The Blonde

A Nice Murder

Sherlock stalked down the street with no destination in mind. He was trying to put as much distance between himself and 221B as possible, mainly because after walking out and slamming the door of the flat he shared with John he'd found himself walking down the basement steps. It was as if something in his subconscious was drawing him to her door. He'd stopped, halfway down, realized what he was doing and immediately turned around and walked out the front door. Gas leak. There has to be a gas leak. It was the only thing that made sense because he, Sherlock Holmes, most certainly did not fancy anyone, let alone the blonde living in the flat below theirs.

A woman who didn't even belong there. A woman who had given him a story that he would've laughed at before shooting off a scathing remark and walking out, but that hadn't happened. She told him the impossible and he believed her. More than that he…admired her…she was loyal and selfless like John and clever. More clever than…He shook himself. What the hell is wrong with me?

A murder. That's what I need. Yes, a nice murder or a serial killer…something to get his mind off thoughts best left to ordinary people who were used to all those bloody feelings and other…things. At that moment his phone chimed. He pulled it out and read the name. Lestrade. He smiled as he answered.

"Lestrade," he greeted.

"Sherlock. I need you down at the morgue," the inspector said.

"Murder?" he asked, with a hopeful lilt to his voice.

"I wasn't sure at first, but that's what it looks like."

"I'm on my way."

Sherlock hung up, sporting a wide grin. Murder! Just what the doctor…or the detective in this case, ordered. He typed a message to John.

Morgue.

-SH

He slid his phone into his pocket and hailed the nearest cab. After climbing into the back, closing the door, and then instructing the driver, his mobile chimed. He pulled it out and read John's message.

On my way.

-JW

Good. Nothing straightened out nonsense like a murder. There wouldn't be any of that rubbish about feelings and who fancied whom when they were trying to sort out a case and the only people working this case would be him and John. Ms. Tyler was clever, but it would be best to put some distance between them.

Besides she needed time to adjust to a new…world. He shook his head. Ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. He couldn't tell anyone…well, perhaps John, eventually. Mycroft would have him in the state hospital, something he was sure his brother would be pleased about. That way he could keep an eye on Sherlock.

The cab pulled up beside the hospital. Sherlock paid the driver before climbing out. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he walked inside. If he was lucky this murder would keep him tied up for a few hours and if he was very lucky it would be the beginning of a serial killing spree, but he knew that was almost too much to hope for. Serial killers were few and far between. Ah, well, at least it was a murder.

"On your own?" Lestrade asked as the detective strode into the morgue.

"John's on his way," Sherlock said, crossing the room to the table the inspector was standing next to.

There was a sheet covering the body. He noted Molly standing on the other side of the table and gave her a nod of recognition.

"His sister's not with him, is she?" Lestrade asked.

Molly shot him a questioning glance, but he ignored it.

"No, Ms. Tyler won't be joining us," Sherlock said, pulling back the sheet.

Animal attack. He pulled his magnifying glass out and began examining the wounds. Deep lacerations. Canines. Approximately two inches. Large dog?

"Ms. Tyler? I thought John's last name was Watson."

"It is."

Dog attack? Why had Lestrade called him in on a dog attack?

"But if she's not married why does she have a different last name?"

Sherlock snapped his magnifying glass shut and shoving it in his pocket. "Why are you wasting my time with this?"

"Rude," a woman chastised.

Sherlock's eyes darted to the door that Rose walked through, followed by John. What the hell was she doing there? He asked John to come, not her. How the hell was he supposed to distance himself from her if she was going to be popping up at his crime scenes?

"What are you doing here?" he shot.

"John and I were having a cuppa when he got your message," she replied.

He turned his piercing gaze on John.

"I couldn't just leave her there, could I? That would've been rude."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course he had to bring her along and it had nothing to do with his ludicrous assumption that the detective had feelings for her. Sherlock had no choice. He'd have to put his foot down. Tell her to leave.

"I really wouldn't…" Lestrade began, but Rose had walked past them to take a look at the body.

"That's…" she trailed off staring at the top half of the corpse…or what was left of it.

Sherlock hastily crossed the room and pulled the sheet over the body. John was by her side in the next moment.

"Are you alright?" his friend asked.

"Yes…I…" She tore her gaze from the sheet. "I'm fine. Really. I just…wasn't expecting that." She indicated the sheet.

There was something in her voice, not now, but those first few words. She definitely wasn't fine. He observed her. She wasn't shaking. Her body didn't betray any hint of fear, but her eyes…

"Hello," Molly said, stepping into the room with a plastic bag that must contain the dead woman's clothes. She was staring intently at…Rose.

When did she leave? She'd been standing on the other side of the table and now…Sherlock pushed the question aside. Obviously she'd gone to collect the woman's things when he was examining the body. Lestrade must have sent her off to fetch them or she knew he'd want to take a look at them.

"Who're you?" Molly continued.

"Oh, sorry, Molly," John said. "This is Rose. Rose Tyler. She's a friend." He turned to Rose. "This is Molly Hooper."

"Hi, Molly," Rose said, giving the woman a smile as they shook hands.

And just like that the fear was gone. As if she turned off a switch. People didn't do that, did they? Well, other people.

"Wait. I thought she was your sister?" Lestrade asked.

"You prat," Rose said, slapping John's arm.

Sherlock raised his brow.

"Oi, what'd I do?" John asked, grabbing his arm.

"You were the one who wanted to play the joke on him in the first place and now you've spoiled it."

She was covering for them. He smiled and then shook it off a moment later.

"Joke?"

"Telling your flatmate that I was your sister to see if he could deduce who I really was. Honestly, John, you've really got to stop staying out all night."

"Oh. Right. That," John said, finally catching on.

"You let me believe she was your sister to play a joke on Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

The detective watched the foray for a few minutes and decided he better put an end to it if he was going to get any work done.

"You could've ended the charade days ago. Within the first hour I'd already deduced that she was an old friend, secondary school I'd say, but you haven't seen her since before the service. You reconnected a few days ago after she moved to town."

He took the bag from Molly and walked over to one of the counters then he sat it down, took off his coat and pulled on a pair of gloves.

"If you already deduced all that then why didn't you say anything?" Rose asked walking over to stand next to him as he began pulling out the clothes.

"I wanted to find out how long John could keep it up," Sherlock said, continuing with their ruse.

She handed him a pair of tweezers that were sitting on the counter and then retrieved a Petri dish from another counter. Animal hair. He began collecting hair samples with the tweezers and adding them to the dish she was holding.

"Come on," she said, bumping him lightly with her shoulder, not enough to impede his evidence collecting, just enough to let him know she was having fun with the game. He glanced at her, returning that distracting smile she was giving him. "You were keeping him on the hook."

"John should know better than to try to trick me," he replied, turning back to the evidence gathering. "It doesn't work."

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