on my neck stood up as I felt my breath catch in my throat.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Everything, even parts of the floor was consumed by documents of varying sizes.  Some were folded, some were ripped.  There were even some with tea stains.  Not one seat, save for one in the middle of the flat, wasn’t covered by some degree.

How can someone live, let alone work, in a place like this?

One of my main pet peeves is cleanliness.  It’s been instilled in me ever since I was able to move.  My mother always said that a clean house is a clear mind.  I tried my best to make my home as clean and decluttered as I could; even when I was at the small cottage.

But to see someone as put together on the outside live in such a state, especially someone like Sherlock Holmes,   says something about their mind…

I bit my bottom lip and drew my attention away from the mess and towards the smoke trailing behind Sherlock.  It took everything in my power to distract myself

“So…what is it that you need me to do exactly?”

Sherlock had traveled to the other side of the flat, completely avoiding the papers.  He puffed on his pipe, his face strained in thought. 

“There is a performance at The Reform tonight.  It appears to be a central location that the suspect likes to visit.  His latest victim had been a showgirl.  I need you to go in and see if you can retrieve any belongings of the two victims.”  My eyebrows creased together in question.

“Pardon?  Two questions.  You mentioned ‘latest victim’.  There’s more than one victim.  Why has it not been mentioned in the newspapers?  Two, if I go in, how do we know that their belongings are still there?  They could be gone by now.”  

“Due to the budget of the showroom and the amount of performers it takes to run a show, the items won’t be touched.  The show requires six performers to perform without any hindrance.  So far the show has five currently.  It will not run unless they have the right number of people to perform all of the acts.  The police haven’t connected the string of murders to one suspect yet.  They believe that there is no connection and no motive between the two.”  So there has been another murder, but it hasn’t been revealed to the public.  Why?  

It doesn’t make sense.  There was only one mention of a death that had claimed to be murder, at least from what I can recall.  The only other thing that has been repeatedly mentioned is about a new entertainment business coming to London.  It had been on the front page three consecutive times.  But the murders and the entertainment show can’t be connected, can they? 

“Olivia, have I lost you?”  Sherlock’s voice grew in my ears like thunder in a growing storm, shocking me out of my thoughts.

“NO!….no.”  I jerked my gaze to meet his.  My eyes trailed back to the ground and focused on each paper.  It took most of my attention to avoid stepping on any of the documents on the ground.  “Please continue.”  Sherlock stared at me momentarily, taking a puff of his pipe before continuing.

“I’ll need you to pose as one of the new dancers hired for the show.  You will be given access to their belongings.  Look for any personal belongings related to the victim, acquire them, and exit before the show begins.  Do you have any questions?”

“One question actually, um…if there are five performers and I’m posing as the sixth one, what is stopping the showrunner from putting me in the actual performance?”  I felt a slight quiver in my voice when the question left my lips.  My nerves felt like they were beginning to light on fire, and my breathing quickened with each passing thought of having to go on a stage.  

“Because there is a sixth performer.  You are to get in and leave before they arrive. Try not to run into them before you get what you need.”

“Oh…ok, great.”  I swallowed hard, feeling my anxiety growing.  How am I supposed to know what I’m supposed to grab?  I don’t know anything about the victim.  What if I take the wrong item?  What if I can’t even make it inside?  Even if I make it inside, there’s no guarantee that I won’t get caught.  If I did then everything would be for naught.  I’d end up in jail with no money to get bailed out.  I would let the victims’ families down, and let the murderer have another chance to strike.  Worst of all, I’d have the greatest detective in the world disappointed in me and regret ever allowing me to work with him.  

Keep it together Olivia.

“You look troubled.  What is it?”  His words sounded far away with the ringing in my ears.  I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure.

“It’s nothing.  It’s not pertaining to the case.”  My voice felt out of place like it wasn’t me talking.  I felt like I wasn’t in my own body. I didn’t want Sherlock to know my doubts about this task.  We weren’t as close as I would like to be.  And the last thing I want is to show Sherlock how much of a mess I am inside.  He’d label me as just another person possessed by their own emotions.

I mean I sort of am but I didn’t want to divulge that with him.  It would just add to the list of things he’d be disappointed in.

Stop it

“I don’t want this to affect you when you are out there.  So please get it off your chest.”  There was a slight tilt to his head, his gaze analyzing me.  I could feel him already concluding that I was not cut out for something like this.

“It’s just…”  I trailed off.  How could I tell him that what I was about to do was crazy?  Everything I said when I was back at Edith’s place was completely spur of the moment.  At the time I genuinely thought that I would be able to pull something like this off.  Having it mere hours away from happening felt like I had been dowsed in ice water.

“Olivia.”  Just one word, my name, stilled my thoughts and pulled my attention to Sherlock.  His face had less of an edge to it like his demeanor had shifted and began to morph into something else.  I don’t know what it was but he almost appeared gentle and patient.  It was a complete contrast to what I saw several moments ago.  This was not the same Sherlock that had asked for help a fortnight ago.

This made it almost harder to speak.

“Okay, okay It’s just….” I bit my bottom lip, “why is your place so messy?”  I blurted out, completely changing the topic.  Maybe if I talk about something else I won’t have to show my doubts.

“It’s not messy.  Everything is where it needs to be.”  Sherlock appeared slightly taken aback by my sudden question.

“Right…that’s not what I’m seeing here.  It looks like you’ve just thrown around-”

“You’re changing the topic, Olivia.”  Shit…he knew what I was doing.  I guess I don’t have a choice…

“Okay fine.  I’m just worried about tonight, that’s all.”  A long sigh escaped my lips, ���I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t look like showgirl material.  I mean LOOK at me.”  I stretched out my arms showcasing all the bumps, dips, and curves of my body.  “There’s no way I would pass as one, let alone be able to get through the door.  People like me are the ones who listen to the music and the cheering outside the building.  I don’t want to let the victim's family down, or especially you.”  A heavy presence filled the air, choking the silence.  Sherlock just stared at me.  I don’t know if it was out of shock or if he was reconsidering his decision to bring me into this.  

I don’t care anymore.  I let my insecurity out and hung it up to dry for him to see.  

All he has to do is say the words and I’ll be on my way back to my little damp cottage.

“You know Olivia…”  Sherlock cleared his throat, saying, “It’s normal to feel anxious about an uncertain situation.”  He paused, taking a moment to place his pipe on a nearby table.  “I’m going to give you a piece of advice.  Out there, feelings and being emotional poses a risk.  It is understandable for you, given the danger you may face.  However if you feel like this is too difficult for you, then I won’t force you to do this.  I can find other routes to get what I acquire.  All you have to do is say the word.”

He’s giving me a choice. 

He knows that the situation can be dangerous.  He knows that I’m feeling overwhelmed, but isn’t forcing me to commit.  There’s still a chance to back out, and yet he’s still giving me the option, however much that hurts him.  And if I don’t do this, it’s another chance to be another victim.

I can’t let myself back out.  

“No,”  I paused, collecting myself.    “No, I can do this.  I won’t let my emotions get in the way.”  A pleased look crossed his face, a small smirk threatening to reveal itself.

“Good.  I’ll see you tonight.”

A/N: Thank you to the following people who wanted to see this part happen. Stay tuned for part 3!!

Tag List:

@lainiespicewrites

@shellyshellshell

@xblueriddlex

@rosecentury

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes

Sherlock Holmes x OC, established relationship, some fluff, some romance, humor, and sweet holiday feels🎄❤️🎄 four chapters, complete

Christmas comes to Baker Street in a form Sherlock Holmes had never envisioned. There's a sweetness in seeing the holiday through someone else's eyes, and there are lessons in holiday spirit and the nature of giving--as well as how Love makes the season even brighter--to be learned.

(One of my oldest fics, this is also one of my favorites ~ for it was motivated not only by my love for BBC Sherlock, but even more so by my love of Christmas. I put a lot of my heart into this one, and if you should give it a read, I hope you find it pleasing, and in keeping with the season! Excerpt under the cut.)

Somehow, without even meaning to, Sherlock's path had taken him here: Notting Hill, Saint Mary of the Angels Church. He certainly had not intended to end up here, not as he left the shoppe (its final customer of the day), his hot food wrapped up to be consumed along the way. Had he been woolgathering so much that he'd moved without thinking to the place he knew Tessa to be? Or, he asked himself truthfully, had he intended to get here all along, knowing that his heart really did long for the comfort of community which the brightly lit church represented, the warmth that seemed to flow out with the strains of music coming from within? The thought of Tessa inside, joined in prayer and song with others of her faith--was that the magnet that drew him here? A man who stood outside of everything this building represented, yet now wanted nothing more than to do as he was doing--opening the door to feel the tide of shared and simple Christmas gladness wash over him.

Sherlock allowed himself to enter the vestibule, but stopped there, feeling it was enough for now. He knew, not just from what he could hear (and remembering similar services he had attended as a boy), but from the time itself, that the service was almost over. It was quite enough to imagine her inside, singing joyfully, and most likely wishing he was there to share it with her. He felt a sense of peace that had eluded him all day long, a sense of belonging that had for so many years been out of reach. He thought of those who had made it possible for him to feel he finally fit in somewhere--of John and Mrs. Hudson, of Lestrade and Molly, and of his Tessa, who had worked a minor miracle of sorts; they had gotten him to this marvelous threshold, and she had managed to carry him across it at last. Sherlock felt such a swell of love for all of them, that he was grateful to be alone, fearing the light of it would shine so obviously upon his face that he might be taken, by strangers, for a fool...

tagging: @strangedreamings (who may have seen this a few times before😉) @ben-locked (putting the 'ship' aside, just for the Christmas feels?) @mousedetective @darsynia (because you 'get me' enough to appreciate this fic) @aphroditesdilemma @hithertoundreamtof23 (dunno if you like Sherlock, but I'm betting you like Christmas stories) @aeterna-auroral-avenger (for the Faith we share & which makes you a Christmas person 365 days a year)

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Ethereal Limerence - Sherlock Holmes (BBC Sherlock) ~ On Going

Summary:

Pursuing one's dreams is everyone's life goal, even if that means finding a speck of ephemeral bliss in making autopsies. This nefarious enthusiasm combined with a crime-filled capital, like London, makes a certain female feel ineffable. Recently, however, dexterity and wit level of these murders have significantly increased, making the police request the help of a certain Consulting Detective. Are the Angels going to win this war? Or is the Villainous side going to triumph?

Chapter 1 - Blue Effervescent Liquid Bottle Chapter 2 - Ephemeral Aurora Chapter 3 - Shot Through The Heart Chapter 4 - Another Sin Chapter 5 - I AM KATLOCKED

[unusuallysubtext]

If you're still doing the Sherlock life thing, I'd love it if you could sort me :D

I'd prefer to be in a romantic relationship with a man

My love language is mainly physical touch and words of affirmation. I usually wear comfy clothes that have a funky pattern or something I just find cool (kinda like street style). I have short brown hair that I usually just leave messy because I can't be bothered to sort it out lmao.

I spend my days usually just hanging out with people I care about, or playing games on my phone. I enjoy logic puzzles and I'm good with numbers (I have a streak of over 1200 on sudoku). I study History and Philosophy because I've always been interested in those sorts of topics and I love discussing these things with people and seeing their different points of views and opinions on topics.

I love doing crafts in my spare time as well, I crochet, I draw, I can paint decently well, and I love sewing. I usually make little trinkets, sew clothes or draw bugs or skeletons or smth, anything I like the look of tbh.

I hope this is enough information, thank you do much :D

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock first saw you when you were being escorted far away from the scene of a presumed murder

You protested and explained that you were simply trying to draw a replica of the skeleton found seatbelted inside a Prius, but to no avail

On his way out of the crime scene, Sherlock approached you as you sat on the curb kicking rocks, drawing what you could from memory

It was at that point that you accompanied Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to every single case, working on sketches

Your eye could capture details that a camera couldn't, defining characteristics that Sherlock could later read on

One night, late after a case, you sat on the sofa of 221b with a progressing crochet project when Sherlock flopped down next to you, legs outstretched over your lap

Although you were caught by surprise, the two of you spent the next few hours simply hanging out

You spoke of various philosophers and history, knowledge of which Sherlock possessed none

He listened intently to you, understanding why your sketches were so much more lively and telling than a clean shot of photography

Together, you made a great team, seeing things from one another's logic

You were chill, automatically rubbing off on Sherlock and keeping him in check, and soon enough, simply chatting on the sofa late at night turned to laying next to each other and even falling asleep

The first time John came down and saw Sherlock asleep at nine-thirty in the morning, he was jumping with joy (silently), ever grateful the detective had found someone willing to match his freak, as the young people say

He secretly enjoys your comfortable, baggy street-style clothing, a fresh change in his everyday dark block colour polyester/cotton blend button-ups that hug his figure, whether it's (trying to) try it on or simply keeping it with him

And if you're with him, there is no doubt he will hold you close, arms wrapped around you at night, or simply sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa ❤️

-

hope you liked it, anon! tagging @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @that-ace-idiot @the-girl-who-simps-too-much

Your Sherlock Life asks are still open!

[starssaroundmyscarssblog]

Can you write for reader x Sherlock where reader is a little like Elizabeth Bennet, likes to read and paint etc. Singing and all the cultural stuffs and Sherlock has fallen for her too hard?

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐍

pairing: sherlock holmes (bbc) x fem!oc

summary: in which sherlock holmes doesn’t catch himself from falling quick enough for jane burbank

word count: 3.04k

warnings: none

a/n: this was my first time writing for a request so i really hope you like it <3 i also made it [x/oc] as i'm more comfortable doing it that way but i tried to stay away from descriptions as much as possible to make this little fic as inclusive as possible too <3

he wanted nothing more than to talk to her, even if it was only a meagre apology for accidentally brushing against her in the library isle. she enamoured him and he hated it, even years later as he held the heavy velvet curtains between two fingers and watched her cross over the road and unlock the door to her flat. john smirked behind his newspaper, "you're doing it again."

"doing what?" sherlock huffed, letting the curtains drape back into place over the window. "saying i'm doing something again would mean i'm repeating the action. what's special about me standing by the window." he stalked through the flat and flung himself into an old wooden chair by the kitchen table, seething over his frustration.

he hated it when john was right. nothing frustrated him more than his closest friend seeing right through him as if he were a spirit. more often than not, when he was sulking about not having cases or waiting for results from his less-than-ethical experiments, sherlock would find himself rooted to the floor by the window. sometimes he would play his violin slow and mournful, sometimes he would stand in plain sight.

it would stun him when the sunlight bounced off the wire frame of her glasses, the reflection shooting through her window and right back to his. sherlock found it hard to concentrate on anything else when she would sit in her arm chair with a cardigan that on anyone else would have looked ugly but on her the bright colours did nothing but compliment her. she always had a pen or pencil or paint brush hidden away in her hair, and occasionally she would reach up and fiddle with it as she thumbed delicately through the pages of her book.

sherlock looked up from concentrating hard on the surface of the table when his phone buzzed him his pocket, and he pulled it out. his smile became visible against his will.

you're doing it again, if you want to come over you only have to ask

within minutes he was at the door, ripping off his burgundy dressing gown and trading it out for his thick and heavy belstaff. at john's call of "where're you off to all eager?" he simply shouted "out" as he clattered down the thin staircase. sherlock was out of the door and crossing the road faster than he was able to think, knocking sharply on the blurred stained glass window set into her front door.

there was a crash from inside, a mutter of swearing as she pulled back the door to reveal her haphazard state. sherlock stared dumbly at her, trying to ignore the red splatter of paint on her neck dripping onto her chest, searching for words as when he opened his mouth it turned dry. "you didn't ask," she said, but stood back to let him into her house anyway.

sherlock walked in through the hall, catching himself casting his gaze over the walls like he did every singe time. the university diploma sat pride of place over the mantlepiece of the fireplace in the living room reading 'ba joint honours in history and history of art awarded to jane burbank, graduating with a first from the university of edinburgh'

next to it was a framed photo of the pair of them stood together at a mutual friend's wedding the previous year. sherlock had gone along begrudgingly when he'd found out that jane was attending the party after the ceremony because her cousin was the maid of honour for the bride. they were both standing outside of the venue side by side, smiling into the lens as one of the flower girls was messing with the petal confetti in her small wicker basket in the background.

jane brushed her bangs off her eyes as she moved around the airy living room, shoving wooden crates of paint back into place on the shelf and moving her latest canvas out into the garden to dry completely. sherlock stood awkwardly in his coat and ran his finger under the collar of his shirt sitting tightly against his neck. she stared at him as she returned, wiping a paint stain off the hem of her white dress as she did so.

"sherlock, i don't know why you insist on dressing like a child from the past in the middle of summer." london had been blanketed in a sticky, heavy heat as they hit the peak of august, making being indoors impossible but being outside worse. jane was only glad of her broken window to allow a constant breeze to pass through the ground floor of her house but knew the relief wouldn't last long. it was only a matter of time before the rain came in thick drops and plunged them into everlasting autumn.

he shrugged awkwardly and peeled the coat from his body, and when jane looked at him from behind her easel tucked away in a corner by the bay window he removed his blazer from his shoulders too. sherlock felt too free when he was with her, it scared him, but she made him feel to exhilarated to even care sometimes.

once, when they'd met at a summer research project collating students from different courses at the russel group unis, jane had cleared her throat to catch his attention in the library. at the noise he turned around, still holding the heavy volume, and saw her looking at him through a gap in the shelves perching her chin on the heel of her hands. "hey," jane whispered at him, "d'you want to do something fun?"

sherlock couldn't find his voice to tell her that what he was doing was fun and that he didn't really want to leave the safety of the library that late at night, but her bright eyes sparkling in the fluorescent lights hanging from the high ceiling from exposed wires made him throw caution to the wind and join her on their escapade. jane dragged him to a concert and to this day not one of them could remember who it was they'd seen only that they were rubbish and the cone of chips they'd picked at while walking through a grassy park was much more enjoyable.

he'd been dressed for winter then too, despite the thin linen of his shirt trying to cool him down in the muggy night air. but he couldn't care less about the heat invading his skin or the salt from the chips that caught on his finger tips because he was talking to jane burbank, and it had been all he'd wanted to do since she came bursting into the lecture hall for the summer programme two minutes late in a haze of frazzledness as she pulled down the hem of her summer dress where it had ridden up from her haste.

if he had been a better man he wouldn't have looked down past her neck but he couldn't help himself.

perched on the end of the emerald green sofa shoved against a bright white wall covered in artwork and cheap antique picture frames, sherlock fumed silently like the kettle he wished jane was setting over the stove because he could see john giving him his worst 'i told you so' look from the front window of his flat over the road. jane returned with a silver tray laden with small plates holding biscuits, two empty glasses holding ice and a large pitcher of sparkling orange juice.

"d'you want to go out and do something fun tonight?" jane found herself repeating the words every time she saw sherlock, which wasn't as often as she would have hoped considering she bought her house opposite his flat with his proximity in mind. he was always out sleuthing with john, who she'd seen more, and got on well with.

so was it really any surprise that jane took any chance she could get with sherlock, to make the most of the time they had together. he'd intrigued her all those years ago (it hadn't in-fact been too many years ago since they'd graduated with first honours, but life in the wake of sherlock holmes was long and weary) and still continued to do so now. she was pleased she knew him before he made it big as a 'boffin' in the national press and was even more pleased that he still kept up with her completely opposing lifestyle despite his cold-heartedness and want of plain fact.

with a gleeful grin and a shake of his shoulders as she squealed at his minute nod, jane was away to pack her bag and to grab her sandals before rejoining him at the front door. much to her excitement, sherlock had decided to brave the outside world without the protection of his belstaff, the top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his blazer was tucked neatly under his arm as he waited patiently for her. "ever practical," she muttered and locked the door behind her. the heat of the day beat down on her exposed shoulders from where she'd pinned her hair up at the back of her head and she pulled her sunglasses over her nose.

they set off and june looked at her watch, "quarter to three, fancy going out for something to eat first?"

"whatever you want to do," sherlock agreed, and sure enough half an hour later they were sat on outside tables for a cafe overlooking westminster watching the people go by. well, sherlock was watching the people go by and jane was peeling away the pastry of a croissant she'd ordered while taking occasional sips of her glass of diet coke. he tapped his fingers against the saucer for his coffee patiently waiting for her to finish so they could leave.

jane wanted to look through the markets in camden for old records before they tried to find a pub for dinner and finished off the day at st james' park to listen to the music drift over them from the live festival happening in hyde park that she didn't get tickets to. she was always asking him if he wanted to do something fun even when she'd planned the day to some kind of degree of legible and sherlock just agreed.

but he did so because jane had asked him to, and anything that was fun to her would be fun for him.

after their intermission at the cafe, where jane had stopped to take some candid photos of some couples she'd seen over the green before turning the lens on an unsuspecting sherlock, they suffered the stuffy carriage of the underground before emerging at camden. jane beelined for stalls selling records and cassette tapes she didn't need because her selection was already overflowing. she picked up a sleeve and turned it to sherlock, grinning, "don't you just love them?"

he smirked before saying, "i prefer blur" only to receive a smack on the shoulder for his admission. by the time they'd left jane had bought enough to put a sizeable dent into her savings account made for paying off her student debt and she was dragging sherlock to an art gallery she noticed was free to the public before they sat down to eat again.

there was something about her wide eyes as they walked around the gallery that sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from. it might have been the sun shining down on her cheekbones from the glass ceiling or the way she looked like one of the twisted statues in her white dress and delicate sandals or her screwed up face as she focused on something in the background through the lens of her camera. being with jane was a break from the world he'd plugged himself into and he loved every second of it.

sherlock didn't love it as much, however, when they were sat outside (again) at a pub jane liked sharing a bowl of chips while she told him about the awful date she'd had with an awful guy who had an awful name two days prior. his back straightened and something curled in the pit of his stomach as jane told him about the bloke's lacklustre effort of wooing her, especially when he lumped her with paying for dinner and their tube fares back because he'd 'conveniently' left his wallet in a different jacket.

"he wasn't even wearing a jacket, sherlock, i mean can you believe it? i go on one date for the first time in months and he's a total prick!" she picked at a chip and dunked it angrily into the splodge of tomato sauce she'd poured onto the plate before soaking up any vinegar that had been left behind, "is chivalry really dead? i refuse to believe it is."

sherlock made a hoarse noise in the back of his throat before leaving for the bar and returning with a drink to replace jane's third glass of diet coke since they'd sat down. he placed down the cocktail in front of her and felt a flush of pride creep down his back as jane placed her hand over his to thank him earnestly. she took a sip, then another until the entire thing slid down her throat with a sigh of relief.

"i really needed that," she said and giggled to herself. sherlock forgot every time he was with her when she drank that jane was the lightest of lightweights, but when she'd had one she was happy and when jane was happy sherlock was well on the way to being happy too.

another cocktail later and jane had reached her happy medium for alcohol intake - she was blissfully unaware of anything happening outside of the six foot boundary around her but could still hold herself upright and kissed sherlock enthusiastically on the cheek when he caught the bill as a waiter was passing by their table. she laughed all along the path and the whole time the two of them were walking to st james' park.

sherlock didn't make it a habit to carry people around on his back, but when jane looked up at him with a pout and wide glassy eyes he acquiesced and hoisted her onto his back with her ankles locked together just below his navel.

she insisted on getting a cone of chips for old times sake even though they'd eaten enough to fuel an army back at the pub, and jane happily handed over five pounds in cash for a cone and a pot of curry sauce to the woman behind the till. "thank you!" she called out from over her shoulders and sherlock walked through the gates to the park and let her down gently onto the grass where they usually sat.

jane fell forwards and caught herself from landing on her face by her knees, laughing as she slumped forwards onto her chest and propped her chin up into her hands. sherlock sat beside her on his jacket and brushed her bangs out of her eyes, and she felt her skin flush where his fingers had touched. the music from the concert in hyde park eventually reached them just as jane thought it would and she began to hum the tune under her breath as she picked at the chips sherlock was holding out for her.

jane rolled onto her back and felt the blades of grass tickle her shoulders and she moved to make herself comfortable. "we never talk anymore sherlock." she huffed, and tried to reach out and run her fingers over his cheek but stopped when she realised her hands were moving in the completely wrong direction.

"you've been talking all day."

"but i mean you and me. we never talk, i talk at you and you listen."

"i like listening."

"no you don't, you'll out live god trying to get the last word in."

he laughed behind his smile, "i like listening to you."

jane pushed herself onto her feet and sank down again so she was eye to eye with sherlock. he could still see the red splatter of paint along her neck and upon closer inspection he found that the drips had dried throughout the day past the neckline of her already low summer dress. "i wish you would do more than watch and listen to me." she whispered, still tapping out the rhythm of the new song against her knee.

"but i like listening to you and i can't help but watch you. it irritates me." lies.

"no it doesn't."

damn.

before sherlock even had a chance to refute or say anything in his defence, jane's hands were placed gently on either side of his neck and she pulled him forwards to join their lips. jane held him so close that their noses bumped together repeatedly and she had to lean forwards to follow him when he pulled away. "jane!"

"what?" she questioned, finding that she'd sobered up at a startling rate when the gravity of what she'd done had truly set in. "oh, sherlock i'm so sorry i didn't mean to-" her words were cut off as he kissed her again, again and again to pepper kisses all over her cheeks and along her forehead where her bangs had fallen over her eyes again.

jane was a breath of fresh air, the calm in the middle of the storm he lived his life by. in the moment with her, sitting on the grass in a darkened london park he couldn't help but not care about what john would say when he finally got home or if jane would soon realise how dangerous tangling her life with his truly was.

she pushed herself onto him and held onto his arms as she kissed him harder, not caring that sherlock was the right-hand-man of every inspector at scotland yard or that his idea of fun was dissecting human bodies and testing them for bruising. the only thing that mattered to her was the boy she'd liked since she walked in late to the lecture hall was kissing her back after he'd admitted to her, drunkenly at their mutual friend's wedding, that it was all he thought about whenever he saw her

🪩⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊🔎

[ladylaviniya]

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞

[clairewritesandrambles]

─── Masterlist ───

❀ Denotes Smut/NSFW Content

↠ Fics

↠ One-Shots

↠ Drabbles

─── WIPs ───

❀ Denotes Smut/NSFW Content

↠ Fics ↞

↠ One-Shots ↞

↠ Drabbles ↞

[sunflower-bardic-inspiration]

Another update of the fanfic. Hope you like it 🥹🤗

*Mission Impossible music in the background*

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56339464/chapters/158540689

[zealouscanonindeer]

Final Gamble

resistance was no good as the same firm hands with mighty strength threw me into what appeared to be the backseat of a horse drawn wagon. voices circled me.

"put her out!"

"right away sir."

a cloth was hastily used against my nose, the repelling smell allowing sleep to descend and pull me into its firm grip this time.

I woke up in a dimly lit room, full of assorted furniture. my hands were no longer bound but my legs were, loosely in such a way that I could walk at a measured pace but never run. I groaned as I got on my feet, my aching muscles complaining.

Through blurry and disoriented vision I saw two men advancing in my direction, instinctively I moved away, hitting against the cold hard furniture behind me. The blonde man, whom I recognised from earlier smirked,

"Well... My lady, we do owe a lot to you. "

"What does that mean? " My incredulous and tartly tone surprising him.

"You see.. " He continued, having recovered from my vocal violence, "you've led him straight to us.. And now that it's done and you're of no use to us.. We're through here.

With that he ushered the other man in and walked out, the man, whom I recognised to be Williams, carrying a rope and thrusting me into a chair like a sack of potatoes before beginning to secure my arms to the chair arms.

With a stroke of quick thinking I slammed my leg with all the force i could muster into his right shin, sending him into a piles of painful moans. Having freed myself of the remaining ties, I, with slight remorse put the man out using an technique Holmes taught me. With great effort and endless heaving, Williams replaced me in the chair and i made my escape through the back door.

I happened to overhear voices overlapping only to be cut off by the unmistakable sinister tone of the professor.

The trade route's too revealing and must serve as an appealing distraction. The personal ferry? The other side? Just as well. The men have assembled asper their assignments.. Well let's get this thorn out of the way once and for all.

I couldn't hear anymore for at that moment the knob of the adjacent door was turned from inside and i made a necessary beeline to the exit.

After which I took some shelter in a local inn down yonder, found a convincing disguise and was headed down towards the port when I happened to see the fire. They must have never realised it was really Williams in there and not me.. I do hope he came through it.

"He did. " Holmes solemnly replied, filling me in with his side of the story.

"I gather", Watson remarked "that his Moriarty fellow has laid out a pretty neat trap. "

"Yes Watson, it's glaringly obvious, I do apologize on his behalf, you see Watson here has a particularly innate habit of stating the obvious. " Holmes remarked with utter nonchalance as Watson looked at him with slight indignation.

I cleared my throat and continued slowly. " The ferry is to set off from the opposite side, the Regent serves as a ruse. They are smuggling gunpowder via it, along with a pretty plan to present you to their leader, two explosion in London planned I believe, with you out of the way, it is bound to succeed. I believe we must not allow the Regent to set sail.

"Ah, for the first time, it seems that i must serve as bait. " Holmes remarked, his eyes glinting impishly. " The fun never seems to end with this Moriarty chap"

[inklores]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐒.

pairing: henry!sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary: sherlock holmes needs to find his intrepid little sister. clara bedi wants to keep his sharp nose off her trail. (word count: 3.1k)

content contains: fluff, sherlock being bad with women, slight strangers to lovers but they're both smart idiots

author's note: made originally for a class assignment but i'm too proud of it to keep it hidden away in my google docs!! enjoy

FUMES OF SMOKE lifting from the corners of his lips, he thumbed the lapis silk tie the pamphlet was bound by. The rhythmic movement was a rehearsed habit of his, charting keen thoughts that were falling into place.

Tea in the Parlor

Magazine of Modern Womanhood

25 April 1884

“A Problem With No Name. I’ve first heard that uttered so solemnly beneath the breath of a mother amid other mothers over the scent of teacakes and the English brew that her hands had surely processed the week before. Another cried. As your humble magazine writer, there have been women beyond our teatime who had answers to my questions. Those who sort matchsticks in factories, who raise children, who nurse other children. Those who live in the fine estates of Westminster, lodging houses along Greater London, and flats bordering Whitechapel, all have the same problem. The groping truths to their lamentations, brought into light when the children were away and their husbands attended to important business over a glass of sherry at their gentleman’s clubs,—”

Something more than a scoff and less than a laugh escaped Holmes.

“—were provoking. Just what was this nameless problem? A whisper that refuses to be said. The bond of pain, of womanhood, of the searing feeling that something great shall arrive to our fair England.”

— C.E. Babbington.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you’re not mistaking me as someone with whom you are at odds with.”

Clara wore burgundy today.

Or indigo to a sharp eye, moreso if she sat in the dusky shade rather than by the window where sunlight was allowed to stream through the frosted glass tiles. The heat of the afternoon, Clara could tolerate. The brisk cold, the musk of tobacco, pomade, and fine English leather that filled her office—all mingling together to create one scent that floated around the man who stood in front of her— she virtually could not.

Well, “office” may have been a playful nudge to her ego. It was more of a closet with a pen, a hook to hang her coat when there was a chill, a canister of her favorite tea matched with her precious teapot, and a small sideboard that she used to stash her extra paper. Clara had spent enough time in that little closet to learn its quirks and commodities. The shutters would not close in blustery weather unless they were bound by a scarf. The gentleman who would take his Saturday morning coffee and eggs always found something to guffaw about in the newspaper. Clara knew because she could hear the fervor of his chortles from one story up. The fifth floorboard from the door creaked with the slightest movement and she had garnered the will to purchase a rug that softened footsteps over the parquet.

Now if only she could purchase a rug to wrap around the man filling her tiny corner with the fumes of… man.

A tall man. Haughty by the way he stood. He looked strong and sturdy, weaned on the finest food money could buy. Clara wondered if he teethed on crumpets and caviar as a baby. His clothing may have been picked to feign oneness with the people of England, but she noticed a grain on his breasted black coat. His crisp white shirt boasted no wrinkle, cinched around his neck by a silk ascot the color of charcoal. Chestnut curls spilled across his head—sharing no unified form—and fighting to be free of the pomade that gleamed in the dimness of the lamplight. She imagined an artless tumble of locks when he was nose-deep in a case. An errant strand fell over his brow, softening his countenance where his tone failed to.

“Have you anticipated me, Miss Bedi?”

It was Clara’s mistake for stopping short of her movements. Her fingers froze on the handle of her teapot and it was then she realized the incriminating ink stains that blotched her bronzed fingers.

She did not. He knew that. He likely knew what she had for breakfast as well. Hence the cloying pride that laced his query.

A tickle caught in her throat and she swallowed tightly to preserve her pride as she arched a dark brow. “No, I have not, but I applaud your effort. Nobody contemplates and makes a theater out of their face quite like you.”

Looking up from the tea she was pouring, Clara barely caught the indignant twitch in his face, even as his mountainous posture was unrelenting. For a man who was presumed to be discreet, he was quite eye-catching.

He dropped his gaze down to the lonely armchair and side table Clara would enjoy her tea in. It was the one perpetually surrounded by her basket of stained pen tips and folded newspapers— Clara had the habit of saving old prints—bits of thread, scraps of silk in cooler hues, linen from occasional embroiders, and stacks of books from Edith that never make it back to the shelf, being moved around constantly on the empty promise of being read to completion.

It was a detective’s heaven.

“The name ‘Holmes’ is beginning to mean quite a deal in this country,” her eyebrows slanted, copper eyes filled with constellations, “and do you think I would be in my position if I did not know?”

“Precisely why you flinched when I used your name and not your pen name.” His voice was rich as a fine velvet she let her hands graze over at a textile stand, but detached. “Deceit. To hide the plain truth, just as frills and elegant coifs do. Yes, it may dress you like a powder puff—” she parted her lips in protest but his eyes glimmered like opals, he was clearly not done—“but the man holding the pen is entirely different. In that…”

Her grip on her teacup could not get any tighter, for one tremor to rattle the porcelain would have him arriving quicker to the deduction he savored for last.

“He is not a man at all, is he?”

She watched in bated, almost nonexistent, breath—wondering how quickly she could get her hands on the cake spade lying unfashionably by the crumbs of a Dundee cake she had scarfed down the night before—as he fished a blue silk tie that bookmarked the yellowed book she just realized he held.

“How does a C.E. Babbington become… the elusive Clara Eashwar Bedi?”

A wave of cold took her from head to toe. If Clara wasn’t gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles quickly whitening, she was sure her knees would’ve given out. She stared down at the pretty silk tie, and then at the folded pamphlet he slid over the varnished surface, the black ink script almost snickering at her in mockery.

His words came as fluidly as water, uttered with a stone-cold expression she figured was his mask for his famous deductions.

“Four separate purchases of pens and paper from three different vendors.”

Spreading her tracks. No writer who desired anonymity would so foolishly expose herself by making a reputation with one seller.

He was studying her closet-office now. A satin kerchief protected his hand as he chose a stained pen to scrutinize. “Bills from Whitechapel. Cheaper ink—a shadowy writer such as yourself would not earn her dues to spend carelessly on finer supplies than supper for the night. Or silk ties to make her mark. To create a name.”

Cheaper ink bleeds easier. Her fingers, a blatant victim.

“Bedi.” He tasted her last name on his tongue for a moment, eyebrows pinched as if he was trying to paint a map in his acute mind. “When did your father leave India?”

Her throat was dry but she swallowed down her apprehension and managed out, “Fifteen years ago.”

“Does he work on the docks?”

“Worked.”

A flash of humanity lightened his eyes and the man of a chilly, pragmatic acumen faltered. “Apologies.”

The sound that tumbled from Clara’s lips could only be described as something between a shaking sigh and an aggravated grumble. “What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?”

“You write for the Magazine of Modern Womanhood,” he continued, making Clara bite back an exhausted groan. “Yet you affect a pseudonym. Why?”

“I don’t write for the magazine, I write alongside it,” Clara mumbled. Why was she entertaining him? “I don’t have the means to print my pieces independently— as you so cleverly deduced by my purchases of ink.”

“Your pieces… and other submissions, I’d bet.”

“Are you a betting man?” She lifted a brow curiously, daring him to stop this frivolous quadrille of tongues and get to the point.

“A cipher with the fingerprints of my sister was published in the personal advertisements column of your magazine, The Pall Mall Gazette, and The Journal of Dress Reform. It’s our mother’s interest she hopes to attract and with the choice of your publication, she has a good start.”

“God, there’s more of you?” she asked, feigning horror. “Is the world ready for that?”

(But where the name Mycroft Holmes was etched in cold stone and proud, old money, she had the sense the name Sherlock meant something else. Something whisper quiet like a dusty novel on crumpled velvet. Elegant with solitude.)

Sherlock took a step forward, his fingers still thumbing the fraying corner of the book. “Have you any idea where she might be?” He tilted his head. “I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance Edith had more to say of my “ostrich-like” nature than my sister.”

Clara couldn’t help the kick in her voice as she responded, “Appropriate.”

He smiled at her, a Private Investigator brand of Smile that Clara knew well enough from the numerous times a constable had approached the magazine for its inflammatory words, and which only deserved a Young Journalist Smile.

But what he said snagged her attention as well as a good story. Eudoria’s daughter. Little Enola. 

Edith had mentioned her once or twice. Clara might have seen a glimpse of a little brown-headed girl with quick feet, dashing about Ferndell Hall when ladies of a particular ilk huddled around a table, bearing swords on their tongues and determination in their hearts. Clara typically stood behind her bolder friend, Edith, clutching a pen that barely made a scratch against her worn pocketbook. She knew little for the illustrious Sherlock Holmes to knock on her door… but little was more than enough to be cunningly dissected and deduced by him.

“Enola’s missing?” she asked slowly, hoping to stall but Sherlock Holmes was not a man for idle chatter. Her head shook in a disappointing, deceiving refusal. “I’m sorry, but I have the faintest idea as to where she’s gone and why.”

“I find that highly improbable,” said Holmes in a tone that suggested he too was done with this waltz. “You’re protective of your name, or, names —”

“And what will you do if I use your name, Mr. Holmes?” Clara countered rigidly, her heart leaping into her throat. “Loudly? With proper dictation? Letting everyone know your business more than you’d like?”

“Then you’d also find yourself and Edith in a very difficult position, one that I’ve made clear to her and will to you if I must,” Sherlock warned, dropping his voice to a decibel that made a chill rattle her spine. A hint of vague frustration was tangled within his dull humor. 

Clara stilled, watching as he turned over the book and leafed through toward the back cover. Stuffed in the spine was a folded napkin and he paired it with the newspaper clipping for her viewing displeasure. Wrinkled and white and stamped with the crumbs of a pastry, her eyes were naturally drawn to the hasty scrawl in ink:

“C.E.B.

Matter of Bill —

Tea Rooms”

The same dismayed expression from when he dissected her alter ego took ahold of her face once more, even if she tried to disguise it by a clench of her jaw. 

“Macaroons could do with some attention but Edith has enough to worry about,” said Holmes. “She’ll notice the missing book from her seditious collection but not the message hidden inside— a message written to Babbington, who I understand is an intrepid young woman, so I’m sure you’re aware of what the proper connections can do for a man.” The distant, icy blue of his eyes warmed. “I asked of your father— a man who likely worked too hard for too little a reward and you, his daughter, silently fighting in favor of a bill that will help the men and women like him.”

“My,” Clara gasped, “Mr. Holmes, I didn’t take you for a man of politics.”

The stray little curl swished across his brow as he shook his head. “Oh, I’m far from it.”

She hummed curiously. “Then, what do you fancy? People? Poetry? Probably not. It’s your cases that keep you warm at night, which is why you hunt your own sister in blind circles like a dog chasing his tail.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, “If Edith tells you nothing, I will say even less. Trust your sister… and the future. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

She made to go around him, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered as she did, until a bleak and dare she say, concerned mutter caught her ear.

“She’s a child.”

“By my understanding, you’ve abandoned her once, Mr. Holmes. In the pursuit of where your mind takes you and little of your heart,” Clara said, more sharply than was her wont. 

“I beg your pardon.”

The anger in his voice flared like a bleeding heart. A man who was a fire next to gunpowder, ready to speak his mind and snatch the rug beneath a pair of unsuspecting feet. She could loathe him for being so perceptive and intelligent, yet plainly missing the changes of the world. But that tone… He was no longer a brilliant mind or a pleasantly distant man. He was a brother who wanted to know where his sister was.

And if there was ever a case that Sherlock Holmes would encounter, it would leave no secrets he could not crack.

Clara turned around, stained fingers toying with each other, teeth worrying her lower lip to a reddening bruise. Amusement danced in her eyes, quenching the frustration that twisted his sharply cut features.

“You have it,” she admitted after a pause, cheeks growing warm. “Because I’m a woman who believes in second chances… and the calling of her heart rather than her mind. And a desolate, hopeless bachelor tugs at that heart, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s face contorted incrementally, the corners of his lips curling up just a tad. It was not a smile. Another part of her would have thought so but not the smart part. Still, it was an odd expression that made Clara think it was gracious.

“I’m not aware of such a reputation.” Fond.

“Figures,” she sighed, eliciting a huff of laughter from him. The sound was enough to make her face crack with a smile. “Enola’s sixteen. And if she’s anything like her mother and brother, she won’t go down with a fight nor will she be drawn away from it. And the real fight is coming. I advise you to start there.”

He squinted at her. Then at the napkin. Then at the clipping signed by C.E. Babbington. The fight.

“A problem with no name,” he murmured.

“It has a name, Mr. Holmes. Whether it will be spoken is decided by men like you and your older brother,” she added, rightly hopeful. “Perhaps that will change.”

Silence settled comfortably between them until the pounding of her heart became too loud for her ears to bear. She cleared her throat and pulled the knob to her door, returning her gaze to Sherlock.

“Until next time, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled. “I hope your game finds its feet. My best to your sister.”

He tilted his chin in an understanding nod, hand pressing against the curly blue tie that still sat next to his evidence, her pamphlet. To her surprise, he waited. One hand disappeared in the flap of his jacket and came out holding a fine black pen shot with gold trimming. To a man like Holmes, it was a pen to write some very useful reckonings of the mind but to Clara, it looked more valuable than what she earned in a week. It clinked as he set it on her desk, accompanied by that slight, mysterious smile.

“Trust a bill won’t be made,” Sherlock assured, amused as he approached her. He extended the blue ribbon to her.

“And a secret will be kept,” she enforced, fixing him with a look as she curled her fingers over the forbidden silk tie, folding it into his palm.

His hand was cold, callused like the reward of cracking cases. Yet it managed to send a surge of heat swirling in her chest, akin to lightning crossing a black sky.

(And did she intend the other thing she did too? The split-second brush of her fingertips over his palm and the way the ball of his throat was disturbed by a tight swallow. Savoring the softness of the lapis silk strand against his pale flesh and her copper skin.)

He lingered by the doorframe for more than a second. Sherlock looked at her— perhaps a more bewitching case with the narrowest twists and the sharpest of turns. A shadow of a smile graced his prim lips and he let out a delectable, ruminative hum. “Is that a promise I would be foolish to break, Miss Babbington?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes.” She watched him depart, a puzzling black figure who had more to his voice than what he decided to speak. 

“Oh, on the subject of hearts…”

Sherlock paused and turned around. He studied the meticulous way she swept her indigo skirt behind her and made him wait until she finally, painstakingly met his gaze. Only then she made him realize how beholden he was to her unfinished prose.

“While surely hopeless for a… perspicacious man with such a baffling pigheadedness,” Clara murmured, smiling lopsidedly, “do keep yours open.”

Before he left with another curt, reserved nod, Sherlock ruminated on her words. Her tone— he barely noticed the way he wondered how all of her other pretty, printed words would sound if they were turned from ink to… to… that voice.

No… she was not a case. She was a quandary. An unsolved riddle that he cracked with the full assumption that the winning hand was in his, only to turn over his cards and see that it was she who had the royal flush.

What fresh hell was this?

[tirednamelessguy]

Sneak peak into the latest chapter of my wip

Hopefully, I'll edit and post it soon

[hey-its-roseaurum]

Guilty until Proven Innocent-Part I

A/N: Hey everyone. Thank you for taking the time to look at this story. This is for a collaboration with @lainiespicewrites. She is an excellent writer and I figured it was my turn to stretch my writing muscles and put something out into the world. This is my first Henry Cavill fic, so please don't be too harsh. Anyways, enjoy!

Synopsis: After recent murders in town, You (Olivia) decide to train with Edith in the art of self-defense. In the middle of training, you got a mysterious knock on the door. Sherlock walks in, looking for assistance with his latest case. He offers you to partake in a partnership to help him in his latest case? Do you take it?

Warnings: mentions of death

“You’re progressing nicely Olivia.”  Edith smiled from above me, her elbow pinning me to the floor mat.  There wasn’t a hint of sweat along her forehead.  She had taken me down in less than a minute. The worst part was I thought I was going to land a hit on her this time.

”I’m beginning to think that you’re just saying that to soothe my pride”. I rasped out.  She had eased her hold on me and stood up, extending a hand.

”Nonsense.  Look how far you’ve come since you first stepped in these doors.  Pretty soon you’ll be able to hold your ground with me.”  She exclaimed as I grabbed her hand and hoisted myself up.  My back had long since started throbbing.

For the past few weeks, I have been meeting Edith at her office to train and learn self-defense.  Ever since the first girl went missing and was later found dead in the street I hadn’t been able to sleep soundly.  There were constant, nagging thoughts that made me question if I was going to be the next victim.  It had only gotten worse when they found the next girl a week later in the middle of an alleyway that I frequently visited.  Her throat had been cut. 

In London, it was ill-advised for a woman, especially of noble birth, to consider something as trivial as self-defense.  Women are supposed to be soft, elegant, and passive. All of the trouble and responsibility in making decisions was for the men. 

 Being passive and soft didn’t save those girls from their cruel end.

And I wasn’t going to let myself become like them.  I refuse to be the next girl that falls victim to this.  So I went to my dear friend Enola at her detective agency and inquired about a solution to my predicament.  She sent me over to Edith and had me start training the next day.  I’ve been training every day since then.

I’m still not really good at it.

”Did you say the same thing when you were teaching Enola?”  I inquired as I dusted myself off.  Edith only shook her head.

”Not exactly.  Her response was more witty, thanks to her mother.”  Eudoria Holmes, the mother, the fire starter as people liked to call her.  I’ve seen her wanted poster splayed all across London.  But I didn’t see her as a criminal.  I saw her as the woman who saved my life six months ago.

That morning had been cold and bitter.  I remember feeling my fingers grow numb while I huddled against a mailbox.  Its red paint had chipped away at its base, leaving rust behind.

Which was ironic and poetic now that I think back on it.  And let me explain why.

It all started when my father had recently passed from a sickness that left my mother and me penniless.  With no man in the house and no money to our name, we were cast out of society.  My mother and I were thrown out and the estate that I called my home.   It was sold to another noble family in the south.

We lived off the street after that.  My mother, using what knowledge she had of needlework, had acquired a job as an assisted seamstress.  I was left to salvage whatever pity people gave me and half-rotten food from dumpsters.

Eventually, we were able to afford a small cottage on the outskirts of town.  It was small, run-down, and often had a damp smell to it.  Mother didn’t like to be there for a long period.  She claimed it was because she was so busy with her duties to the seamstress that she didn’t have time to spend there.  I think it was because she missed her life at the estate and living in this small broken cottage was too much for her to bear.

That morning six months ago I decided to go into town to fill my water bucket and get bread before it got too crowded.  When I got there, I sat down by the mailbox to wait for the bakery to open.  I was particularly annoyed when I saw a lot of people around this early in the morning.

I was watching a man get onto a carriage when something shifted from the corner of my eye.  It had been a man, or what I thought was a man walking towards me with a package in their hand.  When we made eye contact I didn’t think anything of it.  I just watched them and noted how stiff they walked. They placed the package in the slot of the mailbox.  Before I knew it, I was grabbed by the elbow, hoisted upright, and pulled away from the mailbox.  

That mailbox exploded, releasing a whirlwind of fliers into the air.

The two of us had run from the police.  I was forced to since they refused to let go of my hand.  We ran until this stranger knew that they weren't being followed.  

When things settled down, the man revealed that they were a woman in disguise.  She introduced herself as Eudoria Holmes and then proceeded to lecture me about being near explosives as if she were my own mother.  All I had wanted to do was bite back, to lecture her on how she shouldn’t be putting explosives where there were people.

Instead, I broke down, not from her lecturing but because of something I couldn’t quite place. All I knew was that I was waiting for a soggy piece of bread and nearly got blown up.

In the end, I told her everything.  I told her my past, my current situation, and why I was even in town in the first place.  One thing kind of led to another.  The next thing I knew I was sitting in Eudoria’s house with a cup of tea in my hand.

I stayed in that damp cottage less and less as time passed and more at Eudoria’s warm, often chaotic home.  That’s where I became friends with Enola, had briefly met her two brothers Sherlock and Mycroft, and felt somewhat happy.  

I don’t know why she pulled me away from that mailbox.  The one time I asked her she said she saw something in me, some sort of fire in my eye.  She didn’t want it to go out along with the mailbox.

I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t tell that to her.

“So what you’re trying to say is that I still have a long way to go,” I asked as my brain jumped back to the present.  I stepped away from the mat and made my way into her office.

”What I’m saying is you’re doing better than you think you are.  You just began learning.  Give yourself a little credit.”  Following me, she made her way to the table by the window.  A stack of teacups were messily stacked up to one side.  She grabbed two, placed them on saucers, and poured liquid into both.  

“I know.  I’m just…worried.  It’s been a week since the last victim was found and the police still haven’t found the suspect.”  I let out a sigh and sipped some of my tea.  I needed a moment to choose my words carefully.  “I just want to be…prepared.”

A heavy pause filled the air before either of us spoke.  

”Olivia…there’s more to that, isn’t there?” Edith’s words were soft and gentle.

“I mean I-“. My response was sharply cut short.

A knock pulled our attention away from our conversation and to the door.  A tall man entered from the training room and to Edith’s office.  I couldn’t place if he looked tall because of his size, or because of the giant top hat sitting snugly on top of his head.  Dark wavy strands of hair peaked through from under his hat. 

”Have you any sense what time it is?”  Edith interrogated, crossing her arms.  The man took off his hat, revealing thick brown locks.  His sculpted jawline and nose complimented the hair.  Blue, mesmerizing eyes glanced around, investigating.

But the feature that I recognized right away from him was his shoulders.  I knew those shoulders.

”Hello, Edith” His attention briefly shot to me “Olivia”  I curtly nodded, averting my eyes.

”Good evening Mr. Holmes.”  I responded softly.  “With what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Holmes.  Sherlock Holmes.  One of Enola’s older brothers. One of the greatest detectives I’ve ever seen.

”There’s no need for formalities Olivia.”  I felt something warm begin to grow on my cheeks at his response.  He’s only being polite Olivia.  We are only acquaintances because of Enola and Eudoria.  He doesn’t like you like that.

Or does he?  

I’m not sure.

Sherlock Holmes is a difficult man to understand.

“What are you here for Sherlock?”  Edith asked again, harsher this time.  Her tone quickly pulled me back to the present and away from my thoughts.  

Sherlock cleared his throat, his blue eyes revealing some sort of inner turmoil within himself.  It was an unusual amount of emotion that I was not used to seeing.  I expected it with Mycroft, he practically wore his emotions on his face at all times.  Sherlock never did.  He’s always been composed, and proper.  Before me now he still was, but a layer of some sort had been chipped away.

”I….need your help.”  He struggled to say the words like it was almost painful to him.  A moment of silence clung in the air.  

”Is it about Enola?   Did she get herself into trouble?”  There was a hint of concern in Edith’s voice when she begged the questions.  The only response he gave was a small shake of his head. I watched as realization flashed on her face. 

”There’s something about this case-“. 

”That deduction cannot solve?”  Edith finished his thought.  He slightly nodded, setting his hat down on her desk.  That was my cue. I softly placed my teacup down and made my way to the table by the window.  I began making some tea for Sherlock while listening to the conversation.

”I may need your…skills to get information from a place I cannot enter.”

“What kind of place?”  He listed off a name that I didn’t recognize.  Edith’s face slightly reddened.

”A showgirl theatre?! You cannot ask me such a thing Sherlock, no matter how close we are.”  My eyebrows raised as I grabbed a cup and saucer and poured some tea into the cup.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have another option.  A woman’s life is at stake.” His tone was calm, but there was something else there.

”But going into this with the possibility of getting murdered is not something I’m comfortable with.  Woman’s freedom and rights is one thing, going after a serial killer is a whole other matter entirely”

”Edith, I-“. I cut them off.

”I’ll do it.  I’ll go instead of you.”  In their arguing, I had made my way back to the two of them, Sherlock's tea in hand.  I had left mine behind.

”Olivia, do you know what kind of place that is, what situations you can get into.  You’re nowhere near ready to hold your ground”. What she said was like a punch to the gut.  

I knew I wasn’t ready, we had that same conversation not thirty minutes ago.  But I knew that if Edith went and something bad had happened to her Enola and Eudoria would be devastated.  I was different.  If I went and something happened to me, Edith would still be here training more girls like me.

”Who else is going to do it?  Enola?  She’s not expendable. I am.  And Edith, what about the other girls you train?” I took a breath, the stubbornness in me growing. “Besides, I know these streets better than anyone.  I’ve lived in them.  I know where to go in case I’m being followed.   And because of the way I look,”. I paused briefly looking down at myself, at my curvy, plump figure.  “No one would suspect me.  They would just see me as a showgirl trying to make ends meet.  I can blend in, go undercover, and get the information that he needs in order to catch this murderer.”

A heavy pause hung between the three of us.

I let what I said sink into the two of them.  I know that Edith is fighting with herself on whether she can let me go.  She believes that I am her responsibility, and I kind of was while Eudoria was undercover.  But since starting to learn to defend myself I told myself that I couldn’t sit and wait.  Sitting and worrying about who the next victim is going to drive me crazy.  If I can help and make a difference, then maybe the suspect will be caught before there’s more tragedy.  

”I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to her.”  Sherlock’s voice broke the silence and my inner thoughts.  “You have my word.”  His eyes met mine at his.  I felt something else there besides the promise.   Edith sighed,  rubbing her temples with both her index fingers.

“Okay, Sherlock.  Just…make sure she comes back in one piece.”   Edith finally concurred.  “You’re going to have to speak to your mother if you don’t.”

A smile tugged at my lips at the agreement.  I finally raised the cup of tea, offering it to him.    

”When do we start?”

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A/N: Thank you so much for reading. If you want to read @lainiespicewrites story about Paul Atreides from the Dune Sage, here is her link: https://www.tumblr.com/lainiespicewrites/747032352877903872/the-atreides-era?source=share

[self-conscious-author]

“Katherine Rossi.”

Orphan.

Only child.

Athletic.

Linguist.

Ambidextrous.

Italian father parent.

Closer to mother.

Clever.

Guarded.

Unemployed.

Inheritance. Family money.

Beautiful.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Hiding something.

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Chapter 1 - Blue Effervescent Liquid Bottle

It was just another moody winter morning, and here she was, sitting in one comfortable chair at her favourite vintage cafe, enjoying a light breakfast (A large cup of caramel latte) and playing a video game on her most trusted PSP. Across from her stood her best friend and room-mate, Lea, a tall, gorgeous young lady of a paler complexion, striking blue eyes like the deep ocean, and recently dyed pink hair like candy floss. The two had been friends for over a decade, since well before college days - Who would think an online friendship could flourish so well, that they would even move in together to cut costs on renting a flat in London? It has become a routine for the two friends to go to the same cafe for breakfast - Breakfast that consists of tea or coffee and cake. Each day, every day. At least that is one thing they eat through the day, considering how completely absorbed they get with they work, and end up tuning out the whole world around them.  Enjoying the silence of the morning, the gamer got startled by her phone ringtone disturbing her ephemeral state of peace. Looking at the caller, she was surprised to see it was Lestrade, a police detective.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"Sorry, I have to answer this..." Lea simply nodded her head, offering an absent smile; She was far too preoccupied by her book in Neuroscience to pay attention to her friend. "Good morning, Greg. How are you in this fine morning? Enjoying a coffee, I presume?" the lady with the long blue hair, cascading down her back like the mesmerising Iguazu Waterfall from Argentina, greeted her detective friend in a soft yet lovely tone, not even once shifting her gaze from her game. "I hardly have time for rest, lately." Lestrade grumbled, before quickly resuming his line. "I know you don't like being called on cases on the spot, but we would greatly benefit from your expertise." he continued, clearing his throat subtly. "Anderson can be... Well, you know best." "The suicide cases? Is that what you need me for? Has another one just surfaced?" the woman's interest was suddenly piqued, but not enough to make a wrong move in her game. "Yes, those." the detective confirmed curtly. "You know those aren't actually suicides, right? Just some tricky, witty way of making them appear as suicides, despite being murders?" she spoke back nonchalantly. "I've heard that one before." the detective seemed entirely bummed by the girl's confirmation regarding this information received. "Oh really? Then why'd you need me? Surely, whoever enlightened you about the crimes is smart enough to help you with the mystery and figure out the culprit, right?" she asked again, just a little surprised. "I fear there might be another suicide soon, and I need all the help I can get." Lestrade was almost begging for her aid - In fact, it seemed to her, that she would take any help, EXCEPT whoever gave him the hint before. Fascinating. The bluenette smirked like a joyful vixen spotting her defenseless prey. "You really know how to charm a lady, don't you~?" she chuckled softly. "I will join you and offer my help as much as I can, okay? I'm pretty sure I'll be able to arrive at the scene of the crime, just in time for a surprise autopsy~." "Glad I can at least rely on you." the detective sighed with a little relief. "Aren't I such a reliable person~?" the mischievous lady teased her sort-of friend. "Yes, you are. Now, excuse me, I have some paperwork to do. Greet your friend for me too. I'll send you the coordinations." he hung up soon after.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

By the wicked smirk on her friend's face, the pinkette placed her book down. "Another fancy murder case, I presume?" "Precisely. Oh, I can just feel the excitement going through my body as I examine it... Finding out all the secrets that it is hiding..." she replied, almost enthusiastically. Lea simply offered a half-smile. "Just like you to get so worked up over something like that. Then again, your pretty genius brain of yours has been screaming for some excitement for a while. Not many things have been happening lately. Bet you're in need for some money - Heard some games are going to be released soon." "You know me as well as I expected, cara mia. If only you'd know what a cash-grab most games are these days - A hundred pounds, and people expect me to pay for that? Ha! Learning how to pirate has been my best decision ever - Pulled me right out of poverty, really. Oh, the money I saved, not spending for any kind of electronic entertainment!" the mysterious girl with the aquamarine eyes stood up, putting her black trench over her shoulders and going in her car, driving away to the specified location of the fourth murder.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Just as expected, the fourth suicide-murder happened that exact same night - Unfortunately, the welcoming party was as unkind as always. Donovan and Anderson were as talkative as always, yet with exactly zero benefit to the crime scene - Or the state of the world, for what matters. Clearly, they have to compensate the lack of grey matter, with an extensively vicious tongue spilling poison. Perhaps they weren't aware, but the Lion does not listen to the opinion of sheep.

"Anderson, watch out, Freak #1 is on the scene." the woman came to greet her as nicely as ever.

"Skip the pleasantries, I don't have time to waste on you." the forensics doctor rolled her eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "Do you know where Greg is?"

"Why?" Donovan's question sounded just like one of those toddlers asking 'why?' to literally every little thing their parents tell them.

"Well, you see - If you were capable of using your brain for more than the basic mammal functions, maybe you'd know that I was, in fact, personally invited to take a look at the body." she was exasperated with this stalling, and quite rightfully so. "Why?" what a coincidence - Donovan the Toddler did it again.

"You know, to do just any good forensics doctor does." the blue haired lady gesticulated in a rather theatrical manner. "INVESTIGATE?!" "Well, you know what I think, don’t you?" Donovan put her hands on her hips, smirking down at her bullied victim.

"You never fail to tell me exactly what you think, every time we meet, Donovan. I would think, by now, I would be quite aware of your blatant dislike for me. I know, it is not easy knowing that your mental capacity can never come high up enough to match mine... Or your salary." the young woman found herself almost unable to stifle her mocking chuckle. Groaning in annoyance, Donovan spoke into the radio. "Freak's here, bring her in."

Her sidekick, Anderson, followed suit, bringing her towards the building. "It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"No need to warn me, Anderson. You see, unlike you, I actually am a proper doctor." the bluenette smirked at him with a patronising allure. "You might want to look in the mirror someday - Do some affirmations, tell yourself how great of a doctor you are..." she cleared her throat dramatically. 

"Here we go again..." the both of them looked at each other with disdain.

"Now, now, no need to work so well in tandem, you'll become more suspicious than you already are!" the vixen taunted them with ease.

"What the hell could you possibly mean by that?" Anderson asked, his eyes narrowed with hostility.

"If you were a proper doctor, you'd have tended to Donovan's knees after last night, you know? Poor woman must have kneeled for you for so long..." their eyes widened with shock - Busted. "Praying, of course, whatever could you think I meant? Get your minds out of the gutter - I would, however, recommend some aloe vera or marigold cream. Does wonders for that... And a new pair of pants, to hide the friction from your knees." seeing their horrified expression, the victorious lady threw a peace sign and skipped up the building stairs. "Say hi to your wife from me, Anderson!" As the forensics expert stepped into the shabby, dusty room of the abandoned, run-me-down building, she saw the body of a woman dressed in pink; This ought to be an interesting case, she thought, as she put her latex gloves on and approached the cadaver. "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." what a nasty way to have your body discovered, she thought to herself, crouching by the lady. The woman’s body was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room, wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands were flat on the floor either side of her head. 

Scratched into the wooden floor, above her left hand, was the word "RACHE".  Her extensive knowledge of German popped into her head - That's the word for revenge - But surely, she wouldn't, with her last breath, painfully destroy her nails to scratch that into the wooden boards, right? Surely - It had to something more sentimental on her part.

A name, perhaps? Rache, from Rachel? Most likely. "Can you please try and figure out what ever could the name Rachel mean to her?"

"Rachel?" Greg blinked, completely dumbfounded.

"Yes - She scratched this into the wood - I think she died before she could finish writing this name." she explained softly. "I think she was trying to give us a clue into who the culprit was; Or at least a lead into how to find whoever did this to her." she continued. "I see, well thought." the detective nodded his head, only to be distracted briefly. "The others arrived." "O-Others...?" the lady suddenly froze and became paler than a paper. "Y-You never mentioned other people coming, Greg! Be reasonable, at least let them in AFTER I leave!" she pleaded in a whispery voice. "You know I don't do well with people!" "I'm sorry, we have limited time, so I can't afford that." he cut her off immediately. "V-Very well... I can cope with that..." she chuckled nervously, trying to return to her work. "Just do what you usually do - They won't disturb you... Much." this rhetoric did nothing but earn a snide comment from the doctress. "Hardly a reassurance." she muttered under her breath.

Taking a deep breath, the mystery lady calmed her nerves, and scanned the dead body laying before her; From a quick glance, anyone could easily deduce the victim was somewhere in her thirties, working in an office or something professional, based on her business/office outfit.  The death was definitely asphyxiation, and she choked on her own vomit - Poison? Drugs? Liquid, or pills? Probably doesn't matter. The back of her coat, and underneath the collar were wet, however the umbrella was perfectly dry - How very interesting - She'd have to check on the weather reports real quick. Her jewellery, she thought was all authentic gold and not fakes, were all pristine clean, except for her wedding band - Clean on the inside, dirty on the outside; Seems like someone's been unhappily married for almost half her entire life, and she's been drowning her sorrows in a string of men who were capable of giving her what her husband never could. Funny how many things a little ring could tell - All because it was removed so many times that it leaves traces!

There was, however, one thing amiss in this equation; One thing that left her in deep unrest, enough to get up and start idly pacing around and searching like a lost meerkat - Such a reputable lady MUST have had some kind of luggage, considering the state of her Achilles' tendon, all muddied up and dirty; That damn luggage ruined her pristine appearance! A luggage, matching her pristine self.

A pink luggage to match this pink lady's pink outfit of the day.

It was not the new pairs of footsteps, belonging to two men she never met, that got her out of her trance, but in fact a velvety baritone voice, so gorgeous and melodic, that it was lost on a mere greeting to detective Lestrade. The blue haired lady turned her head, and scanned the new-comer; A very tall young man, seemingly in her own age range, with flawless porcelain skin, the most beautiful celestial blue eyes she's ever seen, and the cutest flock of dark, curly hair, all messy as expected. He carried himself with long strides, yet very elegantly, just like a true English gentleman. No doubt, he was the brains behind the previous tip Lestrade got, about the suicides being murder. They say the eyes are the mirrors into one's soul - But their twinkle show just enough spark of pure genius and brilliance to spot from a mile away - And if not that, at least, definitely his quirkiness.

The fellow man by his side definitely looked like a sidekick; shorter, older, grey hair, and hardened by hardships. A war veteran with a leg wound, it seemed. Still, it was clear to her that even this seemingly innocent cute man had an endless stream of curiosity, if he agreed to come to this place just to see a dead body. "Who's this?" Lestrade asked, nodding to the shorter man. "He's with me. His name is John." the young one spoke briefly again, before turning to the lady. "And who is this?"

"Right, you haven't met before." the detective nodded to himself. "Sherlock, this is Raven, our forensics doctor." he gestured towards the bluenette.

"Lovely meeting you." the mystery lady offered a polite smile. "Worry not - I am no Anderson. I know the torture of working with someone of his... Caliber." she extended her hand to shake.

"Sherlock Holmes." the newcomer narrowed his beautiful eyes for a split second while analysing her from head to toe, before deciding for a most peculiar and completely out of character gesture - He picked her hand and kissed it. "Pleasure is all mine."

"What have you found?" Sherlock averted his gaze from the pink cadaver, back to the blue haired beauty, noticing her subtle mischief.

"About?" asking that, he was clearly testing her.

"I know you were analysing me. Just wondering what you picked up from a first glance."

Sherlock couldn't help feeling the corner of his mouth twitch up into an amused half-smile; Few people picked up on such a remark. At once, words started appearing in his mind palace, creating an almost perfect description of the lady before him. The most striking feature was definitely her hair - Long enough to go past her waist, but still kept impeccable and done daily; as for the colour, he was undecided whether it was a trend, because it suited her well and brought out her striking eyes, or simply because she was bored out of her mind.

Regardless, he moved to the next aspect, her make up - Done soft and in style, pearl pink and subtle glitter around the eyes, a small wing to highlight that impressive aquamarine colour of her iris, just the perfect blend of blue and green, and a shiny pink lipgloss to hydrate her chapped, dry lips; It seemed to him that she had quite the habit of biting her lips - Nervousness? Anxiety? A tick for when she gets too deep into her thoughts? Or, perhaps, all at once.

Her outfit, also, was impeccable; A dark blue dress, embroidered with golden constellations, reaching just about mid-shin, was hugging her body in all the right places. Her shoes, black, with a small yet elegant wide heel, matched her black trench coat made out of the finest yorkshire wool, and her black leather purse. Her jewellery, also fine and genuine, adorned her slender fingers, delicate wrist, supple neck and small ears. Impeccable, with a single flaw - The blackness of the trench coat couldn't hide the single strand of black dog hair. Small breed, no doubt, on the older side also based on the grey tint.

Her fingers were slender and long, yes; She definitely played at least one kind of instrument - Piano had to be one of them, though he'd have to bet on a strings instrument also. Perhaps something more eccentric than a guitar? Something eastern, maybe; based on the almost invisible lines across her fingertips, she must have played it as late as the previous night. Her middle finger also had a slight callous, no doubt from her long studies as a doctor; Though a slight deformity on her pinky finger, just in the middle, made him wonder - It was definitely from repeatedly holding some device, but what exactly? Was it technology? Was she tech-savy? Had to be. A phone, perhaps?

"You play the piano on a high level, and at least one more string instrument, something from Asia no doubt - Is it a koto? Erhu?" Sherlock began, then looked at her manicure - Long nails, done at the salon frequently, and well taken care of; Pearl pink polish, so it would match any wardrobe. "Your nails are too long for most string instruments. Maybe a zither?"

"Guzheng, yes. That's why I keep my nails long. It helps with the plucking." Sherlock nodded his head, pleased with his deduction.

"You have a small breed dog at home - Apartment, rather large also - On the older side... Ten years old? A little more?" he continued. "Based on how straight it is, I'd say a Bichon... Maltese, maybe? It's not slick enough though. Maybe... Lowchen?"

"Close. She's turning twelve on November 6th. She's a Havanese. Her name is Fifi." the handsome young man tsk'ed in annoyance.

"There's always something..." he was always so annoyed when he missed things so elementary. "You're proficient in computers - Technology. There must be some kind of gadget you keep holding weirdly through the day that it made an indent in the inside of your right pinky finger. It can't be a phone, but I think that added to it."

"PSP gaming console." the lady brought her hand up to her mouth, looking away as she giggled softly. "Haven't quite expected me to be a hardcore gamer, did you?" she asked, quite amused at his shock. "My eyes are tired because I game too much, in a dark room. I admit my fault. I sleep far too little for what's worth." "I should have paid more attention in the gaming store." he nodded to himself, happy that he had more fields to research in. 

"I think it was quite brilliant. Most of these seemingly obvious details always pass unnoticed the easiest. You have fantastic keen eyes, and a splendid mind, Detective Sherlock." she praised him, clearly genuine. "Now then - I am sure you want to ask me something else, don't you?"

"Quite so!" he exclaimed, evidently thrilled to have more pleasant company around him that wouldn't annoy him to the degree of Donovan and Anderson... Or everyone else, for the matter. "I am curious as to what you have found out about the body - And more importantly, what you've been searching for around this room."

"Wait, hold up - Are you going to tell me how in the world did you figure all that out?!" poor John, with a flabbergast look on his face, was terribly curious.

"Quite simple, really. You just don't know where to look." Sherlock waved dismissively. "The instrument thing - Her fingers are long and slender, it indicates someone who played an instrument very often in their childhood, thus, the piano; However, look here, on the tips, there's faint horizontal lines, indicating a string instrument - But long nails would interfere with most string instruments, thus, it had to be one thing - The zither." the detective began explaining his deduction process. "There was a single strand of hair blending with the colour of the coat - Initially black, but with enough grey hues; based on the texture and the straightness of it, it could only be a small breed dog, old enough to have gotten grey fur. Since most small breeds have a longer lifespan, their elderly years go farther, thus it had to be somewhere older than ten years of age. The Maltese, Havanese and Lowchen are the only breeds with such straight fur - Although, I admit, it had crossed my mind that the Havanese had such soft hair. You must tend to her daily."

"Quite so. She loved a good evening pampering." Raven nodded her head with a giddy smile; She clearly loved her pet very much, and enjoyed talking about her.

"And what about the tech-thing? You couldn't possible guess that from a simple indenture in her pinky!" John cried in surprise, although still stupefied at all the sound deduction - And how elementary it was!

Instead of a verbal answer, Raven dug into her purse and pulled out a nice PSP, and demonstrated how she held it in her right hand - Leaning lazily on the curvature of her inner pinky. "Adding that to how I hold my phone, every day for years now, you get this little funky thing." she showed off her pinky mark.

"... Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" the sidekick gasped.

"Think so?" Sherlock seemed almost taken aback by the compliments, yet clearly he loved them.

"Definitely." John nodded his head.

"Returning to our victim here - I can't say I've found any major discovery, unfortunately - Or at least, nothing that would aid us in finding the culprit. I truly don't think knowing she's a serial cheater and unhappily married for over a decade would help us with this mystery." she chuckled softly. "I think, however, we should check the weather forecast -- And look around for a pink luggage."

At once, Sherlock went to crouch by her side, fiddled with her wedding band, touched her coat and her umbrella, looked around and nodded - Then got up and walked in front of the bluenette, as if to discuss their shared findings. "I checked the forecast, and-"

However, his genius was outshadowed by Anderson's outright monumental stupidity that knew absolutely no bounds. "She’s German." he declared boldly. "‘Rache’- it’s German for ‘revenge’. She could be trying to tell us something..." thankfully, he was cut off by a most witty remark, before Holmes could close the door in his face. "Yes, Anderson, you are completely right! You see - I have discovered that she is telling us... That you're a complete moron." she stated bluntly. "She's not some ghost to haunt you from the afterlife and get revenge. Honestly - Being in your presence encouraged my neurons to commit seppuku. Fortunately, for my own mental health, if I wanted to kill myself, I would just have to climb up your ego and jump down to your IQ - It must be lower than you shoe size."

From one corner, Greg and John were fighting hard to hide their amusement, especially seeing Anderson's dumb face, and his mouth opening and closing like a pufferfish; Sherlock, however, glanced her way, and with a smirk, he used one had to slam the door in Anderson's face, and the other to show Raven the phone with the weather forecast she requested. She was witty, this one, and she knew just where to look. He quite liked her.

"So where is she from?" Lestrade asked the two people he invited over for their professional opinion on the situation. "She’s from out of town. Intended to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious." Sherlock began his trail of thoughts, spoken out loud. Raven nodded along - To think it was Cardiff, of all places, how marvelous! "Sorry – Obvious?" John blinked, as if he missed the most obvious magic trick unveiling before his very eyes. "What about the message, though?" the detective asked, eying the scratched floorboards. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?" so he was a doctor - An Army Doctor, how fascinating! Maybe this sidekick was far more interesting than she'd first anticipated! "Of the message?" John asked, a little surprised to be asked to contribute to the case on the spot. "Of the body. You’re a medical man." Sherlock urged him. "Miss Raven has already done her medical investigation - Surely it would be productive if you two were to compare notes." "Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside." Lestrade protested immediately.

"Yeah - And useless Anderson is one of them." the blue haired lady huffed. "I’m breaking every rule letting you in here." the detective kept pressing on. "Yes ... Because you need me." Sherlock knew just what fortes he has. "Yes, I do... God help me." poor man was defeated. "Well, do what he says, help yourself." he invited the doctor to look at the body, whilst instructing Anderson to keep everyone outside in the meantime. "What am I doing here?" the army doctor found himself asking with bewilderment. "Helping me make a point." Sherlock replied clearly. "I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent." John answered right back, still unsure of his position at the crime scene. "Yeah, well, this is more fun." the genius detective titled his head playfully. "Fun? There’s a woman lying dead." the stupefied doctor threw his hands towards the dead lady lying on the ground. "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper." the detective snarked his new flatmate. "Yeah ... " finally, the army doctor crouched to the ground next to the dead body and began his own quick examination. "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs." he explained, after taking a little sniff of the inside of her mouth. "You know what it was. You’ve read the papers." the blue-eyes man retorted. "What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth ...?" he sounded incredulous, poor man.

"The idea of 'suicide' here is a little misinterpreted." "Sherlock, two minutes, I said." Greg came back inside the room. "I need anything you’ve got." he sounded almost desperate, bless his heart. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase." the detective genius spoke up in a most natural tone.

"In the media... I thought she was an office worker, or a business woman." Raven thought out loud. "Is it because she dresses so flashy? News Anchors usually do dress elegantly, with a dash of eccentrism."

"Yes, quite so." Holmes nodded his head to affirm her train of thought. "Suitcase?" the police detective frowned, confused about this supposed suitcase. "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." so he thought about the suitcase in relation to the adulterer life she lived, how fascinating that two people can come to the same conclusion, but for different reasons! Raven simply thought she had a pink luggage because she had been traveling from out of town, and because of the weather, she'd gotten the back of her ankles quite messy! "Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up ..." Lestrade groaned, unable to believe the younger one could come up with such a detailed reasoning. "Miss Raven told you the same, hasn't she? Both of us couldn't possibly come up with the same story." the bluenette was quite surprised at being called 'miss' so politely. Sherlock Holmes hadn't struck her as the conventional type of old-school British gentleman, who would call ladies with such honorifics. How charming and gallant of him. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry 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." the young man explained, as if it was the simplest equation known to mankind. Was he not aware of how outstandingly unique his deduction skills are? Was he seeking some more applause and validation? Or just... He's tired of how simple everyone surrounding him is, in comparison to himself, and that he has not found an equal? Is he in search of the Joker counterpart, to his Batman? Someone to keep him on his toes and challenge him for once? "That’s brilliant." John remarked, outstanded by what he just heart. "Cardiff?" Greg asked. "It’s obvious, isn’t it?" Sherlock asked, quite genuinely surprised that they were even asking. "It’s not obvious to me." John replied immediately, almost offended at the implication that he's dumb. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." Sherlock rolled his eyes, making the single lady present giggle softly in amusement. "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 traveled 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? Cardiff." the young detective explained the obvious, making John look like a surprised pufferfish. "That’s fantastic!" the medic exclaimed out loud. "D’you know you do that out loud?" Holmes asked his flatman, who got quite bashful. "Sorry. I’ll shut up." he looked away, hiding his embarrassment. "No, it’s ... Fine." Sherlock cleared his throat; How adorable he was - He just wanted a little praise, that's all! Granted, with people like Donovan around, there was no doubt Sherlock must get littler praise than even she does, Raven thought to herself. Were she to throw a few genuine remarks his way, would he feel his heartstrings tugged? Would his ego get stroked? Quite fascinating indeed. "Miss Raven, when I entered the room, you were searching for something - What was it?"

"I was trying to figure out if her phone was hidden around, or taken by the culprit. Given who she is, there's no way she wouldn't keep her cellphone and/or some kind of... Organiser in her possession at all times." she explained, adjusting the trench over her shoulders. "I haven't found either - And, what's more, there hasn't been sight of any suitcases or luggage whatsoever." Sherlock looked at her and blinked in surprise at what he's heard - No suitcase? No phone? Nothing?! "In this whole house, there is nothing pink, nor that would belong to Lady Jennifer. My only supposition is that the culprit took either, or both, with them. To hide evidence, or... Who knows." a few more seconds of silence passed before them. "Hold up - Reckon the phone might still be, at this moment, in the culprit's possession? If the phone is turned on, I think we could locate it based on where the signal pings."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed theatrically, shocking everyone around. "Lestrade, find out who Rachel is." "Hold up, you two, stop getting ahead - What's all this talk about a suitcase? How could you possibly know she had one with her, when this happened?" Lestrade's eyes were wide, and darting between the odd pair who seemed to hit it off quite perfectly. "Honestly..." Holmes reverted back to his impatient tone. "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. Now, where is it? What have you done with it? - No, rather - Did you find any?" "There wasn’t a case." Sherlock pressed him again with the same question, earning the same vehement response. "There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase." Immediately Sherlock straightened up and headed for the door in a rather erratic manner, calling out to all the police officers in the house as he began hurrying down the stairs, followed by the curious lady with blue hair. He looked hilarious, even childish, yelling around for a suitcase, while everyone was telling him there wasn't any! "Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade shouted back, clearly exasperated.

"The killings - They're serial killings, not coincidental suicides - All of them, they take the poison themselves, they chew, they swallow the pills themselves - The signs are clear, even you lot couldn't miss them!" he exclaimed, looking around like a headless chicken. "The case - Yes, you were right - If there's no case, then the killer took it!" he exclaimed his eureka moment. "But how did he take it - Maybe... Maybe the killer drove her here, forgot the case was in the car...!"

"A pink luggage would stand out too much. She stood out too much. There's no way he carried it anywhere out of the car, if that's the case - Unless he disposed of it after the deed was done." Raven pointed it out, though she wasn't sure she was even heard - It seemed that, whenever Sherlock was thinking, his awareness of the outside world diminished almost completely.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John suggested, confused on why Sherlock came up with the car theory. "I don't think any respectable woman, such as herself, would leave the hotel room looking like a mess." the lady huffed with a half-smile on her face. "That woman coordinated her make up, outfit and accessories - She hadn't reached her hotel room, otherwise she'd have fixed herself up properly."

"Yes, yes, as she said ---" Sherlock gasped loudly, clapping his hands together, grinning at his own brilliance. "Oh... Oh!" he seemed so giddy and boyish, how cute he was. "Serial killers, always hard - You have to wait for them to make a mistake." he smirked to himself, triumphant. 

"We can’t just wait!" Greg yelled out from the top of the stairs, watching the detective waltz around aimlessly around the ground floor. "Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake!" he cheered, before turning around to see the blue haired lady standing 3 steps above him, looking down at him with quite the amused smiled.

"I am glad you've found your eureka moment." her smile reminded Sherlock of a fox. Quite mischievous indeed, this one.

"Thank God there's still hope in this world!" he skipped up on the steps to get on even level with the lady, before placing both of his large hands on either side of her face, and planting a kiss on her forehead. "Get a cab and come to this address - There's no way I'd take you dumpster-diving around the city." how thoughtful, Mr. Holmes!

"... Hm? Wait, Sherlock, how do you...--" but she was cut off by Sherlock jumping off the stairs and yelling up towards Lestrade.

"Lestrade, get on to Cardiff - Find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!" he cried out, lunging towards the exit, only to be brought back by the detective asking him - What the hell was the killer's mistake? "PINK!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, before hurrying out... To search for the pink luggage in... Rather disgusting places. Just as instructed, Raven caught a cab and went to the given address, and whilst waiting for Holmes to arrive, she stood idly and played her game on the portable console. It must have been about an hour before finally, the detective found her, with a large grin on his face as soon as he spotted her - He showed off the pink luggage.

"Well done, Mr. Sherlock! Quite remarkable!" she quickly placed back the console inside her purse, giving him a little round of applause. It seemed that, either her praise, or the respect given, took him aback.

"Mr...?" he blinked, clearly surprised. "We are in the same age-range; I'd say there's no need to address me so formally."

"You had the courtesy of being a gentleman with me, and even using honorifics - How could I, in good faith, elude my own politeness? Is England not the land of polite people?" his eyes narrowed for a split second, seemingly analysing her for another quick scan. He was almost like a robot, working on statistics and calculations for most of his time. 

"Quite so - A good century ago, that is. Surely, you've had the pleasure of meeting Sergeant Donovan before." that remark seemed to earn a scoff of amusement from the lady.

"I had - But hopefully, Anderson's wife hadn't; Donovan must be quite the devout worshipper..." Sherlock looked down with shock at the little tricksy lady, and with the cunning look she gave him, he could only feel a grin forming on his face.

"Oh, you, mischief!" he exclaimed with delight. "Let's get inside - You deserve a nice cuppa; And some biscuits. Mrs. Hudson makes amazing tea and biscuits."

"Ah!" Raven gasped. "I did want to ask - I may not be a genius, but I still have to ask - How, exactly, did you know where I live?" Sherlock blinked in surprise, looking as the lady pointed towards the same block he lived in. "Second floor, Flat 3. Been here for a good three years."

"I'm more surprised we haven't met before." Holmes hummed, gallantly opening the door for her. "Same block, frequenting the same workplace from time to time - Surely, I'd remember..."

"Did you move in recently?" Raven asked, looking around the place. "No - Rather... You've got a new flatmate. Did John - If you don't mind me addressing him this way - Join you recently? Today, perhaps?"

"Sounds deduction!" the man nodded, "Yesterday." throwing the luggage on the couch, calling for Mrs. Hudson to make them a nice cuppa.

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock." the old lady shook her head, but as soon as she noticed the blue haired woman, she exclaimed delightful, and they exchanged pleasantries. "Alright, just this time, since you've got such pleasant company! Oh, Sherlock, but Raven is such a sweet girl - Her and her flatmate are simply a delight to have around! And you should see her winning at cards and bingo!"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you are simply too kind! No need to flatter me - We all know you are the loveliest woman alive!" they kissed each others' cheeks as if they were blood family. "You know how happy I am to pair up with you and earn money - Those old relics can never compete with us!"

Sherlock watched the interaction between the two ladies with a half-smirk on his face; He was thoroughly amused, what a flawless day! Finally, something to stir him out of the mundane boredom of life! Mrs. Hudson returned to serve them tea and biscuits, and as she left, the man couldn't help but look at the blue haired lady and her perfect mannerisms as she sipped from her tea - Yet said nothing.

Raven, however, slowly averted her piercing gaze towards the man's own cerulean eyes; With makeup highlighting her own eyes, it almost seemed as if she could peer into his soul - Or even read his mind. "I helped her with some drug problems."

"Helped her smuggle, didn't you?" oh, he knew just how to charm a girl! As she nodded, he continued. "Her husband was about to be executed."

"And you ensured that was exactly what happened." she stated, not asked. The satisfied smile on his face was enough confirmation.

"Well then!" he cleared his throat after finishing his cuppa. "Forgive my manners - I need to think." he unbuttoned his shirt sleeve, put three nicotine patches on his arms, then stretched out on the sofa with his head towards the window and resting on a cushion. "I need John - Could you take my phone and message him until he finally decides to show up? I don't suppose we've got all day, do we." He pushed up his arms, eyes closed and pressing the palm of his right hand firmly onto the underside of his left arm, just below the elbow. After some seconds his eyes snap open wide and he stared fixedly up towards the ceiling, then sighed out a noisy breath, and relaxed. Sherlock repeatedly clenches and unclenches his left fist.

"Never heard of nicotine patches helping with thinking." Raven found herself speaking in a soft voice, as to not startle him out of his trance. "I suppose smokers haven't had it easy these days."

"Can't do anything fun these days. No wonder everyone's so simple-minded." he scoffed, continuing his routine, hearing the amusement in her breath, as she continued to send texts to John, until finally, he returned home.

He looked at Sherlock, blinked in bewilderment, then asked what the hell he was doing. He only received a brief, but explanatory reply. "Bad news for brain work." he ended with a snarky remark.

"It’s good news for breathing." the medic spoke the truth. "Oh, breathing. Breathing’s boring." he waved his hand dismissively. "But useful." the lady chuckled lightly. "Is that three patches?" the medic never seems to get a break. "It’s a three-patch problem." came the answer, followed by a long silence. "Well?" the silent continued. "You asked me to come. I’m assuming it’s important." "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?" he extended his hand with his palm upwards. "My phone?" John asked once again - How could he have the audacity...? "Don’t wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It’s on the website." the detective spoke nonchalantly. "Raven's got a phone. Mrs Hudson’s got a phone." the medic was getting evidently frustrated at the inconveniences sent his way. "Raven is a public person and Mrs. Hudson is downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn’t hear." the lady in cause couldn't help but blink in shock. "Accidentally stumbled upon your forensics blog. Tried a few of the experiments myself. Well made videos."

"Much obliged." she coughed softly, still in shock at what she just heart. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed, thoroughly exasperated. "I was on the other side of London!" "There was no hurry." says he, after making her send countless obnoxious texts. John ended up placing his phone on Sherlock's outstretched hand, and he glowered for a few moments; Sherlock brought his hands together in a praying position, and he started thinking out loud. "So what’s this about – the case?" John starts speaking again, as he's got no answer whatsoever. "Her case." Sherlock answered very vaguely. "Her case?" John pressed on. "er suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake." Sherlock repeated himself. "Okay, he took her case. So?" no reply from the detective, as he was talking to himself instead. "It’s no use, 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 handed John back the phone. "You brought me here ... To send a text." poor John was done with his flatmate. "Text, yes. The number on my desk." the detective pressed once more, holding the phone, until John got over his thoughts of homicide, stomped across the room and snatched back his phone. The atmosphere was quite tense in the room. "What’s wrong?" "Just met a friend of yours." what an intriguing affirmation - Even more so, considering Sherlock's reaction. "A friend?" he truly was confused out of his mind. The freak doesn't have friends, as everyone knows. "An enemy." John corrected himself. "Ohh. Which one?" the detective seemed to have more enemies than Superman himself. "Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?" yes, that was quite surprising. Was this guy a Lex Luthor level genius too? "Did he offer you money to spy on me?" he must know who it was! John answered affirmatively "Did you take it?" this time, negatively. "Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." definitely unafraid of this supposed arch-enemy! "Who is he?" that's an answer Raven also wants to know! "The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now." he answered, clearly not wanting to think about this mystery person.

"I'm intrigued now..." the girl sighed, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I'm sure you'll meet him soon enough." Sherlock answered her elusively. "John, on my desk, the number." "Jennifer Wilson. That was ... Hang on. Wasn’t that the dead woman?" the medic had a revelation. "Yes. That’s not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?" affirmative answer. "Have you done it?" poor man wasn't so swift with his texting. "These words exactly - What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.” "You blacked out?" John looked with confusion at the detective. "What? No. No! Type and send it. Quickly." Sherlock went into the kitchen, picking up the suitcase and throwing it back in the living room, opening it. "Have you sent it?" he had to repeat the address.

As John sent the text, he looked around him, noticing the open suitcase; There were few items of clothing and underwear – all in varying shades of pink – a washbag, and a paperback novel He turned towards the case and staggered slightly in shock once he realised what he was looking at. "That’s ... That’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case."  Sherlock looked up at him, from the comfort of his chair. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn’t kill her." why would he have to clarify the obvious? "I never said you did." John frowned at his flatmate. "Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption." the detective reasoned the unreasonable. "Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?" he received a positive answer.

"That's... Quite sad, actually." the woman found herself muttering under her breath. Sherlock put his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifted his feet up and under him so that he was perching on the seat with his backside braced against the back rest, then clasped his hands under his chin. "Okay ..." John limped across the room and dropped heavily into the chair on the other side of the fireplace. "How did you get this?"

"By looking." came the diminutive answer, that evidently asked for clarification.  "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took less than an hour to find the right skip." that truly was a fascinating explanation! Unlike Raven, who was thoroughly directionally challenged, Sherlock knew his geography to a flawless degree. "Pink." John deadpanned. "You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" "I had my help." he shared a glance with the blue haired woman that was sitting back on the armchair, smiling enigmatically. "Well, it had to be pink, obviously." "Why didn’t I think of that?" asked himself out loud. "Because you’re an idiot." Sherlock's answer shocked them both.

"Sherlock!" the lady called out to him. "That was rude - You can't speak like that to John!" "No, no, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is." the look on both their eyes told Sherlock to shut up and stop digging his hole even more. "Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?" he pointed towards the luggage contens. "From the case? How could I?" he frowned, incredulous.

"Remember what Raven said she was looking for in the abandoned house?" Holmes gave a hint, which the medic took.

"The phone - She was looking for a phone, but there was none. In the house, in her pockets - There was no phone or organiser." the detective was pleased with his flatmate's attention span. "Exactly! Where’s her mobile phone? If there was no phone on the body, no phone in the case - Where is it? We know she had one – That’s her number there; you just texted it." Holmes explained quickly. "Maybe she left it at home." came one answer. "She has a string of lovers and she’s careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home." that's one very valid reason.

"That, and considering her media workplace, and her leaving town - Along with the fact that most people don't leave home without their phone in the pocket - There was bound to be a phone somewhere in her coat or suitcase." Raven also chimed in with her own explanation. "She could have lost it." John reasoned once again, only for the detective to ask for an alternative. "The murderer ... You think the murderer has the phone?" bingo. "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." Sherlock explained. "Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?" John still remained evidently confused. As if on cue, his phone begins to ring. He picked it up and looked at the screen for the Caller I.D. "A few hours after his last victim, he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer ... Would panic." Holmes stared intently at the phone. "He thinks Jennifer is alive and could give him in to the police." the lady spoke up also. Sherlock flipped close the lid of the suitcase and stood up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. As John continued to stare down at his phone, he put on his jacket and walked towards the door. Raven, also, stood up, placed the trench over her shoulders, and smiled to the two men. 

"Going to Northumberland Street to spy on our little mousie?" Sherlock's eyes got a new spark of vitality, and he nodded at her. "Very well - I will leave you two, darling, to have fun on your own. You see - Legwork of this degree is not quite suitable to my tastes." she looked so coquettish and femininely playful. "I am a lady - I couldn't possibly mess up my outfit." she continued. "And besides - I have got a few lovely bottles of blue effervescent liquid waiting for me at home. Far cosier, and with more sugary coffee than your hide-and-seek game."

"What - What's she saying?" John blinked - What was that about blue liquid?

"She's staying home to die her hair." he translated for her. "I haven't asked you to dumpster dive - Naturally, I wouldn't ask you to be chasing around killers in shady back-alleys, in the middle of the night. As you said - Not quite the behaviour of a gentleman, am I right?" John frowned, looking at Holmes - Why was he speaking so... Gallant, to her? Did he... Did he fancy this lady he's just met? Curiosity was greatly bothering him, but that would already be bordering nosiness! It would be terribly rude of him!

Just the the two of them were ready to leave, they heard the lady speak again. "Sherlock - I am sure you have already figured out by now - But Jennifer must have willingly stepped inside a car; It couldn't be someone she knew, so clearly, a stranger. What car driven by a stranger do people willingly step into? Cabs. But Taxis can be highly elusive, especially with how well drivers know shortcuts and back alleys." a few moments of silence stemmed between the trio, before John muttered a small 'Brilliant!'. To think she was worthy of his instinctive praise - She was so flattered!

"Where have you been my entire life?" Sherlock found himself asking dramatically. "Life is so boring without people like you around!" it almost seemed like he was washed over by a veil of relief.

"Hiding in my home and at work like a hermit." she smiled like a princess. "Now on you go, you two. Knock on my door once you've finished your chasing mission. I am thrilled to find out the culprit!" Nodding at each other, Raven watched the two men leave the building, before returning into her own flat; It was engulfed into a soothing scent of coffee and cinnamon from all the scented candles and incense burning, and soft jazz music was playing in the living-room. It seemed Lea wasn't home; She must still be at the lab, working. 

She always did love taking care of herself - What was life without some self-care, they say - And what better way than some nice scents, lovely music, and skincare while dyeing your hair! She also had some nice tea bought recently, and leftover chocolate cake from the previous night.

The lady found herself singing along Ella Fitzgerald during her bubble bath, and with Edith Piaf while drying her hair and styling it. She was already dressed in her pink silk negligee, with the robe over, and humming Marilyn Monroe's thrills while sipping her sweet Cherry Vanilla tea, and eating cake, reading one of her favourite book, 'The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Thief' by Maurice Leblanc.

Some time later in the evening, while Raven was waltzing around the living room to some romantic song, drinking from her glass of rose, she heard a commotion from the apartment downstairs; Were Sherlock and John home? No clearly, it couldn't be them - The noise is too suspect. No way the lodgers of that flat would behave so... Uncouth. With a strike of bravery, she got her wooly slippers on - Even the slippers had a little heel - And went to investigate downstairs, holding the silk coat tighter to her body.

As she peeked inside the creaked-open door, she realised she knew the robbers. "Gregory Lestrade!" she marched inside the flat, clearly offended, seeing Lestrade casually lounging on the chair by the fireplace, whilst the whole team was searching through the house. "How dare you break into Sherlock's home! You may want to be looking for Jennifer's suitcase and figure out the mystery behind her death - But you cannot just -- You can't! You can't burst into someone's house like that! Nearly gave me a heart attack, yes, you did!" she scolded him, quite like a furious grandma. "I am so disappointed in you - Not quite the gentleman behaviour the British advertise so much!"

"Well, you see - We didn't break in, not technically. I'd call this a drug bust, instead." Greg replied simply. "Yes, I know - I knew Sherlock would find the case; I knew, clearly, by how well you two worked together, the case would progress quickly; But he hasn't updated me in the least, and I need answers - Answers that I'm here to get myself." he explained.

"So, you get the suitcase, and what?" the lady huffed, indignant. "Look around that luggage all you want - You'll never reach the logic of it by yourself, no matter how much you try..." her voice lowered softly in realisation. "And you know it." she stopped speaking for a few seconds, seeing the sardonic smile on his face. "You're here to pressure Sherlock into giving you the right answers."

"Right as always." Lestrade nodded his head. "And, just in time, I hear them also. Good! About time." he huffed, getting even more comfortable in that armchair.

"What, in the world, is this?!" Sherlock, freaked out at having the whole police squad sniffing his room for drugs, shouted at Lestrade. "It’s a drugs bust." came the nonchalant response. "Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!" John was warned by both Holmes and the bluenette, but he continued his baseless defense. "I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational." Sherlock, once again, tried to shut him up under his breath. "Yeah, but come on ... No!" he finally realised. "You?" "Shut up!" Sherlock snarked at his flatmat. "Anderson - You won't find drugs hiding inside the violin - It's too precious for him. Just put that down, you're staining it with your brainless-germs." Raven sneered at the dumb agent.  "What, An... Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock gasped, seeing that idiot's face. "Oh, I volunteered." Anderson smirked evilly at his opponent. "They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen." Lestrade explained casually, seeing the stress taking over the young detective. "Are these human eyes?" Donovan showed the jar, wearing a disgusted expression on her face. "Put those back!" Holmes snapped immediately. "They were in the microwave!" she cried out, but still placed them back. "It’s an experiment!" "Keep looking, guys." Lestrade ordered his agents.

"Enough!" Raven's voice, albeit still soft, managed to grab their attention. "That's enough! You're not pressuring him - You're pressuring me! You're pressuring John! And above all - You're pressuring Mrs. Hudson!" she protested. "You guys burst into this place, giving me a massive heart attack because I thought we had home-invaders, and I'm a lone, defenseless woman just upstairs! And now - I'm in a room full of idiots who are making me feel highly uncomfortable, and I am dressed like this! Have you people no shame at all for collateral victims?!" clearly, it was a way to went out; Truth be told, although her outfit was clearly standing out from everyone else, hardly anyone was focused enough on the newcomers, as they were more interested in finding clues to incriminate Public Enemy #1, Sherlock Holmes. "Can't you two just start cooperating with each other and stop this childish charade already? We're investigating a murder, not playing house!" "Fine." Greg grumbled, getting up from his seat. "Let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel. She's Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter." "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?" Sherlock interrogated the detective. "Never mind that. We found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath." Anderson simply HAD to speak again. "I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Holmes proudly admitted. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her." "She’s dead." "Excellent! How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be." not many people would call a child's death 'excellent'. What an eccentric man he is. "Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago." Greg explained a little further - He surely thought their lead was just as dead as this girl. "No, that’s ... that’s not right. How ... Why would she do that? Why?" Sherlock seemed to have so many unanswered questions in his head, all of them provoked by this unknown name. "Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath; I’m seeing it now." Anderson rolled his eyes, returning to his faux drug bust. "She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." so... Clearly, something stronger. Something going further than family ties, something that she'd use frequently, something of great importance to her...

"A password!" Raven exclaimed out of nowhere. "But from where..." her phone is at the killer, and she didn't have any other technology. Considering her media personality profession... She would need a more performant cellphone, perhaps? Something that would be good enough to use, instead of a laptop - It's easier to carry, cheaper, and you can do figuratively the same thing? So... A password... "We can figure out the phone's location! Smartphones have GPS!" she had her eureka moment, realising her phone was in her coat, and she tried to see how easily she could ping her own location - The answer was, very easy.

But her comment wasn't heard, as Sherlock was arguing around with everyone, and Mrs. Hudson just entered the flat to comment on what a mess the police did - And to tell Sherlock his taxi's arrived. "Marvelous!" Raven exclaimed, feeling her legs trembling softly. In an instant, she lunged to the laptop, accessing the smartphone GPS website whilst Sherlock was trying to make John think of what a dying person's last thoughts and words would be - And then, she went to the old lady, placing her hands on her shoulders. "Could you please do me a favour and tell Sherlock that I love my dog very much? After this loud mess ends - They're giving me a migraine, I wouldn't want you to be afflicted as well."

"Yes, of course, dearie, of course - But, what are you doing, dressed like this - Oh, it's all their fault, my poor girl!" the old lady exclaimed softly.

"I would be very appreciative, if you were to scold them about this. They deserve it, truly!" Raven kissed both her cheeks. "I have to catch that cab - Oh, right, maybe you should also tell that to Sherlock... Once he's calmed down a little."

"Darling, you can't -- Not dressed like that, surely -- It's not safe for a beautiful young lady like yourself -- At least get Sherlock with you!" the poor, worrying old woman tried to call out to the bluenette, but she was already bolted out of the block, and in front of the old man driver.  The night wind was cold on her skin, and she kept her silk coat tightly around her exposed body - Why the hell did she have to get face to face with a serial killer, while she's wearing a negligee?! That's simply disrespectful. These people have forgotten the old myths of British Etiquette!

Still, she smiled, trying to keep her flying hair in check. The old man was leaning back on the door of the black cab, his hands dug deep in his pockets. "Forgive me - I know you were expecting Sherlock Holmes. I am sorry to disappoint." she spoke with fake cordiality.

"Nothin' to be disappointed 'bout, Miss Black. You 'ave been noticed, just as well as Mr. 'olmes." he told her with courtesy. "You've got yourself a fan." came further. "I, also, 've seen your website - Work of art."

"Thank you. You are flattering me." Raven spoke suspiciously. "But you would have much rather preferred to have Sherlock here, instead of me, correct?"

"You, or Mr. 'olmes, it matters little for me. The both of you are the same - You are clever, and enjoy the thrill." the cabbie smirked for a split second. "Tell you what - If y'want, I'll just stay here, an' you can call the police, and I let 'em take me." he shared eye contact with her for a few very intense seconds. "But you won't do it, will you?" he pressed on. "You want to solve the puzzle, not do justice for the victims."

"You seem to have done your homework quite well." Raven retorted. "Or, perhaps, this fan of mine has been rather active."

The cabbie smiled, but spoke not another word on the matter; he opened the door to the backseat. "Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?" the girl smiled sardonically.

"I never killed nobody." he shook his head. "I talked to them - And then - They killed themselves." he affirmed serenely. "If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing - I will never tell you what I said." the girl couldn't help but gulp. Her sense of self-preservation was being taken over by her love for thrill and murder-mystery. She always did feel alive reading Agatha Christie's books - And now, she was living in one. "Surely, you want to know how those people died, don't you? That's what you truly care about - Not justice."

Without another word, Raven climbed in the backseat, eager, but also anxious and deathly afraid of the consequences of her actions. "Did you know who I was just because I came before you?"

"You stand out, Miss Black; Few ladies who dye their hair that-a-colour; And even fewer this clever." she nodded at that answer. It made perfect sense. It wasn't as if she was hiding herself - She had a blog, and surely, she must have posted a picture of herself there, on some occasion. Even she doesn't quite remember. Or, perhaps, this supposed fan of hers did his homework far better than she'd expected.

"You're not going to tell me more about this mysterious admirer, are you?" the man seemed to affirm her suspicions.

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Whilst Raven was silently analysing the subtle hints around the cab, Sherlock kept trying to think, and think, and ponder, but it was hardly helping. What was so special about a stillborn child, that Jennifer thought to painstakingly carve her name into the wood?

"Hey, Sherlock - When did you turn on the laptop?" John found himself asking.

"Laptop? I haven't turned it on, why would I---" looking at the opened website, his jaw dropped slightly. "Oh...!" he lunged for the suitcase, and attached to a tag, he saw Jennifer's e-mail account; He inserted it into the GPS-location finder, and than the password; "Rachel is the password." he watched with hollow eyes as the website kept struggling to find the location of Jennifer's phone, and then he recalled hearing Raven's voice, so low and delicate compared to the heated mess from earlier; No wonder no one even heard her. She said something - What did she say? Well, there was no one else who could have opened this website, clearly, so she must have figured out this thing.

Did she... Did she outsmart him? HIM? THE Sherlock Holmes himself?

Oh, what a woman, what a woman!

He turned around, ready to kiss her pretty smart head again, "Absolutely brilliant you are---" but she was nowhere in sight. "... Has anyone seen Raven? Where'd she gone?" everyone fumbled around, clueless.

"Oh, finally, you've all quietened down. Such a ruckus!" Mrs. Hudson returned to the flat.

"Mrs. Hudson, quick - Have you seen Raven?! She's disappeared, she--" Sherlock frantically grabbed the old woman's shoulders, quite literally mimicking the earlier behaviour of the forensics doctress, yet with a little more strength in his grip.

"Oh, yes, dearie, she took that cab." Sherlock's mind went blank. "I told her not to - Not dressed like that - Oh, but she was hurrying! I don't know where, but she was!"

"Did she say anything? Anything at all?!" Holmes voice was erratic - Why would she go in the clutches of a serial killer, willingly and weaponless?! Was she mad?! "Mrs. Hudson, that woman went in the cab of a serial killer - Anything she said might help us find her!"

"Oh, poor darling! You have to find her, Sherlock, you simply have!" the old woman exclaimed with worry. "She's told me to tell you that she took the cab - But only when you've finally calmed the waters around - Worried I would get a headache, you see? - And then, she said something else, though quite peculiar, I can't understand why she'd say that, but--"

"But what, Mrs. Hudson? Come on, tell me!" the curly haired detective tried to rush the old woman and her antics.

"She told me to tell you... That she loves her dog the most in this life! Is that some sort of riddle? A code?" everyone around frowned, pondering - Only Holmes knew, just as she anticipated.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. I'll bring her back safe. I know how to find her." he lunged for the laptop again, searched for her website and input the e-mail in the smartphone GPS-location tracker website, and the password was the name of her old darling - Fifi.

Coincidentally, the tracker for Jennifer's phone, and Raven's phone, were going to the same place: Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why there? Did it mean anything to the cabbie, or was it simply one of those good murder spots that only an inconspicuous taxi driver would know about?

Silly woman; Troubleseeker woman; Danger prone woman! Couldn't you just wait ten more minutes until I'd figure it out, Sherlock thought to himself; Not only was he pissed that the answer completely eluded him, but also, someone outsmarted him! He should have known! She warned him about a cab - He also had been on the lookout for a cab - So why the hell didn't he listen to Mrs. Hudson when she told him about that damn cab? Oh, if only he just listened, for once! But how could he? Lestrade's band of idiots were far too loud! Mrs. Hudson and Raven simply must make their voices heard!

Even he didn't believe that. There was nothing wrong with their voices - There was something wrong with him! If he can't even listen when it matters, what kind of genius detective is he? He wouldn't hear the end of it from Mycroft;  And what's worse - She's dressed like that! She doesn't always think much, does she? The thrill got the best of her - And how could he ever blame her, when he is just the same! How infuriating!

"I've got to save her!" was the last thing Sherlock exclaimed as he comically strode out of the flat, leaving people around think whatever they wanted to think. Still, with the website on, it wasn't difficult to understand the gist of it - Raven had been kidnapped by the serial killer, they had her location, and now they had to go rescue her. Clear as that!

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The cabbie stopped in front of this large building - It was a college, Raven knew, but her orientation skills were lacking far too hard to recognise it, simply by following the streets. The old man opened her door, gesturing for her to exit the taxi. "And you just walk your victims in? How? Manipulation? Blackmail?" the girl asked, only to find herself with a pistol raised to her face. "Oh, come on!" she rolled her eyes, and with a huff, she scurried out of the car, hugging her clothes closer to her vulnerable, petite body. The man led her to a large classroom, where they sat at the table, opposite of each other. She felt so uncomfortable, dressed in her sleeping clothes, more revealing than she was comfortable being seen; How very irritable, being out of the comfort and safety of her home - Outside, with a serial killer! Ridiculous. "So? what now? You said we were going to talk, and then I'll kill myself." Raven leaned back on the chair seat, looking down at the cabbie. "Go ahead. I am waiting."

Thus, the man took out two small glass bottles with screw tops, and put them on the table; Inside of each, there was a single, large capsule; One had a blue tint, and the other was more greenish. "You weren’t expecting that, were yer? Ooh, you’re going to love this." "Love what?" the girl sighed, evidently bored. "I haven't seen much yet."

"Raven Black! Look at you! ’Ere in the flesh." he exclaimed, apparently triumphant for getting her in that exact spot. "Are you sure you're not actually just disappointed it's not Sherlock here? I know - He's the smart, witty one, I get it - And that website of his, pretty clever, agree." she replied simply; If anything, she was hoping the man in cause had come to his senses and was on his way to save her already. She might be impulsively seeking for an answer to these murders, but she wasn't seeking imminent death! "Don't worry, dear. That fan of yours thinks you'd be the perfect bait for him. And that website of yours... He told me about it." the cabbie told her. "Not sure why my fan would think I'd be a great bait for Sherlock, provided that we barely met today." the girl frowned, confused at this supposition.

"Because you are both brilliant, that's why!" the man exclaimed, certain of himself. "You just had to meet, and it was sure you'd hit it off quite well! So did this fan of yours said - And so it happened." he chuckled dryly. "That website of yours - Nefarious Fascinations - Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting ’ere, why can’t people think? Don’t it make you mad? Why can’t people just think? The incompetence?" "So you made this string of suspicious murders to attract the police into calling both myself and Sherlock to investigate, and thus, meet; Was that your plan? Truly?" man seemed to be having fun. "You fancy yourself a genius? A proper thinker, then?"

"Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know." he seemed so certain of himself; He had such a creepy aura that it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Where was Sherlock when she needed him?

"Okay, two bottles. I've seen this in movies before. One of them is going to kill one of us, you take the other, to make me more excited and actually play this game of yours, and I have to choose the one I think is going to save me, correct? And you're supposed to know which is the good one." she explained, looking carefully at the cabbie. He wasn't that easy to analyse - That's what terminal illness does to you.

"Precisely. Very well, miss Black." great, now he praises her more. 

"Well, why should I? I can just leave the place and call the police." she explained, thinking of a strategy. Should she stall and pray Sherlock gets to her? Or should she come up with her theory and see if she's lucky? Most poisons don't take so little to act - By the time Sherlock gets there, he might be able to save her... Or something.

"I won’t cheat. It’s your choice. I’ll take whatever pill you don’t. Don't you want to see how great your instinct is? Or your deduction power?" she wasn't known for her deductions - That was Sherlock. She shouldn't be here; That supposed fan should know this, if he took so long to stalk her. She's smart, yes, but she will never come anywhere close to Sherlock - And definitely, she wouldn't bet her life on her making a correct deduction choice.

"So this is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice." stalling it was, then. Her only option, until help arrives; Although, there were quite some interesting things she's noticed about this man, his behaviour, and especially what was in the car. 

"And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game." Raven found herself huffing; Time to bluff, then. She was a theater kid, she knew how to play - And she's gonna play the hell out of this night.

"It’s not a game. It’s a gamble. Get it right." she snapped at him, rolling her eyes like a spoiled brat.

"I’ve played four times. I’m alive. It’s not chance, it’s chess. It’s a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... This ... Is the move." he talked to her with urgency.

"I've never been one to gamble, especially not for my life, for I know I'm considerably unlucky. Hence why this fan took interest in me as well, I suppose. Did he want me dead? Otherwise, I wouldn't quite understand why he chose me, of all people. I just have a website with forensics experiments - Sherlock is the one with the genius deduction skills." she tried to refute, but he wasn't dumb, clearly, he was quite the orator himself.

"But what do you think? Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one. You ready yet?Ready to play?" he was rushing her - Did he know help was on the way? He might be suspecting it by now. Was she out of time?

"Play what? It’s a fifty-fifty chance. Just a gamble. I don't like this one bit." Raven scoffed once again, shifting in her seat.

"You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?" the cabbie kept trying to play her, to make her get into his game; He tried to manipulate her perception of this supposed game. "Just luck." she declared plainly.

"Four people in a row? It’s not just chance." he tried to pose, but she was unbudged.

"Ultimate luck." she snapped once again.

"It’s genius. I know ’ow people think. I know ’ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my ’ead." he declared oh so brilliantly.

"Everyone’s so stupid – even you." what a bold declaration coming from someone's who's internally panicking out of her mind.

"Or maybe God just loves me." he seemed so confident in himself. "Don't use that Divine Providence rubbish with me. Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie. You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" he pushed one of the bottles towards her.

"Time to play."

"Oh, I am playing. This is my turn, so let me psychoanalyze you a bit. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear ,just so you know - So you live alone. Your wife left you, didn't she - And took those two kids with her. Is that why you kill? This fan of mine - He's your sponsor, isn't he? Can't imagine you're earning much by driving people around, so you retorted to becoming a hitman." Raven smirked at him. "I don't believe you were hired just to get me and Sherlock to meet - That's not the only reason; In fact, I think that was a bonus on your part, to entertain this sponsor. Must have paid your kids real good." she stopped speaking, but her empty smile grew wider. "You're dying. Terminally ill. Can die any moment. That's why you decided to act now - To provide for your children. You don't see them often, do you. Shame." she continued. "So, what is it? Cancer?"

The man smiled sardonically, tapping the side of his head. "Aneurysm. Right in 'ere. Any breath could be my last. That’s the most fun you can ’ave on an aneurysm." he declared boldly.

"I don't doubt you're having fun - But you're not doing it because you're dying; You're doing it because you love your children. You're a father - Of course your children are your soft spot." she looked into his eyes for a bit. "Jennifer was robbed of being a mother - Fourteen years ago, she gave birth, but the child was stillborn. To this day, her passwords are the name of her unborn child. Rachel." she smiled venomously. "Before she died, Jennifer scratched her daughter's name into the floorboards where you left her. She left the phone with you. She was clever - You killed a very clever woman, you see - She led us right to you. Gave us her GPS tracker to find her phone, knowing it would lead to you. That is worthy of praise, isn't it?" "Ohh. You are good, ain’t you? Yes, you are quite correct, she was clever indeed." he grinned for a split second. "I am poor, you are right - When I die, they won’t get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs. My sponsor was generous indeed. For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they’ll be. You see? It’s nicer than you think.You’re not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There’s others out there just like you, except you’re just a girl ... And they’re so much more than that." oh, new information she accidentally extracted! Marvelous! "More? An organisation?" she pried for more.

"There’s a name no-one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either." that was the finality of his willingness to speak. She's done for. "Now, enough chatter. Time to choose." granted, she's formed a theory in her mind, though she's frightened enough to put it in the motions. It was far-fetched, and she definitely wouldn't gamble her life on it - But, perhaps, it was the only thing she had. "What if I don’t choose either? I could just walk out of here. Or call the cops." at that moment, with a disappointed and cold look in his eyes, he took out the gun; He wasn't just done talking, he was also done waiting. "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no-one’s ever gone for that option." oh, what an interesting reaction. If no one's ever had the gun, perhaps... It's not even loaded? Could that be it? The way out of this mess?

"I'll have the gun." Raven said, seeing his eyes widening just a little bit. "It doesn't have any bullets in it, does it? Your demeanour changed when you mentioned it - That's the way out of this game. The pills are the game - The gun is the exit. Am I right?"

"Yes, you are quite correct." he chuckled like a tired old man. "You're much better than you realise, Miss Black." he praised, though it felt double-edged. "You see - You were quite correct indeed, for the previous victims, that is. All of them were faced with an ammo-less pistol." he took the magazine out, showing the loaded bullets. "You are an esteemed guest. I couldn't disrespect you by letting you go without playing the real game." that smile of his completely broke her defenses. She's done for, and there's no way out.

"Very well." she nodded her head, trying to keep her composure. "Okay." she looked at the table - The pill with the slightly blue granules was in the bottle in front of her; The slightly green one was in front of the man. There were two glasses of bottle on the table. "I will choose a pill - But you have to take it at the same time as me. Does that work? With a gun to my forehead, I won't back down. I will take it - But you owe me at least that courtesy, yes?"

"Fine. Be that way." at once, Raven slammed her head over the pill bottle; She forced her hands not to tremble as she unscrewed it and felt the pill in her hand, fiddling it with her fingers. Her other hand was gripping tightly the water glass, and she was staring intently at the man, who wasn't touching the water at all. Was that the sign? Was the water poisoned, and not the pills? It had to be that, right? "Are you quite sure with your choice, Miss Black? You can always change your mind, you know?" was he... Taunting her? "You're real clever - But are you clever enough to beat an old cabbie? Clever enough to bet your life?" he continued with his mocking remarks. "Or, perhaps... We should continue this stalling until Sherlock Holmes finally comes to your rescue, and defeats me? That's what you were waiting for, wasn't it? For your hero to save you - You're afraid for your life." he chuckled, playing with that pill. "You're bored out of your mind - But your life is more precious than the thrill of mystery? I wouldn't quite think so." he cocked the gun and pointed it towards her face. "Now."

In one swift move, both the cabbie and the bluenette threw those pills down their throat; Raven's eyes were watering, and her throat was hurting her; She's never taken a pill without water before, this was horrifyingly painful - She felt like she was choking, she wanted to claw her throat out so she could breathe. Her mouth felt too dry to even produce enough saliva to get that pill down properly--

But finally, after so much struggle, that blasted pill made its way down her throat, and into her stomach. "Are you satisfied now?" her voice was raw and whispery from the pain and lack of proper breathing.

"Quite so, Miss Black. You have proven worthy of your fan's attention." he answered - She couldn't help but wonder how the hell did he take so many pills with no water. It's agonising. 

"Then tell me his name. Surely, I deserve to know, after I've beaten this game, right?" the man chuckled, nodding his name.

"Now that you've beaten me, I'm a dead man anyway - It's the only thing I'll tell you." and thus he answered with a single name. 

"Moriarty"

 In that exact moment, two things happened simultaneously - Sherlock burst through the door, whilst John Watson shot the man in the chest; He didn't have time to plead or speak, for his aneurysm popped, and he died in an instant. Raven remained in her chair, spooked and startled out of her mind, but frozen on the spot. That was far too much adrenaline and stress falling down on her in a split second - She feels like she needs a long vacation afterwards.

"What the hell happened?" Sherlock frowned, looking at the dead cabbie, and at the girl; He noticed her being unresponsive, then the two untouched water glasses, and the empty glass bottles. "The pills - Did you take it? Did he force you to play his game?" she nodded her head. "Lestrade's outside with the ambulance, let's go -- We can still lavage the poison away with some activated coal, and--" before she could speak, the lady found herself being picked up bridal style; The change in scenery was enough to bring her back to earth.

"Oh! Hey! Don't surprise me like that!" her heart was still beating like crazy. "I've had enough for a while. Give me a second - I need to regain myself. My mind is all over the place." she spoke, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck.

"... Did you really just take poison?" she shook her head. "What happened in there."

"A lot." she coughed dryly, grimacing at the pain. "Don't worry. I haven't taken poison. I'm safe. I won." his eyes widened.

"You won!" she nodded. "Ha! I needn't come to your rescue - You rescued yourself! How quaint. So much for a British gentleman!" his dramatic speech, he knew, would ease her nerves. "But British ladies don't go running around London, in the middle of the night, wearing silk negligee."

"Well - Luckily, I'm not British." she chuckled weakly. "I didn't think this would exhaust me like this."

"Where from Europe are you? Definitely not North, West... Somewhere close to the Center-East, right? Your accent is soft, and you pronounce words carefully. You've been here for quite a few years though - You've developed a bit of a London accent." he pointed out, feeling her muscles slowly relax, bit by bit.

"Romanian." she affirmed. "And no, Raven is not my real name, but a nickname I've been having since early highschool days. Thought it would be easier for people to pronounce my name like that - Until I had the chance to legally change my real name, so an English equivalent." she explained it quite simply. "But don't mention it yet. I've just recently managed to get my papers done."

"Noted." the man smirked, smug to know his theories were correct. "I know a Chinese restaurant closeby. Opened till 2. Shall we? John's waiting."

"Yeah... Sounds good. Although..." she looked down at her outfit. "Awkward."

"I made sure to grab your coat before I left." that smile she offered him as he mentioned his attention to detail - What a lovely, yet tired smile she had. "How did it go?"

"The game? Well... Two pills, one blueish, the other greenish - Though I could have been fooled by the dim lights - And two glasses of water. Frankly - He had a gun; I was sure it was a fake, based on his changed demeanour - It was either getting shot, or taking the pill, so I thought the gun was fake - But I've never seen a gun in my life, so I couldn't tell. I just thought - Since he mentioned no one ever chose the gun, then perhaps, that was the safe bet." he nodded his head, encouraging for her to continue. "But he showed me the bullets - Said the other guns were fake, yes - But this one definitely wasn't, and thus, I had to play."

"How did you know what pill to take?" his professional curiosity was killing him.

"I... Didn't." she admitted.

"What?!" he was stupefied. Did this foolish girl gamble her life away, even if she wasn't sure she was right? Surely, he would never - He is always CERTAIN of his choices; His deduction skills are good enough to have confidence that he'd never die, were it to come to such a scenario. "What do you mean - You didn't know? You just said you weren't poisoned. How do you know?"

"Well... I kept insisting this is a game of chance, not of wits. He, however, said it's chess - So I started thinking a little further. What if it wasn't about the pills, but external factors? He couldn't win through bluffs four times in a row, if it was a coin flip, right? So... I figured out the variable - But I couldn't be sure it was the right one." she instinctively touched her neck.

"What was it?" Sherlock asked, unsure of why she was touching her neck.

"I swallowed the pill with no water." oh, of course, how silly! How simple! "I had him take the pill at the same time as me - As soon as I noticed he wasn't going to touch the water, I realised that was it - Or at least, so I thought. He confirmed me after my coughing fit stopped. You see, I've never taken a pill without water before. It's traumatising."

"So then - We could have tried him to court for serial murder." Sherlock pointed out, though his mind was still at this game. He would have figured it out - Right?

"Well... Possible not." she muttered softly. "He didn't die from the gunshot. His aneurysm popped." she continued, a little hesitant. "The two of us have been set up."

"What do you mean?" he frowned; Finally, they had arrived at the ambulance where the paramedic put an ugly orange shock blanket on her back. 

"Awful colour. I hate orange." she huffed. "The mastermind was a man called Moriarty. He... His organisation... They've been watching us. They've planned this string of murders, knowing we would eventually meet, due to our work circumstances - And that would make for a very amusing situation. This Moriarty was his sponsor - Paid his children for every murder he committed, and a bonus if he managed to get us to meet in person." she continued to explain the story. "And... He's been stalking us. He knows about us very well - The cabbie went as far as to call him our Fan, of all things. Whoever he is, he's done his homework on us very well."

"Moriarty, huh? Never heard of him." he patted her head, as if to stop the conversation; It wasn't a talk for a traumatised woman who wanted little to do with death-doors like that. She was petrified of what just happened; She gave him enough information to get him to investigate as much as possible from the next day onwards. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out." he threw away that blanket, replacing it with her elegant trench, even going as far as to button it up properly, so her nightwear wouldn't show off so much. "I'll talk Lestrade away - Play the shock card - Then we can get away. Sounds good?" she nodded, and he did just that; Shooed the detective away, under the pretense of speaking the next day.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around the lady's body, guiding her towards John Watson, who was now walking perfectly without his cane. He seemed genuinely sympathetic for what she'd been through - Needless to say, he saved her by shooting the cabbie. "Thank you for saving me, you two. I know it was a reckless call on my part."

"Reckless is an understatement." John chuckled, still a little under the effect of his bewilderment. "You climbed in the car of a serial killer - And you knew that! Why?"

"Because... No one was hearing me speak, and I was a little afraid we'd lose him." she explained, shifting a little awkwardly from leg to leg. "I did make sure Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock what was going on. Figured that, once things get a little calmer, either of you would figure out the GPS-thing and find us."

"Still... Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful. You must have been terrified." John clearly had all the emotional intelligence that Sherlock was lacking. "I couldn't have done it without the confidence I had in the two of you." she smiled gratefully at the two of them. "And... John? That was a fantastic shot. Thank you. It couldn't have been easy - Through two windows..." "Just need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case." he declared with a bit of mischief in his voice. "Are you all right? Both of you."

"You never feel more alive than when you're close to death." Raven found herself exhaling in relief. "Yes, of course I’m all right." came John's answer. "Well, you have just killed a man." Sherlock peered onto him. "Yes, I ...That’s true, innit? But he wasn’t a very nice man." spoken like a true war veteran. "No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?" the detective agreed with him. "And frankly a bloody awful cabbie. That’s true." John chimed back in.

"Oh, but he was a bad cabbie! I got even more lost than I already was, with all the lefts and rights he took!" Raven dramatically spoke out.   "Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!" John was barely capable of stifling his laughter. These two were such an adorable duo. "Fine, fine - Dinner?" they were all in agreement, only for Watson to stop dead in his tracks, gesturing towards the mysterious arch-enemy of Sherlock Holmes. As expected, he knew just who it was.

The man approached the trio, waving around his shut umbrella nonchalantly. He seemed like a confident man, almost mocking, yet still playful and... With a certain warmth towards Sherlock. Family member? "So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?" "What are you doing here?" Sherlock was rather hostile towards this very smiling man - Although, this smile was... Impassive. He seemed sort of... Unreachable, but also, quite friendly. A man of many faces. An enigma. "As ever, I’m concerned about you." for some reason, Raven actually believed him.

"Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’." is this some kind of heated sibling rivalry? Is Sherlock envious of this brother - An older brother? "Always so aggressive." they did share some theatrical traits. "Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" fascinating theory! "Oddly enough, no!" was it an ego thing?

"Forgive me for asking, Mister... Are you Sherlock's older brother? I sense a very strong, one-sided sibling rivalry going on." and to prove a point, Sherlock glared at her quite offended. "Mycroft Holmes." he introduced himself. "Yes, Miss Katrina, you are quite right - And yes, congratulations on your papers finally being accepted, took them long enough - Sherlock and I have more in common than he likes to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... And you know how it always upset Mummy." such a grown man, yet he speaks so sweetly of his mother - What a model!

"Aw! Your mother must be such a lovely lady!" she always did have a soft spot for good parents. She quite missed her own. "I upset her? Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft." Sherlock was on the offensive again. "No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?" John still couldn't believe that the so-called arch-enemy was, in fact, Sherlock's older brother. "Mother – Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock finally introduced the mystery man. "Putting on weight again?" what a low blow! "Losing it, in fact." Mycroft was proud of himself. "He’s your brother?!" poor Watson was flabbergast, perhaps, the most by this revelation, as opposed to everything else happening lately. "Of course he’s my brother." with the way he behaves, one could hardly guess. "So he’s not ... I dunno – Criminal mastermind?" John asked, looking between the two. "Close enough." the younger Holmes grumbled. "You two are quite adorable!" the bluenette chimed in.

"Glad to know this amuses you, Miss Katrina, but for goodness’ sake, Sherlock. I occupy a minor position in the British government." downplaying his underground role, just like a true politician. "He is the British government - When he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock was done with his brother. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." he started walking ahead, towards the Chinese restaurant, not wanting to have his night completely ruined by his sibling. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Mycroft." the girl smiled at him. "And I wouldn't take him too seriously - He's still a child at heart. Likes to play and all that."

"Wait, so, when - when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned?" the poor army doctor still couldn't grasp how insane their relationship was. Mycroft affirmed. "I mean, it actually is a childish feud?"

"You don't need to know Sherlock for more than a day to know that his ego is his biggest downfall. He's that kind of bratty younger sibling that always causes mischief -- But he's also the cutest." Mycroft let out a small chuckle at that affirmation; She's met him for less than a day, yet pin-pointed him so well. "He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners." both John and Raven - No, Katrina; She can officially call herself by her real name now - Both of them let out their own reactions, imagining a family dinner with these two around, trying not to blow up the Christmas tree! "I-I’d better, um ... Let's go, Raven." John shuffled awkwardly. "Good night."

"Don't worry about him, Mr. Mycroft. He's in good hands, I assure you." Katrina stole a glance at the doctor. "What Sherlock lacks in emotional intelligence, John has plenty. I'd say, there's no better flat mate for Sherlock, than John." she nodded, looking at the two men teasing each other in the distance. The younger Holmes' mood had brightened up as soon as the army doctor came by his side. "Have a lovely evening - And we will keep in touch. He... I am sure he will benefit from any person who genuinely cares about him. I don't suppose there's many." with one last smile, the lady turned around, waving carefree. "Adieu~!"

"Good night, Doctor Kat." with a little chuckle, Mycroft found himself using the nickname she's been using in the past; A nickname that had a nice ring to it. Clever woman, this one, and intuitive. Just what his foolish little brother needs to keep in check, perhaps. She was right - With Doctor Watson by his side, he's sure to be just fine... Or... The two of them might just make his younger brother worse than ever. By the time the lady caught up to the two men, they had already joked about the fortune cookie predictions, about his shoulder shot from Afghanistan, and more - Moriarty - Whoever that may be. They were adorable; Their conversations, their company, they were so pleasant and comfortable to be around - And the restaurant served great food indeed!

It was already 2 in the morning, and the employees kicked them out; It was time to retire for the night and finally sleep. Sherlock Holmes walked the lady up to her door, and made sure she was safe, at least here. "Keep your brilliant little brain safe, will you? Recklessly jumping into the car of a serial killer isn't quite the normalcy I expected from you." he chuckled lightly, before looking at her, a weirdly tender look in his gorgeous, gorgeous eyes. "You did good - But it's not worth, if you get killed."

"That only means you have to hear my voice when I accidentally have revelations, so you can go be the hero and play that dangerous, death-promising game without implicating me." she teased him back. "I don't get how you manage to deal with the thrill - Regardless - I and John will continue to support you through it all... Even with the whole Moriarty thing. Whether we like it or not, we're in this together."

"Finally, a reason to use this." he tapped the side of his head. "The game is on."

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YSL Sherlock Holmes Masterlist

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