Juliet Spencer sat quietly in the taxi on the way to her new address; 221c Baker Street. Moving to London had been an impromptu idea, not something she normally would've done. However, the situation back home in America had deteriorated from "rather shitty" to "entirely unbearable," and she needed out. Of course, she hadn't lived in America for years, but her parents had her (old) address, and they were nearing the topic of a visit, which was the last thing she wanted. If they figured out where she'd gone, she could simply say, "Oh, I'm sure I mentioned it! You must've forgotten, you're getting old. It happens." or something...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the cabbie's voice; "Miss? Miss, this is Baker Street."

"Oh! Thank you," she said. She handed the cabbie his pay and grabbed her suitcase.

She stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked up at the building. Well, here goes nothing.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. "Mrs. Hudson?"

The sweet lady came out of her kitchen and said, "Oh! I didn't realize you were coming today!"

"That's quite fine," Juliet said. She didn't blame her; people often forgot about her. Although to be fair, she wasn't very memorable.

"The flat's over this way." They walked through a hallway and Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "Here we are. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Juliet smiled. "Thank you." After the landlady had left, she sighed. The rooms were empty and she didn't have a lot of furniture. Yep, this was perfect. A few days later, her furniture arrived and she set it to her liking. The flat looked a lot better once it was stuffed with her books and art equipment. She set up a little corner where she could sketch, and that was where she spent most of her time. Unfortunately, she could also hear everything that happened in the flat above from that spot. Bad insulation.

She knew Mrs. Hudson had, potentially, rented out 221b, but she didn't know to whom. At least, she didn't know until the suicide/murders began.

~~~~

Three suicides that had happened exactly the same way. They were all over the news. She followed the case almost obsessively. At one point, she threw down the paper in frustration and honestly contemplated torching the whole damn room just to see those tiny little words burn, so they could feel the same frustration she was dealing with.

There was the job opening about a week or two before that. A forensic science technician with degrees in chemistry, biology, and forensic sciences, Juliet jumped on the opportunity. She'd had to quit her old job when she moved, which had upset her more than she'd expected, but hey! new city, new life, new job. No time for old friends and colleagues.

She still had their contact information saved, in case she needed someone to talk to, even though she'd ditched the old number – she wasn't taking any chances when it came to her parents. The less those two knew about her, the better.

It was her first month on the job, working under a man named Philip Anderson. He was a bit of a jackass, but he was at least patient as she learned the ropes. She wasn't used to working with Scotland Yard, or big-city crime, and all the regulations that came with it. Not that there was anything wrong with regulations, but she really enjoyed showing up to work in a t-shirt and jeans. It wasn't like people typically saw what she was wearing - what good did the damn dress code do anyway?!

But getting a call to haul ass to Lauriston Gardens wiped any irritation she'd ever had with these people out of her mind. "It's another suicide," Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade said over the phone, "Anderson said you could use some time out in the field."

"I'm on my way." Without another word, she was rushing out the door. She was so preoccupied she didn't see Mrs. Hudson walking down the hallway until it was too late. Juliet took the fall to save the older lady from the dreaded floor, knocking over the small hall table in the process.

"Oh! Juliet, are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson said, trying to help her to her feet. "Where on earth are you rushing off to so quickly?"

"Lestrade called. Gotta go. Bye!" She practically ripped the door open, only to nearly crash into a man walking down the sidewalk. "Oh, sorry! Excuse me," she said quickly, maneuvering around him. She threw her coat on as she hailed a cab. "Brixton," she said to cabby, "Lauriston Gardens. Quick!"

~~~~

Sherlock Holmes knocked at the door to 221b Baker Street, content with how the day was going. Potential flatshare, surprisingly nice weather, and that feeling he always had before a particularly interesting case. Nothing better.

Mrs. Hudson's small frame opened the door and smiled brightly. "Sherlock, hello!" She pulled the younger man into a brief hug before glancing at his friend curiously.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson," he said, introducing the aforementioned potential flatmate.

"Hello," she said cheerfully.

"How d'you do," John replied kindly.

Mrs. Hudson stepped aside to allow them to come in. "Come in," she said, ushering the pair inside.

Sherlock glanced around the little entrance way, noting a table had fallen over. "Your table fell," he pointed out.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Hudson said. "I've started leaving it like that. When Juliet leaves, she's always a tad bit excited."

"Juliet?" John asked, wondering if she was a perhaps friend of the landlady's. Sherlock hadn't mentioned any neighbors.

"Yes," she said, "I think you might like her, Sherlock."

He nodded, smiling tightly. He doubted it - very much. "Shall we?" he asked, gesturing up the stairs.

John nodded, trying in vain to keep up with Sherlock's long legs as he practically bounded up the stairs. Politely, Sherlock waited up for him, allowing John to get a first look at the flat.

"Well," he said. "This could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes, my thoughts precisely." Sherlock looked around the flat happily. "So I went ahead and moved in-"

"- As soon as we get all this rubbish cleared out," John said simultaneously.

Sherlock paused, glancing around once more as he realized the mess of papers and such. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well obviously, I can, um, straighten things up a bit." He half-heartedly started rearranging his possessions, tossing some papers into a file, stabbing a few unopened letters to the mantelpiece.

John had been watching him, looking around at the flat. He lifted his cane, pointing at the skull on the mantelpiece. "That's a skull."

Sherlock glanced at it, so used to its presence, he'd almost forgotten it was there. "Friend of mine," he said, blurting out the first response that came to mind. "When I say 'friend'..."

As Mrs. Hudson got him settled, and made some rather awkward insinuations Sherlock chose to ignore as he tidied, John plopped himself down in one of the armchairs. "I looked you up on the internet last night," he said.

Sherlock couldn't help the little spurt of pride. "Anything interesting?" he asked, already knowing what he was going to say next.

"I found your website." Completely accurate! "The Science of Deduction."

He smiled proudly, very happy with that website. "What did you think?"

John gave him a look he hadn't expected to see, a sort of 'are you kidding me?' look. Sherlock frowned, a little hurt. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," he said skeptically, his body language conveying the same emotion.

Rather ticked, Sherlock replied, "Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John shot back without missing a beat.

That was the question he'd been waiting for. Sherlock only grinned and turned away, letting John stew in his juices.

Mrs. Hudson, with perfect timing as always, emerged from the kitchen with a newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three, exactly the same," she said, not watching the man's expression as the sound of a car pulling up to the curb drew his attention to the window.

A police car, the flashing lights blinking on the front of the building. "Four," he replied, "There's been fourth. And there's something different this time." His voice was pensive, calm and collected, but his mind was rushing about in several different directions at once, jumping from possibility to possibility, calculating the probability of each. He whirled around to face the door as Detective Inspector Lestrade bounded up the stairs, out of breath.

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"Where?" Sherlock asked, his tone sharpening to match the urgency of the situation.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade said, trying to catch his breath.

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock subconsciously waved away several theories that were trying to line up in his mind. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how the never leave notes?"

"Yeah." Of course he knew. He was familiar with all aspects of the case. Mrs. Hudson was right, it was right up his alley.

He nodded, acknowledging his reply. "This one did."

"Who's on forensics?" he asked, not wanting to miss this. But if it was-

"It's Anderson."

He frowned. It always had to be Anderson when the case looked especially interesting. "No good. He won't work with me."

Lestrade looked ready to slap himself upside the head. "And Spencer."

"Spencer?" Sherlock asked sharply. "New hire?"

"Yeah, you'll get along swell," he replied sarcastically. He was clearly impatient, anxious to get back to his crime scene. "Will you come?"

Might as well let him, Sherlock thought. There was no way he would ever miss something like this, even Lestrade could tell that. "Not in a police car," Sherlock said dismissively. "I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," Lestrade said gratefully, nodding to Mrs. Hudson and John before hurrying back down the narrow staircase.

The instant the front door closed, Sherlock dropped his composure. He jumped victoriously, twirling around the room. "Brilliant!" he exclaimed, excited, "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He snatched up his coat and scarf, as he hurried to the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food-"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she interrupted, clearly very used to saying this.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock continued as if she hadn't spoken. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" And he was gone in a whoosh of dark fabric.

At the base of the stairs, ready to bound out the door, Sherlock heard something that made him pause; "Damn my leg!" John's voice echoed through the building, an instinctive and angry response from a man who still wasn't sure how to live in a civilian world.

Climbing the stairs, Sherlock had a brilliant idea. Pausing at the landing Sherlock debated how to go about this. "You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor," he said to John, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Yes," John replied, standing. His tone indicated a question, a sort of 'So what?'

Sherlock waited by the doorway, carefully watching the shorter man. "Any good?"

"Very good." The response was immediate.

Careful to watch what he said, Sherlock said, "Seen a lot of injuries, then – violent deaths."

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," he continued.

"Of course, yes," John replied quietly, shuffling his feet. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Sherlock refused to let himself grin. "Want to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

~~~~

The scratchy sound of the radio half-startled Juliet as she finished working through the crime scene. "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

She hopped to her feet as she finished cataloging the last bag of evidence she'd found. She peered into the room with the body once more, taking in every aspect of the scene. The woman – Jennifer Wilson – was dressed in a shocking shade of pink, sprawled out on the floor. She apparently keeled over when ingesting the poison she'd used to end her life, but Jennifer Wilson had decided to do something with her final moments on this earth: she carved the letters R-A-C-H-E into the floorboards. Her fingernails were broken and cracked from the effort, but she clearly wanted to make those letters permanent.

"Spencer!" Anderson called from somewhere below.

"Coming!" she called, meeting him on the stairs. As she made her way down, she passed Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, who was accompanied by two men she'd never seen before; an older man, who walked with a slight limp, and a taller one, whose eyes were cold enough to send shivers down Juliet's spine. That was not a man you pissed off, not if you valued your life.

Anderson pulled his latex gloves off and turned to Juliet as she walked down the last stairs. He stared.

Immediately she knew something was wrong. "What?"

"You didn't bring the bags down," he said, as if it were obvious.

"You didn't tell me to," she replied with the same tone.

He scowled. When she didn't move except to raise an eyebrow, he said, "Well?"

"Oh, you want me to go get them?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, exasperated.

She huffed. "It'll take me a few trips. There're a lot of bags." She grinned cheekily, "Now, if you come with me..." She chuckled as he scowled at her. Moments later, Juliet was back at the crime scene, with Anderson in tow.

She frowned when the door was open. "I swear I just closed this." She glanced inside to see Lestrade and his two compatriots. "Hey!" Two of three turned to stare at her, while the third, who was kneeling by the body, ignored her. "Anybody gonna fill me in?" she demanded, gesturing at the odd pair walking all over her crime scene.

Lestrade looked like he was going to say something, but the cold-eyed man with the long coat suddenly stood and drew his attention away. "Got anything?"

"Not much," the man replied.

"She's German." Juliet jumped as Anderson's voice suddenly popped up behind her. She glared at him as he continued speaking. "'Rache.' It's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something-"

"Oh, come off it!" Juliet interrupted, exasperated. "It's not an angry German revenge message."

"Yes, thank you for your input," Coat Man said, engrossed in his phone. He slammed the door, shutting Anderson and Juliet out of the investigation.

"I think it's supposed to be 'Rachel'," she said, continuing as if she hadn't been interrupted.

"Why would she write 'Rachel'?" he demanded.

"Why would she write an angry revenge note in German?" she shot back.

Anderson scoffed. "If she knew she was being killed, and she knew the killer-"

"If that were the case, wouldn't she just write his name?" she asked, giving him a look.

He scowled once again, not wanting to admit that she had a point. "Just help me with these."

Victorious, she grinned, picking up several baggies. As they were transporting them down the several flights of stairs, Juliet couldn't help wondering what was going on behind the closed door. "What do you think they're doing?" she asked Anderson, nodding up the stairs as she pulled off the coveralls.

"Who knows," he replied. "With Sherlock Holmes, you can only guess."

"That's Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, aghast. She'd heard stories about the consulting detective, none of them very flattering. Everyone at Scotland Yard had heard talk of the rude, but clever man.

Anderson chuckled. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know," she replied thoughtfully. "But not that."

She pulled off the latex gloves on her hands, tossing them into the waste container. She glanced upward again, not really paying attention to what she was doing. "Well, I think you've got this covered then. I'm clocking out-"

The door above slammed open, and Coat Man – apparently Sherlock Holmes – ran down the stairs, the coat billowing behind him. "Suitcase!" he shouted urgently, "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" He rushed about, barreling through the officers.

"Sherlock, there was no case," Lestrade called from the top of the staircase, clearly continuing a previous conversation.

"But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them!" he replied earnestly. He was tense, on edge, almost worried. Maybe excited was a better word, Juliet pondered.

"Right, yeah, thanks," Lestrade shot back, too tired to get offended. "And...?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." He held his hands up in delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to," he muttered, his mind racing at speeds the others probably couldn't comprehend.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade demanded. It was annoying enough to watch as Sherlock unraveled the mystery on his own, or found the missing link in a case with a single glance, but when he acted as though he was the only person capable of thinking, it crossed into the land of 'This man is seriously pissing me off, and if he doesn't stop, someone will put a bullet in his head.'

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case," he shouted, not bothering to check his tone.

Juliet was resisting the urge to shove the condescending ass over the banister as he continued acting better than the rest of them.

"Then the killer must have driven her here, and forgot the case was in the car," he muttered to himself. Anyone watching could practically see the neurons in his brain firing left and right, trying to make sense of the situation.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," the older man who accompanied him said, calling down from the landing where the body lay.

Sherlock dismissed him with barely a nod. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." His voice trailed off as he realized what he'd just said. Colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes... Colour-coordinates... That horrendous shade of pink... "Oh..." he breathed, the last puzzle pieces falling into place. "Oh!"

Juliet gasped as she came to the same conclusion. The suitcase was pink!

"Serial killers are always hard," Sherlock muttered gleefully, "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade exclaimed. What on earth was he thinking?! People were dying! This wasn't some sort of game!

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock replied victoriously, "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah," Lestrade called after him, "But what mistake?!"

"PINK!" Sherlock bellowed, vanishing out the door and racing into the street. In a split-second's decision, Juliet snatched up her coat and ran after him.