─ tiny dancer, s.h.

i. Murder.

3rd Person

The dreary, boring day in London was about to get a whole lot more exciting, as the murderer crept up the stairs of the Central London Dance Studio, getting ready to make a move on what would be his latest victim, and Sherlock's new case. What made things even better, was that the murderer was experienced in his movements and actions, meaning more of a challenge for Sherlock and John.

Making small, quiet movements through the darkened halls, the only source of light being the moon and some flickering street lamps coming through the ceiling-high windows, the murderer spotted the dancer through the small window in the door, and smiled to himself. 'Just where I thought she would be. Let's see how she likes this shiny blade against her throat' he thought to himself. You could tell that this man wasn't right in the head, just by the fact that he was smiling at the thought of slitting her throat. But then again, isn't every murderer?

He was watching her, like a predator watching it's prey, with eagle eyes, her form, her features. Everything that was making him want to slit her pretty little throat even more. In his head, he basically thought she was asking for it. 'And i'm sure the world wouldn't miss one more lanky body from their streets. After all, i'm only here to avenge Lucy. This is the last person. Then, the world will have balance once more'.

Getting his timings right, he waited until she was faced away from the door so she wouldn't be able to see him, he quickly but quietly pulled open the door and stepped into the sweat-strewn room. The dancer kept her back to him, drinking her water and stretching slowly, making the murderer's job very, very easy. Making sure his boots didn't squeak on the sheet vinyl underneath him, he stepped lightly across the room, still eyeing up the petite figure, now in front of him.

One swipe. That was all it took for her to drop to the floor, a pool of blood starting to form underneath her. His work was done.

╰☆╮

Greg was sitting at his desk, his legs up on the surface and a chocolate donut in his hand. This was a usual stance to find him in, especially when there was nothing to do. The room was quiet, although you could hear the hustle and bustle through the glass walls and doors of the rest of the police force working on different cases.

As Greg went to take a bite out of his donut, Donovan opened the door, poked her head into the room, and said, "Sir, we've got a murder, Central London Dance studios. And I hate to say this, but I think you might want to bring freak in. We can't find any evidence, anywhere."

"What do you mean? There has to be something. There can't just be nothing."

"Exactly what I said. But I went down there myself just now, and they can't find anything. No fingerprints, no material, no footprints, no DNA, nothing." Donovan said, annoyed that they were going to have to bring him in. Even though she didn't want to admit it, she knew that if anyone could find any single piece of evidence, it would be him. Just because she hated him, didn't mean that he wasn't good at his job.

"Right...okay, well I'll go and get the boys and I'll meet you there. Who was it?" Lestrade asked.

"Lydia Morover, a dancer at the studio, her throat was slit, no CCTV, but we have a couple of potential suspects. I'll update you at the crime scene."

"Okay, thank you." She started to walk out, but Lestrade quickly stopped her, "Oh, and Donovan?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Please keep your insults to yourself. You know Sherlock is still having a hard time with Mary's death, and I don't think either him nor John would appreciate the jabs that you were no doubt going to make." Lestrade warned her. Obviously Donovan didn't like this, but Lestrade was her boss, so she had to do what he said.

Nobody knew exactly what Donovan's problem with Sherlock was, but it all started on the second case that Sherlock worked with the police on. A few words were exchanged when he arrived between himself and Donovan, but all that came of it was her stomping away and him left there with a smug and amused look on his face.

*Flashback*

Sherlock approached the sanctuary, flashing lights surrounding the building, and reflecting off his face. As he approached and ducked under the yellow tape, he was stopped by a woman with brown curly hair. He didn't think much of her, accept for the fact that she was trying to impress him, by the extra lipgloss she had on, and the way she subtly batted her eyelashes at him before speaking.

"Hey. I heard you were the new detective around here." Sherlock knew what she was going to ask, but he let her go on anyway.

"Consulting detective, actually." Sherlock tried to seem as cold as possible. 'Maybe that will put her off' he thought.

"What? Oh right yeah sorry. I'm Sergeant Sally Donovan. Anyway, I was just wondering if you'd like to go out for a drink sometime. I would say as friends, but we all know how that turns out, so why bother pretending?" She asked, twirling a curly lock of her hair around her left index finger.

He bent down slightly, so that they were at equal eye level, and discreetly said, "I would, but I don't think your boyfriend, nor the officer over there," Sherlock pointed to a uniformed officer that was stood watching the pair with hawk eyes, "would be too happy with that. I think you have plenty of things to be getting on with, don't you?" With a smug smile on his face, he watched Donovan turn on her heel, and strut away from the coat clad detective.

From that moment, on, she would never forget how Sherlock made her feel. Usually, he would feel the slightest tinge of guilt when he acted like that towards someone, but she was the exception. She had it coming, and she brought it upon herself.

*Present day*

Greg finished his donut, grabbed his keys, gun and wallet, and made his way outside, getting into his car and speeding all the way to his destination. He just hoped that the man he was about to visit could help him with this case.

╰☆╮

As he pulled up to 221B Baker Street, he already knew that Sherlock would know he was there, so he ran inside, and while ascending the stairs, quickly greeted Mrs Hudson. Reaching the first floor, Greg was quick to burst through the door, knowing it would make no difference if he knocked or not.

"Gavin, i've told you, if it's below a seven, I don't want it." Sherlock sat in his chair, looking bored as ever.

"Come on, please...It's a murder, and there's no evidence. Not any that we can find, anyway." It was at these words that Sherlock decided this case was worthy of his deductions, so he gave in.

"Fine, i'll be over in ten minutes. Where did you say it was again?"

"Central London Dance Studio." Greg said, before remembering what Donovan had texted him on his way over. "The woman was working, presumably dancing, considering what she was wearing, late last night, and was murdered." Greg informed the Consulting Detective.

"Good, you're getting better at this George. Keep up the good work." To this, the D.I. rolled his eyes, now used to the brunettes antics. He still hoped that one day, he might actually hear 'Greg' come from his mouth. But that was wishful thinking.

As they were walking out the door, John patted Greg's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm sure he knows your actual name, I think he's just being a bit stubborn."

To which the detective inspector replied, "Oh trust me, I know."