childish wonder, volume one, a study in pink:

AKA. Rosalie finds a dead body, again
'or better yet, trip over a knife'

Rosalie Brook had a thing for appearing in places where she shouldn't. Her foster parents were beyond careless, barely raising a brow when she'd disappear for days on end. Her foster parents were in it for the money and she wasn't blind to such information.

And on this lucky day, Rosalie was greeted with the sight of a dead woman dressed in pink. How delightful!

She knew how she was supposed to react —in a mess of tears and fear— but the girl just sighed. This wasn't her first encounter with death, she was starting to believe Death haunted her, screwing with her.

The girl walked out of the abandoned house, finding anyone and borrowed their phone to call for help.

Like any innocent person, Rosalie sat outside the house, waiting for the police — or whoever feels like dealing with this situation.

She put on a few tears, huddling her body close. For a fourteen-year-old, she was pretty good at acting.

An orange blanket had been forced around her shoulders, much to her disappointment. Orange was not her colour. But their backs were turned and her lighter was out. So the child did the only acceptable thing, she set the corner on fire.

Realising she couldn't control her quickly growing fire the girl dropped the blanket to the damp floor and stomped on it as much as possible. It went out.

She was rather bored —to say the least. People were so boring, so ignorant and she just had to deal with it. The thing was, Rosalie Brook wasn't one for boredom, she often grew impatient and prone to temptation.

So, to distract her mind the young girl plucked at the orange blanket, waiting for attention. Any attention.

Surely she was a suspect. She could easily prove she wasn't, but she found the body and here she was showing no emotion and seemingly bored out of her mind — as if dead bodies were just nothing to worry about. They weren't, everything and everyone died.

Rosalie didn't fear death. What was she to lose? Her life? Boohoo. But she did fear having an ordinary life, an unhappy marriage, having children, divorce, a lack of happiness — nice happiness not her intense happiness. Don't get her wrong, Rosalie wasn't a happy-go-lucky kind of girl, but she wasn't completely detached, she still yearned for happiness and comfort, she just couldn't find it.

She looked up as a man stood in the doorway watching a curly-haired bloke and his blond —friend? Companion? Pet? — the two men were stood talking to a curly-haired lady.

"Do you always hover?" She asked, staring blankly in front of her.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you always hover?" She asked, flicking a lighter on and off. She liked to watch the small flame dance. "I mean no offence — well actually, maybe I do? It's rather annoying, your face, your affair, you in general, the hovering. Maybe you should get a hobby, I hear being faithful to your partner is an excellent hobby, am I right to assume your wife? Of course, I am, no respectable gay man would snoop so low to like you — so, your wife is a way for a while, short or long, the choice is hers if I were her I'd stay away for as long as possible." Rosalie said, she turned to look at the man. "And am I right to assume it's with her, Sally?"

"Wh— who? What?"

Rosalie let out an obnoxious sigh. "Maybe you should talk to your wife, or better yet trip over a knife, hm?"

"You are one mean girl, Rosalie."

"Yes. Yes, I've been told, that's nothing new. It's assumed I picked it up from my father, well at least that's what my mother use to say, I guess we'll never know, she's dead now." She shrugged. "I see why Lestrade keeps me away from you. You are boring and, well I have no nice way to say this, you are stupid, honestly do the world a favour and become an internet freak with silly theories about the lizard people, the Queen, the king, and random singers. Mum used to say if I had nothing nice to say not to say it, but she's not here to hear, so." She shrugged. She relit the flame on her lighter as the man reached to confiscate it.

He snapped his hand away, it was burned and painfully so.

She turned her body to him completely as she pocketed her lighter. "Back off or I'll hurt you." She told him, her voice empty and off-putting.

The man moved from where he stood behind the girl and over to the gate. She had been previously told to move away, but she had said how moving would only make her feel worse. An excellent lie followed with her biting the man that had tried to move her. They ended up leaving her alone.

She watched curiously as the man she burned had moved to interact with the curly-haired man (Sherlock Holmes, they had interacted a few times when Greg had needed extra assistance and knew his associates wouldn't accept the word of a child) and his associate.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

Anderson. A perfect name for a man she couldn't stand. She always did hate him. Him as his stupid boring face.

The only man on the team she knew was Lestrade and that was only because he was the only one she would interact with on the many times she had stumbled upon a body, and over a couple of years, they grew close.

Anderson tried to make his body seem larger, pushing dominance, it caused the fourteen-year-old to snicker. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated." He said snidely. "Are we clear on that?"

She looked between him and the two other men.

"Quite clear." The curly-haired one said. "And is your wife away for long."

A bright grin spread on the child's face as she tilted her head and leaned forward.

"Don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

Rosalie rushed over, shoving her lighter in her loose-fitting jeans — as grateful as she was that her foster parents had brought her clothes, she was rather annoyed they were too big, making the jeans awkward.

"Sorry, I'd like to give my evidence first, you know ladies first and I did tell him of his affair, first and let's be real, Sherlock, I'm the cooler one."

The three men looked at her. Anderson glared at her, the blond in curiosity and the curly one approving of her demand.

"Go ahead, Rosalie," Sherlock said, looking at the teenager.

Sherlock had witnessed many of her deductions — and he had to note whilst her evidence a good few of the times was strange, she still got pretty close with details.

"Lovely. Let's start with the basics, huh? Ring." She points at Anderson's finger. "No ring." She pointed at the curly-haired woman. "Also the indents and red marks of your ring being twisted off your finger, I believe I don't want to know the exact details as to why you'd have to take it off. Also, the lipstick stain on your collar, faded but not enough. She knows of your wife, so I can only assume it was very, very uh, very hand usage. Yeah? No! Hands... very hands-on-board, if you will. Is that the saying? Actually, don't answer that, I don't care." She stared down at her hands as they moved with each word.

"Then there's the change in breath, acceleration of a heartbeat can say a lot about a person, their feelings or their health, maybe your dying? Improbable, but never impossible. Rather yours gave the feeling of l... not love. The other one." Her head tilted for a second, clicking one of her fingers. "Lust! You still lust over her. I mean, she's pretty but you're married. You know, unfaithful men are more likely to die at the hands of their lover than someone who isn't a prick?" She smiled brightly at the man, her fingers moving to fidget with the necklace she wore daily.

"Let's also not forget the flush of pink that can upon your face, not from the cold but from seeing her. Also, you know, if you're going to cheat switch up your scent, leaves for less evidence, silly."

"You're making that up."

"Please, I'm simply a genius." Rosalie shrugged. "They say I got it from my father, I don't remember him though, he left when I was a baby and my mother was killed a couple of years back. Wait, no she left me, then died." She tilted her head, blowing away some of her hair. "Sorry, trauma dumping, makes for terrible conversation . . . unless you're a therapist, and you're not."

Rosalie didn't stick around for long as she turned, pulled her lighter out and began to walk back towards the house. She lit the flame, and watched it dance before killing it.

The fourteen-year-old walked straight into the house, slipping the lighter in her pocket and going off to find Lestrade.

"Rosalie, I've told you before—"

"Right. Yet, I'm still going to go up there." She pointed out. "And I will not put on one of those hideous things, I found the body, I have already seen it, I am unbothered, Lestrade, so by all means it makes no sense why I shouldn't go in there."

"You are fourteen years old, Rosalie, we aren't having this argument today." Lestrade cut her off. The child muttered something under her breath as she continued to stand there, arms crossed as she glared at him. "The agreement was that I'd let you come to the station during the day after school as long as you stayed off crime scenes. You're fourteen, Rosalie, whilst you might not think it will affect you, it will."

Still stubborn, the girl stood pouting at him before moving to sit on the table, her legs swinging back and forth. "Right. Yeah, I'm sorry." She blinked, tilting her head in wonder. "Is that the word I'm looking for?"

"Rosalie, you don't need to apologise."

The teenager hummed, kicking her legs back and forth as she stared at the man in curiosity. "Will you take me home on the way back to the station? I'd walk but the football is on tonight so men are rowdier and I walk down alleyways."

"Go wait in the car, and give me your lighter please."

Rosalie smirked at the man, handing him her metal lighter before hopping off the table and making her way out and into one of the police cars.

Rosalie had known Greg Lestrade since she was around twelve years old. He was most definitely her favourite person and someone she relied on more than she'd like to admit.