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”