221B Baker St.

HSBC Holdings

"... Sherlock?" I asked as we rode along the busy London streets. He hummed in awareness. "What is it that you do, exactly?"

"I'm a consulting detective, only one of its kind, I created the title. When the police need assistance, which is always, they come to me."

I stared at him. He stared back. "So, your profession is made up? Didn't expect that..."

He scoffed. "Its not made up; its simply unique." 

"Right."

We lapsed into a steady silence. The snow was proving to be quite a traffic hazard, a couple blocks were at a standstill. I shivered. I did not like London in the winter, that was for sure.

After a good ten minutes we got off, and I followed Sherlock past lines of caution tape and through crowds of police. I was feeling incredibly self conscious, since the presence of Sherlock and I seemed to draw a considerable amount of attention. Unwanted attention on my part, but I couldn't tell if Sherlock felt the same. He sauntered ahead confidently, and I couldn't help but follow along in his shadow. He lead me straight into the building without even checking if I was following him. What a funny guy.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" A man in blue sanitary garb noticed our unorthodox arrival. I accidentally let out a squeak and slid close next to Sherlock. He sighed before turning around to face the man.

"Anderson," he greeted Anderson coldly.

"Why are you 'ere?" Anderson crossed his arms and put on a commanding expression. 

"Lestrade called, said he required my presence," Sherlock stated wearily as he grabbed my arm and pulled me up the stairs after him. I had to bite my tongue to keep from giggling at Anderson's disposition. Poor guy.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, and I bumped into his back. He sent me a quick withering look before addressing the man before us. "Where's the body?" 

The tall man with graying hair rolled his dark eyes. "Upstairs. Who's she?"

"'She' can introduce herself," Sherlock muttered as he pushed past the man. "She's with me, don't throw her out."

I sighed before shaking the man's hand. "I'm Ivy Arthur, Sherlock's flat mate."

He smiled at me. "I'm Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector."

I grinned back. "It's nice to meet you, Greg. I think I should be going, Sherlock probably needs to be supervised."

He laughed. "Well, good luck with that. See you around, Ms. Arthur."

I sent him one last smile before starting up the stairs, only to bump into Sherlock again. "Have a nice chat?" He challenged.

"Yes," I said irritably.

He snorted. "Come along, Ivy."

I followed him up the stairs and past room after room, until finally reaching the top floor, which was crowded with people. As soon as they noticed Sherlock, they scowled, but left the room regardless.

After they all cleared out, Sherlock stood next to the body. "What do you observe?"

I stared at him for a pointed second before turning my attention to the body. "Male, late thirties. Irish..." I move my attention to his collar. Bruises.

I stepped back. "He lives here in London. Probably works for HSBC Holdings." I turned and looked at Sherlock. "How's that? And I'm sure you already know how he died."

Sherlock nodded. "I would like to hear it from you though."

I sigh. "Well, there are bruises on his neck. That could signify suffocation or being hung, but since there's no where to be hung from in this room, I assume it was the former."

Sherlock's neutral expression changed into a small smile. "Not bad."

Just then Lestrade came in. "Found anything, you two?"

"He angered someone at his job, HSBC Holdings," Sherlock stated. "Look into that, and connect it from there. Will you be needing me any further?"

Greg gaped at him for a moment before sighing. "No, but I will call you if I do."

"Excellent," Sherlock lead me out past Greg. 

"See you around Greg," I said warmly. He grinned at me, but Sherlock slammed the door in his face. I glared at his as he pulled me down the stairs. "What the bloody hell was that for?"

"He likes you. Don't lead him on."

"Excuse me?" I demanded, pulling me arm free of his grasp.

Sherlock let out an irritated sound as he lifted the caution tape for me. "You're a smart girl, you know what I said." 

I unwillingly blushed as the cab pulled up. "Thanks...?"

His mouth pressed into a thin line as he slid into the cab. "221B Baker St."

A short while later, I was walking up the stairs to our flat, rather chagrined. Sherlock hasn't said a word to me since we were at the crime scene. He shrugged his coat off and went straight to his desk. 

I sighed before heading to the kitchen. "Sherlock, what do you want for lunch?"

Silence. I huffed in annoyance. "Are you hungry Sherlock?"

Still he said nothing, so I stalked out into the living room. He was starring intently at some papers in his hand. I walked over to him and poked his shoulder. "Sherlock Holmes! Do you want food or not?"

He looked up slowly, a look of almost amusement upon his pale features. "Sorry, what did you say, Ivy?"

I stared at him, both of us about to bust, me with annoyance, him with laughter. "Food."

He set his papers down, and crossed his arms. "Food: any nourishing substance that is eaten, drunk, or otherwise taken into the body to sustain life, provide energy, or promote growth. What about it?"

"Do you want any," I said tightly.

"Oh," he sighed, chewing on his lower lip. "Yes, would be marvelous."

He went back to his papers. I sighed again. "What kind of food, Sherlock?"

"Whatever you're having," he waved his hand dismissively. 

"'K," I murmured. "Oh... Sherlock?"

"What, Ivy?," he sighed, looking up from his papers a second time.

"Can you take me to the supermarket?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't think either of us are going to eat the head."