In Fulham, we reached the block of flats before the traffic got particularly bad.
Our desired location was on the thirteenth floor and the lift read 'out of order'.
Sherlock and I looked to each other with mild disgust at the realisation that this would be a lot of stair work.
I sighed heavily and removed my ankle length trench coat, tossing it over my left arm as I moved towards the doorway to the stairs.

At the top, I took another sigh, this time in relief. I could feel beads of sweat running down my back, bringing me to the conclusion that, perhaps, I should've been working out more.
"Want to take the lead on this one?" Sherlock asked as he held open the door to the thirteenth floor for me.
I gawked at him, mildly astonished. From what the one conversation with John had told her, Sherlock was never like this. He always liked to be the leader, the show off.
"Uh... Yes, okay." I replied, walking past him through the door.

We got to James Barnett's door and I knocked.
It took him a little longer to answer the door than Mr Davies had done, which rose questions on its own.
Mr Davies' house was far larger than anything in this complex. 
Had he simply been walking past the door just as we knocked, or was Mr Barnett up to something..?
Sherlock stood on the other side of the small corridor, about two feet behind me, when the door was answered.
He, looking all cool, had his collar up and his hands clasped behind his back, waited for me to 'do my thing'.
"What can I do for you?" Mr Barnett asked rather rudely, before noticing Sherlock. "Bloody hell! What is the Sherlock Holmes doing on my doorstep?"
The man was in his mid to late twenties. He was reasonably handsome, with a thick head of short chocolate brown hair.
"James Barnett?" I clarified.
"Yes, that's me." He nodded, not bothering to look away from Sherlock. "What can I do for London's finest?"
"May we come in?" I cocked an eyebrow.
"Sure, yeah, sure." Mr Barnett nodded, opening the door a little wider for the pair of us to enter.

Inside, everything we needed to know for this case laid in place.
I noticed Sherlock pull out his phone and start texting, he must've had the same idea I did.
"Please, sit down." James beckoned over to the dusty old two seater sofa behind me.
I grimaced at the thought of anything I touched making contact with that disgusting piece of furniture.
"Uh, no thank you, Mr Barnett. I don't imagine we'll be here long." I smiled, politely.
"Suit yourself." He mumbled, groaning as he sat down in an armchair that faced a tiny television.
"Mr Barnett..." I started. "I don't suppose you've heard about the unusual homicides in London that happened during this past week?"
James visibly tensed up, digging his fingertips into the sides of the armchair.
"Uh, no. Haven't heard anything." He shook his head.
I heard Sherlock scoff behind me.
"You have two bedrooms in this flat. A dirty mug on the side table behind me. You clearly don't have a significant other, judging by the lack of feminine products laying about the place, unless you count that sewing kit beside you, but going by your fingers, that's yours. So, Mr Barnett. Who do you live with?" My eyebrow raised once again.
"His father." Sherlock said.
"Bloody hell. As if one Sherlock Holmes wasn't bad enough for London's criminals. Now there's two o' you." James' laugh rang throughout the flat. "You're good. Yeah, I live with my dad. He's the one who got me into Doctor Watson's blog. He's always on my laptop, reading and re-reading those bastard things."
My interest had peaked.
"And where is your father right now?" 
"He's a couple of streets down. He owns a little off-y down there. Loves the place. I don't see why, personally. That brain of 'is is wasted on that shop." The man chuckled.  
"Oh?" I frowned, looking over to Sherlock who gave me a side smirk. "Your father's quite an intelligent man, then?"
"Oh, very, Miss... Sorry, I didn't catch your name." James looked rather bashful for being so rude.
"Crane. Elizabeth Crane." I sighed. "You were saying?"
"Right, yeah. My dad's incredibly smart - finished school at fourteen, college at sixteen and university at twenty. He studied three subjects during his time in uni." He looked incredibly proud of his father. 
"What were those subjects, Mr Barnett?" I queried.
"Criminology, Forensic Science and Social Studies." He replied. "He wanted to join Scotland Yard, but they turned 'im down. I'll tell you what, though. He was mighty pissed off when he saw on the news that they'd invited some randomer to join and solve their cases. That randomer being you, Mr Holmes. Sorry." He rubbed the back of his neck, joining it with a nervous chuckle.
"Motive and means." Sherlock mumbled under his breath so that only I would hear.
I simply nodded, then gestured to the sewing kit on the side table by James' armchair.
"You sew, Mr Barnett?" 
"Yeah." He said, looking to his kit. "I run a small tailoring business from home, ya see. Can't work mundane jobs, just never got on with them, ya know? Mum taught me to sew as a kid - helped me through some pretty shit times as a form of relaxation." 
"I think we all need a hobby to keep us level." I nodded. "May I see some of your work?"
James looked at her, confused.
"I'm not sure what you mean. I'm guessing since you're here, I'm some sort of suspect in these cases you mentioned, but I swear, I haven't been into the city in about a year." He began to look worried and started fidgeting. 
"Have you tailored any clothing in the last week?" I asked.
"Yeah, course. Now you mention it, my dad got me some business. He said he had some stuff from a friend that needed doing really quick. Actually kinda looks like what Mr Holmes 'as on now." 
I could practically feel the smirk on Sherlock's face and honestly, mine wasn't far behind.
"I see." I simply said. "That'll be all for now, Mr Barnett. Thank you for your time."

Sherlock and I made our way back down the mountainous amount of stairs back to ground level in complete silence.
"That seemed a little too easy." I frowned as we exited the building.
"Two heads are better than one and half, it would seem." Sherlock replied.
I chuckled and elbowed him in the forearm for making a statement like that about his best friend.
"You're a funny man, Sherlock Holmes."