- c h a p t e r   t w e l v e -

Emma arrived at the scene, the yellow police tape immediately putting her off. There was something within her that kept telling her that she wasn't meant to be there. All she really wanted to do was leave, and she had just barely arrived. But where else could she go? She didn't want to go back home, not with the mold and the bugs. After what had happened with Leon, she didn't have much of an appetite either.

What was in front of her was decidedly interesting, after all. Her father had apparently killed someone within London, and now she was going to see it up close and personal. She had already seen a torso being baked, what difference would a dead body make now?

Now that she had convinced herself to go forwards, she only had one obstacle left. Well, it was more of a collection of obstacles that were all related. There were police cars and the people who had traveled in them everywhere. She wasn't sure she'd be able to get in to begin with. Then, of course, the yellow police tape provided a border to show her where she couldn't step in.

John and Sherlock had to be around there somewhere. The latter had been the one to text her about it in the first place, anyways. He wouldn't have alerted her to it if he hadn't thought that Emma would come...would he? She began to struggle with trying to figure out the detective's thought process, something that everyone had trouble with.

As her eyes nervously flicked around, they finally landed on two familiar black coats and a flash of blue around the taller one's neck. She had found them. A slight smile on her face, she started making her way through to them. She stopped right as she ran into the yellow tape, unsure if she should proceed. In a quick burst of bravery, she lifted it and walked through.

"Emma," John said, as she approached. He gave her a smile, but Sherlock's face remained unchanged. It was like everything they had spoken about the previous night had never happened. She just tried to ignore it and carry forwards.

"Hello, John," she said. "Sherlock." She stood there for a second, bouncing on her heels.

"So who'd my father kill now?" Emma said. She held her coat around herself in a rather defensive manner, feeling a bit off after her conversation with Leon. Maybe this could serve as a distraction from her life. That was all she ever really needed, anyways, a good distraction.

"Francesca Sutton," Sherlock replied, as if somehow that was supposed to explain something. He looked over to the nearby building and continued. "Middle aged woman, just out of a divorce. It's your typical murder, shot in close range, gun found nearby. Neighbors heard the sound and reported it."

"Typical murder," Emma murmured beneath her breath. With a shake of her head, she gave a sigh. "And they think my father was the one to kill her?"

"Would I have asked you to come here if they didn't think such a thing?" Sherlock said. He was definitely back to his rude ways.

Trying to ignore this, she now moved her conversation to John. "Are they considering anyone else? I mean, are they sure it's my father?"

"The ex-husband was the first suspect, of course," John said, tilting his head slightly. "He had motivation, just getting a divorce and all. But now it seems like that's not the case. Apparently all of the evidence is matching up to Russell Newman."

"How do they know it was my father, anyways?" she said, pursing her lips slightly and turning to John.

"Well, I assume they use DNA tests. Fingerprinting, that sort of thing," he responded.

"Didn't this just happen?" Emma said, shocked that they were able to get everything together so quickly.

"Actually, it's been a couple of days," John said.

Emma still found herself confused. "Then what are all the police still doing here?"

"Looking for evidence," he said. "Obviously it couldn't have been a dead man rising from the grave to kill these people, so they're looking for what actually happened."

"But...they used DNA tests," Emma said. "Those are supposed to be really accurate, yeah?"

John nodded, saying, "As far as I know, they're pinpoint accurate as long as no one makes a mistake."

"It just doesn't make sense," Emma said. "My dad is dead! He was murdered! He's not going around in London like some mindless killer. He's not a zombie!"

"That's why we're trying so hard to figure everything out," John said with a sigh. "It's been rather difficult for everyone." He leaned in closer to her to add in one more thing. "Even Sherlock is having problems."

That was enough to make her laugh. But Sherlock had noticed their somewhat suspicious behavior and had turned to face them. Soon Emma found that her happiness was fleeting away to her previous problems.

"I really don't get this!" Emma exclaimed. "This whole crime scene just doesn't make sense."

"It makes complete and utter sense. You're just too dull to see it," Sherlock said, sick of her complaints.

"Thank you," she said with sarcasm dripping off like syrup, trying to put up some sort of defense against his negative comments. Even if she displayed herself in a good way on the outside, she was crumbling within. It would only be a matter of time before everything just collapsed on itself.

"You know," Emma said, turning back to John. She was learning that she might as well only talk to him. The former army doctor was normal, and that made him kinder. "He was being almost nice last night."

"Yeah, what happened then?" John said, crossing his arms. After clearing his throat and letting out an awkward cough, he said, "I mean, I untied you and then just sort of left you there. I was a bit busy. Sorry about that."

"No, no, I was fine," she said, opening up her eyes wide. "Not a problem. Just had a bit of a shock before."

John nodded, but he realised that Emma hadn't answered his question. It was like something had happened between her and Sherlock and they had made a pact not to talk about it. But his curiosity was killing him. He wasn't sure how to get the information without seeming nosy. Maybe there just wasn't a way to do it.

Sherlock was walking away, not even looking back to see if John was coming. He just assumed that his blogger would tag along. Of course, he was always right about that. But at the moment, he was having a bit of trouble with Emma. She had crossed her arms and planted her feet right into the ground. She wasn't going anywhere.

"I give up," she said, throwing up her arms. "I'm just going to go home and talk to Madison. See you some other time. This isn't worth it."

"No, no," John said, grabbing onto her arm. "You could be helpful here."

"Me, helpful?" Emma said, raising her eyebrows. "After what Sherlock's been saying, I don't think that's even a possibility."

"Look," John said. "Sherlock acts that way around everyone. It's just how he is."

"So he's just naturally an asshole," Emma said, nodding her head. "I see."

"That's not what I meant," John replied, shaking his head slightly. "I mean, he insults me all the time." He put a gentle hand on Emma's arm to comfort her, but she shook it off.

"I highly doubt that. Fine, I'll stay. But not with you two."

John gave a sigh, but he went ahead and began walking away. "Some other time, then?"

"Yes," she said. "Next time, not at a crime scene!" Her eyes tracked John as he went over to Sherlock. When the consulting detective turned around, his gaze met hers. Almost immediately, she found herself fuming up. But in embarrassment, she also began looking towards the ground.

She couldn't stop thinking about how she had sketched him, how she had pages of drawings of his face. It was like she was some teenager lusting over a celebrity, except she loathed him. Everything had been fine for a few hours, but then it had fallen apart all over again.

Giving a sigh, she pulled her coat tighter in around her. She had just stopped to stand right where she was, surveying everything around her. Perhaps if she didn't start walking around by herself she wouldn't mess anything up. That was her biggest fear, that she would end up causing a major problem because she stepped on some precious evidence or something of the sort.

"Newman!" a voice called out from behind her. Emma squeezed her eyes shut. The people back at New Scotland Yard had started using her last name as if it were her first, which she personally didn't enjoy. They seemed to think it was rather clever, being that she was the newest member of the team and her last name was "Newman." But of course, there was one of her coworkers who liked using the name more so than the others.

She turned around with a forced smile. "Hello, Anderson."

"Newman, what are you doing at a crime scene?" Anderson said.

"Well," she replied, crossing her arms. "What are you doing here?"

"I work in forensics," he said, shaking his head. "You work in the front of the office. I have a reason to be here, you do not."

"Actually, and you should be aware of this, my father was the one who committed this crime so I do have a reason to be here."

"Your dead father," Anderson said. "Your dead father killed Francesca Sutton?"

"Apparently," Emma replied with a shrug. "You work in forensics, shouldn't you know this sort of thing?"

"Well, I knew that the tests had all matched up to Russell Newman so far," he replied.

"And you didn't think that it might be my father? I thought everyone in New Scotland Yard was all over the fact my dead father has been going out on killing sprees."

Anderson creased his eyebrows. "Obviously you don't actually talk to or listen to anyone back at Scotland Yard, because your life isn't exactly the focus of our conversations. That, and your father has only killed two people."

"So far." She couldn't wait for Anderson to just stop pestering her. At that point, even Sherlock coming to her would be a blessing.

Of course, she had jinxed herself. She heard the familiar voice coming to her side.

"Anderson, stop ruining Emma's intellegence. It's not like she had very much to begin with."

"Oh, look who it is," Anderson replied. "I suppose you've already solved the case, then?"

Instead of answering this question, Sherlock shut Anderson out of the conversation entirely. "Emma, you've got a text."

He handed her a phone. Her phone. "Sherlock, why do you have my mobile? I didn't leave it at 221B, I know that much," she said. The text message she had recieved at her lunch with Leon had been her salvation in getting her out of that situation. She hadn't forgotten that.

With a scoff, Anderson walked away. He wasn't interested in whatever was going on between the two of them and her mobile.

"Simple," Sherlock replied. "I took it from you when you weren't paying attention. It's very easy as long as you know what you're doing."

"Great," Emma said. "That's just great." Instead of carrying on with the subject of Sherlock pickpocketing her, she read the message she had recieved. Her heart seized when she saw it was from Leon.

Good job at lunch today. Hope my tongue doesn't accidentally slip. Your secret might just come rolling out. Maybe if you make amends I can be very careful so that's not the case.

"He's bloody blackmailing me, isn't he?" Emma exclaimed. She forcefully shut the phone and then placed it back into her pocket.

"It appears that way," Sherlock replied.

"Well, I'm guessing you're just dying to know what my big secret is," Emma said, injecting poison into her words whenever she had the chance.

"Of course not," Sherlock said. "I already know what it is, of course."

Emma felt a strong urge to say, "How could you possibly know?" but she knew that it would only get her deeper into the problem. "What is it, then?" she said instead, placing her hands on her hips.

"It's that you were a prostitute," Sherlock said, his voice flat as always. "Leon has first hand knowledge of it as well."

Almost immediately, it felt like the world around her had started close in. She felt her breath catch in her throat as she tried to speak again. "I'm not...I'm not a prostitute..." Emma said, her voice coming out as more of a wisp that a real noise. But there was doubt all over her voice.

"I'm not saying you're one now," Sherlock said, seemingly completely unaware of the emotional distress he was causing, just as always. "Just that you were."

"I'm not. I wasn't. I mean...I slept with my cello teacher Leon once," Emma said, her voice now beginning to become steady despite her inner turmoil. "Actually, more than once. But, you know, it's just that-"

"Carry on with the important part of this story," Sherlock said, interrupting her to set her back on track. He had learned that if he didn't do anything of that sort then Emma would end up finding ways to keep talking and talking and talking. There wasn't time for that, and it would only make her feel worse about everything.

"It wasn't for money, it was more of a trade. I mean, I was eighteen and he was in his twenties. We weren't that far apart. It's not-"

"I'm not blaming you of anything."

"You aren't? Well, it didn't seem that way when you called me a prostitute!"

"Explain why you were not and are not a prostitute, then."

Emma swallowed, blinking away the tears that had come to her eyes. "It was more of a trade. Free cello lessons. You know."

"Which makes you technically a prostitute."

"What, do you know the textbook definition of prostitute?" Emma said, putting her hands on her hips. She was frantically searching for any way for her to get herself out of this label.

"One who accepts payments for sexual acts," Sherlock said, his voice droning on like a robot.

"Oh, great," Emma said, throwing up her hands into the air. Her efforts had completely failed. "Now I just have another person to call me a slut. A whore. A bitch. A...A..." All of the terrible things people had said to her just started rushing to her head. "I'm not!" she finally exclaimed.

Emma's head was spinning in a way that it hadn't for years and years. Everything swirling around was thoughts and memories of things she didn't want in her mind. It was like nothing could go right for her this day. First Leon, then her father rising up to murder this Francesca Sutton, then this.

"I'm not. I'm not! I'm not!"

She couldn't handle it anymore. Before Sherlock could say another word, she bolted. She made sure not to actually run, just walk quickly. She knew that with her luck running would cause her to trip and fall, making everything worse.

Tears pressed against her face as she lifted the police tape and left. Her father could murder a million men, the mystery only growing around him. But at the moment, it didn't matter. She just wanted to curl up into a ball. Then her dead father could come and murder her himself.

A/N Well, wasn't this just a delight to write? Heh. I've got a writing playlist now on 8notes that is helping me pump this out. I've just been so busy, everything except for NaNoWriMo has been an afterthought. But that's soon going to change.  I'm going to have lots of time soon. In approximately a week, I should be done with NaNoWriMo and working on everything else. Maybe I'll even post that novel. Probably not. Well, I hope this was better than the last chapter, heh. Votes and comment. If you please.