At Luigi's, Sherlock stops in the doorway to gaze around.... literally like a kid in a candy store. When he looks over at me, I catch a fleeting glimpse of what I associate to be his please-please-please-let's-go-look-so-I-can-be-better-than-you face. Kinda like the please-please-please-let-me-have-a-bag-of-jelly-beans face. The police had cleared out long ago, though the caution tape stretched everywhere.

"First we're going to investigate the crime scene, and see what we can pull from there."

"Of course." I answer shortly, resting my hand against the back of a nearby chair. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, however, I had no intention of going back in the kitchen. I already had everything I needed from there. Sherlock locks his hands behind his back and looks at me expectantly.

"Well? What did you pull?"

"Pull?" I ask. I wasn't playing stupid; I seriously didn't know. He massages the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated.

"Yes, pull!" He says, his tone agitated. "You were here last night! You had the file from the office and everything! What did you get last night?!"

I smirk. "Why would I tell you?"

"Because I'm the only one with a hunch as to who the killer is. Well, a proper one.... considering you most likely have one as well."

"Of course I do." I say indifferently.

"All right, bloody out with it then." He leans up against a table and gestures for me to continue.

I lean forward, interlacing my delicate fingers before me. "A producer."

Sherlock sits back, pulling himself up onto the table. "A producer? Why didn't I see it before? Because it's totally, one-hundred percent wrong! W-R-O-N-G; wrong." He acts as though he is blown away, but continues mocking.

"What a bloody prat. Of course it isn't just the producer," I think to myself. "Naturally, someone either put him up to it or they had a good reason to be bribed with...."

I raise my eyebrows. "And your thought?"

Sherlock merely shakes his head. "I need proof before I convict."

"Bloody prat."

"Oh no," I say, moving closer and placing my hand on Sherlock's table. "It wasn't just the producer." I suddenly place all my weight on the table, and it flips, seating Sherlock on the ground. I whisk myself up the stairs to the manager's office without so much as a backward glance.

"No need to get so harsh...." Sherlock says as he rubs his lower back and races up the stairs after me, two steps at a time.

I burst through the frosted door and found that everything had either been removed or switched around. The main furniture was there, like the desk, but every file, book, and scrap of paper had been removed. "Well crap."

Sherlock pulls a miniature finger print swab kit from his coat and tosses it to me, grabbing a pair of gloves from his other pocket along with a couple evidence bags. "Dust for prints."

I sigh grudgingly and begin the process, scouring walls and the door. Each sample is put in a plastic bag and he stores them in his pocket.

I continue this process for some time, placing the tools wherever I think might be a logical place.

"Why am I always the one stuck doing this?" I mumble, positive he can't hear me, because the last time I had seen Sherlock he was several paces behind me.

"I heard that," a deep voice whispers in my ear. Thank goodness for him, I usually have nerves of steel.

Usually.

But no, he lucked out tonight. Instead of being calm and collected as usual, I whirled around, my forearm catching him in the gut, then whipping around to catch his own arm and pin it behind his back. After taking a short breath, I slam him into the wall and release him, walking to the other side of the room to investigate as if nothing happened.

He wheezes and I can see him fighting to regain his breath. I must've knocked the wind out of him. Meh, oh well. He's got too much hot air anyways. After several seconds of gulping air and coughing, he cocks his head at me.

"What was that for?"

I shrug. "I don't like it when people do that." I say simply.

"You couldn't have just told me that?" he almost yells at me.

"Ummm.... no." I say, placing extra pronunciation on the word "no."

Sherlock tries hard to glower, but I can tell that a smile is slowly tilting the corners of his lips.

Sherlock follows me around for a while longer, (even though he stays a good deal behind me,) taking the swabs and putting them into the evidence bags, still searching the room for anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly, he speaks. "And who, might I ask, do you think was the accomplice?"

"I need proof before I convict."

Sherlock half scoffed and half smirked. "Do you enjoy bringing up old lines?"

"Of course!" I say, a smile sneaking its way onto my face. "I also enjoy beating you up."

"Of course." He answers dismissively. I am about to retort when something in the door handle's lock catches my eye.

"Oh my word Sherlock," I half-whisper, pointing to the door. "Look."

"My word?" he copies indignantly.

I cross the plush floor, completely ignoring him, to the keyhole and extract a slip of note paper, rolled up into a delicate scroll. I quickly unroll it, and nearly drop the paper in astonishment mixed with a fleeting sense of fear.

Inscribed on the piece was a picture of a yellow skittle.

Sherlock sweeps past me, swiping the paper from my hands and inspecting every angle of it.

"Here," I say, thrusting the print kit forward. "dust for prints."

Sherlock sends me a nasty glare, and without taking his eyes from me, he takes a brush from the case and swabs it.

"Thank you very much." I say, taking the paper from his hand and slipping it into the very same pocket as the file.

He grits his teeth and glares even harder at me.... If that's possible....

"You enjoy taking my toys from me, don't you?"

"Well, it isn't exactly hard," I say, suddenly very interested in the wall.

"Wall catch your fancy, Ms. Jackson?" He asks with an irritated and slightly hasty tone. I decide to try and be amusing, so I walk up and begin to pet the wall.

"I love this wall, it's my best friend." I say. "If I had friends that is...." I can't keep the wistful tone from my last few words however as I stroke the wall.

"Odd infatuation...." Sherlock says, cocking his head and studying the wall. Suddenly, as I am stroking, my fingers find a bit of a bump in the wall that clicks when slight pressure is applied.

"Strange," I murmur, and beckon for Sherlock to come closer. "Come here."

He walks closer and pushes me away from the wall, feeling around.

"Jerk," I mutter angrily. "Now you're taking my toys. And don't tell me it's too easy either!" I add hastily.

"Well, it isn't exactly hard." He mocks me.

"Oh, you just shut up." I say, pushing him back out of the way and pressing my ear to the wall near the button. A thought suddenly strikes me, and I pull out the file, examining the page. I snap it out of the way when Sherlock attempts to take it from me.

"Oh no you don't." I scold, and peer at the top left hand corner. Inscribed is a number.

"Six," I mutter, and feel the wall again until my fingers find the button. I press it six times, and a compartment about the size of my fist opens up.

Inside is a brass key.

Sherlock picks up the key and takes it over to the desk, turning on the lamp to see it in the light.

"What do you think?" I ask curiously, peering over his shoulder. "And please, no snide remark this time."

"Well, I'm not sure what to make of it.... It's not very old, considering the lack of rust.... so no pirate treasure." He smirks, but doesn't look at me.

"Too bad," I say, smiling to myself. "But, perhaps it is old: it was kept in a safe, so I don't think the rust would get to it as much."

"It was put there recently.... The compartment was made of certain material that forms to the object, it wasn't deep enough to be in there for long."

I sigh. "So do you think it might have been out there by the same person who left the sketch?"

"Possible," Sherlock muses.

"I think I know who that might be." I say, beginning to pace the room.

"Well, we still haven't found any evidence as to whether my hunch is correct, so sharing it is still not going to happen."

"Naturally." I say quietly. So quietly, I'm not even sure he heard.

"Naturally...." He says absently. I'm not sure whether he's mocking me or not, so I give him a questioning glance, but he's too busy studying the key and does not notice.

I shake my head and sigh. "You're not a very kind person, are you?"

"Kind?" He scoffs. "I've never been referred to as a kind or even decent human being.... Not that I care what other people think of me, that's their fault."

"This is true." I say softly. "That happens to me all the time." But my voice soon hardens. "Screw them all."

"You seem to care what Anthoni thinks." He looks up slightly, looking for a reaction, then looks back at the key.

I shake my head. "And just what sort of reaction to you expect me to give you? I don't care what anyone thinks, particularly her. Of course, that started with my father's abuse...." I trail off abruptly, unaware of what I had been saying until it had been said.

"And you think I care why?"

I straighten and my eyes shimmer slightly in reminiscence and anger and hatred for a man I had once called "father," but I hide it quickly. "I know you don't. But I just hate it when you get unbearably spiteful; you remind me too much of him." I spit out the last word, and before I can get to the point where he'll never let me live it down, I stride out of the office room and into the hallway, where I sit on the top step to wait. Two minutes later Sherlock breezes past me, gripping my arm and hauling me along after him.

"Leaving!" He says as we rush out the door.

As I am pulled along the paved sidewalks of New York by Sherlock, I make no attempt to resist. I didn't know why; it just seemed as if all the fight had gone from me.

"Where are we going now?" I ask tiredly.

Once again, he doesn't answer directly, especially when a subject seems as if it'll get uncomfortable for him. Instead, he says, "Phone." and lets me go. "Check the phone!"

I rub my wrist where he had gripped it so tightly. "Geez, you might've left me some circulation you know."

Sherlock laughs shortly. "I didn't know if you'd kick me where it counts or not."

I scoff. "With all you've done, I'd say you deserve it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and starts off down the street, with me just a step behind him. "Check my phone." He says, and I crease my forehead.

"Why'd you let me go? I'm faster than you; I could get away."

Sherlock spins around and walks right up to me. "Ah, but we both know you don't want to do that, now don't we? You'll stick around because you're curious. Now, take my phone." He hurtles off down the street.

"You've got two bloody hands. Check it yourself!"

Sherlock shakes his head. "There's a text from John. Read it."

I sigh, and he slows his pace just enough so that I am right beside him. I reach into his left pocket and pull out his phone, flipping it open and bringing up the recent messages.

However, before I have time to read them, Sherlock attempts to call a taxi.

I say "attempt" because he failed. Miserably.

"Cab!" He yelled at the yellow vehicles, but none stop.

I smirk and move to stand beside him once more, holding my right arm high and screaming, "Taxi!!"

A yellow cab pulls over almost immediately, and with one last fleeting grin at Sherlock, I slide in with him just behind me.

It's blatantly easy to tell that he's embarrassed. He keeps fidgeting with his coat collar, but I decide to say nothing about it and stare out the window, saying nothing with my head propped up against the window. I figure this is the perfect time to look at the texts, since Sherlock isn't in the mood for talking, so I press the power button on the phone and the screen lights up, revealing two messages.

To: Sherlock
From: John Watson

Can't hold off the police much longer. Come ASAP.
JW

The second read

To: Sherlock
From: John Watson

Oh, and we found out who the killer is.
JW

I look up from the screen and hand the phone silently to Sherlock, who takes it without a word or glance at me. I go back to staring out the window.

"Where to for you couple?" The cabbie asks.

"Couple? We are not." Sherlock states, and both of our expressions are horrified.

"Well, I just assumed that.... well, your clothes and all...."

I looked down at my attire. It's true, Sherlock and I certainly did dress quite similar. Long black boots. Black trench coat. Blue scarf. Yeah, I guess someone could make that mistake.

"New York Memorial." Sherlock says bluntly to the cabbie, and that indicates end-of-conversation, for which I'm am grateful. (Don't tell him I said that.) We speed off down the road, taking such bloody sharp turns that Sherlock and I are bouncing around in the backseat, barely hanging on.

But soon the traffic becomes congested, and Sherlock pays the nosy driver, hopping out and running the rest of the way, which is about three blocks. I sigh and roll my eyes, opening the cab door and bolting after Sherlock, soon overtaking him and running off in the direction if the monument.

Suddenly, as I'm running, my phone rings in my pocket. I slide the whatever-it's-called and answer, not pausing in my quick pace. "What?" I pant.

Anthoni's weak voice comes from the receiver. "Savanna, please.... Just stop...."

"No chance! Sherlock'll catch me!"

Anthoni seems to grow irritated and her voice becomes strained. "Savanna! Just listen to me, for once! I'm not making this out alive! We both know that! Hell, even Sherlock knows and he hasn't even told you, I see. John can get out, and that'll satisfy Sherlock, but I'm not coming out of this...." Her voice has seemed to calm down since her little yelling spasm, and she chuckles a little. "....alive, at least."

I finally make it to the Memorial and stop, sitting on a stone bench and waiting for Sherlock to catch up. "You will." I say shortly, masking the desperation I felt, and I hang up.

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A/N

Well okay then! Interesting chapter then.... Haha. It's your turn Animalsandadjectives !!!