Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Waking up that morning was like every morning. Waking up out of breath, plagued by the nightmares of a past life. A life he is no longer a part of. But the memories still haunt him.

He was a Soldier. A Colonel. And a Doctor. Saving people, and killing those who wanted to kill him, or his patients. Now, he is the new Police Chief, his first day was next week. He was in the academy before the war, and he was studying to be a doctor. He may still be a doctor, but because of the gunshot wound, he can’t do any surgery, his favourite part of being a doctor. When he got back, his old police captain called him, Captain James Hale was close to the current Chief of Police, Bruce Masters.

Chief Masters wanted to retire, and while John didn’t have many years on the street, the Police Chief respected him as a former vet as well. Don’t get him wrong, he had to go about the right channels and properly apply for the job. It took about a month, as a few people were mad that he didn’t have years of experience of being a police officer, and not raising through the ranks like normal. However, they mostly shut up when they hear about his army background and status.

Despite having a job lined up, he still needed to find a new apartment, out of the bed-sit he was currently living in. He was still haunted by memories of the war, and still couldn’t walk without a cane.

John glares at his cane, innocently sitting against his bedside table and hating that he can’t walk without it, despite getting shot in his shoulder, nowhere near his leg. However, the doctor in him sighs, knowing it’s all in his head unfortunately doesn’t cure a psychosomatic limp.

Up and dressed by sunrise, the bed was perfectly made and the bedsit he was staying at, was tidy. Once a soldier, always a soldier. It took him about 5 minutes to make some tea and grab an apple for breakfast.

Ignoring the apple and tea, John decided to try and write in his blog (His therapist’s idea) about his life. However, this only caused him anger as apart from the job starting in a few days, nothing happens to him. In his now incredibly dull, boring life.

Instead of writing, John watched the news. Right now there was a press conference about the serial suicides going on. The doctor in him scoffs, three different suicides, but all the same poison? While anyone could tell they were self-ministered, didn’t mean these are suicides.

Noticing the time, John turned off his laptop and TV and left the little cramped bedsit he was currently residing in.

_______________________________________________________________

“How’s the blog going?” His therapist asks. ‘Damn it’ John thinks.

“Yeah, good. Very good.” John states, clearing his throat.

“You haven’t written a word, have you?” His therapist asks, writing something in her notebook.

“You just wrote ‘Still has trust issues’” John comments instead. It was her idea to write about his boring life in a silly blog, the least she could do was write her notes after the session.

“And you read my writing upside-down” She points out. There’s nothing wrong with trust issues. After being in a war for years, and getting shot. Not having anyone to talk to or rely on. Someone to truly understand what he is going through, of course, he has trust issues. “You see what I mean?” He gives her a quick half-smile at her comment. “You’re a soldier. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens will honestly help you.”

“What’s there to write? I have a new job lined up, starting on Monday (today was Friday) and that will be a mostly desk job. Nothing happens to me”
________________________________________________________________

Later that day, John was walking home through the park when he heard his name. He continued walking, as John is a common name, however he stopped when the voice said his full name.

Turning around, the man on the bench John previously dismissed was now standing up and walking towards him. Introducing himself as Mike Stamford.

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.” Mike continues. God Bart’s, that was years ago.

“Right, sorry. Yes. Hello,” John shakes the offered outstretched hand.

“Yeah I know, I got fat.” Mike smiles, “I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

“I got shot.” John smiles past the annoyance. Do you not see the cane? The obvious injury? Any idiot could conclude that if he were away getting shot at, and now he’s home with an injury, that usually means he got shot! Obvious.

Mike offers to buy him a coffee, and they sit down on the bench to catch up. He’s been quiet ever since John told him that he got shot. Clearly, he doesn’t know what to say. Annoyed at the silence, John throws him a bone.

“You still at Bart’s then?”

“Teaching now. Yeah, bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them” Mike jokes, and John gives him a short laugh. “What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?”

“I can’t afford London on an Army pension,” John answers instead. Not wanting to explain. Mike never knew he was in the police academy as well as studying to be a doctor.

“And you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.” John gives him an annoyed look.

“I’m not that John Watson that you knew.” John shoots him down. Mike takes a sip of his coffee to avoid the silence.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Yeah, like that’s gonna happen, and John tells him so. “I don’t know, you could get a flat-share or something” Mike offers.

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” John asks, with his nightmares, limp, and attitude. Yeah right. Mike’s laugh catches John’s attention. “What?”

“You’re the second person to tell me that today.” Mike smiles.

“Who was the first?” John asks, curious.

“Come on, he should still be at Bart’s. You’ve got to meet him. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you”

John shrugs with his good shoulder and follows Mike to Bart’s hospital, not 5 minutes down the road.
___________________________________________________________________

Knocking on the door to a lab, John and Mike open the door to see more advanced equipment than what was there from his days studying.

“Bit different from my day,” John comments.

Mike grinned, “You've no idea!”

There’s a man in the lab, hunched over a microscope, and not wearing the correct lap uniform. The man looks up and their eyes meet.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine.” The man states, looking back down and not at the person he was addressing.

“And what's wrong with the landline?” Mike asks with a sigh.

“I prefer to text.” The man states. John smiles at this, he prefers texting as well. Allows you to talk to someone without them talking back.

Mike pats down his jacket, “Sorry, it's in my coat.” He says, upon not finding his phone.

Without thinking, John takes out his phone from his pocket and holds it out to the dark-haired man. “Here...use mine.”

The man looks surprised but walks over to John and gently takes the phone from him, looking him up and down. “Oh, thank you.”

Mike then decides it’s time to introduce him. “This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The man asks, his long fingers rushing over the phone to form a text.

“Afghanistan” John immediately answers out of habit, “How did you know?” John smiles.

Just then, a short woman walks into the lab wearing a white lab coat and holding a clean white mug.

“Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you.” The mysterious man states, taking the coffee. Looking at the woman- Molly, he then asks, “What happened to the lipstick?”

Molly looks flustered but quickly replies. “It wasn't working for me.”

The man, clearly not seeing that Molly is slightly embarrassed sips his coffee, “Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now.”

Molly blushes lightly, mutters a small “okay.” and leaves the room.

“How do you feel about the violin?” The man pipes in.

Amused by the man, John replies, “Depends. Are you any good?”

“Well considering I play the violin when I'm thinking. I’d say very good” he smirks.

“I’m sure you also sometimes I don't talk for days on end if you’re thinking so much.” John smiles. As the man hands him back his phone.

“Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” The man states.

“Potential flatmates should also know the best about each other. For example, I am a neat person, loves the violin and I make a good cup of tea” John grins.

The man looks slightly shocked but smiles. “Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. And someone who is most possibly the least stupid person I’ve ever met”

“You are certainly someone who could keep up with me” John smirks.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” The man states, sliding on his long black Belstaff coat.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” John says before the man can leave.

“Which is?”

“Well, for starters, you know my name, but I don’t know yours. I don't know where we're meeting, and we did just meet.” John states, holding his ground as the man slowly walks up to him.

“I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?”

“Quite. I also know that you work for the Scotland Yard but you’re not a police officer. You like to show off, and you take pleasure in proving that you are more clever than those around you. You are an introvert but get bored very easily and you see things that most others miss” John smirks at the man’s shocked look.

“Well Dr Watson, it seems we are more alike than I originally thought. The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.” With a wink, Sherlock leaves the room and John looks over to Mike.

“He's always like that. I knew you two would get along” Mike grins.
________________________________________________________________

The next day, John meets at 221B Baker St at exactly seven o’clock after spending his afternoon looking up Sherlock Holmes and finding out that he is a Genius. The Science of Deduction. Brilliant.

“Hello.” A voice announced himself, and John turned to see Sherlock stepping out of a taxi. Sherlock smiles, clearly not expecting John to show up.

“Ah, Mr Holmes.” John smiles, holding up the hand that wasn’t holding his walking stick.

Sherlock gasps his hand firmly and shakes a few times before pulling away and knocking on the door. “Sherlock, please.”

“Well, this is a prime spot.” John starts, looking around at central London buzzing around him. “Must be expensive.”

“Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal,” Sherlock informs. “Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“Impressive, you stopped her husband from being executed?” John questions.

“Oh, no, I ensured it,” Sherlock smirks and the door opens.

“Sherlock!” An older woman yells happily, bringing Sherlock in for a hug.

“Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson.” Sherlock introduces once Mrs Hudson pulls away.

“Hello. Come in.” She smiles, urging the two men to enter. Sherlock enters after her, followed by John.

“Thank you,” John says politely.

Sherlock rushes up a flight of stairs and waits patiently for John to hobble up with his cane and limp. “Shall we...?” He asks, opening the door to a large flat.

“Very nice” John smiles, looking around at the flat. It was a bit messy, like someone just moved in, but it was nice. A couch against the wall, a desk next to it and a coffee table. Two chairs facing each other by the fireplace. One chair was leather, while the other was red with a little side table next to it. Around the boxes, the fireplace mantel was covered in photos, newspapers and a skull. From behind the red chair, John could see into the kitchen, which looked like it had a chemistry set on it. But the kitchen was decently sized. Down the hallway, John could see two doors. Most likely a bathroom and a bedroom. Turning his head slightly, he could see another set of stairs off to the side, most likely another bedroom above the kitchen. Looking at the wall opposite him, he could see a cow head with headphones on. The wall next to that had some old-fashioned wallpaper, but a yellow graffitied smiley face caught John’s attention.

Grabbing a pillow with the Union Jack on it, John sits down on the red chair.

“This place is lovely” John looks at Sherlock, who is watching him. He seemed to relax slightly when John spoke.

“Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in.” Sherlock nods, looking proud of himself.

“I don’t have much, and you clearly have more than me” John states, eyeing the many boxes, “So the room shouldn’t look too cluttered once everything is in order”

Sherlock then looks around the room and starts moving things around in a hurry, “Well, obviously I can straighten things up a bit.”

Wanting Sherlock to stop, John points to a skull on the mantel. “Friend of yours?” John smiles at the joke.

“Yes” Come immediately, and then Sherlock backtracks, “When I say friend…”

“It is in good condition. Where’d you get it?” John asks.

“Christmas present from Molly” Sherlock states.

Mrs Hudson interrupts them from the kitchen, “What do you think, then, Dr Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms.” Mr Hudson trails off.

“Well considering I just met Sherlock yesterday, I think two would be a safe bet” John winks.

“Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones.” Mrs Hudson states before looking around “Oh...Sherlock! The mess you've made.” She then begins doing some dishes.

Watching Sherlock, watching him John speaks up, “I looked you up on the internet last night.”

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asks.

“Found your website. The Science Of Deduction.”

“What did you think?” Sherlock grins.

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. Based on what I saw yesterday, I find it quite interesting. I too have always been good at reading people, although my talent lies in defining their personality. Yours is on a whole different level”

Sherlock nods, “That’s how you knew that stuff about me yesterday”

“Yes well, you are much harder to read than others.” This makes Sherlock puff out his chest.

“Interesting. I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“We will get along great, I can imagine” John smirks.

Mrs Hudson then appears holding a newspaper while Sherlock looks out the window.

“What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same.” John rolls his eyes at this, no way they are suicides.

“Four” Sherlock says, staring out the window. “There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs Hudson asks.

Just then, John could hear heavy footsteps racing up the stairs and a tall man, with age lines and grey hair, appeared at the already open door. It’s the same man from the press conference that John saw yesterday morning.

He is out of breath, and Sherlock doesn’t wait for him to catch it. “Where?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” Detective-Inspector Lestrade answers.

“What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me otherwise.” Sherlock states.

“You know how they never leave notes?” DI Lestrade asks and continues when Sherlock nods. “This one did. Will you come?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock questions, “Who's on forensics?”

“Anderson.” Lestrade answers.

“He doesn't work well with me,” Sherlock growls. John stays seated, watching the scene play out before him. Starting next week, he will be Lestrade’s boss. Maybe rooming with Sherlock will allow him a different angle to see Scotland Yard before they know who he is, and start buttering him up and blindsiding him.

“Well, he won't be your assistant.” Lestrade rolls his eyes.

“I need an assistant,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Will you come?” Lestrade asks again, nearly pleading.

“Not in a police car, I'll be right behind,” Sherlock states.

Lestrade nods in relief, “Thank you.” he mutters and leaves.

Once he does, Sherlock bounces on the coffee table and smiles brightly, “Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note.” Sherlock moves to grab his Belstaff from the coat hanger by the door. “Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food.”

“I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” Mrs Hudson reminds him.

Sherlock, clearly not listening or caring continues, “Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home.” he then slams the door, rushing down the stairs “Don't wait up!” He calls back.

“Look at him, dashing about… My husband was just the same.” Mrs Hudson says from the kitchen, behind John. “But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell.” John almost laughs, he was the opposite of sitting down. “I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.”

Irritated at the reminder that he has a limp from a bullet, despite not getting shot anywhere near his leg, annoyed that his days doing surgery are over. John yells, “Damn my leg!” he then quickly remembers where he is and who he is talking to “Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing…” he tries to explain when Mrs Hudson cuts him off.

“I understand, dear, I've got a hip.”

“Cup of tea'd be lovely. Thank you.” John says, eyeing the newspaper.

“Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper.”

Grabbing the newspaper, John reads the first few lines about the suicides, “Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em.” John replies, not listening.

“Not your housekeeper!” Mrs Hudson calls out but begins making the tea.

Just then, Sherlock slowly wanders into the room again and looks at John. “You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor.” John stands up at this, dropping the newspaper on the ground.

“Yes.”

“Any good?” Sherlock questions.

“Very good,” John states. Not exaggerating, but merely stating a fact, he was very good at his job.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.” Sherlock asks, walking closer.

“Well, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet?” Sherlock continues, building up to something.

“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.” John says it because that is what he is expected to say.

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asks, getting close and grinning.

“Oh, God, yes.” John nearly moans, grinning at the thought. Both men rush to the door. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea,” John says, slipping on his jacket. “I’m going out”

Mrs Hudson comes out from the kitchen to see them “Both of you?”

Sherlock answers “Impossible suicides? Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!” Sherlock jumps up to Mrs Hudson, who gently swatted him on the chest.

“Look at you, all happy. It's not decent.” She scolds with a smile.

“Who cares about decent?” Sherlock asks, following John down the flight of stairs to the front door with a spring in their step. “The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!” With that, Sherlock and John leave and Sherlock calls out for a taxi, which appears almost immediately.

It’s about 10 minutes of silence which the world around them darkens.

“Okay, you've got questions” Sherlock starts.

“A few, but I’m trying to figure out most of them on my own” John reveals.

“Well then fire away” Sherlock smirks, interested in what John has to say.

“Well, that man was Detective- Inspector Lestrade. You mentioned a fourth suicide so we are obviously going to a crime scene in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. As I stated yesterday, you work with the police but are not a police officer yourself. I know that due to how you read me yesterday. No way you aren’t solving crimes, they are after all, just like puzzles, but a man like you, I can’t imagine you get along well with others, so you are clearly not a police detective. You’re not a private detective, because the police don’t go to private detectives, so what are you?” John asks.

Sherlock grins, “Very Impressive Dr Watson. I’m assuming you liked psychology when you were studying to be a doctor. I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“I did in fact. And pray tell, what is a consulting detective?” John questions

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“Interesting, and what can you figure out that trained detectives can’t?” John asks, not unkindly.

“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised.” Sherlock says instead.

John hums, “Yes, how did you know?”

“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation, ‘Bit different from my day.’ said trained at Barts - so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“And my brother?” John smirks.

Sherlock holds out his hand, “Your phone.” John quickly places his phone in Sherlock’s hand.

He starts flipping it around, looking it over, “It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this - it's a gift then. Scratches. Not one, many over time - it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already.” Sherlock flips the phone, revealing the engraving on the back.

“The engraving” John smiles.

“Harry Watson. Clearly, a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, the model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on he's given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife or don't like his drinking.”

John interrupts “How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

Sherlock grins, “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he plugs it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.” Sherlock finishes, giving John his phone back.

“That...was amazing.” John finally says.

Sherlock stops, “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.” John answers,

“That's not what people normally say.” Sherlock finally says.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off!” A moment of silence breaks when John and Sherlock burst out laughing.

After calming down, Sherlock asks, “Did I get anything wrong?”

“Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker.” John answers.

“Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything.” Sherlock sounds surprised when the taxi pulls up to the crime scene

“Harry's short for Harriet,” John reveals and steps out of the taxi.

Sherlock quickly follows him after paying the taxi driver.

“Harry's your sister.” Sherlock moans in annoyance.

“Sherlock, I don’t exactly have clearance to go to a crime scene” Not until next week that is. “So, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?”

“Sister!” Sherlock grumbles, still hung up on that information. “There's always something.”

They walk up to the yellow crime-scene tape, where a young dark-skinned woman greets Sherlock “Hello, freak!” John’s eyes widen at the word.

“I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock states, not fazed at the term.

“Why?” The woman sneers.

“I was invited,” Sherlock reveals.

“Why?” The woman asks again.

“I think he wants me to take a look.” Sherlock answers sarcastically,

“You know what I think, don't you?” the woman asks.

“Always, Sally,” Sherlock answers, lifting the tape slightly and ducking under, waiting for John to follow him before dropping the police tape. “I even know you didn't make it home last night.”

The woman- Sally, finally seems to see him, “Er...who's this?”

“Colleague of mine, Dr Watson. Dr Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend.” Sherlock states.

“A colleague? How do you get a colleague? Did he follow you home?”

John sneers at her, “I followed him home actually. So can we get this show on the road or what?”

Sally Donovan grumbles, but talks into her walkie, “Freak's here. Bringing him in.” and leads them to the front door of an abandoned house.

At the door comes out a man with blue protective covers on. “Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock greets.

“It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” So this is Anderson, John hums to himself. He looks like he couldn’t find a flower in a field of flowers.

“Quite clear.” Sherlock answers, “And is your wife away for long?”

The man grumbles, “Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that.” Sherlock cuts him off.

“My deodorant?” He asked confused.

“It's for men,” Sherlock states.

“Well, of course, it's for men - I'm wearing it.” He growls.

“So is Sergeant Donovan.” Sherlock takes a large sniff. “Ooh...I think it just vaporised. May I go in?” John hides a laugh behind his hand.

“Whatever you're trying to imply…” Anderson starts.

“I'm not implying anything.” Sherlock cuts him off, “I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.” Sherlock says and leads John inside the house.

Going to a table filled with crime scene protective clothes, Sherlock hands John a blue protective suit. “You'll need to wear one of these.”

DI Lestrade then comes up to them when John struggles to put on his protective suit over his clothes. “Who's this?” He asks.

“He's with me,” Sherlock answers.

“But who is he?” Lestrade asks again.

“I said he's with me.” Sherlock growls, ignoring John’s, “Aren't you going to put one on?”

“So where are we?” Sherlock asks.

“Upstairs.” Lestrade sighs. John follows Sherlock and Lestrade up two flights of stairs before coming to a room.

“I can give you two minutes,” Lestrade says, opening the door.

“May need longer.” Sherlock mutters back.

“Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her.” Lestrade reveals. The door opens to find a woman’s body, face down on the ground. A bright pink coat, matching her shoes and nails. On the ground next to the woman’s hand is the word ‘RACHE’. Clearly, she scratched it into the floorboards.

After a few moments of silence where Sherlock is closely examining the woman’s body, Lestrade asks, “Got anything?”

“Not much.”

Anderson appears at the door and speaks up before Sherlock can say anything more, “She's German. Rache. It's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us...”

Sherlock jumps up and goes to the door, “Yes, thank you for your input.” And closes the door on Anderson’s face.

“So she's German?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course, she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff - so far, so obvious.”

“Cardiff?” John asks but it goes ignored.

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade asks.

“Dr Watson, what do you think?” Sherlock instead turns to John.

“Well, since it’s not German for revenge. I’d say she couldn’t finish and it actually says Rachel” John says.

Sherlock stops and smirks. “Very good Dr Watson, but the body. You're a medical man.”

“We have a whole team outside.” Lestrade cuts in.

“They won't work with me.” Sherlock snaps.

“I'm breaking every rule letting you in here…” Lestrade states, clearly not wanting a random civilian to potentially contaminate the crime scene.

“Yes, because you need me,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade sighs, “Yes, I do. God help me.” Watching this play out, John waits for Lestrade’s permission. “Oh, do as he says. Help yourself. Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes…” Lestrade calls out and John slowly walks over to the body, leaning down next to it. On the other side of the body is Sherlock who is watching him.

“What am I doing here?” John whispers to him.

“Helping me make a point.”

“I'm supposed to help you pay the rent.”

“This is more fun,” Sherlock smirks.

“Fun? There's a woman lying dead.” John argues. “I shouldn’t even be here”

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go a little deeper,” Sherlock counters.

John sighs and begins examining the body. With gloved hands, he starts with her hands, where he could see the damage when she carved the name on the floor. Then he goes to the mouth and feels around her head for a bump. Finding none, he hums and moves the body’s neck to see her eyes.

“Can’t smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure, I know some drugs and poisons can make you pass out and she most likely choked on her own vomit. Based on what I’ve read in the papers, this is the same type of poison used. No one forcibly made her take the poison, and she was conscious when she did so. No viable markings on her, so it is most likely the killer didn't manhandle her. Could indicate they are a smaller frame, weaker. They could have used a gun on her to make her cooperate.”

Sherlock’s look of shock and awe is interrupted by Lestrade. “Sherlock, two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got.”

This snaps Sherlock out of his staring and quickly helps John to his feet when he bounces around the victim.

“Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Lestrade asks.

“Yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married.” Sherlock begins.

“Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…” Lestrade gets cut off by Sherlock.

“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside is shinier than the outside, so it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or who does she remove her rings for? Not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that long, so more likely a string of them. Simple.” Sherlock rants.

“That's brilliant.” John breathes out, and Sherlock looks at him, “Sorry.”

“Cardiff?” Lestrade asks.

“It's obvious, isn't it?” Sherlock smirks, looking at John.

“Her coat is wet” John realises. Sherlock looks very happy and proud at this and continues.

“Very good Dr Watson. Her coat - it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours -no rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she intended to stay overnight, but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours, because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff.” Sherlock finishes.

“That's fantastic,” John breathes out.

Sherlock turns to him, “Do you know you do that out loud?”

John blushes lightly, “Sorry, I'll shut up.”

“No, it's...fine.” Sherlock smiles and John smiles back. It’s obvious that Sherlock doesn’t get a lot of (or any) compliments.

“Why do you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade asks.

“Yes, where is it?” Sherlock begins looking around, “She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing Rachel?” Lestrade asks.

“Of course, did you not hear Dr Watson? Though with your age, I’m not surprised.” Sherlock ignores Lestrade’s cry of outrage. “As Dr Watson pointed out, of course, she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be. But why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How do you know she had a suitcase?” John asks.

“Tiny splash marks on her right heel and calf not present on the left.” Sherlock points out. “She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, a woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Where is it? What have you done with it?” Sherlock demands.

“There wasn't a case,” Lestrade reveals and Sherlock freezes.

“Say that again.”

“There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase.”

Sherlock sprints out of the room and looks around shouting, “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

Lestrade stops him by yelling at him, “Sherlock, there was no case!”

Sherlock stops, “But they take the poison themselves, they swallow the pills. There are clear signs. It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings. We've got a serial killer. Love those. There's always something to look forward to.” Sherlock mutters.

“Why are you saying that?” Lestrade sighs.

John pipes in, “He’s saying, if they take the poison themselves, then where is her suitcase? She has one, so someone was with her and they took her case.” John realises something, “If she just got to London, how did she get here? The killer must have driven here. Could have forgotten the case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel, and left it there,” Lestrade suggests.

Sherlock answers, “No, she’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh… Oh!”

“Sherlock? What is it, what?” Lestrade asks.

“Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.” Sherlock answers.

“We can't just wait!” Lestrade huffs.

“Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!” Sherlock yells, running down the stairs.

“Of course, yeah - but what mistake?!” Lestrade shouts down from the top of the stairs, John standing right next to him.

“Pink!” Sherlock yells and leaves the house.

“Is he always like that?” John asks.

Lestrade jumps slightly, having forgotten John was there. “Umm, yeah pretty much. Sorry, who are you?”

John holds out his hand and Lestrade shakes it firmly. “Dr John Watson”

Lestrade freezes, “The Dr John Watson?”

John laughs, “Didn’t know there was a ‘the’ in front of my name. But yes, I am the new Police Chief. Starting Monday” John answers the unasked question.

“How did you…?” Lestrade trails off, but points behind him.

“Mike at Barts Hospital introduced us. Sherlock was looking for a flatmate. I was looking for a flatmate. It all worked out.”

“And what do you think about the Scotland Yard asking for his help on cases?”

“I think that Sherlock Holmes is a very smart individual and if he uses those smarts to help the police, then all the more for him” John smiles and Lestrade breathes a sigh of relief. “However, I would like a word with some of your detectives. Namely Donovan and Anderson. The police calling someone a freak is simply unacceptable, especially when that someone is helping the department out of his own free will.”

“I’ve told them many times to not insult Sherlock. I’ll talk with them again.” John nods and begins walking down the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“Well since Sherlock ran off, I figured I would go to my place and pack. I have a flat to move into” John smiles.

Walking down the stairs, John exits the house and walks over to the crime scene tape. Looking around at the people he will soon be in charge of.

“He's gone.” A voice says from his right. John turns and sees Sally Donovan. “Yeah, he just took off. He does that.” Sally says.

“Right then,” John says and begins limping towards the main road for a cab.

“You're not his friend,” Sally says, and John turns to her again. “He doesn't have friends. So who are you?”

“I just met him" John states.

“Okay, a bit of advice, then. Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?” John asks.

“You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what...? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body, and he'll be the one that put it there.”

John is shocked that Sally just said that. From what he has seen, all Sherlock has done is help them solve crimes. However, he can understand why people seem to not like Sherlock. But the fact that police detectives are verbally insulting a member of the public is unacceptable.

“For a sergeant at Scotland Yard, I would think you have better people skills. Do you think that is appropriate behaviour for a police officer to verbally insult a member of the public? Sherlock Holmes’s ability to see so many details that regular people don’t, allows him to solve crimes in a few days that the police can’t solve for weeks. Why does that make him a freak?”

John honestly wanted to know why Sally and Anderson hated Sherlock so much. While he understands they might find Sherlock a bit annoying, taking over their job like that, but still.

“I’m just looking out for you. Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath.” With that, Sally is called away and John grinds his teeth in annoyance. Breathing out a sigh, John walks away from the crime scene, not noticing that he doesn’t use his cane until he reaches the main street.

Swearing softly to himself, John leans against a building to breathe through the pain as his leg flares in irritation once the adrenaline wears off and he suddenly remembers that he is holding a cane. When that happened, the pain came back in full force. Damnit!

After a few minutes of breathing, the pain resides and the good doctor starts slowly walking down the street looking for a cab.

He passes a shop where the phone begins ringing. John stops and stares at it as it quickly stops ringing when the worker goes to pick it up. Shrugging, John continues and passes a telephone booth. The phone in the telephone booth starts ringing when he gets near it. John watches it as he passes it. How does one even know the phone number of a telephone booth?

John then sneakily looks at the closest security camera, and it’s pointed straight at him. Slowly walking again, the photo in the telephone booth stops when it realises that he isn’t going to answer it. Watching the security camera from the corner of his eye, John sees it follow him down the street as he walks. Interesting.

Passing another telephone booth, John limps inside and answers it. “Hello?”

A man’s voice comes through “There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

John flickers his eyes to the building to his left and sees the security camera. “Who am I speaking to?” John demands.

“Watch the camera” The man replies. Suddenly the camera, aimed at him turns and points to the sky. “There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?” John finds the camera. The camera swirls to point to the ground, no longer aimed at him. “And finally, at the top of the building on your right.” John quickly finds the camera as it whirrs in another direction.

“How are you doing this?” John asks. A plain black car pulls up beside him.

“Get into the car, Dr Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you.” John sighs and hangs up, getting into the car.

Inside the car was a pretty young woman in her blackberry, not even looking up to greet him. Rude.

“Hello,” John greets politely.

“Hi.” the woman briefly looks up from her phone.

“What's your name, then?” John asks, wanting the name of the person who dragged him off the street.

“Er...Anthea.” She smiles a fake smile.

“That’s not your real name, is it?” John sighs, annoyed.

“No”.

“Any point in asking...where I'm going?” John asks.

“None at all…” Anthea answers.

John nods and sits back, watching out the window as central London fades into the warehouse district. The car pulls into a broken-down warehouse where an older man is standing with an umbrella, across from him is a chair.

John gets out of the car when the car stops and the man greets him.

“Have a seat, John.”

John stands, “You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but, er… you could just phone me. On my phone.” John says, waving his phone in his hand.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down.” The man fake smiles.

“I don't want to sit down.” John grounds out.

“You don't seem very afraid.” The man observes.

“You don't seem very frightening.” John shoots back.

“Yes… The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?”

“Can’t have bravery without fear. Since I’m not afraid of you, I guess I’m just being myself” John smiles.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” The man asks.

“Why do you want to know?” John asks instead.

“Well, since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“End of the week seems a bit soon. We will have to plan the wedding of course. Might aim for the end of the month” John grins, enjoying how the man grits his teeth. “Who are you?”

“An interested party.” The man replies.

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends.”

“You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having. An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.” The man rolls his eyes.

“Well, thank God you're above all that!” John sarcastically says, looking around at his location. Hearing his phone go off, John takes out his phone to read the text Sherlock just sent through.

‘Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH’

“I hope I'm not distracting you.” The man says.

“Not distracting me at all,” John answers and puts away his phone.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” the man asks.

“I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business.”

The man smirks, “It could be.”

“It really couldn't,” John replies.

He takes out a little notebook from his breast pocket. “If you do move into, um…” he reads from the notebook, “22 1 B Baker Street. I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money regularly to ease your way.”

“Why?” John asks.

“Because you're not a wealthy man.” the man states.

“In exchange for what?” John questions.

“Information.” He reveals. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel...uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to.”

“Why?” John repeats.

“I worry about him. Constantly,” he says.

“That's nice of you.” John sarcastically replies.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern goes unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship.” John’s phone goes off again, he takes it out and it reads.

‘If inconvenient, come anyway. SH’ John smiles.

“No, I’m not going to spy on your brother for you.”

The man freezes, but continues, “But I haven't mentioned a figure.”

“Don't bother.”

“You're very loyal very quickly.” Sherlock’s brother states.

“No, I'm not, I'm just not interested.” John sighs.

“’Trust issues’, it says here.” He says, opening his notebook again.

“What's that?”

“Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“Look, I’m not going to spy on Sherlock for you. You might worry about him, and you might have connections, but I’m not that type of person. So if you want to talk with him, you’re gonna need another way because I’m not doing it. It’s none of your business who I do and don’t trust, so if we are done, I have places to be that don’t include being in a wet warehouse all night” John says, turning around and begins limping back to the car.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him,” He says from behind him, John turns back around to face him.

“Yeah, people have. I decide who I spend my time with, not anyone else.”

“Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?”

‘Could be dangerous. SH’

“I’m so going to another therapist” John mutters, “Congratulates, you have my therapist’s notes. You have most likely read then that I have an intermittent tremor in myleft hand and a psychosomatic limp. Don’t look so shocked, I am a doctor. Yes, I also have trust issues, who doesn’t nowadays? Now I understand you are a man of power and connections. Let’s see, a control freak who cares about his family, but thinks you are too good for emotions so you force them down and show you care through surveillance and bribery. Obviously Sherlock’s older brother given your age, you wouldn’t be this concerned if he was merely a cousin and you’re too young to be his father. Based on your actions with the security cameras, and your accent, I’d say you’re part of the government. So, you can take your deal, shove it where the sun don’t shine and leave me alone” John growls out.

John smiles and turns back around to the car. Getting in the car, John huffs as he sits down. The same woman from before staring at him. “Take me to 221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first.” John gives her his address to his bed-sit and leans back to look out the window.

About 10 minutes pass in complete silence, when the car pulls up to his bed-sit. John gets out of the car and limps into his bed-sit. Grabbing his gun from his drawer that the army never asked for back, and then going back to the waiting car, he gets driven back to 221B Baker St.

John quickly gets out of the car, not saying anything to Athena and knocks on the door, waiting for hopefully Mrs Hudson or Sherlock to answer. Watching as the car pulls away and down the street, Mrs Hudson answers the door with a smile.

John smiles back and limps his way up the flight of stairs to Sherlock’s and his new apartment. He finds Sherlock contently lying on the couch, his hands together under his chin in thought.

“What are you doing?” John asks, looking out the window.

“Nicotine patch,” Sherlock reveals his long pale arm to him, where 3 nicotine patches are spread out on his skin. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

“Good news for breathing” John says, walking over to Sherlock.

“Oh, breathing! Breathing's boring.” Sherlock grumbles. John rolls his eyes and grabs Sherlock’s waving arm, placing his fingers against his wrist to read his heartbeat.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, startled.

“I’m checking that your heartbeat is normal and stable,” John answers, seemingly happy with his results, John moves away. “Well, you asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important.”

Sherlock seems to remember, “Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?” John asks.

“Don’t want to use mine. Always a chance that my number will be recognised. It's on the website.”

“Mrs Hudson's got a phone.” John points out.

“She's downstairs. I shouted, but she didn't hear.” John rolls his eyes.

“I was the other side of London” John points out.

“There was no hurry.”

John rolls his eyes and places his phone on Sherlock’s chest, “Here” And then walks over to the fireplace. “So what's this about… the case?”

“Her case” Sherlock mutters, not moving from his position.

“You find it then?” John asks.

“The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake,” Sherlock says, not listening. “It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it. On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text.” Sherlock states, offering John his phone back in an outstretched hand.

John doesn’t move to take it, “You've brought me here… to send a text.”

“Text, yes. The number on my desk.” Sherlock says, staring up at the ceiling. John grabs the phone, but instead of going to the desk, he moves over to the window and peeps out. Sherlock notices this, “What's wrong?”

“Just met a friend of yours,” John mutters, looking at the security cameras across the way, they all seemed to be pointed where they were supposed to be.

“A friend?” Sherlock asks.

“An enemy.” John corrects.

“Oh. Which one?” John looks over that Sherlock, shocked at the non-concerned tone.

“Well, your arch-enemy, according to him.” John rolls his eyes. “Was quite the drama queen. Took me to an abandoned warehouse.”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asks.

John scoffs, “He tried.”

“Pity, we could have split the fee. - Think it through next time.” John smiles.

“Right well. Next time your brother decides he wants a chat. Tell him that I am much nicer with a cup of tea than an abandoned warehouse”

“Y-You know he is my brother? How did you figure that out? I’m sure he didn’t tell you” Sherlock sounds surprised.

“Yes well. I’m good at reading people. Based on how he got me in the car, he is a man of power and connections. The location told me that he is a control freak and likes to have every situation under control. He emitted that worries about you, so that means he knows you. Given his age, and the fact that he said you have no friends, there was only a family relation. Obviously your older brother given his age.”

“Oh, John. Careful now, I might just keep you” Sherlock grins.

“You won’t hear me complaining” John smirks. “Now, text message” John goes over to the desk, ignoring Sherlock’s shocked face. Looking over briefly, John hides a smile, Sherlock cleaned up.

“Jennifer Wilson. The dead woman?” John asks, entering the number.

“Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number.” After a few seconds, “Are you doing it?”

“Yes,” John says, still not used to his phone.

“Have you done it?” Sherlock asks after another second.

“Yeah, hang on!” John snaps.

“These words exactly. ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? "I must have blacked out. "22 Northumberland Street, please come.’”

“You blacked out?” John asks, concerned.

“What? No... No!” Sherlock finally stands up and sets over the coffee table to the kitchen getting a pink suitcase from the kitchen and sitting down in his leather chair. “Type and send it. Quickly.”

“Sent,” John says, sending the text. He then looks over to Sherlock and is shocked when he sees the pink suitcase. “That's… That's Jennifer Wilson's case.”

“Yes, obviously. Oh, perhaps I should mention -I didn't kill her.” Sherlock says, looking annoyed.

“I never said you did.”

“Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption.” Sherlock states.

“Do people usually assume you're the murderer?” John asks.

Sherlock smiles, “Now and then, yes.”

“Okay…” John sits down on the red chair. “How did you get this?”

“By looking.” Sherlock simply states.

“Where?”

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in a car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention - particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“That’s amazing. You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?”

“It had to be pink, obviously.”

“Of course. Her nails, her coat, her shoes. Why not her suitcase?” John smiles.

“Now, look. Do you see what's missing?”

John takes a look into the suitcase. “If she works with the media. I’d say a laptop. But since you just asked me to send her a text message, and we didn’t hear it go off. Her phone is missing”

Sherlock smirks, “Well done John! The question is where is her phone now?”

“She could have lost it” John offers.

“Maybe she...left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.” Sherlock quickly says.

“Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?” John asks. Suddenly his phone starts ringing.

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer… would panic.” Sherlock quickly jumps up and shuts the case. Sherlock rushes around the room, putting on his jacket and coat.

“Have you talked to the police?” John asks, wondering where the police are in all of this.

“Four people are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police.”

“So why are you talking to me?” John asks.

“Mrs Hudson took my skull,” Sherlock states, looking at the mantel with no skull.

“So I'm basically filling in for your skull?” John states, annoyed.

Sherlock smiles. “Relax, you're doing fine. Well?”

“Well, what?” John asks, Sherlock is all ready to go, while John is still sitting down.

“Well...you could just sit there and...watch telly.

John sounds surprised, “You want me to come with you?”

“I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…” Sherlock says, putting on his scarf. John smiles at the attempt at a joke. “Problem?”

“Yeah, Sergeant Donovan. She said you get off on this, you enjoy it.”

“And I said "dangerous", and here you are,” Sherlock smirks and walks out the door and down the stairs.

“Damn it!” John mutters and rushes after him. Once out of the house, John asks, “Where are we going?”

“Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here,” Sherlock states, walking at a pace that allows John to be able to walk beside him without feeling pitied upon.

“You think he's stupid enough to go there?” John asks.

“No, I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're all so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?” John asks.

“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John,- it needs an audience.”

“Yeah.” John smiles at Sherlock. He would gladly be the audience to Sherlock’s genius.

“This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets and crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“Don't know. Who?”

“Haven't the faintest. Hungry?” Sherlock stops and they enter a small Italian restaurant. The waiter motions to a booth facing the street, “22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it.” Sherlock states sitting down, John following suit.

“He's not just going to ring the doorbell. He'd need to be mad.” John shrugs off his jacket.

“He has killed four people.”

John smirks, “True”

A man comes up to them, most likely the owner based on his outfit. “Sherlock. Anything on the menu, whatever you want, is free. On the house, for you and your date.” He states, giving them the menus.

“Do you want to eat?” Sherlock asks, ignoring the ‘date’.

The man interrupts, “This man got me off a murder charge.”

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock says and Angelo goes to shake John’s hand, which he takes. “Three years ago, I proved to Lestrade, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a different part of town, house-breaking,” Sherlock states, staring out the window.

“He cleared my name.” Angelo happily announces.

“I cleared it a bit.” Sherlock corrects. “Anything happening opposite?”

“Nothing.” Angelo shakes his head and turns to John. “But for this man, I'd have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison.” Sherlock corrected.

“I'll get a candle for the table. - It's more romantic.” Angelo says and goes away.

“You may as well eat. We might have a long wait.” Sherlock glares out the window.

“Thanks,” John mutters at Angelo who placed a lit candle on the table. “Did you bring me here because I haven’t been eating or because you wanted a comfortable place to glare across the street?” John asks.

“It’s hardly my fault I noticed you haven’t been eating right since you got back” Sherlock mutters.

John rolls his eyes and orders some garlic bread for them to share.

“Want to tell me why your brother kidnapped me?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Because he has nothing better to do than to sit on his lazy arse all day and watch me”

“Right,” John mutters. “So, as future flat-mates, I suppose we should know more about the other person.”

“Like what?” Sherlock asks.

“Well, when I was in college, we had to let the other know if we had friends over, girlfriends, boyfriends.”

“Sounds dull” Sherlock mutters distracted.

John smiles, “You don't have a girlfriend, then?” Please don’t have a girlfriend. Their garlic bread arrives and John nibbles on one.

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” John asks, “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it's fine.” Sherlock looks at him.

“So you've got a boyfriend, then?” John asks.

“No,” Sherlock states, staring back out the window.

“Right. OK. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.” Sherlock looks worried for a moment, and John hurries to elaborate. “And I also want to say, I am Bisexual, so if I become a bit flirty and it makes you uncomfortable, just let me know and I will go away for a few hours.” He says this to every roommate he’s ever had (mostly in college).

“Umm, thank you” Sherlock lightly blushes, but because of the lighting, it’s hard to see. He then sits up straight at the sight of a taxi across the street. “Look across the street. Taxi. It's stopped. Nobody getting in and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. - Is it clever? Why is it clever?” Sherlock rambles.

John turns around the look. “That's him.”

“Don't stare.”

“You're staring.” John points out.

“We can't both stare.” Sherlock jumps up, grabs his coat and walks out of the restaurant. John hurries after him, not noticing he left his cane behind.

The passenger looks behind him and spots them, and the taxi pulls away. Sherlock runs across the road and jumps onto a car that hits him. He brushes it off and John jumps over the car and catches up to where Sherlock stopped.

“I've got the cab number,” John says.

“Good for you.” Sherlock then creates a map in his head “Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.” Sprinting into a building, John follows closely.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock yells and John pumps his legs so he is equal in pace to Sherlock. The adrenaline coursed through Sherlock and John’s veins. The pair jumped across rooftops and through a maze of alleyways, up and down staircases and fire escapes. It’s about 5 minutes of intense running after the taxi, but to John and Sherlock, it felt like 5 seconds.

They finally reach the taxi. Sherlock slamming into the hood. “Police! Open her up.” Sherlock opens the back door “No… Teeth, tan. What, Californian? LA, Santa Monica. Just arrived.”

John appears from behind Sherlock, “How could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock points out, “The luggage. First trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the cabbie's route.”

“Sorry, are you guys the police?” The man asks in a very American accent.

Sherlock flashes a police badge, “Yeah. Everything all right?”

“Yeah.” The man smiles showing off white teeth.

“Welcome to London,” Sherlock states and walks away.

“Er, any problems, just let us know.” John smiles at the confused passenger and closes the door, walking over to Sherlock. “Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down.”

“Basically,” Sherlock mutters, out of breath.

“Not the murderer.”

“Not the murderer, no,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Wrong country, good alibi.”

“As they go.”

John points to the badge Sherlock flashes. “Hey, where did you get this?” John looks at the badge. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat” John starts laughing.

“What?” Sherlock asks, confused.

“Nothing, just… ‘Welcome to London.’” Sherlock laughs a bit, looking towards the taxi whose passenger is talking to a real police officer and pointing to them.

“Got your breath back?”

John smiles. “Ready when you are.” And they take off again, down the street and eventually arriving back at Baker St.

“That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing.. I've ever done.” John puffs out, out of breath with all the running.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” John laughs and Sherlock joins.

“Why aren't we back at the restaurant?” John asks.

“They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway.”

“So what were we doing there?”

“Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point.” Sherlock smirks.

“What point?” John asks, confused.

“You. Mrs Hudson! Dr Watson will take the room upstairs.” Sherlock yells.

“Sherlock! She could be sleeping!”

“Get the door, John, it’s for you” Sherlock smirks, just as someone knocks.

John is confused but answers and finds Angelo holding his cane.

“Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this.” Angelo smiles, giving John his cane.

“Ah… Er, thank you. Thank you.” John closes the door and turns to Sherlock.

“I’ve been trying for months, and you did it in a day? Amazing” John smiles, and Sherlock smiles back.

Mrs Hudson then appears, “Sherlock, what have you done?”

“Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock questions.

“Upstairs.” Mrs Hudson answers and John and Sherlock race up to find DI Lestrade sitting on Sherlock’s chair and police officers searching about.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock immediately asks.

“I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid.: Lestrade says, motioning to the pink suitcase innocently lying on the desk.

“You can't just break into my flat,” Sherlock states.

“You can't withhold evidence” Lestrade counters, “and I didn't break in.” He adds.

“What do you call this, then?” Sherlock asks, looking around to see officers going through his things.

“It's a drugs bust,” Lestrade announces.

“Seriously? This guy… a junkie? Have you met him?” John asks, scoffing at the thought.

“John…” Sherlock walks over to him.

“You could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.” John confidently states.

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock stresses.

“But come on…” John looks at Sherlock’s pained, almost guilty expression, “No…”

“What?”

“You?” John asks, shocked.

“Shut up!” Sherlock then turns to Lestrade. “I'm not your sniffer dog.”

“No, Anderson's my sniffer dog.” Lestrade counters.

Anderson then appears from the kitchen, “Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?”

“Oh, I volunteered,” Anderson smirks.

“They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen.”

“Are these human eyes?” Donavon appears holding a glass jug filled with human eyes.
“Put those back!” Sherlock shouts.

“They were in the microwave.”

“It's an experiment,” Sherlock states.

“Keep looking, guys.” Lestrade yells, and stands up “Or you could help us properly, and I'll stand them down.”

“This is childish,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

“So you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if we find anything.”

“I am clean!” Sherlock yells.

“Is your flat? All of it?” Lestrade asks.

John’s had enough. “Right!” Everyone turns to him. “This has gone on long enough. Since you all aren’t on the drugs squad, I imagine you don’t have a search warrant. So if you will please kindly place everything back, where you found it and leave the flat, that would be lovely” John smiles. No one moves. “NOW!” John orders and suddenly it’s like the house is on fire, everyone rushes to leave the apartment apart from Anderson, Donavon, Lestrade and Sherlock.

“Hang on! You can’t order us around like that! Who do you think you are?” Anderson demands.

John smiles but doesn’t answer. Lestrade speaks up to avoid the silence. “We've found Rachel.”

Sherlock stops looking at John in awe and snaps his attention to Lestrade. “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson's only daughter,” Lestrade reveals.

“Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?” Sherlock mutters to himself.

“Never mind that we found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.” Anderson says from the kitchen.

Sherlock snaps “Not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.” He turns to Lestrade, “You need to bring Rachel in to question her. I need to question her.”

“She's dead.”

“Excellent. How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”

“Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for 14 years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, 14 years ago.” Lestrade reveals and Sherlock stops.

“Oh, that's… ...that's not right. How… Why would she do that? Why?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yep - sociopath, I'm seeing it now.” Anderson scoffs.

“She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort, it would have hurt.” Sherlock corrects.

John speaks up, “The victims take the poison themselves, he makes them take it. He could talk to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.” John guesses.

“But that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?” Sherlock asks, and everyone looks at him. “Not good?” he whispers to John.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John whispers back.

“If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?” Sherlock asks.

“’Please, God, let me live.’” John answers.

“Use your imagination!” Sherlock scoffs.

“I don't have to.” Sherlock stops. “But, if I were being murdered, I’d probably try to give the police a clue to find my killer” John answers.

“A clue” Sherlock mutters to himself.

Mrs Hudson appears from the stairs. “Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock.”

“I didn't order a taxi. Go away.” Sherlock snaps, thinking.

“Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?”

“It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson,” John answers.

“But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers…” Mrs Hudson states.

“Shut up, everybody!” Sherlock yells, “Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off.”

“What? My face is?” Anderson snaps.

“Everybody quiet and still. - Anderson, turn your back.” Lestrade orders.

“What about your taxi?” Mrs Hudson asks.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock yells but stops. “Oh… Ah! John, I could kiss you!” John blushes, “She was clever. She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone to lead us to her killer.”

“But how?” Lestrade asks.

“What do you mean, how?” Sherlock asks, annoyed. “Rachel! Don't you see? Rachel!” Sherlock yells and sees everyone's confused expressions. “Oh… Look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing.”

John finally realises. “Rachel is not a name.”

“Yes, John!” Sherlock grins.

“Then what is it?” Lestrade asks.

“John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address.” John quickly goes to the suitcase and reads off the email address. Sherlock gets on his laptop “She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone. So it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled. So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address, and all together now, the password is...?”

“Rachel,” John answers and they share a small smile.

“So we can read her e-mails. So what?” Anderson asks.

“Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than that. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS. Which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us to the man who killed her.” Sherlock’s laptop loads for the website to locate the phone.

“Unless he got rid of it.” Lestrade states.

“We know he didn't,” John answers.

“Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…” Mrs Hudson tries.

“Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?” Sherlock shouts and turns to Lestrade, “Get vehicles, get a helicopter. This phone battery won't last forever.”

“We'll just have a map reference, not a name,” Lestrade argues.

“It's a start!”

The laptop beeps and John looks over. It’s here. “Sherlock…”

“Narrows it down from just anyone in London. - It's the first proper lead we've had.” Sherlock continues, not listening.

“Sherlock…” John tries again.

“Where is it? Quickly, where?” Sherlock snaps his attention to John.

“Here. It's...in 22 1 Baker Street.” John shows Sherlock the laptop screen.

“How can it be here? How?” Sherlock asks, looking around the room.

“Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back - and it fell out somewhere.” Lestrade tries.

“And I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice?” Sherlock scoffs at the idea.

“Anyway, we texted him, and he called back.” John pitches in. Donavan and Anderson begin looking around for the phone.

Sherlock is standing, unsure what to do next when his previous words come back to him as he sees the figure behind Mrs Hudson. Who do we trust, even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? Of course!

He gets a text message stating ‘Come with me’ from Jennifer Wilson’s number. The taxi driver from behind Mrs Hudson turns and goes back down the stairs.

John noticed his odd behaviour, “Sherlock, are you okay?”

“What...? Yeah, yeah... I'm fine.” I distractedly say, moving slowly towards the door.

“So, how can the phone be here?” Lestrade asks.

“Don't kno,.” Sherlock mutters.

“Where are you going?” John asks when Sherlock is now at the door and on the first step.

“Fresh air, just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long.” Sherlock calmly states.

“Are you sure you're all right?” John asks, worried.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock calls out as he descends the stairs, quickly placing his beloved Belstaff on, he exits 221 Baker St.

He finds an old man leaning against a black taxi. “Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.”

“I didn't order a tax,” Sherlock smirks.

“Doesn't mean you don't need one.” The old man states.

“You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger.”

“See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of a head. A proper advantage for a serial killer.” The man smiles.

“Is this a confession?”

“Oh, yeah. I'll tell you what else… If you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet, and they can take me down, I promise.”

Sherlock looks at him in confusion, “Why?”

“Cause you're not going to do that.” The man calmly answers.

“Am I not?” Sherlock asks, looking at the apartment, he can see John looking at him, a phone to his ear. He could easily call John and Lestrade down and arrest this man.

“I didn't kill those four people, Mr Holmes. I spoke to 'em… and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now, I'll promise you one thing. I will never tell you what I said.”

“No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.”

“And you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?” The man asks, getting behind the wheel of the taxi.

Sherlock leans down the talk with him through the window. “If I wanted to understand… what would I do?”

“Let me take you for a ride.”

“So you can kill me too?” Sherlock scoffs.

“I don't want to kill you, Mr Holmes. I'm going to talk to you… ...and then you're going to kill yourself.” Sherlock thinks for a minute. He could just go upstairs and arrest the man. The man who talked to his victims – hey, John was right – and they killed themselves. How could he make 4 different people take deadly poison just by talking to them?

Sherlock steps into the backseat of the cab.

John, who was watching out the window, was surprised when he saw Sherlock leave with the taxi that he hadn’t ordered.

John announces to the room. “He just drove off in a cab.”

Donovan sneers, “I told you, he does that. He bloody left again. We're wasting our time!”

“The phone is ringing, and since we can’t hear it, It’s not here. I’ll try the search again” John offers and re-starts the search on Sherlock’s laptop.

“Does it matter? Does any of it?” Donovan asks, “He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down. And you're wasting your time. All our time.”

“Watch how to speak to me detective” John growls, and turns to Lestrade, “If I get a lead on the phone I will call you. In the meantime, I guess I’ll see you Monday” Lestrade nods and smiles.

“Okay, everybody, we’re done here,” Lestrade announces and Donovan and Anderson start gathering their things.

“Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?” Lestrade sighs as he shrugs on his coat.

“You know him better than I do.” John points out.

“I've known him for five years and, no, I don't.”

“So why do you put up with him?” John asks.

“Because I'm desperate, that's why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.” With that, Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan leave, leaving John to clean up after them.
_____________________________________________________________

“How did you find me?” Sherlock asks from inside the cab, looking at everything available to him.

“Oh, I recognised you. As soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.”

“Who warned you about me?”

“Just someone out there who's noticed.”

Sherlock looks at him, confused, “Who? Who would notice me?”

“You're too modest, Mr Holmes,” he states.

“I'm really not.”

“Got yourself a fan.” He reveals.

“Tell me more.” Sherlock orders.

“That's all you're going to know. In this lifetime.”

They sit in silence for the rest of the ride, until he parks on the left side of two identical buildings. He gets out and opens the back door.

“Where are we?” Sherlock demands.

“You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are.”

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” Sherlock answers. “Why here?”

“It's open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie - you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out.” He smirks.

“And you just walk your victims in? How?” Sherlock questions. The man then pulls out a gun, “Oh... Dull.” Sherlock sighs in annoyance.

“Don't worry. It gets better.” The man smiles.

“You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint.” Sherlock sneers.

“I don't. It's much better than that. Don't need this with you.” he puts the gun away “Cause you'll follow me.” He then walks away towards the building on the right and after a few moments, Sherlock follows.
_________________________________________________________

Back in the flat, John had finally finished cleaning the flat from when the police messed it up. Going over to the desk, he grabbed his cane when he heard a beep from Sherlock’s laptop. Looking at it questioningly, John picks it up and immediately notices that the phone’s location has moved. Sherlock.

John grabs his jacket and the laptop and rushes out of the apartment, hailing a cab and trying to call Lestrade.
____________________________________________________________

Sherlock follows the killer to an empty room, when they enter, he turns on the lights, revealing a clean classroom. “Well, what do you think? It's up to you. You're the one who's going to die here.” He states as they walk further into the classroom.

“No, I'm not,” Sherlock smirks.

“That's what they all say.” He motions to a table, “Shall we talk?” He sits down and Sherlock sits down across from him.

“Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.” Sherlock speaks up.

“You call that a risk? Nah… This...is a risk.” The man takes a glass bottle out of his pocket and onto the table, inside the small glass bottle is a large pill. Mostly white with small dots of red. “Oh, I like this bit. Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this” The man takes out another bottle with the same pill from his other pocket and places it next to the other bottle. “Weren't expecting that, were you? Oh, you're gonna love this.” the man smirks.

“Love what?” Sherlock asks, not amused.

“Sherlock Holmes look at you! Here in the flesh. That website of yours, your fan told me about it.”

“My fan?” Sherlock sneers.

“You are brilliant. You are a proper genius. The Science Of Deduction. Now, that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think? Doesn’t it make you mad? Why can't people just think?” The man says a hidden layer of anger in his tone.

“Oh, I see.” Sherlock says slowly, “So you're a proper genius too.”

“Don't look it, do I? Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know.”

Sherlock looks down at the bottles, “Okay, two bottles. Explain.”

“There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, and you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle...you die.” Sherlock barely stops himself from rolling his eyes.

“Both bottles are of course identical,” Sherlock states.

“In every way.”

“And you know which is which.”

“Of course I know.”

“But I don't.”

“Wouldn't be a game if you knew - you're the one who chooses.” The man states.

“Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?” Sherlock questions.

“I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together” The man smirks, “we take our medicine. I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that, did you, Mr Holmes?”

“This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice?”

“And now I'm giving you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.”

“It's not a game, it's chance,” Sherlock argues.

“I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr Holmes - it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move and one survivor. And this...this… is the move.” he takes the right bottle and drags it across the table, closer to Sherlock. “Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one. Are you ready yet, Mr Holmes? - Ready to play?”

“Play what? It's a 50:50 chance.”

“You're not playing the numbers - you're playing me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff or a double bluff? - Or a triple bluff?” He whispers.

“It's still just chance,” Sherlock argues.

“Four people, in a row? It's not chance.” the old man counters.

“Luck.” Sherlock continues.

“It's genius! I know how people think. I know how people think I think. I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you. Or maybe God just loves me.” He shrugs.

“Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie.”
_________________________________________________________

John followed the map and the taxi followed his instructions, dropping him off at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. John hesitates but ends up running into the left building, looking for Sherlock.
____________________________________________________________________

“So...you risked your life four times just to kill strangers – why?” Sherlock asks.

“Time to play.” The man orders.

“Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own - there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother's been cut out. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts. Ah, but there's more. Your clothes. Recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least...three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ah… three years ago. Is that when they told you?”

“Told me what?” he demands.

“That you're a dead man walking.”

“So are you.”

“You don't have long, though. Am I right?” Sherlock questions.

“Aneurism. Right in 'ere.” he points to the side of his head under his hat, “Any breath could be my last.”

“And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people.”

“I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism.” The man corrects.

“No... No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about your children.”

The man nods, “Oh… You are good, ain't ya?”

“But how?” Sherlock questions.

“When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs,” he admits.

“Or serial killing.” Sherlock corrects.

“You'd be surprised.”

“Surprise me.”

“I have a sponsor.”

“You have a what?” Sherlock asks, confused.

“For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill… the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.” The man reveals.

“Who'd sponsor a serial killer?” Sherlock asks.

“Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?” He asks, answering Sherlock’s question. “You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There are others out there just like you, except you're just a man. And they're so much more than that.”

“What do you mean… more than a man? An organisation...what?” Sherlock asks.

“There's a name that no one says. And I'm not going to say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.” The man points to the bottles on the table.

In the next building, John is frantically running through the building, searching every room to find Sherlock.

“What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here.” Sherlock states.

The man takes out the gun, “You can take a 50:50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option.”

“I'll have the gun, please,” Sherlock says calmly.

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely. The gun.” Sherlock smiles.

“You don't want to phone a friend?” He asks.

“The gun.” The man pulls the trigger and a flame appears at the end. It’s a lighter. “I know a real gun when I see one,” Sherlock smirks.

“None of the others did.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock stands up and moves to the door “Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.”

Just before Sherlock arrives at the door, the man speaks up, “Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one's the good bottle?”

Sherlock scoffs, “Course. Child's play.”

“Well, which one, then? Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you. Come on! Play the game.” Sherlock moves slowly to the table and takes the bottle closest to the man. “Oh! Interesting.” The man takes the other bottle. Sherlock flips his bottle in his hand. “So what do you think? Shall we? Really...what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough… to bet your life?” The man stands across from Sherlock, the pill in his hand.

In the other building, John arrives at a classroom, he can see that in the other building, an old man and Sherlock are talking. John tries to shout his name, but no one can hear him.

“I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do.” Sherlock opens his bottle and takes out the pill. “A man like you. So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?” Sherlock holds the pill to the light, but he can’t see anything different. “Still the addict. But this...this is what you're really addicted to.” His hand slowly moves to his mouth “You'll do anything… anything at all, to stop being bored.” the man also slowly moves his own pill to his mouth, matching Sherlock’s speed. “You're not bored now, are ya? Isn't it good?” Just as the pill is a hair length away from Sherlock’s mouth, a bullet smashes through the window and hits the man in his chest.

From the other building, John lowers his handgun from the army that they never took back and runs out of the room.

Sherlock leaps over the table to see out the window into the next building, but all he can see is an empty room. The man coughs in pain, bringing Sherlock to his attention. Sherlock grabs the pill that he dropped and holds it up so the man can see. “Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?” the man refused to talk, so Sherlock threw the pill across the room “Okay...tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan. I want a name.”

“No…” The man groans in pain.

“You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me...a name.” Sherlock steps on the man’s chest, over the bullet wound. “A name! Now! The name!” Sherlock yells, stepping harder.

“Moriarty!” The man cries out in pain. Sherlock steps off him, mouthing the name to himself. Checking a pulse, the man is dead. Sherlock texts Lestrade and waits outside the building for the police to arrive.

They put Sherlock in the back of an ambulance, and the paramedics keep placing a shock blanket on him when he tries to shrug it off.

“Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.” Sherlock asks when Lestrade walks up to him.

“Yeah, it's for shock.” Lestrade answers.

“I'm not in shock,” Sherlock argues.

“Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs.” Lestrade jokes.

“So, the shooter - no sign?” Sherlock asks.

“Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but… we've got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock looks at him and smirks. “Oh, I wouldn't say that.”

Lestrade sighs, “Okay. Give me.”

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall was from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principles. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and” Sherlock then turns to see John calmly waiting for him behind the police tape. “Nerves of steel…” Sherlock then realises he turns to Lestrade. “Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade looks confused.

“Ignore all of that. - It's just the, er...the shock talking.” Sherlock stumbles, walking over to John.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade asks.

“I just need to...talk about the...the rent.” Sherlock stammers over his words.

“I've still got questions,” Lestrade argues.

“Oh, what now?! I'm in shock - look, I've got a blanket.” Sherlock states, pointing out the orange shock blanket around his shoulders. "And… I just caught you a serial killer… more or less.”

Lestrade says slowly, “Okay. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock bundles up the blanket throws it in a police car’s open window and ducks under the police tape to meet John. “Erm...Sergeant Donovan's...just been explaining...everything. Two pills… Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful.”

Sherlock smirks. “Good shot.”

“Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window.” John calmly says.

“Well, you'd know. Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case.” John clears his throat “Are you all right?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, of course, I'm all right,” John states.

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock says calmly.

“Yes, I…” John catches himself but realises that he can’t lie to Sherlock Holmes. “That's true, isn't it?” John smiles but quickly corrects himself. “But he wasn't a very nice man.”

“No. No, he wasn't, really, was he?”

“Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.” John continues.

“That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here.” Sherlock and John begin walking away from the crime scene, giggling at Sherlock’s joke.

“Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it.” John smiles, trying hard not to laugh.

“You're the one who shot him,” Sherlock states just as they walk past Sergeant Donovan.

“Keep your voice down!” John whispers. “Sorry, it's just, erm...nerves, I think.” John says to Donovan.

They continue walking away from the crime scene.

“You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?” John suddenly asks.

Sherlock stops. “Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up.”

“No, you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever.” John states.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock questions.

John smiles, “Because you're an idiot.”

Sherlock smiles back, “Dinner?”

“Starving,” John answers.

“End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese place. Stays open till two. You can tell good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle.” They continue walking and Sherlock’s brother gets out of a car near them. John spots him.

“Sherlock, your brother is here to annoy us again.” John sighs and Sherlock turns in surprise.

“So...another case cracked. How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?” He asks.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock sneers.

“As ever, I'm concerned about you.” John hides his scoff.

“Yes, I've been hearing about your ‘concern’.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough...no,” Sherlock states.

“We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

John rolls his eyes. “I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft.” Sherlock fires back.

John interrupted, “I don’t believe I ever got your name, Mr Holmes” John smiled.

Sherlock smirks. “Dr Watson, this is Mycroft.” Sherlock turns to his brother “Putting on weight again?”

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft corrects.

“Right then, if you’re done trying to one-up each other, Sherlock and I have dinner to attend. Mycroft, enjoy your job at the British government.” John smirks at Mycroft’s shocked look. Not sure why, John did tell him that he knew he worked for the government.

Sherlock hides a proud smile “Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home - you know what it does for the traffic.”

With that, Sherlock and John walk away. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mycroft that speechless. It seems I have under-estimated you, Dr Watson”

“We make quite the pair Mr Holmes,” John smirks. “So! Dim sum.” John says, changing the subject.

“Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No, you can't.” John laughs.

“Almost can.” Sherlock amends. “You did get shot, though.

“Sorry?”

“In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.”

“Oh. Yeah, shoulder.” John informs.

“Shoulder! I thought so.” Sherlock mutters.

“No, you didn't.”

“The left one,” Sherlock answers.

“Lucky guess,” John states.

“I never guess.” Sherlock quickly says.

John smiles, “Yes, you do.” He turns to see Sherlock grinning. “What are you so happy about?”

“Moriarty.”

“What's Moriarty?” John asks.

“I've absolutely no idea.” Sherlock grins.

“Well, I’m sure we will figure it out” John smiles and Sherlock smiles back.

:):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):):)

All of Sunday, John moved out of his bed-sit and into 221B Baker St. Sherlock showed him the flat properly and John made them tea. Sherlock admitted that John did make a good cup of tea and John smiled at the praise.

On Monday, John finally realised that he never told Sherlock what his job was. When John realised this, he was already halfway to his destination, so he shrugged and decided to tell Sherlock later.

John arrives at the Police office just before 9 when he runs into Sherlock.

“John? What are you doing here” Sherlock asks.

“What are you doing here?” John asks instead.

“Lestrade called me in to finish my statement. Now what are you doing here?” Sherlock fires back.

“I work here” John reveals.

“You what?” Sherlock asks, shocked.

“I work here. I’m the new Chief of Police” John smiles.

“But, you’re a doctor” Sherlock argues.

“I went to the police academy when I was in medical school. Of course, I then went to the army, raised to Colonel. When I go back, my old Captain, who was friends with the old Chief. A few months later, I’m the new Chief of Police" John reveals.

“Brilliant” Sherlock mutters and John blushes. “I mean, congratulations Dr Watson.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.” John smiles.

A few moments of silence pass before John speaks again. “Well, I’ll see you later?”

“Right, yes” Sherlock seems to remember where he is. “See you later”

Chapter Text

It’s been a few months since John moved in with Sherlock and they’ve quickly found a stable routine. John would work his desk job as Police Chief and did some cases with Sherlock if he had time to spare (and if he didn’t he would make time). As roommates, it was helpful that John was a doctor, as some of Sherlock’s experiments would have driven a normal person insane. John, however, enjoyed helping Sherlock occasionally and even corrected Sherlock on one experiment which was ego-boosting. It was also quickly decided that if they wanted actual food in the fridge, then John would need to be the one who went shopping.

So, on Friday afternoon, after finishing work early, John stood at one of the self-service checkouts, scanning items as a short queue slowly formed behind him. Scanning another item, the check-out machine beeped angrily and John had to wait for a staff member to help him.

“Bloody thing never works,” John grumbles as the staff member scans her badge and taps a few times on the screen.

“I know. It feels like every five minutes I’m over here helping someone with their machine.” The staff member laughs.

“Well, thank you for coming to my rescue” John smiles.

“My pleasure” The staff member jokes and leaves John to continue scanning his items.

John holds lettuce in a plastic bag and moves it slowly across the scanner in an attempt to get it to read the barcode.

The machine announced in automated voice “Item not scanned. Please try again.”

Flinching at the loud voice, John glares at the machine, “D’you think you could keep your voice down?”

Finally, John has all his items scanned and quickly pays, leaving the store before he shoots the machine.

When he gets back to the flat, John finds Sherlock sitting in his armchair calmly reading a book. John walks up the stairs and into the living room, stopping just inside the room and looking around as if he suspects something has happened in his absence, but he can’t tell what. Things just feel… different.

Not looking up from his book, Sherlock comments, “You took your time.”

“The bloody Chip-N-Pin machine kept beeping at me every five seconds. Those things never work for me” John grumbles as he moves to the kitchen. “Almost had a row with it in the middle of the shop”

“A row with a machine?” Sherlock asks, lowering his book.

“It kept bloody beeping at me, and why does it have such a loud voice? Had to get the staff member’s help five times!” John sighs in annoyance. “Anyway, what happened about that case you were offered... the Jaria Diamond?”

“Not interested,” Sherlock states, shutting the book with a loud snap and only then realises that the attacker’s sword is still lying underneath his chair in plain view. He quickly slams a foot down onto the end and slides his foot and the sword further back to get the weapon out of sight. “I sent them a message.”

Placing the shopping on the table, John spots a new long narrow gouge in the top of the table. Looking at it closely, John hums. “Yes, I’m sure they got the message” He smirks and begins putting the items in the cupboards first, ignoring Sherlock’s experiments in various stages of completion.

Meanwhile, Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop, unlocked the password and proceeded to check his emails.

John turns around from the kitchen table and frowns when he realises what Sherlock is looking at. “Is that my computer?”

Sherlock answers as he begins to type. “Of course.”

“How’d you guess the password this time?” John sighs, sadly used to the fact that Sherlock likes to use John’s laptop instead of his own.

“Took me less than a minute to guess yours. You’re childhood pet’s name. Not exactly Fort Knox.” Sherlock answers, still typing.

“Right,” John sighs and continues putting the shopping away.

After a few minutes, Sherlock suddenly stands “I need to go to the bank. Come, John,” He grabs his coat and leaves the flat. John frowns, then jumps up and hurries to join him.
____________________________________________________________________

Once John and Sherlock arrive at their destination, Sherlock leads John through a revolving glass door that leads into Shad Sanderson Bank.

“Sherlock, why are you dragging me to the bank?” John asks as he gets onto an escalator behind Sherlock. Meanwhile, Sherlock is observing everything around him, including the security systems which have card swipes with electronic readers. It would be very hard to break into this bank without anyone seeing you. But not impossible.

Reaching the top Sherlock walks over to the reception desk and addresses one of the receptionists. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson to see Mr Wikles” Sherlock states.

A few moments later, they are shown into an empty office of Sebastian Wilkes and are only there for a few seconds when the man himself walks in and grins at Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sebastian” They shake hands, though it looks like Sherlock is reluctant to do so.

“Howdy, buddy. How long’s it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?” John can see hostilities between these two, especially with how Sherlock is looking at Sebastian with barely hidden disdain.

Feeling left out, John holds out his hand, “John Watson, I’m a friend of Sherlock’s” John states, noticing Sherlock failing to hide his smile.

“So, you’re doing well. You’ve been abroad a lot.” Sherlock starts.

“Well, some.” The other man says, acting modest.

“Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?” Sherlock observes. John hums, wondering how Sherlock figured that out when Sebastian starts laughing and points at Sherlock.

“Right. You’re doing that thing.” Sebastian turns to John, who is frowning at him for laughing, “We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do.”

Sherlock quietly mutters, “It’s not a trick.” But Sebastian ignores him.

“He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.” He continues. “Put the wind up, everybody. We hated him.” John can see Sherlock turning his head away and looking down, his face momentarily filling with pain. “You’d come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you’d been shagging the previous night.”

Fuming that he just called Sherlock a freak. John is about to speak when Sherlock gently kicks him under the desk.

“I simply observed,” Sherlock states.

“Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world, you’re quite right. How could you tell?” Sherlock opens his mouth but Sebastian continues speaking with a smug tone, “You’re gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan, maybe it was the mud on my shoes!” Sebastian finishes, laughing.

Sherlock is silent for a few moments before simply stating, “I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me.”

Looking at Sebastian’s annoyed expression, John understands why Sherlock said it, and why he told John to not talk. A few minutes pass as Sebastian laughs humorlessly and Sherlock smiles back at him with an equal lack of humour before Sebastian claps his hands together, becoming more serious.

“I’m glad you could make it over. We’ve had a break-in.” Sebastian stands, and Sherlock and John follow as he leads them out of the office and across the floor surrounded by desks, pilers and panels, towards another door.

“Sir William’s office – the bank’s former Chairman. The room’s been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night.” Sebastian reveals.

“What did they steal?” John asks after he notices that Sherlock isn’t going to.

“Nothing. Just left a little message.” He holds his security card against the reader, unlocking the door. Inside, hanging on the wall, behind the large desk is a framed portrait of a man in a suit. On the wall to the left of the portrait, someone has sprayed in bright yellow an 8 with the top open a line above the number and a line across the eyes of the painting.

Sebastian then takes them back to his office to show them the security footage. At 23:33:01, the wall and painting were clear, and sixty seconds later at 23:34:01, the yellow paint appeared.

“So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute,” Sebastian states.

“How many ways into that office?” Sherlock asks.

“Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet. That door didn’t open last night.” He says after explaining the security system to them. “There’s a hole in our security. Find it and we’ll pay you – five figures.” He says, taking out a cheque “This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there’s a bigger one on its way.” He smirks.

“I don’t need an incentive, Sebastian.” Sherlock huffs and walks away. John takes the cheque for the rent and follows Sherlock back into the office with the painting.

“You really don’t like him,” John comments as Sherlock takes pictures of the graffiti. “Not that I blame you. What he said before, I was ready to punch him. If you hadn’t stopped me, I was so ready to expose him for being colour-blind and being left-handed.”

Sherlock stops and turns to John in awe and shock, “You noticed that?”

“Of course I did.” John laughs, “And don’t think I didn’t notice you figuring out his travel history. You didn’t ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him.” Sherlock smiles but doesn’t respond. “How did you know?”

“Did you see his watch?” Sherlock asks. “The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn’t alter it.”

“Within a month? How’d you get that part?”

“New Breitling. Only came out this February.” Sherlock smirks.

“Brilliant” John laughs and examines to yellow graffiti. “You know, having the line across the eyes screams death threat to me”

“My thoughts exactly, But who is it directed to?” Sherlock hums in thought.

“Someone who can walk through walls apparently or fly” John comments sarcastically.

“Interesting” Sherlock mutters, he then walks over to the windows and pulls up the blinds which are covering what is revealed to be a door onto a small balcony. Opening the door he goes out onto the balcony and looks at the spectacular view over London before looking down at the very long drop to the ground hundreds of feet below. Sherlock looks along the balcony and bites his lip thoughtfully before heading back inside.

“Sherlock, I was kidding, no one can fly, let alone get through that door at this height now get back inside!”

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock is on the floor with the cubicles, as he ducks down behind desks, doorways and walls. Seemingly dancing and ducking across the room until he is standing directly behind the chair of whoever works in a certain office, he sees that he has a clear view of the top of the painting and the new yellow slash across the portrait’s eyes.

Confirming that this is the only place on the trading floor from where the damaged portrait can be seen. He looks to the door for identification. Hong Kong Desk Head, Edward Van Coon. He slides the name sign out of its holder and heads off. Meanwhile, the whole time John was watching Sherlock with amusement as he danced across the office space.
__________________________________________________________

“If you’re correct, then that graffiti was a threat to someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and…” Sherlock trails off and John finishes.

“They’ll lead us to the person who sent it. And I’m guessing through your dancing across the office space that you know who it was intended for?” John doesn’t try to hide his smile.

“Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see the graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course, the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot.”

John nods along, “Because traders come to work at all hours. Some who trade with halfway across the world would be there in the middle of the night”

“Very good John. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight.” Sherlock shows John the name plate he stole, “Not many Van Coons in the phonebook.”

“That’s brilliant” John mutters and Sherlock beams.
_______________________________________________________________

After a taxi ride, they arrive outside a block of flats and Sherlock presses the door buzzer marked ‘Van Coon’. Noticing that there was a security camera above the buzzers, he waited a couple of seconds, then pressed the buzzer again. There’s no response.

“Either he isn’t home, or he isn’t answering. I could get the landlord to open the door for us.” John offers.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock smirks.

“Fine, you do your way, I do my way, and we will see who gets in the apartment first” John smirks and presses the buzzer for the landlord.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice answers.

“Hello, ma’am. I am with Scotland Yard. I need to talk to one of your tenants – Van Coon- but he isn’t answering, can you buzz me in?” John asks politely, holding his badge up to the camera. The door buzzes and John smiles, waving with a grin to Sherlock as he enters and closes the door behind him with Sherlock still outside.

John arrives at the right apartment with the landlady standing outside the door with the key. The landlady lets him in and John finds Sherlock smirking at him from inside the apartment. John sighs, “Dammit”. John quickly closes the door so the landlady doesn’t see Sherlock and joins Sherlock in the search of the apartment. “How’d you do it?”

“The floor above had a new label, just moved in. I buzzed, pretended that I forgot my keys and used her balcony to jump down to this balcony. Lucky for me the balcony door was open.”

“Show off” John laughs and Sherlock barks out a laugh. They come across a locked door, which Sherlock is quick to kick open, revealing Van-Coon’s bedroom, and Van-Coon on his bed. A gun on the bed and a bullet wound on the right side of his head.
______________________________________________________________

John is quick to call the police who arrive shortly after. Currently, crime techs are going through the crime scene and a photographer is taking pictures of Van Coon’s body lying on the bed. Sherlock has taken off his coat and scarf and is currently in the bedroom taking in the scene as John stands beside him.

“With the threat at the bank, this can’t be a coincidence” John starts, “But if it wasn’t suicide, how was the door locked from the outside?”

Sherlock has squatted down by a suitcase on the floor near the bed, having opened the lid and is looking at the contents. “Been away three days, judging by the laundry.” He then stands and looks to John, “Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it.”

“How big?” John asks.

“Not sure. About 30cm high and 20cm wide” Sherlock estimates. “Those symbols at the bank. You may be right, but the way it was two separate symbols…”

“You think it’s some sort of code?” John asks.

“It’s possible” Sherlock mutters, closely at Van Coon’s body and carefully opens the man’s jacket to look at his inside pockets.

“So a coded message, possibly a threat, meant to be seen by Van-Coon when he was on shift. You think they put it there to scare him?”

“Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?” Sherlock asks.

“Maybe he wasn’t answering. And if it is a message, it’s a message he’s avoiding” John sums up.

Sherlock looks up at John and smiles. “What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?”

“Bills” John guesses and gets a big smile from Sherlock in return.

“Careful John. The temptation to keep you is getting higher by the day”

“Then I best work harder to be irresistible.” John flirts as Sherlock blushes lightly and gently prises open Van Coon’s mouth and pulls out a small black origami flower from inside.

Clearing his throat. Sherlock continues, “So, he was being threatened, when the graffiti at the bank didn’t work, they got to him this way”

John looks closely at the paper flower as Sherlock places the paper flower into an evidence bag.

Just then, a man walks into the bedroom. Sherlock turns and walks towards him.

“Ah, Sergeant. We haven’t met.” Sherlock greets, holding out his hand, but the man ignores it.

“Yeah, I know who you are, and I’d prefer it if you didn’t tamper with any of the evidence.” Sherlock lowers his hand and gives the evidence bag to the officer.

“I’ve phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?” Sherlock asks.

“He’s busy. I’m in charge. And it’s not Sergeant; it’s Detective Inspector. Dimmock.” The man states. John clears his throat and walks towards the two.

“Detective Inspector Dimmock. Nice to meet you, I’m Police Chief Dr John Watson. We discovered the body” John informs, showing the DI his badge. Dimmock immediately straightens his back and shakes his hand with the quick ‘Sir’. They walk into the living room.

“And this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, also my flatmate. I tag along on a few of his cases. Now, we are looking at a murder-” DI Dimmock cuts John off.

“Murder? We’re obviously looking at a suicide. It’s the only explanation of all the facts.”

“Wrong. It’s one possible explanation of some of the facts.” Sherlock corrects. “You’ve got a solution that you like, but you’re choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn’t comply with it.”

“Like?” Dimmock asks with attitude. Sherlock looks at John who gives a nod with a huff.

“The wound was on the right side of his head and Van Coon was left-handed.” Sherlock goes into an elaborate position as he demonstrates his point, pretending to try and point a gun to his right temple with his left hand. “Requires quite a bit of contortion.”

“Left-handed?” Dimmock asks.

“Oh, I’m amazed you didn’t notice. All you have to do is look around this flat.” Sherlock states sarcastically. He then points to the table next to the couch. “Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?”

John doesn’t even try to hide his amused expression, “Yes, please go on”

Sherlock smiles to himself, most people would have told him to shut up by now, but John encouraged him to keep talking, no one has ever done that. “There’s a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left.” Sherlock finishes. He then turns to Dimmock with an annoyed expression, “It’s highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head.”

John decides to not point out that he is left-handed but shoots with his right.

“Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts.” Sherlock sums up.

“But the gun… Why?” Dimmock gets interrupted by John.

“We know he was being threatened, we were at his workplace before, a bank. It seems reasonable that he was waiting for the killer. Had a gun to defend himself.”

“He fired a shot when his attacker came in.” Sherlock continues while putting on his coat and scarf.

“And the bullet?” Dimmock asks.

“Went through the open window,” Sherlock answers.

“Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?!”

“Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn’t fired from his gun. I guarantee it.”

“But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?” Dimmock asks.

John hums in thought, “If the window was open, could the killer somehow find a way through it?”

“From 6 stories off the ground?” Dimmock asks.

“Good! You’re finally asking the right questions.” Sherlock states condescendingly before leaving the apartment.

John sighs, “Get the ballistics report, call us when it states that we were right. But don’t say anything to the press. If anyone asks, say that you are investigating, that’s an order.” John smiles and follows after Sherlock.
____________________________________________________________

John and Sherlock arrive at the restaurant where Sebastian is having a work dinner when John stops Sherlock from barging in.

“Sherlock wait. You can’t just barge into a place like this.”

“John, this cannot wait. I need information about Van Coon”

“Just, wait a minute.” John sighs and gets his badge out. Going to one of the staff, he smiles politely, “Evening Miss. I was wondering if you could bring that man over there, we need to talk to him for a few minutes, nothing bad” The staff member nods and hurries to Sebastian.

“Show off” Sherlock mutters and John laughs. Sebastian arrives within a few moments. “It was a threat. That’s what the graffiti meant.” Sherlock is quick to inform.

“I’m kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?” Sebastian grinds out pointing to the table with men in suits.

“I don’t think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed.”

Sebastian goes pales, “What?”

“Van Coon. The police are at his flat.” John states.

“Killed?” Sebastian asks, shocked.

Sherlock almost rolls his eyes, “Yes, now tell us everything you know about him”

“He went to Harrow; Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so…” He trails off.

“You gave him the Hong Kong accounts.” John finishes.

“Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had.”

“Who’d wanna kill him?” John asks.

“We all make enemies.” He unhelpfully answers.

“You don’t all end up with a bullet through your temple” John states.

“Not usually, I’m sorry he’s dead, but I didn’t know him that well. Now, I hired you to do a job. Don’t get side-tracked.” With that, Sebastian leaves, going back to his work dinner.

“I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards” John jokes, making Sherlock chuckle lightly.
_________________________________________________________________

The next day, John finds Sherlock staring at the printed-out photographs of the graffiti at the bank, hanging about the fireplace. He has his fingers under his chin and is staring at the photos with an intense look, obviously trying to find out what the symbols mean.

Without looking away from the pictures, Sherlock asks “I said, ‘Could you pass me a pen?’”

“When?”

“ ’Bout an hour ago,” Sherlock mutters.

“I was having breakfast with Mrs Hudson.” John sighs, “I wasn’t even in the room” Nonetheless, he picks up a pen from the table and, without even looking at Sherlock, tosses the pen in his direction. Sherlock lifts his left hand and catches it without looking away from the photographs on the wall. John walks over to look more closely at the photos.

“Here, have a look.” Sherlock starts and John hums in question, walking over to the table, and looking at the web page on the open laptop. His laptop. Sherlock! The lead article is headlined, “Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police.’.

“The ‘intruder who can walk through walls.’” John reads.

“Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon.” Sherlock states.

“You think it’s the same person?” John asks.

“I do” Sherlock answers. They then go to New Scotland Yard to see Inspector Dimmock.

“Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat” Sherlock turns the laptop around to show Dimmock the web page what John was looking at earlier. “Doors locked from the inside.”

“Do you have any leads for Van Coon?” John asks instead. “Have you seen the ballistics report?” Dimmock nods.

“And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?” Sherlock is quick to ask.

Dimmock reluctantly answers, “No.”

“No.” Sherlock repeats, “So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel.”

Knowing Dimmock isn’t listening, John tries a different approach, “You were just handed a murder enquiry. Give him 5 minutes in his flat” Dimmock sighs but agrees, not wanting to argue with his boss.
____________________________________________________________________

At the reporter’s flat, Sherlock goes upstairs, followed by Dimmock and John. Looking around at everything as he goes, he walks into the living room. There’s an open empty suitcase on the floor. Nearby on the carpet is a black origami flower, similar to the one that Sherlock pulled from Van Coon’s mouth. There are books everywhere on the desk and bookshelves and scattered about on the floor. Several open newspapers are also lying on the floor. Sherlock walks over to the kitchen area and looks through the window at the nearby rooftops of lower buildings. Pushing back the net curtain for a better look, he smirks.

“Four floors up. That’s why they think they’re safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they’re impregnable.” He says to himself. “They don’t reckon for one second that there’s another way in.” He turns back towards the stairs and sees a skylight above the landing.

“I don’t understand,” Dimmock says.

“You’re dealing with a killer who can climb,” Sherlock states, getting closer to the skylight which is high up on the roof.

Dimmock asks “What are you doing?”

“He clings to the walls like an insect.” Sherlock pushes the window open. “That’s how he got in.”

“What?!” Dimmock cried out, not believing what he was hearing.

“Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight. And John was right, the window was his entry point at Van Coon’s as well. He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building and jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon. And of course, that’s how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace. We have to find out what connects these two men.” Sherlock rambles, ignoring Dimmock’s disbelief.

John’s eyes fall on the pile of books scattered up the side of the staircase. It looks like someone threw them there in a hurry, and based on this apartment, Lukis wouldn’t treat his books like this. John picks up one particular book which has fallen open at its front page which shows that it has been borrowed from West Kensington Library, the day he died.

“Sherlock, I know where Lukis was before he died. Let’s go” John speaks up.

“Brilliant John!” Sherlock praises and races out the door, ignoring Dimmock.
_________________________________________________________________

After a taxi ride, they head inside West Kensington Library where Sherlock finds his way to the aisle where Lukis’ book came from.

“He checked out this book the day he died” John reveals. Checking the reference number stuck to the bottom of the book’s spine, he goes to the correct place along the shelves and starts pulling out books and examining them. John does the same and spots yellow paint on the back shelf.

Grabbing Sherlock’s attention, Sherlock turns and sees John taking out more books from his shelf, revealing more yellow paint and the same two symbols that were sprayed across the bank painting.

“Good spot John!” Sherlock grins and John blushes lightly.
_____________________________________________________________

Back at their flat, photographs of the shelf have been added to the photos stuck on the wall in the living room. The boys are standing at the fireplace looking at the pictures.

“So, the killer goes to the bank, and leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, and locks himself in. Hours later, he dies.” Sherlock starts.

“The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it’ll be seen; Lukis goes home. Later that night, he dies too.” John finishes. “We have to find out what that cipher means”

A quick cab ride later, and Sherlock and John are heading towards the National Gallery.

“The world’s run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million-pound security system at the bank to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment.” Sherlock states. “But it’s all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It’s an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won’t unravel it.”

“Where are we headed?” John asks, quick to catch up.

“I need to ask some advice. On painting. I need to talk to an expert.” With that, Sherlock leads John around the rear of the National Gallery where a young man has spray-stencilled the image of a policeman holding a rifle in his hands. He is now adding the finishing touches to his ‘artwork.’ The boy continues spraying, unperturbed, as Sherlock and John approach.

“Part of a new exhibition.” The boy says,

Sherlock looks on in disinterest, “Interesting.”

“I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy.” The boy continues spraying. “I’ve got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I’m workin’?”

With that, Sherlock takes out his phone and holds it out towards the boy, who turns around and tosses one of the spray cans at John. John instinctively catches it and looks at Sherlock and the boy in bewilderment. The boy takes Sherlock’s phone and scrolls through the photographs of the yellow ciphers from the bank’s office and the library.

“Know the author?” Sherlock asks.

“Recognise the paint. It’s like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I’d say zinc.” The boy answers.

“What about the symbols: do you recognise them?” John asks, putting the spray can back in the kid’s bag.

The boy squints at the phone, “Not even sure it’s a proper language.”

“Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them.”

“What, and this is all you’ve got to go on? It’s hardly much, now, is it?” The boy-Raz, asks with snark.

“Are you gonna help us or not?” John asks in a huff.

“I’ll ask around,” Raz states. Hopefully, someone knows something to get them a lead. Just then, a man’s voice shouts at them. The three of them look around and see two Community Support Officers hurrying towards them. Sherlock instantly grabs his phone from Raz, grabs John’s hand and runs off in the opposite direction while Raz drops his spray can, kicks his bag away and also runs.

John pumps his legs as fast as he can to catch up with Sherlock’s long strides. After a few minutes of running, Sherlock stops and catches his breath. John begins laughing, with Sherlock quickly joining in, reminding them of the night they chased the taxi around on their first case.

It took them both a few minutes to realise that they were still holding hands. They awkwardly clear their throats and pull their hands apart, instantly missing the warmth.
_________________________________________________________________

Back at the flat again, Sherlock and John are standing at the fireplace. The wall and the mirror are now almost completely covered as they added several sheets of paper with various ciphers and pictograms on them. Sherlock is currently consulting a book as John stares at the photos.

“Maybe they knew each other” John mutters to himself. Sherlock snaps his book shut.

“Say that again” He orders.

“Well, I just just thinking, that they both got the cipher, they both hurried home and locked their doors. They obviously knew what the cipher meant and who was after them. They must know each other. Just a theory though, as there is no link between the two that the police have found”

“Yes, John!” Sherlock shouts, “I need you to go to the police station” Sherlock turns him around and steers him towards the door. “Ask about the journalist” Sherlock then grabs his own coat “His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary or something that will tell us his movements.” John numbly nods and follows Sherlock downstairs and onto the street. “Gonna go and see Van Coon’s P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they’ll coincide.”

Sherlock walks off down the street and John sees a taxi coming around the corner and hails it. As it pulls over to the curb he sees a woman with dark hair and sunglasses standing on the other side of the street and taking a photograph. Her camera is aimed in his direction. He bends to the taxi driver’s window. “Scotland Yard.” John gets into the taxi and glances around to the other side of the street as he sits down. There is no sign of the woman. Strange. He should keep an eye out.
___________________________________________________________

As Sherlock talks to Van Coon’s personal assistant, John is at Scotland Yard talking with Dimmock, rummaging through a box of Brian Lukis’ possessions.

“That friend of yours” Dimmock starts.

“He’s a bit hard to get along with, but I think he is brilliant. And he has solved hundreds of cases for Scotland Yard.”

“He’s an arrogant sod.”

“Well, that was mild. But he is right 99% of the time. Plus, he keeps me on my toes” John laughs, “Don’t worry, I won’t be making you his partner any time soon. I actually enjoy working with him, and living with him! Always something to look forward to”

Uncomfortable with how the conversation is going, Dimmock hands him a diary. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The journalist’s diary?”

“Right, thanks” John takes the diary and flicks through it, opening it to a page that has been bookmarked with a boarding pass to Dalian Zhoushuizi International Airport to London Heathrow Airport on Zhuang Airlines. From there, John traces the journalist’s steps.
_____________________________________________________________

At Shad Sanderson Bank with Sherlock and Van Coon’s P.A Amanda. Amanda has spread out Van Coon’s receipts on her desk.

“What kind of a boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?” Sherlock asks.

“Um, no. That’s not a word I’d use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag.” Amanda answers.

While Sherlock looks over the table he sees a bottle of luxury hand lotion at the back of the desk.

“Like that hand cream. He bought that for you, didn’t he?” Sherlock asks, not noticing that Amanda fiddling nervously with a pin in her hair, looking at him in surprise as Sherlock shuffles through the paperwork and picks up a receipt from a taxi. He hands it up to Amanda. “Look at this one. Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty.”

“That would get him to the office.” Amanda offers.

“Not rush hour, check the time. Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as…” Sherlock trails off, allowing Amanda to answer, hoping to recall if Van Coon said anything to her.

It works, “The West End. I remember him saying.”

He hands another receipt to Amanda. “Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly.”

“So he got a Tube back to the office. Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?”

Sherlock, still going through the receipts and not looking up, “Because he was delivering something heavy. Didn’t want to lug a package up the escalator.”

“Delivering?”

“To somewhere near Piccadilly Station. Dropped the package, delivered it and then…” He finds another receipt and stands up as he looks at it. It’s from a pizza place, “Stopped on his way. He got peckish.” Sherlock finishes triumphantly.
__________________________________________________________________

On the London streets, sometime later Sherlock found the pizza place and is talking to himself out loud as he walks past it, trying to retrace Van Coon’s steps.

“So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from? Where did the taxi drop you?” He mutters to himself, spinning around as he walks and bumps into someone approaching from behind.

John looks up from his Lukis’ diary about to apologise to the person he bumped into when he sees it’s Sherlock.

Sherlock is quick to inform John of all he’s learned. “Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died, whatever was hidden inside that case. I’ve managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information-”

“-Sherlock” John tries to interrupt but Sherlock continues rambling.

“Credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here-”

“-Sherlock” John tries again.

“Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don’t know where, but-”

John stops him, pointing to the other side of the road “That shop over there.” Sherlock looks at the shop, then looks back to John, in surprise.

“How can you tell?”

“Lukis’ diary.” John answers, “He was here too. He wrote down the address.” John turns and heads towards the shop.

“Oh,” Sherlock mutters, following after him.

They enter a part of Chinatown and into a touristy shop that consists of large lucky cats and other assorted items. John greets the female Chinese shopkeeper politely as they look around at all the items on display.

The shopkeeper lifts one of the cats from the desk. “You want lucky cat?”

John smiles, “No, thanks. Just looking.”

“Ten pound. Ten pound!” The shopkeeper tries to bargain. “I think your wife, she will like!”

John smiles awkwardly, “I’m not married” He then walks over to one of the tables which has small ceramic cups on it. Sherlock is examining a rack displaying clay statues. John picks up one of the cups and turns it over to look at the price tag. He barely stops gasping when he sees the Chinese symbol stuck on the underside. It’s the same as the first half of their cipher.

“Sherlock,” John calls out to get his attention. Sherlock turned at his call, causally walking over across the small shop and stood just behind John’s shoulder. Sherlock sees the label and John places the cup back, both leaving the store, and walks down the street.

“It’s an ancient number system. Hangzhou” Sherlock informs, “These days, only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library.” They stop at store a that has some of these products out the front, having handwritten signs on them giving the names of the vegetables in both Chinese and English, and underneath is the cost in both Hangzhou and English. Sherlock picks up various signs, checking the symbols. “Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect.”

John has spots the first half of the cipher, a sign with the open at the top, eight and slash above it and its English equivalent beneath. “It’s a fifteen. The first half of the cipher is fifteen!” John declares.

“And the blindfold, the horizontal line? That was a number as well.” Sherlock shows John a price tag with a horizontal line at the top, with $1 written underneath. “The Chinese number one, John.” Sherlock grins triumphantly.

“We’ve found it!” John grins. Sherlock turns and begins to walk away. Just then, John sees the same woman who was taking a photograph outside 221 standing nearby. Still wearing her dark sunglasses, she again has her camera raised and pointed towards him as she takes a picture. “Sherlock” John grabs a hold of his wrist, stopping him from walking away. Tugging him closer till they are a hair breathe away, almost like they are hugging, John stares at Sherlock’s lips as he makes sure Sherlock is in direct view of the woman and whispers, “Behind my right shoulder, a woman, dark hair, sunglasses, taking our picture. I saw her outside our flat earlier taking our picture.”

“I see her” Sherlock mutters, seeing the woman before someone walks across her, obscuring his view of her for a moment, and by the time the person has passed, she has vanished. Sherlock moves away from John, and John snaps out of his gazing at Sherlock’s lips, hoping Sherlock didn’t notice.
_____________________________________________________________

Shortly afterwards, they’re staking out the tourist shop, called ‘The Lucky Cat’ in a restaurant across the way. Sitting at a table in the window of the restaurant opposite the shop, Sherlock is writing the two Hangzhou numbers and their English equivalents onto a paper napkin. John sits opposite him, also writing notes.

“Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. Why?” John asks.

“This has to do with what they both brought back in those suitcases.” Sherlock mumbles. “Think about what Sebastian told us about Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market.” Sherlock begins.

“Lost five million and made it back in a week,” John remembers.

“That’s how he made such easy money. He was a smuggler.”

“A guy like Van Coon and Lukis. Business man making frequent trips to Asia.” John states.

“And Lukis was a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off.”

“But why did they die? It doesn’t make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they’d finished the job?” John questions.

Sherlock sits back thoughtfully for a few seconds, then smiles as he realises the answer. “What if one of them was light-fingered?”

“Stole something they weren’t supposed to?” John asks, immediately catching on “And the killer doesn’t know which of them took it, so he threatens them both.”

Sherlock looks out of the window towards the shop, “Remind me…” He trails off, focusing on a Yellow Pages phone directory sealed in a plastic wrapper that has been left outside the door to the flat beside the Lucky Cat. “When was the last time that it rained?”

“Monday I think” John answers, only for Sherlock to stand up and leave the restaurant. John dutifully gets up and follows. Over the road, Sherlock bends down to the Yellow Pages. The plastic wrapper still has drops of water on it, and the top of it has broken open a little. Sherlock runs his fingers over the top of the wet exposed pages of the book.

“It’s been here since Monday.” He straightens up and presses Soo Lin’s doorbell. He only waits a couple of seconds, then looks to his right and heads off in that direction. There’s an alleyway beside the flat and the boys walk down the alley. “No one’s been in that flat for at least three days.”

“So?” John asks. “Maybe they went on holiday”

“Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?” Sherlock asks, pointing at the open window above them. They reach the end of the building and look up, finding a fire escape above their head. Taking a short run at it, Sherlock jumps up and grabs the end, pulling it down towards him until it touches the ground, then runs up the steps towards the open window of the flat, John following close behind him. As they reach the top, the ladder swings back to the horizontal position behind him.

Sherlock climbs in through the window first and into the kitchen, then cries out in muffled alarm as he almost knocks a vase of flowers off the table beside the window. Catching it before it hits the floor, he looks down and sees a wet patch on the rug in the precise place where the vase would have landed. Straightening up, he whispers out to John behind him. “Someone else has been here.” Putting the vase back onto the table, he looks around, talking quietly. “Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did.” John climbs in behind Sherlock, being mindful of the vase and looks around at the kitchen.

Sherlock looks around the kitchen, then takes a pint of milk from the fridge, takes off the lid and now sniffs the contents. Gagging, he puts the bottle back into the fridge. “Somebody’s been in here before me”

“Yes, you already said that with the vase. Can we hurry this along? This can be considered breaking and entering.” John grumbles.

Ignoring him, Sherlock takes out his pocket magnifier from his coat and looks down to where a foot has rucked up the rug, leaving an impression of the intruder’s shoe. “Size eight feet,” he mutters.
“Small, but athletic.”

John goes over to a framed photograph of two young Chinese children – a boy and a girl. A fresh hand-print is on the glass where someone has pressed their fingers against the image of the girl. “Small hands” John mumbles.

“Our acrobat.” Sherlock frowns, looking round. “But why didn’t he close the window when he left-” Sherlock stops as he realises and rolls his eyes at himself. “Oh, stupid. Stupid. Obvious. He’s still here.”

John whips his head to Sherlock, “What? The killer is still here?” John takes out his gun and sneaks silently around the apartment.

Sherlock looks around the room and sees a folding screen shielding the bed. He walks carefully towards it and then grabs the edge of the screen and pulls it back. Nothing is there, but before he can move someone quickly wraps a long silk scarf around his neck from behind and bundles him to the floor on his back, strangling him. Sherlock grabs at the scarf, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat but the assailant continues to strangle him.

“John! John!” Sherlock calls out weakly and John hears him, having wandered off, and rushes to find Sherlock struggling against an unknown assailant. John moves to action, catching the person by surprise and knee-butting him in the head.

This causes the assailant to get off Sherlock, allowing John to tackle him to the ground. While Sherlock is trying to breathe again, John tries to get the upper hand, but the other guy is smaller, quicker and once he realises that John can fight back, the person quickly gets out of John’s grip, backflips out of the way, dropping a little black paper flower and disappears out the window behind him. John tries to follow, but it’s too late and the person is gone.

Sherlock choked and coughed, tugging the scarf from around his neck and rolling onto his front before getting up onto his hands and knees. Sherlock groans and pulls his scarf loose, gasping as he gets his breath back.

“Sherlock! Are you okay?” John hurries to his friend, worrying over Sherlock’s throat. Breathing a little better, Sherlock picks up the black origami flower the person dropped.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock slightly croaks out, “I’m fine” Before heading upstairs, John rolls his eyes but follows. A few moments later Sherlock opens the front door downstairs. “Soo Lin Yao left here in a hurry three days ago. We have to find her.” He looks down and bends to pick something off the floor. Finding it to be a folded envelope. On the back of it is written: Soo Lin Please ring me and tell me you’re OK -Andy. He unfolds the envelope and looks at the front of it. Printed in the bottom right-hand corner is: NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM “Maybe we could start with this.” He croaks, walking out with John following, and heads off down the road.

“I need to check that throat, Sherlock. Someone just tried to strangle you, and you sound croaky. Your vocal cords could be damaged. No talking until I examine you”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs with a nod, just barely hiding away a small smile.

“You know the photo with the handprint?” John waits for Sherlock to nod. “The hand print was from the killer, but the print was on the little girl, most likely Soo Lin. That suggests an emotional attachment, our Killer and Soo Lin know each other, personally”

“In your opinion, what relationship what you say they have?” Sherlock rasps out.

“Well, since the picture also had a little boy in it, I would say either a childhood friend or brother”

“Brilliant John. I didn’t even notice that” Sherlock croaks out.

“Hey, I said no talking” John lightly glares with a smile before stopping Sherlock once they were out of Chinatown.

“John, what are you doing? We have to find Soo Lin Yoa” Sherlock grumbles as John tugs his scarf loose to see his neck.

“Since we both know you aren’t going to stop talking, I want to quickly make sure there is no permanent damage and so by talking, you won’t make it worse. Now hold still” John orders, fully taking off Sherlock’s scarf and moving his collar out of the way to see faint bruising around Sherlock’s neck.

“John, we really don’t have time for thi-” Sherlock cuts himself off as John gently grazes his fingers over the bruising.

Lingering over his pulse point, feeling the purse beat slightly faster, John pulls away with a light blush and a clearing of his throat. “No permanent damage. Try to not talk, or limit your talking, and no overly hot or cold drinks. Tell me if it bothers you.” John whispers, gently placing Sherlock’s scarf back around his neck, and starts to walk away. Sherlock is quick to catch up.

________________________________________________________________

Now at the National Antiquities Museum, Sherlock is pacing around a display area looking around as he reluctantly allows John to interview Andy.

“When was the last time that you saw her?” John asks.

“Three days ago, um, here at the museum,” Andy answers. He was a skinny man with a red sweater and dull pants. Sherlock focuses on a glass case showing clay teapots. Most of them are dull but one is shiny. “This morning they told me she’d resigned just like that.” Sherlock then looks around at the other pieces of artwork. “Just left her work unfinished.”

“What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?” Sherlock asks, ignoring John’s glare.

Andy leads them to the basement archive, turning on the lights in the spacey room. “She does this demonstration for the tourists, a tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here.” He leads them to the open stack and starts turning a handle at the end to widen the gap. John goes to stand behind him and looks into the opening but Sherlock notices something further along the room. He walks closer to it.

On a stand is a life-sized sculpture of a nude woman; yellow paint has been spray-painted across the front of it. A line goes across the eyes, and over the body has been sprayed the open down eight with a line above it. The same cipher.

Noticing Sherlock wasn’t with them, Andy and John turned and saw what had caught Sherlock’s attention.
_______________________________________________________________

By the time they leave the museum, it’s dark outside.

“We have to get to Soo Lin Yao,” Sherlock states with determination.

“Let’s hope she’s still alive” John mumbles at Raz, the boy from earlier appears, running towards them.

“Sherlock! Found something you’ll like.” With that, Raz walks off and Sherlock and John immediately follow.

After 20 minutes of walking through London, the group of three walks across a bridge, and arrives at an undercover skate park, the walls, ceiling and ground, covered in graffiti. Raz leads the other two across the way.

“If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn’t you say? People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message.” Sherlock comments as Raz points to a particular area on the heavily graffitied walls. Amongst all the paint was the same yellow paint as their ciphers, mostly painted over. “They have been in here.” Sherlock looks around, and turns to Raz “And that’s the exact same paint?” After Raz confirms, Sherlock turns to John, “John, if we’re going to decipher this code, we’re gonna need to look for more evidence.”

With that, John and Sherlock split up and began searching the area, moving toward the railroad tracks. Sherlock walks along the end of a railway line and finds an abandoned spray can on the tracks, the same colour yellow. While, John walks through an underpass, looking closely at the graffiti and posters on the walls as he goes. Going past a wall which has many posters glued to it. One of the posters catches Sherlock’s attention and he tears off the bottom corner of it and takes it with him as he continues walking.

Meanwhile, John is on the other side of the railway lines. He spots drops of yellow paint on the rocks underfoot and on the rails, then he raises his light to a brick wall, stepping back in surprise as he finds an entire wall covered with large yellow Chinese symbols. Quickly taking a picture, and trying to call Sherlock, he quickly hurries off to find his partner.

It takes about 10 minutes to finally track down Sherlock who is currently looking at the train. “Answer your phone! I’ve been calling you!” John jogs towards him “I’ve found it.” He turns around and the two of them run off in the direction John came from.

Back at the wall, John leads Sherlock towards it, but his mouth drops open in surprise again, as the entire wall is now blank. “It’s been painted over!” John gasps in shock. Sherlock shines his flashlight around the area as John continues to stare at the wall in disbelief. “It was here, not ten minutes ago. I saw it. A whole wall of graffiti!”

“Somebody doesn’t want me to see it,” Sherlock mutters and turns to John, grabbing the sides of John’s head in both hands.

“Hey, Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asks, confused.

“Shh, John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

“Why?” Sherlock lowers his hands to hold John by the upper arms. Sherlock starts to spin them slowly around on the spot, staring intensely into John’s eyes.

“I need you to maximise your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?” John confirms but Sherlock ignores him. “Can you remember it?”

“Yes, definitely.” John confidently answers.

“Can you remember the pattern? How much can you remember it?”

“Well, don’t worry-” John starts to say but gets interrupted by Sherlock, who is still spinning them.

“-Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two per cent accurate.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry – I remember all of it.” John smugly states.

Sherlock naturally doesn’t believe him, “Really?”

“Yeah, well at least I would” John gets Sherlock to stop spinning them as it was making him dizzy, “If I can get to my pockets! I took a photograph.” John declares in triumph, taking out his phone and pulling up a photo he took of the wall which shows all the symbols clearly. He gives the phone to Sherlock, who takes it and looks embarrassed as John chuckles. “What was with the spinning?”

“It’s to improve memory” Sherlock mutters.

“All it did was make me dizzy” John admits, still laughing as they head home.
__________________________________________________________________

Back again at the flat, the picture John took was blown up and printed out, currently stuck to the wall along with the others. The correct number is written next to each cipher. Sherlock is standing at the fireplace looking at the pictures closely while John makes them some tea, knowing it will be a long night.

“Always in pairs, John.” Sherlock points out. “Numbers come with partners. Why did he paint it so near the tracks?”

“No idea. It’s in plain sight, any normal person would just write it off as graffiti.” John comments, taking a sip of his tea.

“Thousands of people pass by there every day.” Sherlock continues, ignoring John. “Of course! He wants information. He’s trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back. Somewhere here in the code.” Sherlock then pulls three photographs off the wall and grabs his coat. “We can’t crack this without Soo Lin Yao.”

“What? Now? Sherlock, it’s 1 am! The museum is closed by now” John points out.

“Somewhere in the museum has to be a key to where Soo Lin is. No one can just disappear without a trace. Come on, I have a way in” Sherlock says, rushing out the door with John reluctantly following behind him.
_______________________________________________________________

“Thank you Steve” Sherlock smiles as the guard to the museum lets the two in.

“Sherlock, how do you know the night guard?” John questions.

“Helped his brother a few years back” Is all Sherlock says as they make their way through the dark and empty museum.

After a few minutes of looking, they end up in the display room where they interviewed Andy a few hours ago. Sherlock has turned his head away in exasperation, but now his gaze focuses on the nearby glass case displaying the teapots.

Noticing his silence, John asks, “What are you looking at?”

Sherlock points at the case as he walks towards it. “One of the teapots is missing” They then hear a creek further down the hall, and John and Sherlock hurry towards it.

A few moments later, on the other side of the museum, they find Soo Lin in an almost dark restoration room, pouring tea into the teapot on the desk in front of her.

A figure steps up beside her. “Fancy a biscuit with that?” Sherlock asks, startling the young woman as she gasps in fright and turns towards him, the teapot dropping from her fingers. Sherlock reacts instantly and catches the teapot before it hits the floor. He looks up at her. “Centuries old. Don’t wanna break that.” He slowly straightens up and hands the teapot back to her. As she takes it, he reaches out and flicks a switch on the desk, turning on the lights underneath the surface. He smiles slightly at her. “Hello.”

John appears behind him, and they introduce themselves.

“You saw the cipher. Then you know he is coming for me.” Soo Lin starts, her voice soft and timed.

“You’ve been clever to avoid him so far.” Sherlock comments.

“I had to finish this work. It’s only a matter of time. I know he will find me. Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu.”

“Zhi Zhu?” John asks.

“The Spider,” Sherlock informs.

Soo Lin unlaces her shoe and takes it off. On her heel is a black tattoo of a lotus flower inside a circle. “You know this mark?”

“Yes. It’s the mark of a Tong.” Sherlock answers. John hums in confusion, “Ancient crime syndicate based in China.”

“Every foot soldier bears the mark; everyone who hauls for them.” Soo Lin continues.

“You were a smuggler” John realises, eyes slightly widen.

She lowers her gaze as she puts her shoe back on. “I was fifteen. My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses.”

“Who are they?” Sherlock asks.

“They are called the Black Lotus. By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England.” Soo Lin smiles a little, looking around her in the dark room. “They gave me a job here. Everything was good; a new life.”

“Then he came looking for you,” Sherlock states.

“Yes.” She swallows before continuing tearfully. “I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours – they are never very far away.” She wipes tears from her face. “He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen.”

“And you’ve no idea what it was?” John asks.

“I refused to help.” Soo Lin timely says.

“He was your brother” John softy states.

Soo Lin looks at him in shock, “How did you know?”

John smiles sadly, “There was a photo in your apartment of a little girl and boy.”

“Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars. “My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan – the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting.”

Sherlock lays the photograph on the ciphers on the table. “Can you decipher these?”

Soo Lin leans forward to look at the pictures. “We know they mean numbers. “These are numbers. 15 and 1, we just need to know the code.” John gently informs.

“All the smugglers know it. It’s based upon a book.” Soo Lin states.

“A book, of course. The first number is the page and the second is the word. Which book Soo Lin?” Sherlock asks.

Soo Lin stands up and goes to the small bookcase across the room, coming back with a book. A-Z London. “This is the book.” Soo Lin places the book on the table and Sherlock is quick to snatch it up, flipping through the pages.

“John! The cipher at the bank and library, you were right! It was a death threat. It means Deadman!” Sherlock grins, turning to Soo Lin. “Thank you. We can get you into Police protection, keep you safe”

Soo Lin smiles softly, “I need to finish my work.” She stares longingly at the teapots in front of her.

“You’re not safe here. He can get to you” John cautions.

“I am not safe anywhere. But I must finish my work.” Soo Lin answers and John and Sherlock reluctantly leave her (with a taser to defend herself).

Rushing home, (after John calls for plainclothes officers to keep watch outside the museum) Sherlock is quick to find a pen and throws it to John who catches it perfectly. John reads off the numbers, Sherlock reads off the word and John writes it down next to the cipher. By the time they finish, it’s sunrise. They get news that Soo Lin was killed a few hours after they left.

The graffiti on the wall said: NINE MILL FOR JADE PIN DRAGON DEN BLACK TRAMWAY.”
___________________________________________________________

John and Sherlock are now arguing with DI Dimmock in the middle of Scotland Yard. “How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac’s out there?” John harshly asks. “A young girl was gunned down tonight. That’s three victims in three days. You’re supposed to be finding him.”

“Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers – a gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London right under your nose.”

“Can you prove that?” Dimmock asks.

“Meet me at St Barts in an hour” Sherlock declares and takes off.
_______________________________________________________________

An hour later, Sherlock somehow managed to get access to the bodies. Molly, wearing latex gloves, unzips the top of one of the bags and pulls the sides apart to reveal the face of Brian Lukis. As Sherlock leads Dimmock into the room.

“We’re just interested in the feet,” Sherlock states.

“The feet?” Molly questions, frowning.

“Yes. Do you mind if we have a look at them?” Sherlock smiles at her, leading Dimmock to the other end of the body bag. Molly follows him and unzips the bag, to reveal the bottom of Lukis’ feet. On the bottom of the right heel is a tattoo identical to the one that Soo Lin showed the boys earlier. Sherlock straightens up, a smug expression on his face, and walks over to the other table. “Now Van Coon.” He orders. Molly and Dimmock follow him to the second table and she unzips the other body bag. Van Coon has an identical tattoo on his right heel. Dimmock sighs silently in defeat. Sherlock gasps in mock surprise. “So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlour or I’m telling the truth.”

Dimmock sighed in resignation “What do you want?”

“I want you to start listening to me” Sherlock grins in victory. John trails in, holding the photograph of the graffitied wall, now decoded. “This is not just a criminal organisation; it’s a cult. Soo Lin’s brother was corrupted by one of its leaders. General Shan. Soo Lin’s brother visited her a few days before she died, asking for help. Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need her expertise?”

John answers, “She worked at the museum. An expert in antiquities.”

“Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China’s home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao’s revolution.”

“And the Black Lotus is selling them.” John finishes. Not long afterwards, they are back at Scotland Yard, having taken over Dimmock’s computer surfing the web for recent auctions, focusing on the auctions of Chinese and other Asian works of art. John is leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen and Dimmock is writing everything down, secretly amazed at the two.

Sherlock mutters to himself as he skims the list “Check for the dates” He points to a particular auction, two Chinese Ming vases. Perfect size to fit in a suitcase. “Here, John. Arrived from China four days ago. Anonymous. The vendor doesn’t give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East.”

“One in Lukis’ suitcase and one in Van Coon’s.” John voices Sherlock’s thoughts. Sherlock types in the search bar, ‘Chinese antiquities sold at auction’. “Look, here’s another one. Arrived from China a month ago: Chinese ceramic statue sold four hundred thousand.”

John consults Lukis’ diary after he spots another entry on the screen “Ah, look: a month before that – a Chinese painting, half a million.”
“All of them from an anonymous source. They’re stealing them back in China and one by one they’re feeding them into Britain.”

John looks at Lukis’ diary again and then at the printout of Van Coon’s calendar. “And every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon travelling to China.”

Dimmock interrupts them, “Lukis and Van Coon were smugglers?”

Sherlock looks up, glaring at him, “Yes, keep up” and turns to John, “We know from the wall that one of them got greedy when they were in China, one of them stole something. The question is: which one?”

“What did they steal?” Dimmock asks.

John answers, “A Jade Hairpin worth 9 Million Pounds. It says to bring it to the Tramway, their London hideout.”

Dimmock stands up, “Great, let’s go then”

Shock sighs in annoyance, “No, we have to be smart about this. We spotted some people following us. Instead of going to them, we stake them out.” Sherlock stands up. “John and I have a date. I’ll text you if we find anything” With that, Sherlock leaves, leaving John gasping after him in shock.

“Oh, are you two dating?” Dimmock asks, in surprise.

“Not that I know of” John answers and follows after his partner. “Umm, Sherlock. What’s this about a date?” John asks, quickly catching up to him.

“I’ve been informed it’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun,” Sherlock states, taking out a piece of paper from his pocket as he walks out of the station, and handing it to John. The poster advertises the Yellow Dragon Circus. “In London for one night only.”

“And you want to go on a date. Here, with me?” John asks, still in shock.

“Yes,” The ends the conversation.
___________________________________________________________________

Not sure if Sherlock actually meant this as a real date or not, John decided to dress nicely, making sure to look presentable for his possible date. Sherlock, not understanding that he just asked John out, dressed normally, and walked with John down the down towards their destination.

John pauses to look at a number of large red Chinese lanterns strung outside the hall. John goes over to the office to collect their tickets.

“Hi. I have two tickets reserved for tonight.” John begins.

“What’s the name?” The person asks.

“Holmes,” John answers and the person gives them their tickets, allowing them to enter.

Not long afterwards the boys are standing a few steps up the stairs while people make their way past them. The boys keep their voices down as they talk.

“Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England.” Sherlock begins, and John tries to hide his disappointment. “We’re looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place” Sherlock quickly rambles.

John sighs, “Right, okay”

In the performance area, there’s a stage on one side of the large hall with a circle of candles, laid out in the middle of the floor, in a large circle. The room is dimly lit and people are gathered around the circle, all standing as there are no seats.

“You said circus. This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is… art.”

Sherlock whispers back. “This is not their day job.”

“Right, they’re not a circus; they’re a gang of international smugglers.” John rolls his eyes, upset that Sherlock got his hopes up for asking him out on a date when it wasn’t actually a date but part of the case.

The performance begins with someone tapping out a rhythm on a drum. An ornately costumed Chinese woman with a heavily painted face walks into the centre of the circle and looks out at the audience before raising a hand in the air. The drummer stops. The painted lady walks across the circle to a large object covered with a cloth which she pulls back to reveal an antique-looking crossbow on a stand. She picks up a long thick wooden arrow with white feathers and a sharp metal point and shows it to the audience before placing it in the crossbow. Straightening, she pulls a single small white feather from her headdress and again shows it to the audience. On the back of the crossbow is a small metal cup and she gently drops the feather into it. Instantly the arrow is released and zips across the room. A moment later the arrow is embedded in a large painted board on the other side of the circle.

Instrumental music begins, and the audience applauds as another person enters the circle, this one is wearing chain-mail and a decorated mask. He holds his arms out to the sides and two men appear and start to attach chains and straps to him, restraining his arms to his front and then chaining him against the board.

“Classic Chinese escapology act,” Sherlock whispers to John. “The crossbow’s on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires.” The painted lady loads another arrow into the crossbow as men attach more padlocks and chains pulling the chains tight, causing the warrior to cry out. Once they’ve finished, they step away. The music begins building in intensity. The painted lady picks up a small knife and displays it to the audience.

Sherlock whispers again, “She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl.” The painted lady does exactly that. Sand begins to pour out, and the warrior repeatedly cries out with effort as he tugs at his chains. As the sand continues to pour out of the bag the weight lowers towards the bowl at the back of the crossbow. The warrior gets one hand free. John is watching the weight lower, turning to look at the warrior as he gets his other hand free and starts tugging at the chains around his neck. The warrior cries out again as he pulls at his chains as the weight draws closer to the crossbow. As it almost reaches the lip of the bowl the warrior loosens the chains around his neck and struggles to free himself.

The weight touches the bowl and the arrow streaks across the room. With a split second to spare, the warrior pulls free of the chains and ducks down and the arrow thuds into the board. The warrior cries out triumphantly as the audience begins to applaud.

John then notices that Sherlock has disappeared. In the circle, the painted lady raises a hand to halt the audience’s applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider.”

As she walks away, a masked acrobat descends from the ceiling, rolling through the air as a red band wrapped around his waist unravels. The audience applauds and he stops a couple of feet above the ground, holding his body parallel to the floor. “Spider” John whispers to himself.

Now on the ground, the acrobat splits the red material, wrapping it around his arms and runs around the circle, lifting into the air and flying around in a circle several feet above the ground. On the other side of the circle, the closed curtains on the stage begin to billow in one particular place. John frowns at the curtains for a moment and slowly begins making his way around the circle towards the curtain.

Once he enters past the curtains, he finds Sherlock fighting a fully dressed warrior in a red mask. The warrior grabs Sherlock by the throat but drops his knife in the process. Sherlock sprays a can of yellow spray paint directly into his masked face, getting the person to let go of his neck, before shoving him away firmly. The warrior falls onto his back but uses his momentum to flip to his feet again.

John picks up the knife, which is long enough to be called a sword and slashes at the warrior. He misses, but it causes the warrior to step back. With his gloves hands, the warrior grabs the sword from John’s next swing and John retaliates but taking out his gun. “Hands up or I will shoot!” John orders. The warrior freezes for a minute, and puts the sword down to the ground, raising his hands. Without looking, John throws Sherlock his phone, “Call Dimmock. Get some police here” He orders and Sherlock does so.

A few minutes later, the police arrive, and they arrest the warrior John had at gunpoint, and a few others behind the stage. They all refuse to talk, but Sherlock confirms to Dimmock that they all have the mark of the Tong.

“Mr Holmes, I’ve done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something.” Sherlock lifts his head and gives a faint but proud smile. “You called for backup, Please tell me I’ll have something to show for it, other than a massive bill for overtime. We arrested 5 people, and none of them are talking.”

“We know where their hideout is. Get a group together, we will raid within 2 hours.” John orders and Dimmock nods.

“We need to find that Jade Hairpin” Sherlock sighs, leaving and going back to the flat. John sighs but trails after him.

Upstairs in 221B, in the kitchen, John was pouring out their now-cold tea from last night, as Sherlock looks over everything they know about Lukis and Van Coon when someone knocks on the front door downstairs.

“I’ll get it” John calls out, but Sherlock ignores him. John opens the front door and smiles at the man standing on the doorstep, who is wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up. “Can I help you?” John asks.

“Do you have it?”

John looks at him confused, “What?”

“Do you have the treasure?” The man asks forcefully.

“I don’t understand,” John states, and the man hits John on the side of his head with a gun, John falls to the floor and the man spray paints on the side of Sherlock’s door. Dead Man.

It takes Sherlock about half an hour to figure out John’s gone missing, that was only because Sherlock wanted John’s opinion on something, and John wasn’t there. He heads down to Mrs Hudson and notices the front door wide open, Sherlock stares in shock when he sees that yellow paint has been sprayed on his door. There’s no sign of John and Sherlock stares at the paint in horror.
______________________________________________________________

John slowly regains consciousness sitting on a chair somewhere dark. He slowly raises his head, feeling a sting on the side of his head where he was struck. As he grimaces in pain, the voice of the painted lady from before comes out of the dim tunnel in front of him. “A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket.”

Wincing, John lifts his head to find the crossbow aimed at him. Ahead of him is the Chinese woman who he saw photographing him. Despite the darkness, she is still wearing her sunglasses. She walks towards him and John notes that they are in an abandoned tunnel. There are two Chinese men standing behind the woman, and a couple of other fires are burning to illuminate the area.

The woman raises her sunglasses to the top of her head and looks down at John. “Chinese proverb, Mr Holmes.”

John looks at her, “Lady, I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”

“Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.” She reaches down and pulls open his jacket, from the inside pocket, she takes out his wallet, opens it and takes something out of it, “A cheque for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, he gave me that to look after.” John corrects.

“Tickets from the theatre, collected by you, name of Holmes.”

“Yes, okay…” Before he can finish the sentence, the woman raises a gun and points it at his head. John cringes away from it, blowing out a panicked breath. The woman grins.

“I am Shan.” The lady reveals.

“You’re General Shan”

“Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?”

“Three times? Sounds to me that they’re not really trying.” John grounds out, Shan pulls the trigger, only for it to be empty. John breathes heavily.

Shan slides a clip into the gun and then cocks it before pointing it at John’s head a second time. John stares at it, head-on. “If we wanted to kill you, Mr Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive. Do you have it?”

“Do I have what?” John asks.

“The treasure,” Shan answers.

“You mean the Jade pin? Worth 9 Million? No, I don’t know where it is. I was in the middle of finding it when your men kidnapped me” John growls out.

The woman turns away “I would prefer to make certain.” She looks at her men, one of whom loads the arrow into the crossbow. “Everything in the West has its price; and the price for your life... to tell me the truth. Where’s the hairpin? The Empress pin was valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West, and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London and you, Mr Holmes, have been searching.”

“I am not Sherlock Holmes. I am…” John was about to say police, but decides against it, “A doctor. I help with Sherlock in some of his cases. We have been investigating who stole the pin, but you kidnapped me before we could find out!”

“Then you are no use to me” Shan smiles, takes out a knife and reaches up to a nearby sandbag suspended over a pulley hanging from the ceiling. She stabs the knife into the bag and sand begins to pour out. John struggles to get out of his ropes. “Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes’ companion in a death-defying act.” Shan walked over to John and placed a black origami lotus flower on his lap. “You’ve seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends.”

“Where is the Pin?” Shan demands.

“I don’t know!” John shouts! “Sherlock, if I get out of this, I’m going to kill you!”

“That’s rude John, I’m trying to save you” Sherlock’s voice comes from further down the tunnel.

Shan raises her pistol, cocks it and aims it towards Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock immediately dodges to the side of the tunnel, disappearing into the shadows. One of Shan’s thugs starts to hurry towards the end of the tunnel.

From the distance, Sherlock begins to talk, as John sighs in brief relief. “How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?” John suggests.

“That’s a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second.” Sherlock says, referring to the gun in Shan’s hand, still aimed in his direction.

“Well?”

“Well…” Sherlock trails off, as one of Shan’s men reaches a large storage container standing at the side of the tunnel. Sherlock runs out from behind it and hits the man across the stomach with a metal pipe. The man grunts and collapses to the ground. Sherlock immediately ducks back into the shadows. “The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you.”

He bursts out of the darkness and runs to the nearby burning bin, kicking it over. John flinches at the loud crash and Shan’s eyes widen when she realises that it’s harder to see in the darkness without the fire. Sherlock reappears just behind John and squats down behind him, starting to untie his ropes.

Just then, Soo Lin’s brother runs over to him and tries to strangle Sherlock again, this time with a red scarf. Sherlock cries out in surprise and struggles away. Luckily, Sherlock had already untied John enough that he just had to struggle a bit more against it and get himself untied.

John stands up and ducks to the ground just as the crossbow fires, hitting Soo Lin’s brother behind him. Just then, the police raid the place. In the mess, Shan gets away, but they arrest Shan’s men.
______________________________________________________________

The next morning, the two boys walk to the bank, “Shen said the pin was owned by an Empress.” John informs. “Apparently they had a buyer when either Van Coon or Lukis stole it”

“Two operatives based in London. They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to little hairpin.” Sherlock mutters.

“Worth nine million pounds. But who?”

“Eddie Van Coon was the thief. He stole the treasure when he was in China.” Sherlock answers.

“How did you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis?” John asks in shock that Sherlock figured it out.

They go through the revolving doors, “Because of the soap.” Sherlock looks smugly at John.

Upstairs, Van Coon’s P.A. Amanda is sitting at her desk. She pumps a bit of hand lotion from the bottle on the desk and rubs it into her hands. Her phone rings and she picks it up and answers it.

“Amanda.” She answers.

Over the phone, Sherlock says, “He bought you a present.”

“Oh. Hello.” Amanda smiles.

“A little gift when he came back from China.” Sherlock continues.

“How do you know that?” Amanda asks in shock.

“You weren’t just his P.A., were you?” Sherlock asks, now standing in front of Amanda’s desk with John standing next to him, she looks at them in shock, placing her phone down.

“Someone’s been gossiping.” Amanda jokes.

“No” Sherlock denies.

“Then I don’t understand. Why…?” Sherlock interrupts.

“Scented hand soap in his apartment. Three hundred millilitres of it. Bottle almost finished.”

Amanda frowns in confusion, “Sorry?”

“I don’t think Eddie Van Coon was the type of chap to buy himself hand soap, not unless he had a lady coming over. And it’s the same brand as that hand cream there on your desk.”

Amanda looks slightly ashamed. “Look, it wasn’t serious between us. It was over in a flash. It couldn’t last, he was my boss.”

“What happened? Why did you end it?” John asks.

Amanda admits sadly, “I thought he didn’t appreciate me. Took me for granted. Stood me up once too often, we’d plan to go away for the weekend and then he’d just leave; fly off to China at a moment’s notice.”

“And he brought you a present from abroad to say sorry,” Sherlock says, eyes focused on the small jade hairpin in her hair. “Can I have a look at it?” He asks, hands out. Amanda is holding her hair in place with one hand while she takes out the pin with the other.

“Said he bought it in a street market.” She says, putting the pin into Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true. I think he pinched it.”

Amanda laughs, thinking Sherlock is joking. “Yeah, that’s Eddie.”

“Didn’t know its value; just thought it would suit you.”

“Oh? What’s it worth?”

Sherlock smirks, slowly saying, “Nine… million… pounds.”

Amanda’s face fills with shock. “Oh my God!” She stumbles to her feet and staggers backwards as Sherlock grins. Amanda screams in a high-pitched and hysterical voice, “Nine million!”

John and Sherlock then turn to Sebastian’s voice to get their pay. Seb is signing a cheque for £20,000. He looks up at John and Sherlock who is standing opposite him.

“He really climbed up onto the balcony?” He asks, placing the cheque into an envelope.

“Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over.” John grins, enjoying how Sebastian looks annoyed as he hands the envelope over.

“Thanks.” John grins and Sherlock smirks, leaving the office.

“Bloody Brilliant about the hand wash” John comments as they walk out of the bank. “Absolutely incredible” Sherlock smirks but doesn’t say anything else as they walk home.
________________________________________________________________

A few days later, in the kitchen eating breakfast, Sherlock was wearing a dressing gown over his clothes while reading the newspaper about the ‘found’ jade hairpin and finally eating something.

“Over a thousand years old and it’s sitting on her bedside table every night.” John laughs, eating some toast.

“He didn’t know its value; didn’t know why they were chasing him,” Sherlock mutters, not paying much attention.

“Hmm. Should’ve just got her a lucky cat.” John jokes, referencing what the shop owner said. Sherlock hums, mostly ignoring him. “You mind, don’t you?”

Sherlock then looks at him, “What?”

John clarifies. “That she escaped – General Shan. It’s not enough that we got her henchmen.”

“It must be a vast network, John; thousands of operatives. You and I, we barely scratched the surface.” Sherlock says in mild disappointment.

“And even though you cracked this code, all the smugglers have to do is pick another book” John sighs. Sherlock hums in agreement and opens another newspaper to read while John’s eyes drift over to the window, he frowns and looks closely as a young man in a hooded jacket walks over to a parking permit dispenser. The young man then sprays in blue paint, a shape that looks like an eye, with a line under and over it. “Huh, I think someone just tagged us”

Sherlock looks up in confusion. John points to the graffiti outside the window. Sherlock hums in thought.
____________________________________________________________

About a week later, John was at work when Sherlock came rushing into his office. “Sherlock! Is everything alright?” John asks in a rush, moving towards his out-of-breath flatmate.

“You… you thought I was asking you out” Sherlock breathes out.

“When was this?” John asks, not catching on immediately.

“When we went to the Chinese circus. I said date and you went. Even dressed up nice, held the door for me when we left.” Sherlock stares into John’s eyes.

John flushes and stammers, “Oh… Y-yeah. I thought you had asked me out. And then we got there and I realised that it was for the case. I was a bit disappointed, to be honest” John admits quietly.

“Because you actually wanted me to ask you out?” Sherlock continues.

“Well… yeah” John shrugs, and with that, Sherlock steps forward till they are a hair breath away.

“Do you still want me to ask you out on a date?” Sherlock whispers.

“Y-Yes” Sherlock slowly lowers his head and gently catches John’s lips in a small but lingering kiss and then pulls away.

“Pick you up at 8” He then departs just like he came, leaving John wide-eyed and breathless, looking forward to tonight.
____________________________________________________________

John gets home at 6 and immediately prepares for his date. Not sure where they are going, John wears a grey-blue button-down top with a dark blue tie, and his normal jacket, with black slacks, and black shoes.

Wondering if he should have gotten Sherlock flowers, John laughs to himself, thinking Sherlock would most likely do experiments on the flowers, not understanding the gesture. Noting that John still had an hour till their date, John quickly ran down the stairs and hurried to the closest art supply store.

53 minutes later, John rings the doorbell for Sherlock and John’s apartment. In his hand was a hand-painted chemical structure of a flower. Something that John thinks, Sherlock would like more than actual flowers.

Sherlock opens the door, dressed in a wine-purple button-down shirt that fits Sherlock perfectly sinful, and black slacks and shoes. His hair was a mess of curls like always, but it made John want to grab fistfuls of his hair and pull him in for a kiss.

Instead of doing that, John smiled and handed Sherlock the painting John did. “I know you don’t do sentiment, but I thought you would appreciate this more than real flowers.”

Sherlock takes the painting, eyes scanning over it as he takes in all the details he can find. John did this, by hand. This took effort and thoughtfulness. “Thank you. It’s lovely” Sherlock smiles brightly, grabs his coat and steps out onto the street with John. “Time to start our date”

With that, they are off, walking down the street. Their hands brush against each other, but they don’t move to stop it. They walk in silence as they enter Angelo’s. The waiter sits them down at the same table as the first night, and Angelo himself comes to their table.

“Sherlock! So good to see you again! And with John as well! You both know the rules, everything is free for you both” Angelo smiles.

“Thank you, Angelo.” John smiles and takes their menus while Angelo gets a candle for the table, just like the first time.

A few minutes of silence go by before John begins to speak up. “So, an interesting case” He starts and then winces internally. Really, John, that’s the best you could come up with?

“Yes, it certainly was interesting” Sherlock mutters.

“They mistook me for you. That wasn’t fun” John laughs but it quickly dies down when Sherlock doesn’t so much as turn up his lips. They lapse into silence again.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is freaking out. Earlier, when he heard John get home, and then leave an hour later, he thought the worst; thinking John bailed out on their date. Sherlock was in the middle of playing a sad, lonely song on his violin when he was interrupted but the doorbell.

To say Sherlock was shocked when he opened the door and saw John, dressed nicely was an understatement. And when John handed Sherlock a hand-painted chemical structure of a flower, Sherlock was almost rendered speechless. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Sherlock thanked John and started their date.

The whole way to Angelo’s, every time their hands would brush against each other, Sherlock’s heart would skip a beat.

They reached Angelo’s and were seated at the same table the first time they went there. On their first case. Just as Sherlock requested it. John and Angelo exchanged some words, and Angelo gave them a candle for the table, just like the first time.

Sherlock can tell that John is trying to find something to talk about, but Sherlock is too busy freaking out, too busy in his head, making sure everything is perfect, that he forgot that he was currently on the date. With John.

Plus, this was the first date Sherlock had ever been on, and he didn’t know what to do or say.

Clearly noticing Sherlock’s quietness, John sighs, taking Sherlock’s hand, which causes him to snap his eyes up to John’s. “Sherlock, is this your first date?” John softly asks. Sherlock slowly nods his head, looking down. “Are you freaking out because you don’t know what to do or say?” Again, Sherlock nods. “Okay...to your left a couple, both blonde, do you see them?” John asks, Sherlock nods, “Tell me about them. We will deduce them together” John softly orders. “I’ll tell you something I notice about the two, and you tell me what you deduce from my observations. Understand?” Sherlock nods.

Sherlock turns so he is facing the couple, while John is still holding Sherlock’s hand. “The woman first. She has blonde hair, but her roots are brown, and the colour looks unnatural.” John starts.

“The woman is a natural brunette, but has recently dyed her hair blonde, the boyfriend acts like he likes it, but he doesn’t,” Sherlock answers.

“I see small burns on her hands and inner forearms. As well as many red lines across her arms, just below her wrist.”

“She is a barista, the small burns on her hands, and forearms, suggest the steamer of a coffee maker, many other time. Lines on her arms, suggest she spends a lot of time on her laptop, a writer.” Sherlock states, gaining more confidence.

“Now the man, he looks nervous, is in a recently altered suit.” John continues.

“The male has a slight bulge in his coat breast pocket. He’s planning on proposing. Could either be here, traditionally after dinner, before dessert, or at the end of the carriage ride he has organised after this” Sherlock finishes.

“Still amazing” John whispers, and Sherlock relaxes. “Now do me. Deduce me.” John says with a smile.

Sherlock starts slowly, but quickly picks up speed, “You dressed nicely, indicating you are excited for this date, shaved, and styled your hair to appear younger, and this suggests you are dressed to impress. Having previous knowledge of me, you most likely knew I am not the type to appreciate flowers like others, you used our mutual love for science to gift me this” Sherlock holds up the painting John did. “A purely symbolic gesture to express both your interest in me and your ability to enjoy my experiments just as much as I do.” Sherlock links their fingers, “Lingering your finger on my neck when examining it, and flirting with me, all indicate that you like me and enjoy my company”. Sherlock blushes.

John nods, “I do enjoy your company, and I do like you. Seeing your brilliant mind work will always be impressive. And now that you’ve gotten out of your head, we can have a nice time” John smiles and Sherlock follows suit.

The rest of the night is filled with laughter, stories and food. A night that will never be forgotten in either of their minds.

At the end of the night, after a short walk back to their flat, this time holding hands, they stop at the top of the staircase, leading to the living room and at the bottom of the stairs to John’s room. They are both smiling silly at each other.

“I had a really fun night” John starts.

“Me too” Sherlock whispers. “In most cases, if both parties enjoyed their time on the date, and wish for another one, the parties will share a kiss to end the night”

John smirks, “That is correct. A kiss to end the night” John whispers and leans in slowly, allowing time for Sherlock to pull away, however, Sherlock closes the gap, and they share a short but sweet kiss.

They pull away, and smile at one another, both leaning in again when Sherlock’s phone goes off. They freeze in place as Sherlock sighs in annoyance and grabs his phone when his coat pocket.

“Lestrade has a case for us. Apparently, there’s a murder. 7.5 at least” Sherlock mutters, placing the painting just inside the kitchen to be put away at a later point.

John smiles, pecking Sherlock’s lips once more and fully pulls away. “Let’s go solve a case”

“This better be a good one. I have very recently discovered that kissing you is very enjoyable” Sherlock states, following John’s lead back down the stairs.

“Well, it certainly won’t be the last kiss we have, or our last date.” John laughs kindly, “I enjoyed it too. But, a 7.5. The game is on!” John smiles and they leave 221B Baker St once more, now heading to a crime scene.

Chapter Text

A few months later, John watches Sherlock from the screening room with Lestrade. Sherlock is talking to a young man, Barry ‘Bezza’ Berwick, who killed … and asked to speak with Sherlock before he went to trial. It was nearing winter, so everyone, but the prisoner, was dressed in warmer clothes and fur-lined coats and jackets.

Sherlock sounds bored as he questions the prisoner. “Just tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

“We’d been to a bar – a nice place – and, er, I got chattin’ with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren’t ’ happy with that, so ... when we get back to the ’otel, we end up havin’ a bit of a ding-dong, don’t we?”

Sherlock sighs out a deliberate and noisy breath. “That’s he’s annoyed sigh” John whispers to Lestrade.

Berwick continues. “She was always gettin’ at me, sayin’ I weren’t a real man.”

“Wasn’t a real man.” Sherlock corrects.

“What?” The guy asks.

“It’s not ‘weren’t’; it’s ‘wasn’t.’” Sherlock answers. “Go on.”

“Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there’s a knife in my hands. And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast.”

Sherlock interrupts again, “Taught.”

Berwick asks, annoyed, “What?”

“Taught you how to cut up a beast.” Sherlock corrects.

“So how are you and Sherlock going?” Lestrade asks.

“Yeah, good” John answers.

“I have to admit, before you, I don’t think I ever imagined Sherlock with someone, let alone dating and in a healthy relationship. You’re good together” Lestrade states.

“Thanks, Greg. I’m sure Sherlock would appreciate that. He respects you, ya know?” John smiles at Lestrade’s slightly shocked expression.

“Yeah, well, then-then I done it.” They turn their attention back to Sherlock and Berwick.

“Watch this, Sherlock’s gonna make him lose his temper” John grins.

“Did it.’” Sherlock corrects again.

Berwick then loses his temper at John's prediction. “Did it! Stabbed ’er …” he repeatedly slams his hand down on the table” ...over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren’t …” Sherlock sighs deeply and loudly through his nose, turning his head. Getting control of his temper, Barry corrects himself. “Wasn’t movin’ no more.” Sherlock, who had just turned his head back towards Barry, now turns it away again with an annoyed look. “Any more.” he lamely finishes.

Berwick then lets out a shaky breath and lowers his head, looking at the table. “You’ve gotta help me. I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear.”

Sherlock gets to his feet and starts to walk away. Berwick calls after him frantically. “You’ve gotta help me, Mr Holmes!”

Sherlock stops and Lestrade snorts, “Help how? He just confessed to murder” John gives a short laugh.

“Everyone says you’re the best. Without you, I’ll get hung for this.”

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at the young man. “No, no, no, Mr Berwick, not at all... Hanged, yes.” He quirks a smile at the man, then turns and walks out of the room, John and Lestrade follow him into Lestrade’s office.

“That was bloody brilliant Sherlock!” John laughs, and Sherlock grins.
____________________________________________________________________

A few hours later, Sherlock could be found back at 221B, lying slumped in his chair. His eyes open when the front door can be heard opening. Sherlock is dressed in his blue dressing gown, lazily holding John's army gun and pointing at the yellow-painted face. He points the pistol towards the smiley face and – without even looking in that direction – fires two shots at it. He fires two more times. After the fourth one, John comes running up the stairs, his police gun at the ready. He lowers it when he realises there is no danger, just Sherlock playing around with a gun.

“What the hell are you doing? I could have shot you!”

Sherlock ignores him, and just mutters, “Bored.”

John rolls his eyes, “No unsafe gunfire in this flat! Put the down down Sherlock!”

Sherlock jumps up, switching the pistol to his right hand, and continues firing at the smiley face, shouting “Bored” at every fire. John immediately recoils and covers his ears with his hands.

As Sherlock brings his arm back around to fire again, John hurries towards him and Sherlock continues to glare at the smiley face but allows John to snatch the pistol from his hand. John quickly slides the clip out of the gun while Sherlock falls on the couch.

“Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes. Good job I’m not one of them.” John rolls his eyes and places the pistol on the table.

“So you take it out on the wall,” John comments.

“Ah, the wall had it coming,” Sherlock mutters.

“Right, you want something to eat?” John sighs, walking into the kitchen, sighing in annoyance when the mess greets him. He opens the fridge door.

“Oh, f…” John immediately slams it shut again, unable to believe what he just saw inside. He slumps against the door for a moment, his head lowered, then he straightens up and opens the door again. On the shelf inside is a man’s head, cut off at the neck, the face looking towards the door. He stares at it for a couple of seconds, then quietly closes the door again.

“A severed head!”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock mutters him his spot on the couch.

“Sherlock! We’ve talked about this! Bring home whatever you want, but they must be safely and properly wrapped when around food! Cover up the head, I’m going shopping.” John sighs, sadly not affected by the head.

“Most people would freak out if they found a head in their fridge,” Sherlock smirks. “I got it from Bart’s morgue.”

“What are you doing with it?” John asks.

“I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death. I feared wrapping it up might affect the results.”

“So instead of doing the smart thing and wrapping up the head, or ya know, not having one, you decide to risk getting E. coli, Salmonella, Listeria, Norovirus, or Shigella?”

“I made sure the fridge was empty.” Sherlock points out.

“I see that. I also see that you left the milk on the table, and after a few hours, it's gone bad. As is everything else”

In an attempt to change the subject, Sherlock waves his hand vaguely in the direction of John’s open laptop. “I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case.”

“Uh, yes.” John walks over to Sherlock’s armchair and sits down.

“ 'A Study in Pink.’ Nice”

“Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone – there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?”

“Erm, no,” Sherlock answers.

“Why not? I thought you’d be flattered.”

Sherlock glares at him “Flattered? ‘Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’” He quotes.

“Now hang on a minute. I didn’t mean that in a bad way!” John tries to say.

Sherlock interrupts, “Oh, you meant “spectacularly ignorant” in a nice way! Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister… or who’s sleeping with who…”

John states softly, “Or whether the Earth goes round the Sun”

“Not that again. It’s not important.” Sherlock states.

“Not important! It’s primary school stuff. How can you not know that?”

Sherlock presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in frustration, “Well, if I ever did, I’ve deleted it.”

“’ Deleted it’?” John presses.

Sherlock swings his legs around to the floor and sits up to face John, “Listen.” He points to his head with one finger. “This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

“How do you know what’s important and what’s not?” John asks.

“Useless things, like dates, names, useless facts, they are unimportant. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.” He ruffles his hair and then glares at John. “Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.”

“Have you ever deleted something you’ve regretted? Or deleted a person?” John asks.

“If I have, they were not important,” Sherlock answers.

John nods and stands up, grabbing his coat. “Would you ever delete me?” John asks, scared of the answer.

“I suppose if we ever break up, were no longer be friends, I would delete you to make room for more important things,” Sherlock says without thinking.

John nods silently to himself and walks towards the living room door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks, clearly not realising that he just hurt John’s feelings.

“Shopping. All our food is spoiled.” He heads for the stairs, which Mrs Hudson is just coming up.

“Oh, sorry, love!” Mrs Hudson announces and John passes her.

Angrily, Sherlock turns his face away again, curling up in a ball on the couch. Mrs Hudson chuckles at John as he passes her but then turns and looks at him in concern as he hurries down the stairs. She comes to the living room door and knocks.

Mrs Hudson carries a couple of shopping bags into the kitchen. “Have you two had a little domestic?”

“We were discussing his blog, my ability to delete things, and it spiralled from there,” Sherlock answers.

“Oh dear, you didn’t mention that you would delete him did you Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson asks, having heard Sherlock say the same thing to one of his old roommates a few years back. Sherlock’s silence was answer enough. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock walks over to the window and watches John as he crosses the street and heads in the general direction of the shops.

(Mrs Hudson has unloaded some items from her shopping bags and now brandishes a receipt at Sherlock before putting it down on the table, “Oh, I’m sure something will turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder – that’ll cheer you up.” She chuckles slightly as she carries her bags towards the living room door when she spots the damaged wall “Hey. What’ve you done to my bloody wall?!”

Sherlock quirks a smile and turns around
to admire his handiwork.

“I’m putting this on your rent, young man!”

She storms off down the stairs. Sherlock moves towards the kitchen to wrap up the head, just as a massive explosion goes off in the street behind him. The windows blow in and the blast hurls him forward and to the floor. His vision fades as he faintly hears his name being called.
_______________________________________________________________

John was walking back to the flat when he realised he had forgotten his wallet when he heard an explosion. Rushing down the street, John finds the building next to his on fire, but the explosion would have back-lashed into their apartment. Calling it in, John races in, quickly finding Mrs Hudson and ordering her to go outside before heading upstairs and finding Sherlock on the ground, their flat a mess.

John immediately goes into doctor mode and checks Sherlock’s airways, breathing and heartbeat. All were fine. Once the ambulance arrives, John hands Sherlock off to them, who is now awake, and calls Mycroft to clean up the mess.

A few hours later, John is watching TV in the waiting room, waiting for the doctors to allow him in.

“Experts are hailing it as the artistic find of the century.” The TV announces The news is showing a photo of the Hickman Art Gallery, with a headline at the bottom of the screen saying “The Lost Vermeer.” “Fetching for over twenty million pounds…” John doesn’t hear the rest as Sherlock’s doctor and Mycroft enters John’s eyesight.

Jumping up, he hurries over to them, “Is Sherlock okay?”

Mycroft answers, “Oh yes, quite well. He is already annoying the doctors and nurses and is getting discharged as soon as he is dressed. He gained no damage from the explosion, but I trust that you will keep an eye on him?”

“Of course, can I see him?” John asks, and without waiting for an answer, walks to Sherlock’s room, stopping dead when he sees Sherlock up and dressed. “Well, it seems even an explosion can’t keep you down” John comments, causing Sherlock to turn around.

“John, good, you’re here. Yes, gas leak. Mycroft is fixing the flat as we speak.” He then glares to the spot next to John, who turns and finds Mycroft again.

“I can’t.”

“’ Can’t’?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“The stuff I’ve got on is just too big. I can’t spare the time.” Sherlock simply says John chooses to not say that Sherlock was complaining about being bored not 4 hours ago.

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.” Mycroft heavily states.

Sherlock changes the subject, hoping to get Mycroft to leave. “How’s the diet?”

Mycroft, refusing to rise to the implied insult, “Fine. Perhaps you can get through to him, John. I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent.”

“If you’re so keen, why don’t you investigate it?” Sherlock snarks.

“No-no-no-no-no. I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so …” Mycroft trails off as John turns towards him in surprise and Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?” He smiles humourlessly in a clear attempt to forget what he just said. “Besides, a case like this – it requires… legwork.”

“And you can’t get someone else to do your dirty work?” John asks, walking over to stand by Sherlock.

“Sherlock’s business seems to be booming since you and he became ... pals.”

Sherlock throws his brother a dark look.

“Did you mean friends or dating?” John smirks, unbothered. “Now, Sherlock needs rest, so I suggest you hurry up with what you want to say so we can all get out of here.”

Mycroft pulls out a folder from his coat pocket, Mycroft steps forward and offers the folder to his brother but Sherlock just looks back at him stubbornly. Annoyed, Mycroft turns and offers the folder to John instead.

“Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant was found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.”

“Jumped in front of a train?” John asks, looking at the pictures.

“Seems the logical assumption.”

John’s mouth quirks into a brief smile. “But ...?”

“’ But’?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be here if it was just an accident.” Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall to watch, smirked.

Mycroft sighs, “The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system – the Bruce-Partington Programme, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick.”

John sniggers quietly. “That wasn’t very clever.” Sherlock smiles in agreement.

Mycroft smiles condescendingly at John, “It’s not the only copy. But it is a secret. And missing.”

“Top secret?” John asks.

“Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands.” Mycroft then turns to Sherlock, “You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don’t make me order you.”

Sherlock smirks calmly, “I’d like to see you try.”

“Think it over.” Mycroft tries once more, Sherlock stares back at him, unimpressed. Mycroft turns and walks over to John, offering him his hand to shake.)

“Goodbye, John.” Politely, John shakes his hand. “See you very soon.” With that, Mycroft leaves.

John waits a few minutes before speaking, “Why’d you lie? You’ve got nothing on – not a single case. That’s why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?”

Sherlock shrugs, “Why shouldn’t I?”

John nods, “Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Sherlock turns and opens his mouth but before he can deny everything his phone starts to ring. He fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket and answers, “Sherlock Holmes… Of course. How could I refuse?” Sherlock hangs up and heads to the door, “Lestrade. I’ve been summoned. Coming?”

“If you want me to,” John says, slightly worried that Sherlock might not want him to come after posting his blog.

“Of course.” Picking up his Coat, he turns back to him. “I’d be lost without my blogger.” John grins and follows.
____________________________________________________________________

The boys arrive at New Scotland Yard and are following Detective Inspector Lestrade across the general office towards his office.

“You like the funny cases, don’t you? The surprising ones.” Lestrade starts.

“Obviously,” Sherlock answers.

“You’ll love this. That explosion…”

“Gas leak, yes?”

“No,” Lestrade says.

“No?” John asks in shock.

“No. Made to look like one.” They arrive at Lestrade’s office and Sherlock stops and stares down at a white envelope lying on a desk. “Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box – and inside it was this.” he points to the white envelope, with Sherlock’s name.

“You haven’t opened it?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s addressed to you, isn’t it?” Lestrade jokes. Sherlock reaches towards the envelope. “We’ve X-rayed it. It’s not booby-trapped.”

Sherlock hesitates slightly “How reassuring”

He picks up the envelope and takes it across the room to another table which has a lamp on it. Holding the envelope close to the bulb he examines both sides carefully. On the front in elegant handwriting are the words ‘Sherlock Holmes’.

“Nice stationery. Bohemian. From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?” Sherlock asks, most likely already knowing the answer.

“No.”

Sherlock looks closely at the writing, “She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib.”

“She?” John asks.

“Obviously,” Sherlock mutters, and John tries not to sigh. Sherlock picks up a letter opener from the desk and carefully slits the envelope open. He looks inside and his mouth opens a little in surprise as he reaches in and takes out a pink iPhone.)

“That looks like the Pink Lady’s phone” John states, shocked.

“What, from the Study in Pink?” Lestrade asks.

“Well, obviously it’s not the same phone but it’s supposed to look like …” Sherlock stops when he realises what Lestrade just said. He turns to face him. Sally has come into the room to put some files down on a desk near the door. “The Study in Pink? You read his blog?”

“Course I read his blog! We all do. D’you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?”

Sally sniggers loudly. Sherlock, who is taking off his gloves, glares at her while John purses his lips in embarrassment. Sally leaves the room and Sherlock turns his concentration back to the phone.

“It isn’t the same phone. This one’s brand new.” He’s looking at the connection sockets, none of which have scratches around them. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership.” Sherlock throws an accusatory look at John, who does his best to ignore it. Sherlock switches on the phone and immediately gets a voice alert.

“You have one new message.”

The message plays but there is no voice – just the sound of four short pips.

“Is that it?” Lestrade asks.

“No. That’s not it.”

A photograph has also been uploaded to the phone. He opens it and Lestrade comes across to look over his shoulder. The picture is of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall. The wallpaper is peeling and there’s a tall mirror propped up in one corner. A smaller mirror – the type which is usually hung up above a fireplace – is standing on the mantelpiece.

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!”

Sherlock answers thoughtfully, “It’s a warning.”

“A warning?”

“Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They’re warning us it’s gonna happen again.” He briefly looks down at the photo again, and he starts to leave the office. “And I’ve seen this place before.”

“H-hang on. What’s gonna happen again?” John asks him and Lestrade hurries after him.

“Boom!” Sherlock cries.
______________________________________________________________________

The taxi pulls up outside 221 and Sherlock, John and Lestrade get out. Sherlock unlocks the
front door and leads the way inside, bypassing the stairs and heading along the corridor towards Mrs Hudson’s front door. Just as he reaches it he stops and turns to the left where there is another door which must lead to a basement flat. Numbers and letters stuck on the door read, “221c”. Sherlock turns his head and calls out loudly towards his landlady’s front door.

“Mrs Hudson!”

Shortly afterwards, Mrs Hudson opens the front door of 221A and hands Sherlock a set of keys. He has been examining the padlock attached to the other door and now takes the keys and begins to unlock it.

“You had a look, didn’t you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat.

Sherlock examines the door’s keyhole closely, “The door’s been opened recently.”

“No, can’t be. That’s the only key.” Pulling the padlock off, Sherlock turns the key. “I can’t get anyone interested in this flat. It’s the damp, I expect. That’s the curse of basements.” Sherlock opens the door. He immediately goes inside and John and Lestrade follow. Mrs Hudson goes to her own flat.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock slowly pushes open the door to the living room and walks inside, followed by the other two. The room looks exactly as it did in the photograph on the phone with one exception: there is a pair of trainers placed neatly in the middle of the floor. John stops and looks at them.

Sherlock starts to walk towards them but John holds out a cautionary hand towards him.

“He’s a bomber, remember.” John reminds him.

Sherlock stops for a moment, then continues slowly towards the runners. He crouches down, then puts his hands on the floor and leans forward. Lowering his body down he moves closer to the shoes. Just as his nose is almost touching them, a phone rings. Sherlock jumps, closes his eyes momentarily and then stands up, pulls off his glove takes the pink iPhone from his coat pocket and looks at the caller I.D. It reads, “NUMBER BLOCKED”. He pauses for a second, then switches on the speaker, holding the phone a few inches in front of his mouth.

Sherlock answers softly, “Hello?”

A female voice draws in a shaky breath before speaking tearfully. “H-hello ... sexy.”

John and Lestrade exchange a puzzled look as the woman sobs.

“Who’s this?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ve ... sent you ... a little puzzle ... just to say hi.”

“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?” Sherlock gently asks.

The woman’s voice is shaky and tearful, “I-I’m not ... crying ... I’m typing ..d and this ... stupid ... bitch ... is reading it out.” She sobs again. Sherlock's gaze turns thoughtful.

“The curtain rises.” Sherlock softly says.

“What?” John asks.

“Nothing.” Sherlock hurriedly says.

“No, what did you mean?”

“I’ve been expecting this for some time,” Sherlock mutters, and the woman speaks again.

“Twelve hours to solve ... my puzzle, Sherlock ... or I’m going ... to be ... so naughty.” The phone goes dead.
_______________________________________________________________________

Now at St Bart’s, Sherlock was in the same lab from when they met, looking at the runners closely. With gloves, he picks them up, examines the laces carefully and peers at the shoes from all directions, then digs out dried mud from the treads in the soles and puts it into a dish. Putting the shoes down again, he looks at them thoughtfully.

Later, he is sitting at a bench looking into a microscope while, beside him, a computer screen shows that a scanner of some sort is running tests. John is wandering up and down on the other side of the bench.

He glances across to the scanner as it continues throwing up “NO MATCH” results, then looks back into the microscope.

“They trying to trace the call. But the bomber’s too smart for that, bouncing it around the world”

Sherlock’s phone goes off again. “Pass me my phone.”

John looks around the room for it, and then drops his head in a sigh, “It’s in your jacket, isn’t it?” Sherlock briefly smiles, and John marches stiffly around the table and starts to rummage in Sherlock’s inside pocket. John pulls out the phone and looks at it. “Text from your brother.”

“Delete it.” Sherlock orders, not looking up. “Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.”

“How do you know that?” John asks. “Could still be in the country. Mycroft thinks there is. He’s texted you eight times.”

“Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment?”

John laughs, “Because Mycroft always calls, why would he be texting now unless he can’t talk?” Sherlock smirks at John.

Sherlock looks back into the microscope but just then the computer beeps a result. “Ah!” Sherlock exclaims in delight. He looks across to the screen which is flashing “SEARCH COMPLETE.” At the same moment, Molly Hooper comes in the door.

“Any luck?”

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock grins.

As Molly comes over to look at the screen, a man in his thirties, wearing pants and a T-shirt, comes in the door and then stops apologetically.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t …”

“Jim! Hi!” Molly smiles. Jim makes as if to leave the room but Molly stops him.

“Come in! Come in!”

Sherlock looks over at her briefly, running his eyes down her body, making small deductions, then looks back into the microscope. Molly makes introductions as Jim closes the door and walks over to her.

“Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes and his boyfriend John Watson”

“Hi,” Jim says, eyes locked on Sherlock, almost gazing in admiration.

John narrows his eyes and moves closer to Jim and Molly, blocking Jim’s view of Sherlock. “So, you’re dating Molly? How long has this been going on for?” John asks.

Molly answers. “Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance”

Meanwhile, Jim tries to move around John to get to Sherlock, but John doesn’t let him. “Sherlock’s one of his cases and he doesn’t like to be disturbed.” John directs at Jim, who very briefly glares at him, but then goes back to normal, perfect boyfriend.

“Of course.” Lowering his hand, Jim knocks a metal dish off the edge of the table and scrambles to pick it up. Giggling nervously, “Sorry! Sorry!” Jim puts the dish back on the table and turns to Molly. “Well, I’d better be off. I’ll see you at The Fox, ’bout six-ish?”

Molly smiles, “Yeah!”

He stops beside her, putting a hand on her back, and looks back towards Sherlock. “Bye.”

Molly, thinking it was directed at her, answers, “Bye.”

Only for Jim to say to Sherlock, “It was nice to meet you.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, continuing to look into his microscope while Jim gazes wistfully at him. John glares at him, Jim notices, annoyed, and walks out of the lab.

Molly waits until the door closes then turns to John. “That was a bit weird, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I don’t think he’s the right match for you Molly” John starts.

“What do you mean?” Molly asks in a huff.

“Well, you are a very nice, and kind woman, from what I get from Jim, he completely ignored you in favour of trying to get a response from Sherlock. Frankly, he doesn’t deserve you. You deserve someone who will treat you like you are the most precious gem in the world. In my opinion, I say break it off before you get hurt, when you realise, he won’t treat you like you deserve to be treated. But think it over, think of the times when he doesn’t show you off, doesn’t make you feel valued and special.” John finishes.

Molly slowly nods and walks out of the lab in silence.

“You could have just told her that he was Gay” Sherlock mutters, looking up.

“Yes, but that would have hurt her feelings. Now she can make an educated assessment”

“Yes, I suppose that’s good too” Sherlock states, and then reaches over and moves one of the trainers on the desk closer to John. “Go on, then.”

John sighs, “Sherlock, I’m good with people. Not objects.”

“Go on.” Sherlock prompts.

“I’m not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate…”

Sherlock interrupts, “An outside eye, a second opinion. It’s very useful to me.”

John snorts “Yeah, right”

“Really.”

John turns back to him and the two of them have an intense staredown for several seconds. Eventually, John nods unhappily. “Fine” Clearing his throat, he picks up the shoe and looks at it and its partner lying on the table.

JOHN: Runner. They’re in good nick. The owner clearly looked after them. Kept them clean. The owner changed the laces a few good times. There seem to be some traces of, maybe flaky skin, so most likely suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. There’s mud on the shoes, and based on that the owner liked to keep his shoes clean, they properly come from the day he lost them. They’re very eighties, could be retro or original”

“You’re in sparkling form. What else?” Sherlock beams.

“Well, they’re quite big, so a man’s.”

“But ...?”

John looks inside both of the trainers and sees blue smudges at the sides “But there’s traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don’t write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid.”

Sherlock looks at him proudly, “Excellent. What else?”

John puts down the shoes, “That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

John nods, “How did I do?”

“Well, John; really well.” John smiles, and hands Sherlock the shoes.

“Now tell me what I missed”

Sherlock begins. “The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three ... no, four times.”

(John puts his hands on the desk and lowers his head in despair.)

“British-made, twenty years old. They’re not retro – they’re original. Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine.”

“Someone’s kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it’s from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.” Sherlock concluded.

“So what happened to him?”

Sherlock answers,
“Something bad. He loved those shoes. He’d never leave them filthy. Wouldn’t leave them go unless he had to. So: a child with big feet gets…” Sherlock trails off, staring ahead.
“Oh. Carl Powers.”

“Sorry, who?” John asks.

“It’s where I began.”
____________________________________________________________________

Later, the boys are in the back of a taxi with Sherlock explaining the case to John. “Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid – champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; and drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. “You wouldn’t remember it. Why should you?”

John doesn’t let that insult him. “But you remember.”

“Yes.”

“Something fishy about it?”

“Nobody thought so – nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers. The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn’t get out of my head.”

“What?” John questions.

“His shoes.”

“They were missing?” John asks, staring at the shoes in an evidence bag in Sherlock’s hands.

“I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He’d left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes until now.”
_____________________________________________________________________

Six hours to go, and Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, with the trainers nearby – still in the bag – while he looked through photographs and printouts of newspaper reports of Carl Powers’ death from 1989.

Meanwhile, John was at Mycroft’s office, trying to gather some more information on the missing plans.

Mycroft walks in, “John. How nice. I was hoping you wouldn’t be long. How can I help you?”

John stays seated, “Just wanted some more facts about the stolen missile plans. I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man.”

“Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.”

“Right. He was found at Battersea, yes? Did he get the train?”

“No. He had an Oyster card, but it hadn’t been used and there was no ticket on the body”
.
“Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?” John asks, mostly to himself, but Mycroft responds anyway.

“That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How’s he getting on?”

“You know how Sherlock is” John grins jokingly and leaves it at that.
______________________________________________________________

John arrives home to find Sherlock has moved to the side table in the kitchen and is looking into his microscope. Mrs Hudson comes in through the kitchen door with a tray containing a couple of mugs. As she puts them on the kitchen table, Sherlock looks up.
“Poison.” He mutters.

Mrs Hudson asks first, “What are you going on about?”

Sherlock slams his hands down on the side table. “Clostridium botulinum! It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!” Sherlock exclaims, looking at John.

John rolls his eyes, “Yes I know what it is. Did you find some of it on Carl Powers' shoes?”

Sherlock stands up and walks over to where he has hung up the laces from the trainers. “Remember the shoelaces? The boy suffered from eczema. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.”

“And because you have to test for it specifically, no one would be looking for it on the autopsy”

“Yes, John!” Sherlock grins, pulling John in and plating a quick kiss on the lips before racing over to his computer. The page is open at the Forum of his own website, The Science of Deduction, and he now begins to type into the message box:

FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin is still present. Apply 221b Baker St.

“But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That’s why they had to go.”

“The killer kept the shoes all these years, meaning he’s our bomber,” John announces as the pink phone rings on the side table. Sherlock hurries over to it and switches on the speaker. The woman sobs in anguish as she reads out the latest message.

“Well done, you. Come and get me.”

“Where are you? Tell us where you are.”
________________________________________________________________

The next morning, John and Sherlock could be found in Lestrade’s office,

“She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager.” He puts the pager onto the desk in front of John, who picks it up to look at it.

“And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off,” Sherlock mutters from his spot at the window.

“Or if you hadn’t solved the case,” John adds.

“But what was the point? Why would anyone do this?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock mutters to himself, “Oh – I can’t be the only person in the world who gets bored.”

Just then the pink phone beeps a message alert. John turns round to him as Sherlock taps the phone.

“You have one new message.” As Sherlock walks towards Lestrade’s desk, the phone sounds like the Greenwich pips again, but this time there are three short pips and one long one.)

“Four pips.” John points out.

“First test passed, it would seem. Here’s the second.” Sherlock shows a new photograph to the others. It’s a close-up of a car with its driver’s door open and the number plate clearly visible. John and Lestrade get up to take a closer look. “It’s abandoned, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ll see if it’s been reported.” Lestrade states and makes a phone call.

Sergeant Donovan comes to the office holding another phone. “Freak…” John glares at her, “Sherlock, it’s for you.”

Sherlock walks over to the door and takes the phone from her. John follows Sherlock who walks out into the general office and raises the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

The frightened voice of a young man comes over the phone. “It’s okay that you’ve gone to the police.”

“Who is this? Is this you again?” Sherlock asks.

“But don’t rely on them. Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing.”

“And you’ve stolen another voice, I presume,” Sherlock states.

“This is about you and me.” The young man shakily says. A bus noisily drives past him. “What’s that noise?”

“The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don’t worry… I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight.”

“’ Guessing about Powers’, he’s trying to get under your skin. Limiting the time limit is supposed to make you panic” John states once Sherlock hangs up.

“We’ve found it,” Lestrade calls up, the boys follow.
___________________________________________________________________

Close to the river, forensics had already beaten them there, examining the car and its surroundings. Lestrade leads Sherlock towards it. John and Sally Donovan are walking along behind them.
“The car was hired yesterday morning by Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind; City boy. Paid in cash. Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived.”

As Sherlock and Lestrade reach the passenger door of the car, Sally turns to John.

“You’re still hanging around him.”

“And you’re still calling civilian consultants ‘freaks’. Don’t forget I am you’re boss Donovan”

“Still, you should get yourself a hobby – stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer.”

“This is my hobby” John states as she goes to stand beside Lestrade while Sherlock leans into the car to look at the large amount of blood smeared over the island between the two front seats. He opens the glove box.

“Before you ask, yes, it’s Monkford’s blood. The DNA checks out.”

Sherlock finds a business card in the glove box and takes it out. Closing the lid he straightens up. “Nobody,” Sherlock states, not asking.

“Not yet,” Donovan answers anyway.

Sherlock turns to Lestrade, “Get a sample sent to the lab.” Lestrade nods and Sherlock walks away. Lestrade turns to Donovan and looks at her pointedly. She stares back at him indignantly but he holds the look and she grunts in exasperation and stomps away. Sherlock walks over to the woman who is talking with the police officer.

“Mrs Monkford?” Sherlock asks.

Mrs Monkford turns to them, eyes red with crying. “Yes. Sorry, but I’ve already spoken with two policemen.”

“I know…” John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.

Sherlock holds out his hand to her, his voice suddenly tearful and shakey, “Sherlock Holmes. A very old friend of your husband’s. We, um …” As the wife shakes his hand, he looks down as if fighting back his tears. “We grew up together.”

“I’m sorry, who? I don’t think he ever mentioned you.” The wife starts.

Still acting, Sherlock states tearfully, “Oh, he must have done. This is ... this is horrible, isn’t it?”

Playing along, John continues, “Yes, I can’t believe it, we just saw him the other day. Same old Ian”

“Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who are you?”

By now Sherlock has tears running down his cheeks. “Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that’s all.” Mrs Monkford answers.

Sherlock gives a tearful smile, “Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!”

“No, it wasn’t.” The wife denies it.

Instantly Sherlock’s fake persona drops and he looks at her intensely. “Wasn’t it? Interesting.” He turns and walks away John following.

“Good job John, playing along” Sherlock
smirks.

“Sometimes people don’t enjoy telling you things, but dear god do they like correcting you? Best way to find out if a patient was taking their medicine.” John smiles.

“Past tense, did you notice? I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in. Bit premature – they’ve only just found the car.”

“You think she knows what happened?” John asks. “Where now?”

“Janus Cars.” He hands the business card to John. “Just found this in the glove compartment.”
______________________________________________________________

SIX HOURS TO GO.

Sherlock and John are in the office of the car hire company. John sits at the other side of the desk to the owner, taking notes while Sherlock looks around the office.

“Can’t see how I can help you, gentlemen.” The owner starts.

“Mr Monkford hired the car from you yesterday.” John begins.

“Yeah. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn’t mind one of them myself!” The man jokes. Sherlock walks over to the other side of the desk so that he’s standing beside Ewert, then points into the court outside.

“Is that one?” The man turns his head to look and Sherlock immediately looks closely at the side of the man’s neck.

“No, they’re all Jags. Yeah, I can see you’re not a car man, eh?” The man jokes as Sherlock straightens up as the owner looks around and smiles at John.

Playing into not knowing about cars, Sherlock asks, “But, er, surely you can afford one – a Mazda, I mean?”

“Yeah, it’s a fair point. But you know how it is: it’s like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the liquorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?” He starts scratching his upper arm, Sherlock looks at him for a moment, then turns away and heads around the room towards the other side of the desk.

“But you didn’t know Mr Monkford?” John tries again.

“No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod.”

“Nice holiday, Mr Ewert?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

“Eh?” Ewert asks.

“You’ve been away, haven’t you?”

Ewert stumbles up an excuse. “Oh, the-the…” He gestures towards his tanned face. “No, it’s, er, sunbeds, I’m afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though – a bit of sun.”

“Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?” Sherlock asks.

“What?” Ewert asks, not expecting the change in subject.

“Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven’t got any change.” Sherlock offers Ewert a banknote. “I’m gasping.”

“Um, well …” He reaches into his trouser pocket and takes out his wallet. John could see plenty of notes, but none were England pounds. “No, sorry.”

“Oh well. Thank you very much for your time, Mr Ewert.” Sherlock turns and heads for the door. “You’ve been very helpful. Come on, John.”

They leave the office and walk across the court. “You better have just wanted to look into his wallet, what have I told you about smoking?”

Sherlock pats his upper left arm): Nicotine patches, remember? I’m doing well. You’re right, I needed to look inside his wallet. Mr Ewert’s a liar.”
__________________________________________________________________

Back at St Bart’s, Sherlock has a large drop of blood in a shallow glass dish. Putting the dish onto the desk, he reaches into a small bag of equipment, opens a bottle and siphons out some liquid with a small dropper. Bending down to the dish, he squeezes out a drop of liquid onto the blood, which starts to fizz. As Sherlock straightens up, the pink phone rings. The Caller I.D. reads “BLOCKED”. He picks up the phone and answers it.

“Hello?”

The same young man tearfully answers, “The clue’s in the name. Janus Cars.”

“Why would you be giving me a clue?”

“Why does anyone do anything? Because I’m bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock.”

Sherlock replies softly, “Then talk to me in your voice.”

“Patience.” The line goes dead. Sherlock lowers the phone and looks thoughtfully into the distance for a while. Finally, he looks down at the fizzing liquid in the dish, then picks up the dish and looks at it more closely. He begins to smile.
_________________________________________________________________

THREE HOURS TO GO.

“I am busy trying to stop a bomber from killing people!” John shouts into the phone. A few minutes earlier, the Prime Minister called him, trying to find out why John was running around with Sherlock, and not behind his desk doing paperwork. “Of course, it’s not on the bloody news! That’s what the bomber wants and we don’t want a panic on our hands!… Well, we’ve already care of one, and we are about to take care of another as soon as I get off this call!… 3 more left… Yes… Well just because I am not hiding behind my desk all day, does not mean I’m not doing anything! I’m on the case right now!… Don’t tell me how to do my job!… The best way to handle this situation is to let me continue working the clues with Sherlock Holmes until we get this bastard! We also have Scottland Yard’s finest working on this! Now Let me do my bloody job and catch a bomber and a killer!” John shouts, hanging up only to find Sherlock and Lestrade staring at him in shock.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John mumbles and follows Sherlock and Lestrade into the Police car Pound, stopping at Mr Monkford’s car.

“How much blood was on that seat, would you say?” Sherlock asks, directed at Lestrade.

“How much? About a pint.” Lestrade guessed.

“Not ‘about.’ Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood’s definitely Ian Monkford’s but it’s been frozen. There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that’s what they spread on the seats.”

“Who did?” Lestrade asks.

“Janus Cars. The clue’s in the name.” Sherlock states.

“The god with two faces,” John answers.

“Exactly.” Sherlock smiles at John and then turns to Lestrade, “They provide a very special service. If you’ve got any kind of a problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial, at a guess; he’s a banker. Couldn’t see a way out. But if he were to vanish if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver’s seat…?” Sherlock trails off for the others (Mostly Lestrade to catch up”

“So where is he?” John asks.

“Colombia,” Sherlock announces, closing the car door.

“Colombia?!” Lestrade exclaims in shock.

“Mr Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet. Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn’t been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm.”

“His arm?” John asks.

“Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he’d recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he’d just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars.”

“Mrs Monkford?” Lestrade asks,

“Oh yes. She’s in on it too.” Lestrade lowers his head with a look of amazement on his face. “Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That’s what you do best.” Sherlock then turns to John. “We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved.”

He turns and leads John away. Lestrade watches them, still reeling at all the information that he has just been given. Sherlock clenches his fists triumphantly at his sides as he goes. “I am on fire!”
________________________________________________________________________

Sitting in the living room, Sherlock types a new message onto The Science of Deduction:

Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.

He sends the message. A few seconds later another ‘blocked’ phone call comes in on the pink phone lying on the table beside the computer. Sherlock switches on the speaker.

The same young man tearfully speaks, “He says you can come and fetch me. Help. Help me, please.” John quickly texts Lestrade the man’s location and Sherlock looks up at John and smiles. John orders dinner and they eat in comfortable silence.
____________________________________________________________________

The next morning, the boys are sitting opposite each other at a table in a café. John was watching (forcing) Sherlock to have breakfast while tucking into some eggs himself.

“Happy?” Sherlock grumbles, having quickly finished his breakfast.

“Very, you might not like it, but you need food to function. Not eating for days at a time is unhealthy, and as long as I’m around, I’m going to force you to eat” John smiles at Sherlock’s annoyed expression, “Has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid’s shoes – it’s all meant for you.”

Sherlock smiles slightly, “Yes, I know.”

“Is it him, then? Moriarty?” John asks.

“Perhaps.” The pink phone beeps a message alert. Sherlock switches it on and it sounds like two short Greenwich pips followed by the longer tone, and a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman appears on the screen.

“That could be anybody.” Sherlock grunts, annoyed.

“Well, it could be, yeah. Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly.” John stands up and walks over to the counter. Smiling at the woman behind the counter, he picks up a remote control and switches on the small television hung on the wall. He changes channels a couple of times until he finds what he wants. The woman from the photograph is on the screen, partway through her make-over show.

“Thank you, Tyra! Doesn’t she look lovely, everybody, now?” The woman says from the TV.

The pink phone rings. Sherlock picks up the phone and holds it to his ear. “Hello?”

An old woman speaks slowly, “This one ... is a bit ... defective. Sorry. She’s blind. This is ... a funny one.” John walks back to the table. “I’ll give you
... twelve hours.”

Sherlock looks at John as he sits down. “Why are you doing this?”
The old woman slowly replies, “I like ... to watch you ... dance.” As she finishes speaking, she gasps and sobs in terror. Sherlock lowers the phone and shakes his head at John, then drops the phone onto the table as he turns to look at the TV.
As the footage continues, a news headline at the bottom of the screen reads: Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48.)

“Continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programmes, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead …”
_______________________________________________________________________

John called Lestrade, who got them to examine Connie Prince’s body. The body has been laid out on a table in the morgue, with a sheet covering her leaving only her head, arms and upper chest bare. Lestrade leads the boys into the room, reading from a file as he goes. “Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?”

“No.” Sherlock simply says.

“Very popular. She was going places”

“Not any more. So: dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound.”

He and John look at the deep cut in the webbing between her right thumb and index finger. “Tetanus bacteria enter the bloodstream – good night Vienna,” Sherlock mutters.

John frowns and notes how clean the cut is, “Something’s wrong with this picture.”

“Eh?” Lestrade asks.

“Well, it can’t be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn’t be directing us towards it. Something’s wrong. John, would you like to continue?” Sherlock smiles down at his boyfriend.

John narrows his eyes, as he looks down at the body, then bends closer to look along Connie’s right arm as he easily puts his hand in Sherlock’s coat pocket, taking out his magnifier (ignoring Lestrade’s laugh and Sherlock’s grin). There are several scratches on her upper arm which look like claw marks. He moves up to her face and notices some tiny pinpricks on her forehead just above her nose. He looks at them through the magnifier.

“The cut on her hand: it’s deep, would have bled a lot. But the wound’s clean, and fresh. The bacteria have been incubating inside her for about 8-10 days, so the cut was made later” JOHN: Eight, ten days.” John states, Sherlock quirks a one-sided grin and turns to John.

“After she was dead?” Lestrade confirms.

“Must have been. The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman’s system?” Sherlock asks.

John hums. “She recently had Botox on her face, could have been from that.”

“Connie Prince’s background – family history, everything. Give me data.” Sherlock orders Lestrade, he hurries out of the room and Sherlock grabs John’s face and pulls him close. Kissing him firmly on the lips, John melts and kisses back before pulling away, “Maybe not the best place to make out Sherlock, next to a body and everything” John mutters.

“Sorry, just seeing the way you decided that. You’re getting better” Sherlock smiles proudly.

“Just doctor training” John laughs. Just then, Lestrade wonders back in. “There’s something else that we haven’t thought of.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber? If this woman’s death was suspicious, why point it out?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock answers nonchalantly, over his shoulder “Good Samaritan.” He tries to move away but Lestrade persists.

“Who press-gangs suicide bombers?”

Sherlock corrects himself, “Bad Samaritan.”

“I’m – I’m serious, Sherlock. Listen: I’m cutting you slack here; I’m trusting you – but out there somewhere, some poor bastard’s covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?”

“Something we are going to stop” John answers.
___________________________________________________________________

A few hours later, at the flat. The wall behind the sofa is covered with paperwork: maps, photographs of Connie Prince – both when she was alive and pictures taken in the morgue – photos of Carl Powers, press cuttings and various sheets of paper with notes scribbled on them. Pieces of string are pinned between some of the exhibits, linking them together. Sherlock is pacing back and forth in front of the sofa while Lestrade stands nearby.

“Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection.” He stops and gestures towards various spots on the display on the wall as he speaks. “Carl Powers was killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him and admitted that he knew him. The bomber’s iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. The first hostage from Cornwall; the second from London; and the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What’s he doing – working his way around the world? Showing off?”

The pink phone rings. He takes it from his pocket and sees that the Caller I.D. again reads “NUMBER BLOCKED”. He switches on the speaker, and the old woman begins.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Joining the ... dots.” She sobs. “Three hours: boom ... boom.”
The phone goes dead. Sherlock looks at Lestrade for a moment, then switches off the phone, puts it back in his pocket and raises his hands to his mouth in the prayer position, concentrating on the wall in front of him.
_____________________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, John is at the Prince’s house. It is a beautifully and elegantly decorated house. A hairless cat meows as it wanders about on a sofa in the living room. Kenny Prince, a man in his late fifties who is wearing a very fancy purple shirt comes into the room. Behind him the much younger and far more dishy ‘houseboy’ Raoul stops at the doorway and gestures to John to go in.

“We’re devastated. Of course, we are.” Kenny, Connie’s brother, answers.
As John walks into the living room, Kenny reaches the other side of the room and turns back, propping his arm on the mantelpiece. John notes that Kenny and Raoul share a look. John sits down on the sofa beside the cat.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Raoul, the house boy asks.

“Er, no. No, thanks.” John smiles.

Raoul looks across the room to Kenny, who smiles at him. Raoul returns the smile, then turns and leaves the room. John writes in his notebook, ‘Raoul, brother, having affair.’

“Raoul is my rock. I don’t think I could have managed.” He looks down sadly. “We didn’t always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me.”

The cat has climbed onto John’s lap and meows loudly in protest when he picks it up and puts it down beside him.

“And to the public, Mr Prince?” John asks, taking on the role of reporter.

“Oh, she was adored. I’ve seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses. Still, it’s a relief in a way to know that she’s beyond this vale of tears.
John pats the cat while it purrs contentedly on his lap. “Absolutely.”
________________________________________________________________

Back at the flat, Mrs Hudson has joined Sherlock and Lestrade and is standing between them as they face the paper-covered wall. Sherlock is talking into his phone (not the pink one).

“Great. ... Thank you. Thanks again.” He turns and walks towards the fireplace, still talking into the phone.

Mrs Hudson looks sadly at a photo of Connie on the wall. “It was a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours.”

Lestrade, who had turned and was watching Sherlock on the other side of the room, now turns back to Mrs Hudson. “Colours?”

“You know” she gestures down at her clothes, “what goes best with what. I should never wear a cerise, apparently. Drains me.”

Sherlock has just finished his conversation and walks back to join the others. “Who was that?”

Sherlock, staring at the wall, answers, “Home Office.”

“Home Office?” Lestrade sounds shocked.

“Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour.”

Mrs Hudson continues, “She was a pretty girl but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It’s silly, isn’t it?!” She giggles, and Lestrade smiles politely. She then turns to Sherlock, “John keeps me company sometimes, and we watch it together, did you ever see her show?”

“Not until now.” He mutters picks up his computer and opens it. A video starts to play, showing footage of an episode of Connie’s make-over show. She is talking to her brother in the TV studio.

“You look pasty, love!” Connie says to her brother.

“Ah.” Kenny exclaims, looking into the audience/camera, “Rained every day but one!”

“That’s the brother. No love lost there, if you can believe the papers.” Mrs Hudson pipes in.

“So I gather. I’ve just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites – indispensible for gossip.” Sherlock states transfixed on the laptop.

Connie on the show, gestures to the clothes her brother was wearing, “There’s only one thing we can do with that ensemble, don’t you think, girls?” She stands up and claps her hands rhythmically as she begins to chant. “Off! Off! Off! Off! The audience takes up the chant and the clapping. By the third, “Off!” Connie is rhythmically beating her hands quite hard onto Kenny’s back as he drops his jacket to the floor and starts to unbutton his shirt. He grimaces in pain but then turns a false smile towards the audience.
_____________________________________________________________________

Back with John, Kenny is still standing by the fireplace, looking thoughtfully at a framed photograph of Connie holding her TV award. John is sitting on the sofa looking down at his notebook as he talks.

“Was there anyone that didn’t like your sister?” John asks, looking up in surprise when Kenny – who has walked across the room unnoticed – now plonks heavily down onto
the sofa beside him and stares at him intensely.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do now.” He frails dramatically.

“Right.”

“I mean, she’s left me this place, which is lovely… but it’s not the same without her.”

John fidgets as he tries to move further away from Kenny, but is unable to do so “Th-that’s why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse’s mouth. You sure it’s not too soon?”

“No.” The brothers say very quickly.

“Right.”

Kenny is still staring intensely at him. “You fire away.”

John stands up. “Well, I think I have everything I need. Thank you for your time” John smiles, shakes Kenny’s hands and nearly rushes out the door. After a quick call with Molly, he smiles.
__________________________________________________________________

John calls Sherlock on his way to 221B. “John? You have something?” Sherlock answers.

“It was the house boy, Raoul. In nearly every episode, the brother was the butt of his sister’s jokes, there were whispers of fighting off-stage. I also had a quick chat with Molly, she tested the botox in Connie’s face, that’s where the tests show it was botulinum toxin.” John informs Sherlock.

“Brilliant John! Meet me at Lestrade’s office” Sherlock responds and hangs up.
______________________________________________________________

After quickly finding Sherlock and walking to Lestrades office, Sherlock walks into the main office brandishing a folder at Lestrade.

“John figured it out. Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince’s houseboy. The second autopsy shows it wasn’t tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince – it was botulinum toxin.” He puts the folder on the desk.

“So how’d he do it?” Lestrade asks, opening the file.

“Botox injection.” John grins.

Lestrade looks at John, “Good job Doc” He jokes.

Sherlock quickly informs, “Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul’s internet purchases. He’s been bulk ordering Botox for months.”

“Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.” John finishes, only to realise that Sherlock knew that it was Raoul before he did.

Lestrade sighs, “All right – my office.” He turns and walks towards his office. Sherlock starts to follow but John stops him.

“Hey, Sherlock. How long?” John asks.

“What?”

“How long have you known?” John asks again.

“What are you talking about? You solved it” Sherlock simply answers.

“You wouldn’t have enough time to call the Home Office and get the purchases within the amount of time of me telling you to us getting here. You knew before I told you, didn’t you?”

Sherlock sighs, “It was a good solution, John, I know this isn’t you’re strong suit. I wanted to see you get out of your comfort zone. You’re good with people, I want you to get good at other things too” Sherlock states and walks to Lestrade’s office. John has a second to look devastated and heartbroken that Sherlock set him up before having to follow him into the office.

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock is sitting at Lestrade’s desk where a laptop has been opened to The Science of Deduction website. John and Lestrade are standing on either side of him. Sherlock types into the message box:

Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

He sends the message, and the pink phone on the desk beside the computer rings almost instantly. He picks it up and holds it to his ear.

“Hello?” Sherlock answers.

The old woman says slowly, “Help me.”

“Tell us where you are. Address.” Sherlock states clearly.

“He was so ... His voice …” The old woman starts.

John immediately takes the phone from Sherlock’s hand and begins talking to the old woman. “Hello, ma’am. This is Police Chief John Watson. You’re safe. Just tell us where you are and we will come get you, I promise.” John says in a smooth and calming voice. (The voice he mainly uses when picking up chicks).

“My apartment” Comes out slowly.

“Ma’am I need you to tell me the address. Can you do that?” John flashes a quick smirk at Sherlock, who looks shell-shocked at John’s tone.

“421 Clearwater Way.” The Old woman rasps out and Lestrade is immediately on the phone.

“That’s great ma’am. Can you tell me you’re name?” John continues asking questions until the police and bomb squad get to her place and send her to the hospital.

“Why did you take the phone away?” Sherlock asks shortly after John has hung up.

“3 reasons. No.1. She was about to say something I needed to make sure she didn’t do anything that would annoy or give the bomber a reason to harm her. No.2. You’re not great when it comes to talking to people, and she needed a calming voice to hear” John says and walks to the door.

“But that was only 2” Sherlock frowns.

“No.3. I am no one's damsel in distress and I can solve my own cases!” John calls behind him.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Sherlock, Lestrade and John visit the old woman in the hospital.

“Mrs Smith, I’m Police Chief John Watson. We spoke on the phone,” John introduced himself, smiling down at the blind lady.

“Oh, yes. You’re the nice one who talked to me until the Police came” The lady slowly rasps out.

“That’s right. I’m here with Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I was in my apartment, having myself a cup of tea when a pair of rough hands grabbed me. Covered my mouth so I couldn’t scream for help and I felt a prick on the side of my neck.”

“Sedative” Sherlock mumbles.

“I woke up, and I could hear a voice in my ear. He was so calm. His voice… He sounded so ... soft.”

“Did you hear any distinct sounds?” Lestrade asks.

“He had an accent. It wasn’t English. Sounded Irish. I’m sorry. That’s all I remember” Mrs Smith cries and John holds her as she sobs until the nurses come in to calm her down.
________________________________________________________________

“Good thing you took the phone when you did. No telling what he would have done if she started describing him to us when still over the phone. I’ll put a protective detail on her until we have this whole mess sorted” Lestrade tells John, who nods.

“He put himself in the firing line.” Sherlock starts, walking down the hall with John keeping step.

“What d’you mean?” He asks.

“Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organises these things but no one ever has direct contact.”

“Like Connie Prince’s murder. He arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?” John asks.

Sherlock softly speaks, his face full of admiration “Novel.”

Wanting to change the subject, John asks, “Anything on the Carl Powers case?”

“Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection.”

“Well, he said that Carl laughed at him. Maybe the killer was younger than Carl?” John suggests and Sherlock snaps his head to him. “What?”

“Younger! I was thinking older, how else would you get into contact with Clostridium botulinum? But on the black market, you can get anything! Yes, John!” Sherlock grins, pressing a quick kiss to John’s cheek and races off.

“Right then” John blinked, laughed and not a moment later, got a text from Sherlock.

‘Got another message from bomber’ and a photo of a river bank. ‘View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. Get Lestrade to check.
__________________________________________________________________

A short few hours later, while the police and forensics officers work at the scene, our boys arrive. Sherlock and John are pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Lestrade is waiting beside the body.

Lestrade meets them halfway and leads them to the body, “D’you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?”

“Must be. Odd, though he hasn’t been in touch.” Sherlock flashes the pink cell phone before placing it away.

“But we must assume that some poor bugger’s primed to explode, yeah?” Lestrade asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock mumers.

They reach the body and Sherlock steps back and takes a long look at the man’s body which is lying on its back on a plastic sheet.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock, deciding the show off, “Seven ... so far.”

“Seven?!” Lestrade exclaims in shock.

Sherlock walks closer to the body and squats down to examine the man’s face closely with his magnifier. He then looks at the ripped pocket on the shirt before working his way downwards until he reaches the man’s feet. He pulls off one of the socks and examines the sole with his magnifier. Standing up and closing the magnifier, he looks across to John and jerks his head down towards the body in a mute order to examine it. John looks enquiringly at Lestrade for permission; the inspector holds his hand out in a ‘be my guest’ gesture.

John squats down beside the body and begins examining the body. “He’s dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer. He didn’t drown, but he was asphyxiated. There’s quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.” John points at them. “In his late thirties, I’d say. Not in the best condition. He’s been in the river a long while. The water’s destroyed most of the data.”

“Anything else before Sherlock starts to ramble?” John and Lestrade share a quick laugh.

“His outfit. They look formal, but these are heavy-duty and cheap, they’re both too big for him, so could be some kind of standard-issue uniform. Could have been killed before or after leaving work. I’d say he’s a security guard based on the walkie-talkie hook on his belt.” John finishes and Sherlock looks happy.

“Good job John. If I may?” Sherlock gestures to the body and John and Lestrade nod, with John standing back up next to Lestrade.

Sherlock quirks a grin. “That lost Vermeer painting’s a fake.”

“What?” Lestrade asks. “What painting? What are you – what are you on about?”

“It’s all over the place. Haven’t you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it’s turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.” Sherlock informs.

“Okay. So what has that got to do with the stiff?” Lestrade asks, pointing to the body.

Sherlock grins briefly, “Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?”

John answers, “It’s a horror story, isn’t it? Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made of clay.”

“Yes John, it’s also the name of an assassin – real name Oskar Dzundza – one of the deadliest assassins in the world.” He points down to the body. “That is his trademark style.”

Lestrade confirms, “So this is a hit?”

“Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.”

“But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don’t see …” Sherlock cuts Lestrade off.

“You do see – you just don’t observe,” Sherlock says, exasperated.

John interrupts before they can argue anymore. “All right, all right, girls, calm down. Sherlock? D’you wanna take us through it?”

Sherlock stops, sighs steps back and points to the body. “What do we know about this corpse? The killer’s not left us with much – just the shirt and the trousers. John was right about the uniform. He’s flabby. You’d think that he’d led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. A security guard’s looking good.” Sherlock flashes a grin at John, “And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.”

“Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died.” Lestrade argues.

“No-no-no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there’s something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognisable, some kind of institution.” He takes something from his pocket, it's a small scrunched-up ball of paper. “Found this inside his trouser pockets. “Sodden by the river but still recognisably”

“Tickets?” John guesses.

“Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check – the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing.” He points down to the body. “Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it – something that would stop the owner from getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture’s a fake.” Sherlock concluded.

John smiles in admiration, “Fantastic”

Sherlock simply shrugs, “Meretricious.”

“And a Happy New Year!” Lestrade calls out in a joke. “I’d better get my feelers out for this Golem character.”

“Pointless. You’ll never find him. But I know a man who can.” Sherlock smirks.

“Who?” Lestrade takes the bait.

“Me.” With that, he turns and walks away. John sighs and dutifully follows his boyfriend.
___________________________________________________________________

In the taxi, Sherlock is looking at the pink phone in frustration. “Why hasn’t he phoned? He’s broken
his pattern. Why?” He then leans forward to the driver, “Waterloo Bridge.”

“The Hickman’s contemporary art, isn’t it? Why have they got hold of an Old Master?” John mutters to himself.

“Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data.” Sherlock states, taking out a small notebook and writing something on a page before tearing it out and folding a banknote inside it. He puts the paper into his pocket, then a few seconds later calls out to the driver. “Stop!”

The cab pulls over to the side of the road. “You wait here. I won’t be a moment.” Sherlock directs to John, who huffs but stays as he watches Sherlock go to the railings at the edge of the pavement and easily vault over them. Sherlock trots up some steps to where a young woman is sitting on a bench under Waterloo Bridge. John watches as Sherlock hands the homeless woman the note with the money and then immediately turns and walks away again. John looks at him in bewilderment as Sherlock jumps and gets back in the taxi.

“What are you doing?” John questions.

“Investing.” Sherlock simply says. Now we go to the Gallery.” He stops and looks back at John. “Have you got any cash?” John sighs and nods.
___________________________________________________________________

Once the taxi pulls up at the Gallery, Sherlock steps out, but when John goes to follow, Sherlock stops him. “No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address.”

John mutters a ‘fine’ and closes the door, quickly texting Lestrade for the address.

A short while later, a woman leads John into Alex’s tiny attic bedroom. It’s messy with clothes scattered everywhere. The window in the canted ceiling looks up into the sky, and standing below it is a large object covered with a sheet.

“We’d been sharing about a year. Just sharing.” The roommate states.

Julie stops and gestures around the room. John walks in and looks around, not touching anything. He looks at the sheet-covered object and points to it. “May I?” She nods and John lifts the sheets, letting them fall to the floor as it reveals a telescope on a tripod. “Stargazer, was he?” John asks.

“God, yeah. Mad about it. It’s all he ever did in his spare time.” She looks away sadly. “He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him.” She looks around the room. “He was, er, never much of a one for hoovering. She laughs nervously. John smiles at her.

“What about art? Did he know anything about that?” John tries.

The roommate however just shakes her head, “It was just a job, you know?”

John bends down and peers at the items on the bedside table. Has anyone else been around asking about Alex?”

“No. We had a break-in, though.”

John stands, “Hmm? When?”

“Last night. There was nothing taken. Oh – there was a message left for Alex on the landline.”

“Who was it from?” John asks.

“Well, I can play it for you if you like. I’ll get the phone.”

“Please.” She goes out of the room briefly and comes back with the phone and plays the message.

A woman’s voice comes through, “Oh, should I speak now? Alex? Love, it’s Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when …” The message ends.

“Professor Cairns? Ring any bells?” John asks.

“No, no idea, sorry.”

“Thank you for your help.” John smiles and leaves, quickly grabbing his phone and looking up at Professor Cairns, ignoring the text from Mycroft.

John takes the initiative and visits Professor Cairns, who worked at the Planetarium. Professor Cairns is alone in the planetarium’s theatre when John gets out his badge and announces himself.

“Professor Cairns? I’m Police Chief John Watson, I have a few questions to ask if that’s okay?”

“Of course, what would you like to know?” Cairns asks.

“You left a voicemail on Alex Woodbridge’s phone. I need to know what it was about.”

“Oh, well Alex works at the Museum, a few days ago, he came to me to ask about that new painting. Alex loved the stars since he was a kid, so when he noticed the stars in the painting, he thought it didn’t look right. You see, The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. An exploding star that only appeared in the sky in 1858. But the painting was painted in the 1640s.”

John jumps and immediately calls for backup, to take Professor Cairns into protective custody. He stays until she is taken away and John gets a text from Sherlock.

Nighttime has fallen by the time John arrives at Baker Street. John is in the back of a taxi heading along Baker Street. Further along the road, the homeless girl is standing by the railings on the other side of Speedy’s, shaking a paper cup at people as they pass by. The taxi pulls up and John gets out. Sherlock walks over to him.

“Alex Woodbridge didn’t know anything special about art.” John starts, getting out of the taxi.

“And?” Sherlock immediately asks. Sherlock looks towards the girl again and starts to walk towards her while still talking to John.

“And he was an amateur astronomer.” John starts but stops when Sherlock stops dead, turns and points towards the taxi.

“Hold that cab.” John hurries back to the taxi while Sherlock goes over to the girl.

Exchanging quick words, the girl hands him a note and Sherlock walks back to John, “Fortunately, I haven’t been idle.” He opens the cab door and gets in. “Come on.” John climbs in and the taxi heads off.

“Nether have I. Alex didn’t know anything about art, but he did like astronomy. There was a voicemail from Professor Cairns on his machine. I tracked her down, and…” The taxi pulls over and the boys get out and Sherlock buttoning his coat as he gazes up at the sky, a small slither between two buildings.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

John looks up “I thought you didn’t care about things like that.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

They continue walking, “Listen, so I talked with the Professor and she told me…”

Sherlock interrupts him again, “This way.”

“Nice. Nice part of town. Er, any time you wanna explain.” John grimaces at his surroundings.

“Homeless network – is indispensable.”

“Homeless network?” John asks.

“My eyes and ears all over the city,” Sherlock explains.

“Oh, that’s clever. So you scratch their backs and…”

“Yes, then I disinfect myself,” Sherlock answers as they both take out their torches, lighting up their path. Their beams pick out homeless people all around the place, most of them settling down for the night. Suddenly, in the distance, the shadow of a man shows on a wall as he begins to stand up. The man is incredibly tall.

John grabs Sherlock they duck to the side of a wall while the man continues straightening up for ages until he is over seven feet tall. “What’s he doing sleeping rough?” John whispers.

“Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won’t wag – much.”

John takes out his gun and they race towards the shadow. Sherlock and John race and corner The Golem who looks up, and grunts in surprise.

“Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?” Sherlock asks.

Golem grunts and charges at Sherlock, making quick work of clamping one hand around Sherlock’s mouth and nose while gripping his neck with the other. Sherlock grabs at the hand on his face, struggling to pull it free as he is slowly suffocated. John aims his gun at Golem.

“Golem!” He cocks the gun and points it at the Golem’s face, his hands and voice steady. “Let him go, or I will kill you.”

Sherlock, whimpering in his efforts, continues trying to pull the man’s hand from his face. Once Sherlock starts turning slightly blue in the firelight, John pulls the trigger and shoots Golem’s knees out from under him.

Dropping Sherlock to the ground, who gasps for breath, he surges forward and just as he is about to wrestle John down, John shoots him again in the leg, taking him down. John is quick to grab Golem’s arm behind his back and pulls, not so much that he breaks the arm, but enough to know that John has all the power.

Sherlock calls it in, and very soon, they have Golem in handcuffs. John will have to make a statement when all of this is done.
_________________________________________________________________

The next morning, John had forgotten to tell Sherlock about what he found out about Professor Cairns. So when they were at the Hickman Gallery, Sherlock was standing in front of the Vermeer painting, looking up information on his phone. He calls up subjects such as “Vermeer brush strokes,” “Pigment analysis,” “Canvas degradation,” “UV Light damage,” “Delft Skyline, 1600,” and “Vermeer influences.” John, Lestrade and Miss Wenceslas are standing behind him.

“It’s a fake. It has to be.” Sherlock says.

“That painting has been subjected to every test known to science.” Miss Wenceslas, the owner protests.

“It’s a very good fake, then.” He spins around and glares at her. “You know about this, don’t you? This is you, isn’t it?”

John then remembers and wants to hit himself, “Sherlock I just remembered, I know how the painting is a fake”

Sherlock turns to him in surprise, when just then the pink phone rings. Sherlock snatches it from his pocket and switches on the speaker.

“The painting is a fake,” Sherlock announces. There’s a faint sound of breathing over the speaker but otherwise, there is no response. “It’s a fake. That’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.” Still, there’s nothing more than breathing. “Oh, come on. Proving it’s just the detail. The painting is a fake. I’ve solved it. I’ve figured it out. It’s a fake! That’s the answer. That’s why they were killed.” Sherlock rushes out. When the phone remains silent, Sherlock takes a deep breath to calm himself and locks eyes with John. John nods and takes out his notepad, everything Professor Cairns told him was in there. “Okay, I’ll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?”

After a moment, the tremulous voice of a very young boy comes over the phone’s speaker. “Ten …”

Instantly Sherlock
snatches John’s notebook and spins and looks closely at the painting.

Lestrade sounds shocked and scared. “It’s a kid. Oh, God, it’s a kid!”

“Nine …”

“The Van Buren Supernova!” Sherlock shouts, reading off John’s notes, trusting that John is right.

There’s a short pause, and then the boy’s scared voice comes from the speaker, “Please. Is somebody there? Somebody help me!”

Sherlock turns and hands the phone to Lestrade. “There you go. To find out where he is and pick him up.” he sends a thankful and relieved smile to John. “I promise to never doubt your detective stills again, my love” Sherlock mummers, smiling and kissing a blushing John.

Sherlock goes to pull away, but John pulls him back in with a smile. “Something being underestimated is a good thing, but when it’s my boyfriend, it doesn’t feel nice. I also don’t like what you did with Connie Prince’s case, I am not an experiment for you, I am your boyfriend, and your partner and I would like to be treated like so”

Sherlock smiles sheepishly, “I promise, no more behaviour experiments”

“Good” John smiles and kisses Sherlock quickly.
______________________________________________________________

As Sherlock and Lestrade interragate Miss Wenceslas, John decides to investigate Mycroft’s case. After talking with the fiance, John went down to Battersea, where the body was found. Wearing a high-vis jacket over his coat, John is walking along the railway lines with the Tube guard who found Andrew West’s body.

“So this is where West was found?” John asks.

“Yeah.” The guard answers. “You gonna be long?”

“I might be,” John states.

“You with the police, then?”

John smirks, “You could say that”

“I hate ’em.” The guard announced suddenly.

“The police?”

“No. Jumpers.” The man quickly corrects. “People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards.”

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” John mutters, squatting down to look more closely at the railway track.

“I mean it. It’s all right for them. It’s over in a split second – strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm? They’ve gotta live with it, haven’t they?”

John runs his fingers along the track, then lifts his hand to look at it. Not enough blood, “Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there’s no blood on the line. (He stands up again.) Has it been cleaned off?”

“No, there wasn’t that much.” The guard shrugs.

“You said his head was smashed in.” John points out.

“Well, it was, but there wasn’t much blood.” The guard states. Clearly, Westie was dead before he hit the tracks. He turns and looks along the line thoughtfully.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” John walks a few yards further down the line and then squats down again. “Just give us a shout when you’re off.”

“Right.”

The guard walks away. John stands up again and talks to himself. “Not enough blood. No ticket on the body, so didn’t get on a train, but how did he end up here?” Beside him, the points change and a set of tracks slide sideways into a new layout. John squats down again and looks at the tracks thoughtfully. “Maybe he fell?” John mumbles.

Sherlock says, appearing behind him, “Points.” John springs to his feet and turns around to see his boyfriend. “Knew you’d get there eventually. West wasn’t killed here; that’s why there was so little blood.”

John rolls his eyes, “Well I figured that out. Tell me something I don’t know… How long have you been following me?”

“Since the start. You don’t think I’d give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?” He turns and starts walking away. “Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do.”
_______________________________________________________________

Shortly afterwards the boys are walking along a street.

“The missile defence plans haven’t left the country, otherwise Mycroft’s people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service. Which means whoever stole the memory stick can’t sell it or doesn’t know what to do with it. My money’s on the latter. We’re here.”

“Where?”

Sherlock turns into the drive of a townhouse and trots up the steps at the side of the building which leads to the front door of flat 21A on the first floor. As he rummages in his pocket, John whispers to him urgently. “Sherlock! What if there’s someone in?”

“There isn’t.” He grins and picks the lock, going inside.

“Jesus!” John hurries inside and shuts the door. Sherlock trots up the short flight of stairs ahead of him and walks into the living room. “Where are we?” John tries again.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t I say? Joe Harrison’s flat.”

“The fiance’s brother?” John asks. Sherlock goes straight over to the window and pulls back the curtain. He grins in satisfaction at the sight which greets him outside, because outside the window was the train tracks.

“He stole the memory stick; and killed his prospective brother-in-law.” Sherlock then drops to his knees, he gets out his magnifier and uses it to slowly examine the edge of the window sill. John walks across from him and peers over his shoulder as Sherlock finds some tiny blood spots on the white paint.

“Why’d he do it?” John asks. He straightens up and turns at the sound of someone unlocking the front door. Sherlock also stands.

“Let’s ask him.”

Reaching round to the side of his belt, John walks quietly to the door of the living room as the front door slams. He steps out onto the landing just as Joe, wearing his courier gear, is leaning his bicycle against the wall. When he sees John he picks up the bike as if he intends to use it as a weapon or simply to throw it at him. John instantly raises his right hand and points his pistol at him.

Then in a stern voice, orders, “Don’t.” For a moment Joe keeps coming but John repeats, “Don’t.” Joe stops and lowers the bike, sighing in a mixture of frustration and fear.

Shortly afterwards he is sitting on the sofa while the boys stand nearby.

“It wasn’t meant to…” Sherlock looks away, exasperated. “God. What’s Lucy gonna say? Jesus.” He sinks back on the sofa.

“Why did you kill him?” John asks.

“It was an accident.” Joe starts, and Sherlock snorts. “I swear it was.”

“But stealing the plans for the missile defence programme wasn’t an accident, was it?” Sherlock says sternly.

“I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing’s a great cover, right? I dunno – I dunno how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands – serious people. Then at Westie’s engagement, he starts talking about his job. I mean, usually, he’s so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans – beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and whatnot. And there it was, and I thought ... well, I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. The next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew.”

Joe looks up guiltily at John. “What happened?” John asks.

(There was a scuffle, I shoved him and he lost his footing. He fell and landed on his head. I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn’t have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in ’ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking.”

“When a neat little idea popped into your head.” Sherlock prompts.

Joe nods guilty, “I hauled Westie across to the window, and a train pulls up on the tracks outside. I dragged him out of the window and dragged the body over, on top of the train. I went back inside as the train went away.”

“Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn’t met a stretch of track that curved.” Sherlock states.

“The points” John realises.

Sherlock smirks at him, “Exactly.”

“D’you still have it, then? The memory stick?” John asks. Joe nods.

“Fetch it for me – if you wouldn’t mind.” Sighing unhappily, Joe stands up and walks into another room. Sherlock walks closer to John.”Distraction over, the game continues.”

“Well, maybe that’s over, too. We’ve heard nothing from the bomber.”

“Five pips, remember, John? It’s a countdown. We’ve only had four.” Sherlock points out. Joe comes back with the memory stick and John takes it, texting Mycroft who was responsible and also arresting Joe until the Mycroft’s people come.
_____________________________________________________________________

Night has fallen once more and both Sherlock and John are in the living room. Sherlock is sitting in his armchair with his feet up on the seat and his arms folded tightly around him. The pink phone is on the arm of the chair. Behind him, John is sitting at the dining table, typing on his laptop. The TV is on and a Jerry Springer/Jeremy Kyle-type show is playing. As the audience boos noisily, Sherlock yells loudly at the telly.

“No, no, no! Of course, he’s not the boy’s father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!” Sighing, he folds his arms again.

John, who has looked around to see what Sherlock is protesting about, gets back to his typing. “Knew it was dangerous.” Sherlock hums in question, “Getting you into crap telly.”

“Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince.” Sherlock mutters.

“I gave the memory stick to Mycroft. He was pleased” John states, “Said something about knighthood” John smirks.

“Threatening me with a knighthood – again. Pathetic” Sherlock snarls and then calms down. “Good job today, solving the case”

“Yes well, I never would have gotten so far if you didn’t identify the body and that the painting was a fake. I just did my job and investigated the clues” John smiles.

“Oh don’t be like that, I’m sure you would have gotten there eventually” Sherlock says, turning in his seat to look at John.

“I’m not the world’s only consulting detective.” John quips.

Sherlock smiles, “True.”

John closes the laptop and stands
up. “I’m gonna have a tea” He states, leaving to the kitchen and stops, looking at the spoiled food still on the table, “Eh, right. We need milk.” He sighs.

“I’ll get some.” Sherlock offers.

John turns back with a look of disbelief on his face “Really?!”
“Really,” Sherlock mutters still not looking away from the TV. “Why don’t you go for a short walk? I’ll clean the kitchen while you’re out”

At this, John is immediately suspicious. “Right then. Be back in an hour” he announces and walks away. Sherlock continues to gaze at the TV until he hears the downstairs door open and close, and then the pink phone dings. It’s a picture of a clock pointed at midnight and a picture of a swimming pool.
_________________________________________________________________

‘Sherlock’s acting weird’ John thinks as he leaves 221B. Striding confidently down the street, it was dark out and the street lights barely illuminated his path. Even though it was dark, John could still feel the feeling of someone watching him. It took a few moments to notice the unfamiliar black van which began to follow him as he left Baker Street.

As John marched down the street, leading himself away from 221, from the corner of his eye he noticed that the van moved slowly, keeping an about 50 meters distance. The driver was of average height and weight, with a hat and hoodie on, as well as sunglasses despite it being nighttime.

Slowly, the van seemed to pick up speed as John was heading into a poorly lit area, it seemed one of the streetlights was broken. Just as John reached the start of darkness, he bolted left into an alleyway, hearing the van pull over and allow three men to climb out and follow him into the dark alleyway.

As the three men followed John in the alley, John discovered that he didn’t have his gun (unknown to him, Sherlock had stolen it too in case he had to face down Mortiatry) however, John still had his wits and strength, so finding a small gap in the wall, John hid there allowing two of the three men to run past him. As they did, he shot out and smashed his fist in the third guy’s temple, knocking him out.

The other two whip their heads around at the sound of their friends shouting and immediately charge at John, who stands at the ready. Grabbing the first guy's fist and pulling towards and over his shoulder, unsetting his balance, John allows the first guy to stumble behind him as he punches the second guy in the nose, breaking it. The second guy screams in pain as the first guy faces John again.

John drops down and kicks the first guy's legs from under him as the second guy aims to punch John, but just misses as John drops, punching air. John smirks as he uppercuts the second cut, knocking him out, just as the first guy growls in anger. Getting up off the ground, the first guy smirks as John feels a small prick on the side of his neck. John’s vision goes black as the driver shoots the needle in John. John falls unconscious.
_______________________________________________________________

When John woke up, he was in a pitch-black room with a heavy weight on his chest. Trying to keep his breathing normal to not panic, he tries to take stock of what’s happening and then remembers about the kidnapping.

Just then, a small Irish accented voice enters his left ear through an earpiece. “Johnny Boy, you’re awake. Just in time. You see, you are the last pip. You are rigged with enough explosives to take down this building, so I suggest not making any sudden movements.”

“I won’t be a pawn in your game” John hisses.

“YES, YOU WILL” The voice screams and then calms, “Because if you won’t I will kill you, and then Sherlock and everyone you’ve ever loved. Now, do as I say, Sherlock is bound to arrive any second” The voice laughs.

"I won’t let you hurt him” John growls.

“You have no choice in that John. You’re mine to use until you have no use. You thwarted me from talking with Sherlock before, now it's my time to talk with him. You may not speak, until I tell you to, if not… BOOM!” Crazy laughing follows.
_____________________________________________________________

Sherlock didn’t notice that John never came back from his walk, all he noticed was that John wasn’t there to give an excuse to when Sherlock left the flat at midnight. So, when Sherlock opens the door leading into the indoor swimming pool the lights are on but there is nobody around. The last person he expected to find was John.

Sherlock walks slowly into the room, painfully aware that the upper gallery where people sit and watch the swimmers is still covered by darkness, mostly likely with people watching. He stops at the edge of the pool and turns, trying to see up into the viewing gallery. Finally, he turns towards the pool again, shouting around loudly. “I solved all your little puzzles, you had your fun, making me dance. Now reveal yourself.”

When his back is turned to the pool, a door opens halfway down the room. Sherlock looks over his shoulder, and John Watson walks through the door and into the pool area, wrapped snugly in a hooded jacket with his hands tucked into the pockets. He turns and looks at Sherlock as the detective stares back at him in absolute shock and betrayal.

“Evening.” John simply says, meanwhile, Sherlock is frozen, staring over his shoulder in utter disbelief. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock whispers in shock, “John. What the hell ...?”

“Bet you never saw this coming.” John continues. Finally, Sherlock manages to move and starts to walk slowly towards the man he had believed to be his friend, his boyfriend, until now. The shock and bewilderment quickly turn into pain and heartbreak, thinking John just used him. Then, with a look of despair, John takes his hands from his pockets and pulls open his jacket to reveal the bomb strapped to his chest. From somewhere in the upper gallery, the point from a sniper’s laser immediately begins to dance around over the bomb. “What ... would you like me ... to make him say ... next?”

Slowly, Sherlock understands that John is another voice that Moriarty has stolen and that John never betrayed him. “Gottle o’ geer ... gottle o’ geer ... gottle o’ geer.” No one mentions that John’s voice almost breaks at the end.

“Stop it.” Sherlock orders, still reeling.

“Nice touch, isn’t it? The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him.” John winces as he voices the next sentence. “I can stop John Watson too.” The sniper moves to his chest, above his heart “Stop his heart.”

Sherlock looks around the pool area, trying to find them. “Who are you?”

A door opens at the far end of the pool and a soft male voice with an Irish accent speaks “I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”

Sherlock turns towards the new arrival, who now slowly walks out into the open. It’s Jim, Molly’s boyfriend. But he is now sharply dressed in a suit, with perfect hair and an evil grin. With his hands in his pockets, he casually begins to stroll alongside the other end of the pool, heading towards Sherlock and John. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

Sherlock raises John’s gun and aims towards Jim. “Both.”

Jim stops in place but remains unaffected by the sight of the gun. “Jim Moriarty. Hi!” They wait a few seconds, “Jim? Jim from the hospital?” He begins to walk alongside the deep end again. Sherlock brings up his other hand to support the one aiming the gun. “Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point.” He turns to face Sherlock just as the sniper’s laser flickers over John’s upper chest. Sherlock briefly turns his head towards John, a questioning look on his face. “Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” He reaches the corner of the pool and stops. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see …” He looks surprised as if he has only just realised the connection. “Like you!”

“’ Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?’ ‘Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?’” Sherlock mocks.

“Just so.”

“Consulting criminal.” He then mumbles softly, “Brilliant.”

Jim smiles proudly, “Isn’t it? No one ever gets to me – and no one ever will.”

“I did,” Sherlock announces.

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock grins.

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

Jim shrugs casually, “Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting’s over, Sherlock…” His voice becomes high-pitched “Daddy’s had enough now!” The back to normal, “I’ve shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.” He smiles, “Although I have loved this – this little game of ours. “He puts on his London accent for a moment. “Playing Jim from I.T.” He switches back to his Irish accent.” Playing gay. Didn’t count for Johnny-boy to get all protective” Jim rolls his eyes and John and Sherlock share a small smile.

“People could have died.” Sherlock reasons.

“That’s what people DO!” Jim screams the last word furiously, his personality changing in an instant.

“I will stop you.”

“No, you won’t,” Jim answers confidently.

Sherlock looks across to John. “You all right?”

John deliberately keeps his gaze away from his friend, remembering the instructions earlier, Jim walks forward again and reaches his side. “You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead.”

Refusing to obey Jim’s orders, John meets Sherlock’s eyes and nods once. Jim moves forward, slightly in front of John. Seeing his opportunity, John races forward and slams himself against Jim’s back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. Sherlock backs up a step in surprise but keeps the pistol raised and aimed at Jim.

“Sherlock, run!” John orders.

Jim laughs in delight. “Good! Very good.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, still aiming his gun at Jim’s head but now starting to look up a little anxiously, as if wondering what action the hidden sniper might take.

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Moriarty, then we both go up.”

Jim remains calm and talks to Sherlock, “Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets.” Grimacing angrily, John pulls him even closer to the bomb which is now sandwiched between them. Jim scowls around at him. “They’re so touchingly loyal. But, oops! You’ve rather shown your hand there, Chief Watson.” He chuckles as a new laser point appears in the middle of Sherlock’s forehead. John stares in horror as Jim looks around at him expectantly. Sherlock, realising what’s happening from John’s expression, shakes his head slightly. “Gotcha!” He chuckles as John releases his grip on him and steps back, holding his hands up to signal to the sniper that he won’t be trying anything else. Jim glances around at him, then turns back towards Sherlock while brushing his hands down his suit to straighten it.

He lowers his hands and stands calmly in front of Sherlock who is still aiming the pistol at his head. “D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

Sherlock sounds bored, “Oh, let me guess: I get killed.”

Jim grimaces, “Kill you? N-no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway someday. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you.” Jim briefly turns to look at John, then meets Sherlock’s eyes again and his voice becomes vicious. “I’ll burn the heart out of you.”

Sherlock softly says, trying to seem unaffected, “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

Jim grins, glancing once more at John, “But we both know that’s not quite true.” Sherlock blinks involuntarily.

Jim looks down, smiling, then shrugs. “Well, I’d better be off. Well, so nice to have had a proper chat.”
Sherlock raises the pistol higher and extends it closer to Jim’s head. “What if I was to shoot you now – right now?”

Jim, completely undisturbed, “Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” He opens his eyes and mouth wide, mimicking shock, then grins at Sherlock. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock; really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.” Slowly he begins to turn away. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” Looking back at Sherlock with some distaste, he walks calmly towards the side door.

Sherlock slowly steps forward to keep him in view. “Catch ... you ... later.”

The door opens and Jim’s voice can be heard, high-pitched and sing-song. “No, you won’t!”

The door closes. Sherlock doesn’t move for a few seconds, his gun still aimed towards the door, then his gaze drifts across to John and he instantly puts the pistol on the floor, then drops to his knees in front of John and starts unfastening the vest to which the bomb is attached.
“All right?” John tilts his head back, breathing heavily slightly panicked but trying to gain control. “Are you all right?” Sherlock asks again, urgently.

“Yeah-yeah, I’m fine,” John answers. Having unfastened the vest, Sherlock jumps up and hurries around behind John, starting to pull off the jacket and the bomb vest. “I’m fine.” Sherlock, also breathing too fast, continues tugging at the jacket and vest. Finally, Sherlock manages to roughly strip the jacket and vest off John’s arms. “Sh-Sherlock!” Sherlock skims the items as far away along the floor as he can, while John staggers at the loss of weight. He reaches up and pulls the earpiece from his ear, breathing heavily as the delayed shock begins to hit him. Sherlock turns and stares at him for a moment, then hurries back to pick up the pistol before racing towards the door through which Moriarty left. John’s knees buckle and he staggers towards the nearest support, the edge of one of the changing cubicles. “Oh, Christ.” He slides down the wall to the ground, while he blows out a long breath and tries to calm himself down. Sherlock comes back in, having seen no sign of Moriarty outside.

Once satisfied that Moriarty isn’t there, Sherlock drops to his knees in front of John and hugs him like his life depended on it.

“Are you okay?” John asks, breathless.

Sherlock quickly answers, even though he is breathing heavily and isn’t letting John go, “Me? Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine. Fine.” He then slightly pulls away to look John in the eye. Wide-eyed and breathless, “That, er ... thing that you, er, that you did – that, um ... you offered to do. That was, um ... good.”

John smiles, “Glad to help”

Sherlock stands up and looks down at John, then grins. John snorts laughter and then leans forward and prepares to stand up. But before he can move, the beam from a sniper’s laser begins to dance over his chest. John looks down at it and his face fills with horror.

A door near the deep end of the pool opens and Jim comes through, clapping his hands together and turning to face our boys. “Sorry, boys! I’m soooooo changeable!”

John grimaces in disbelief. Sherlock keeps his back to Jim, looking up into the gallery to try and judge how many snipers there might be up there. It’s becoming clear that there are quite a few because at least two laser points are hovering over John, and at least three more travelling over Sherlock’s body. Jim laughs and spreads his arms wide. “It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness.” Sherlock and John turn to face him. “You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you but…” he laughs and his voice becomes higher pitched again “Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!”

Sherlock, who had looked away from John for a moment, now turns and looks down at him again, his face showing no emotion but his eyes screaming a silent request. John responds instantly with a tiny nod, giving him full permission to do whatever he deems necessary.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock answers, raising the pistol and aiming it at him. Jim smiles confidently with no fear in his expression. Slowly Sherlock lowers the pistol downwards until it’s pointing directly at the bomb jacket. All three sets of eyes lock onto the jacket, John breathing heavily, Sherlock calm. Jim tilts his head, looking a little anxious for the first time. As Sherlock holds his hand steady, continuing to aim towards the jacket, Jim lifts his head and locks eyes with his nemesis. Sherlock gazes back at him and Jim begins to smile. Sherlock’s eyes narrow slightly.
_________________________________________________________________

Sharing one more meaningful look with John, Sherlock pulls the trigger at the bomb, while John jumps to action and tackles Sherlock with the force of a former rugby player, into the pool as the bomb explodes.

The chlorine-filled water burning John’s eyes was ignored as the roar of the bomb as it exploded. Even though the hazy water, the sound was so loud and deafening that he briefly had flashbacks from the war before he was painfully dragged back to the present as John could feel the heat of the fire just above the water's surface. Blurry orange flames filled John’s vision before chunks of concrete began falling into the water. The last thing John registered was holding Sherlock protectively to his body before a chunk of concrete from the ceiling fell into the water and hit the back of his head. Total blackness claimed him and silence took over.

Sherlock’s eyes sting as he watches John turn limp, thinking fast, he pulls John’s arms from around him and slowly and gently swims them to the shallow area and ever so slightly raises both their heads above the water to breathe. The initial explosion had finished, and the ceiling and walls were nearly gone. The floor was badly cracked and the water was quickly rushing out somewhere, lowering from their chins to their necks.

Fires had started around them, and Sherlock could faintly hear sirens coming towards them. His job is only to keep John above the water. The water was up to their chests now when a small chunk of piping hit Sherlock, knocking him out.
______________________________________________________________

A few days later, John wakes up in a hospital bed. At first, he looks around confused and dazed before everything comes rushing back and he snaps up, but then immediately cries softly in pain as stitches pull and his head pounds.

Hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV in his arm, John sighs in frustration. Despite being a doctor, he hates hospitals, especially when he’s a patient. Looking next to him was a sleeping Lestrade in an uncomfortable-looking chair. Based on the window, it’s still dark outside so John lays back down and closes his eyes. He’s asleep instantly.

The next time John wakes, a nurse is checking his charts when she notices. She instantly begins asking him questions and checking his vitals. It takes a few hours before he convinces them that he is fine and wants to see Sherlock. It seems John’s been asleep for 5 days, Sherlock for 3. So about 10 minutes pass before Sherlock is walking into John’s hospital room.

They sit in silence for several minutes until Sherlock clears his throat. “I regret to inform you that it seems this partnership and relationship is a danger to the work. I have put you in danger. The best course is to terminate this before I get you killed”

John barks out a laugh, “Sherlock, I’ve survived the war, I think I can handle you”

Sherlock grows annoyed, “You got hurt! I cannot allow you to follow me around anymore. I think it's best that you move out. I will allow you 2 weeks to pack your things and find a new flat” Sherlock says, not looking John in the eye.

“Sherlock, you’re talking crazy. I’m not moving out. This isn’t your fault” John says softly, reaching to hold Sherlock’s hand.

“You are a reliability. I cannot morally allow you to be near and get yourself killed” Sherlock says instead, trying to remove his hand from John’s but John holds on tighter.

“Is this you saying this or your fear? Believe it or not Sherlock, but I'm in danger with or without you. Do you think it's easy to be the Police Chief? I get hundreds of death threats daily, but I don’t let that stop me. I care about you Sherlock Holmes, and I'm not going anywhere. We are stronger together, and we will stay together, until we get sick of each other, and not when someone else thinks or says so. Understand?”

In the quiet of the hospital room, Sherlock, still struggling with his feelings, sits on the chair beside John’s bed and fidgets with something in his pocket, unsure of how to express his real emotions. Finally, he pulls out a larger toy model of an anatomically correct heart and places it on the bedside table.

Sherlock's gaze drops to the floor, his hands fidgeting. "John," he begins, his voice uncharacteristically soft and hesitant. "I want to keep you safe. Moritary wants to burn the heart out of me, and I know how he can. He may be dead, but he has others to follow his orders, to do his bidding. I'm not... good with this sort of thing. Emotions, I mean. I usually... deduce people. Their motives, their desires. But with you... it's different."

John watches him intently, waiting for Sherlock to find the right words.

"You," Sherlock continues, struggling with his words, "You make me feel… alive. In a way that cases can’t. You’re mind works like mine, and with…” Sherlock pauses, taking a deep breath. "This," he gestures to the toy heart, "It is my way of... showing you how much you mean to me. I don't know how to navigate this... you are my first boyfriend, my first friend but I want to try. With you."

John's eyes soften with understanding. "Sherlock," he says gently, "You don't have to be perfect with words. I understand. I feel the same way."

Sherlock's relief is palpable, and he gives a small, genuine smile. "Thank you, John.