**My first Sherlock story! I've written for another fandom for many years (under the name Bujyo,) but the muses needed a change of scenery. I can only hope I do them justice. My stories tend to be lengthy and involved, but I hope, interesting :) Please enjoy, and if you feel the urge, review!**

**Takes place about 8 months after the end of S3. Usual disclaimers and such like. **

'Cause there's a monster, living under my bed, whispering in my ear.

There's an angel, with a hand on my head, she say I've got nothing to fear.

There's a darkness, living deep in my soul, I still got a purpose to serve.

So let your light shine, deep into my home, God, don't let me lose my nerve,

Don't let me lose my nerve.

- Everlast & Santana

He tapped his fingers on the counter impatiently. Tap-taptaptap-tap-tap…tatatap. A habit he barely noticed anymore unless it was called to his attention. Which, if the receptionist's expression was any predictor, was going to be very soon.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, "Do I need to go back there and retrieve it myself?"

The receptionist frowned. "You're not allowed in the evidence room, sir. I'm sure your parcel will arrive shortly."

Now he eyed the young man scribbling in the attendance log with a sneer. Of course he wasn't allowed in the evidence room. No one was allowed behind the secured Plexiglass except the Evidence Custodian and his staff, everyone knew that. At least, everyone who worked at the MET, which his badge plainly showed he did. His badge that the receptionist was fondling as he continued to make scratches in the log. What was the man writing? There should be an 'IN' box, an 'OUT' box and the numerical file number of the requested item.

He craned his neck to get a better look at the clerk's note. Couldn't quite see…

It made him suspicious, and his finger tapping stopped as he rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. He tried not to glance up at the camera trained on the reception window as tendrils of paranoia crawled down his neck and under his overcoat. Damned cameras. They were in the evidence lab now too. Watching. He began to furiously pick at a loose string inside his coat pocket.

This whole task of reexamining trace evidence swabs was utterly ridiculous! Ever since the Moriarty scare eight months ago the requests for reexamination of…everything…had been forced upon him and his department and he was damned sick of it. Tedious, redundant endeavors that wasted his time and kept him from being assigned to the more impressive cases. Cases that He consulted upon. Cases that drew in important people; people that should know about impressive forensic work. But, no. Instead, his department's work was questioned and scrutinized and his own name buried under innuendos of incompetence. The Detective Inspectors danced to the whims of their higher-ups and declined to "clutter" the crime scenes with extraneous personnel because one arrogant sod in a ridiculous hat was going to save them from a nonexistent megalomaniac and couldn't be bothered with "underlings." So convenient that He didn't follow the normal processes for gathering evidence, which left a mess for the forensic department to clean up. A mess that they were then expected to fix after the giant git tromped through.

Everyone was too concerned about previous blunders to have the courage to stand up to the man. They chose to ignore his arrogance and self-serving pomp, instead worshiping at the hem of a Belstaff where obeisance could hide humiliation. No care to the man's blatant disregard of the chain of evidence at a crime scene; refusal of protective equipment and touching whatever he bloody chose. His deducing not to be hindered by mere protocol.

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Wanker. The man was a menace, that's what he was.

"Sherlock needs these blood samples re-analysed."

"This DNA swab wasn't processed with the correct titers, Sherlock needs it done correctly this time."

"Sherlock says you missed five types of carpet fibres from the back of the suspect's lorry. You need to reprocess the entire vehicle this weekend."

Sherlock Fucking Holmes.

"Sir."

He jerked his head around, startled, as the young man spoke to him while scanning a medium sized box with a red evidence seal on it. "I've logged the parcel out to your supervision. It will be expected to be returned or continued within twenty four hours -"

"Yes," he cut the receptionist off with a wave and a glare. "I'm aware of the rules. I'm rather familiar with the process after twelve years."

The clerk sighed and walked over to wave the box under yet another scanner before bringing it back to the window and handing it over, along with the badge.

He grabbed both and turned to stride down the hallway, still stewing about Sherlock Holmes.

Officious, tyrannical, rude…and utterly ignorant, in his opinion, on how a proper investigation should be conducted. Treating educated professionals as menial servants as if they had no clue as to their jobs. Someone should make the cocky bastard doubt his own abilities. Show Sherlock what it's like to have one's credibility bludgeoned day in and day out.

He shouldered through an interior door and snorted softly as he recalled the detective's supposed suicide all those years ago. Someone had put him in his place…for a while. Oh, the uproar, finger-pointing and bickering! Blame spattered about like alley offal. It was truly glorious to watch. And for a short while the name of Sherlock Holmes was mud. Too short a while, in his opinion.

The MET had finally been restored to proper order and there had been recognitions and certificates, and a number of forensic staff, including himself, appeared to have a chance to advance further. Then the damned man returned and derailed everything. Everything.

Sherlock Holmes…prodigal son. A hero. A changed man. Everyone had been fooled for a short while and thought the man had changed.

Bullshit.

Some lessons aren't learned the first time. Some lessons need to be repeated, repeated…beaten…

The corner of the evidence package bit into his palm and he loosened his grip and drew in a deep breath. Another. Calm. The cameras.

A proper lesson, he recalled his university professor saying, must often be taught with personal ramifications. Ramifications that could not be escaped. Ramifications that could follow you even through death.

Mr. Holmes needed further education in humility; a reminder of his place. Turn the tables on the World's Most Annoying Consultant from within his own ranks and scrape the film of adoration from the public's roving eye. It was time to sink Sherlock Holmes back into the depths of loathsome notoriety.

There had to be a way to use the man's work against him. To cast doubt on all that he had claimed victory over and make everyone believe…yes.

He stopped suddenly just inside the lobby as the idea blossomed, amazed at his own genius.

Yes! It was brilliant…he was brilliant. It was perfect.

He smiled now as he hurried across the crowded lobby towards the front doors. It was snowing outside, and he ran headlong into a custody nurse who had paused inside the doors to stomp off her shoes. The woman cursed at him and he tossed her a rude gesture as he continued outside. No time for common courtesy…he had a mission.

-o-o-o-

"Couillon!"

Jo spat the insult at the man's back as he rebounded off her and just kept walking through the door. Half of her chai was now soaking into her overcoat and the odd looking man hadn't even paused. Jesus. The one damn luxury she allowed herself on the way to work…

For half a minute she considered walking back over to the Starbucks at the St. James tube entrance for a refill. Glancing outside, the thought was squashed. Her sneakers were already soaked after the two blocks to the MET in this slush, no use risking frostbite at this point for a return trip. She really needed to get some of those winter rain boots. 'Wellies,' yeah, that's what they were called. Need to put those on the mental shopping list.

"Or maybe there just needs to be fewer rude assholes in this city," she muttered, dabbing at the spilled drink with her scarf.

Actually, the wellies were a good idea, especially since she had little extra funds to replace water damaged shoes. And this climate consumed shoes.

She was not as prepared for the London winters as she had thought. Cold, yes, but the never-ending wet was the stickler. Rain, snow, fog…rainy snowy fog…the crowded city was afflicted daily by Mother Nature's hypothermic menopause. Even the weatherman threw his hands up in despair by the beginning of November…pretty sure he was on vacation in Spain until March. Seems like a valid plan.

She pulled off her hat and shook her hair out while trying to juggle beverage and backpack as she headed further into the lobby.

Well, Jo, that's why you came here, right? The internal reminder had her straightening her shoulders. Something completely different. Challenging, with few reminders of home. Uncomfortable.

The uncomfortable requirement was certainly pegged. And, despite the familiarity of the language, London was far different than New Orleans. She was too tired to learn a new language; that was her only concession to herself with the move. London was perfect, actually. No half-breed bayou prejudice, no bastardized sing-song French drizzling out of worn speakers on every street corner, a complete absence of hoodoo crap being hawked in every store...

She put a halt to that train of thought. Soon it would round the tracks to fresh pastries on the Landing, warm sultry days with the smell of hibiscus in the air, zydeco tunes drifting down the bayous, and all the things she loved about the city. No more. That part of her life was over and done, never to be revisited. She refused to live in the past…or the future for that matter. The present was only barely tolerable. Day to day and nothing more. And sometimes the day to day was iffy.

She scanned her badge at the employee elevators and frowned as she had to retreat all the way to the back of the car to let a low-rank officer maneuver in a mail cart. He stared at the front of her coat. He appeared to be barely pubescent.

"Er, miss, you've got some…"

"Yes, thank you," Jo snapped, cutting him off, "I'm aware."

"Oy," he smiled, "you a Canadian, then?"

Jo sighed. "Do I sound Canadian to you?"

The officer's smile faltered. "Er, well, no…I suppose…"

The doors slid open and Jo squeezed past the cart to the exit. "Stick to sorting mail, boy, your detective skills need a lot of work."

The noise hit her right before the smell. Beyond the securely enclosed monitoring station Jo could see a dozen or so potential inmates sitting quietly in the orange plastic chairs, staring at the chaotic scene that seemed to be the source of the cacophony: three guards attempting to subdue two female prisoners seemingly intent upon stomping a third, male prisoner. The unfortunate male appeared to have soiled himself. All were yelling except one, and she was wailing.

Jo, thankful for the wall to ceiling bars between her and the mayhem, stepped over to key herself into the monitoring center.

"Oh ho! It's Betsy Ross," called an intake sergeant, all smiles. "We've got some special crumpets for you tonight!"

Jo sneered and flipped him the finger as she turned down the short hall to the lockers, irritated. She had hoped for a quiet night in the MET's holding center. Considering it was mid-week, the moon was new, and there was at least two inches of slush covering everything, one would expect the idiots to stay under their rocks. Apparently not. By the looks of the melee participants, an unfortunate pimp had run into some severely disgruntled employees.

"Hell, I'd be pissed too if I had to wear those skirts and shoes in this weather." Jo grinned to herself.

She rifled through her backpack for her pens, penlight and stethoscope, then tossed the bag into the locker with her coat and scarf. Stopping briefly at the sink, she washed her hands and checked her appearance in the mirror.

Her short, nearly black hair was doing its best impression of an angry, damp hedgehog after 45 minutes under a hat, and she ran her fingers through it to tame the worst. Hazel eyes stared back at her from what she considered a plain, non-offensive face. A few freckles, some well-earned wrinkles around her eyes and across her forehead, and a small cleft in her chin. High cheekbones, likely from some Native American lineage, but pale skin from her mother's German heritage…and England's climate. Her mamere always said she looked like her father. She'd have to take the woman's word for it. She'd never seen him.

She certainly got her mother's height, though, all 5 foot 3 inches of it. That's 160cm, you dolt, she reminded herself. Her metric brain, though fairly well honed in her former life, refused to rise to the forefront of her mind even here. At least she could do the mental conversions quickly by this point.

Tightening the drawstring on her scrub pants, Jo headed out to the medical bays. She was hoping to have time to research flat rentals online tonight…maybe peruse some 10K or half marathon offerings too. She needed another race pretty soon. It had been nearly four weeks since the last 5K and she was restless. Mandatory training for her second job with HEMS had put the kibosh on weekend races and she was feeling slow. Too bad there weren't any obstacle course races during the winter. She sighed. A good, cold, miserable obstacle course race is really what she needed. The demons were restless just beneath the surface again, and she wasn't keen on dealing with them anytime soon. She had to keep moving…keep training. There had to be something…

"Ah, Miss Wakefield, welcome to the insanity."

David, the day nurse manager, greeted her with a cheesy grin as she entered the medical bay.

"I swear, David, you order these crazies up special for me." Jo granted him a small smile as she clocked in and fingerprinted into the pyxis system. "And I just bet I'm the only one here tonight," she glanced up, "right?"

David leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his belly and tried a drawl, "Why, darlin', however did you guess?"

Jo grimaced. "Please, never, ever, attempt Rhett Butler again. The South already died once." She hopped up to sit on the counter and grabbed the census sheet. "Fifteen on deck, two in the hole, and four on the skids. Not too bad, I suppose. So long as there's no full cavities involved?"

"Already finished," David replied, standing to grab his phone and jacket. "I had Helen process the last two "ladies" before she left. Chelsea will be in at 11, but until then it's just you. You've got seven DNA kits to complete, three who need meds, one arm to splint…wanker refuses to go to the A&E…and, unfortunately, you'll have to clean up that play-a."

"Stop it."

David quickly sashayed out of the room with a hoot.

Sliding into the chair David vacated, Jo logged into the HIS and mentally planned her night. Six months in the city and at the job and she was finally feeling comfortable and competent. The flat search would have to wait until Chelsea arrived. Hopefully, by then, most of the crowd would be released, those staying would sleep, and no one else would break the law.

And pigs would probably fly.

-o-o-o-

"Really, Lestrade, I only forward these ridiculous emails to you on the insistence of my dear brother," Sherlock nearly spat the word, "I don't actually expect you to read them and formulate your own opinion. I've already done that for you. Don't embarrass yourself by pretending to analyse them outside the parameters I've already imposed."

DI Lestrade shot the detective a baleful look over the top of his laptop, then continued to scroll through the information on the screen.

"He's concerned for your safety, yeah? For everyone's safety."

Sherlock heaved a long suffering sigh and stood from the chair in front of Lestrade's desk. This was pointless. Mycroft continued to rifle through his personal email despite his extra security measures, and he was forced to continue this charade of…whatever this was…week after week despite every protestation he could think of to end it. His brother was unmoved. Sherlock had even tried to be nice at one point; desperation winning out over his better judgment. All attempts at bargaining, bullying and sulking had fallen on deaf ears.

"Moriarty may still be out there, Sherlock, and you'll be the first one he'll bait." Greg pulled off his glasses, finished reading.

Sherlock whirled on him.

"Don't be so ordinarily stupid, Lestrade, Moriarty is dead." Sherlock began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "In the last eight months since the broadcast there has been no indication that it was anything but an elaborate hoax. Well planned and executed by, likely, an intelligent prankster, but it was not the work of Moriarty. Despite the tabloid sightings of the man in every cafe, bank and museum in the world, there has been no further broadcasts. No criminal activities attributed to the man. No contact with anyone of any kind to indicate a mastermind is still at large. Nothing. It was an anomaly, and Moriarty is definitively dead."

He turned to stare at the detective, piercing blue eyes boring into Greg's head. "I was there, if you recall."

Greg leaned back into his chair, fingers lightly tapping the armrests. Thoughtful.

"John saw you fall three stories to your death on the paving stones, and yet, here you are," he said carefully, "Alive and up to your old tricks."

The consulting detective stiffened and snapped his mouth shut, nostrils flaring. He would not be baited by a mere police officer.

"I see your ex-wife has decided to take you back to court. Holding out on her, are you, Detective?"

"How - ?" Lestrade looked momentarily puzzled, then anger flashed in his eyes, "Don't change the subject, Holmes. You know very well there's a possibility Moriarty got off that rooftop alive."

Sherlock was undaunted. "You're wearing the brown Baumler suit that you believe Justice Whitechurch favors, your lucky necktie is in your overcoat pocket, and you've shined your shoes and actually shaved this morning. All indicators you'll be visiting the courts today, which, as a Detective Inspector, is not that unusual, but there are the smattering of papers on the corner of your desk which are obviously your attempts at whittling away at your expenses in order to save money. Admirable in its own right, surely, but for the bill of sale for your motorbike, which, if I remember correctly, you stated you'd sell before you'd 'hand it over to that harpy.'"

Greg fumed, "We're done here, yeah?"

Sherlock grinned smugly, then reached into his pocket to retrieve his chirping phone.

Lestrade looked back at his computer and pulled up his calendar, still stewing. "Good then. I'll have the email sent to forensics so you can - "

He looked up at the sound of retreating footsteps. The detective was gone.

"Bastard."

**So much to come! Please stay tuned...oh, and review ;) **