This fanfiction is a little something that I hope I can continue for a while. Rated M for reasons in future chapters, but you can skip around that part (I'll post a warning) and just read the story. Please tell me what you think of it, as I am an inexperienced Johnlock fan and would love some feedback!

John pulled himself from bed and walked groggily downstairs, yawning and bumping into multiple objects on his way into the kitchen. He made it to the cupboard and opened the door to reach for his and Sherlock's mugs, only to find there was nothing on the shelf. John relinquished his hand, rubbed his eyes, ridding them of sleep and cloudiness and looked again with clearer vision, expecting the cups to have magically appeared. They had not.

Trusting that his vision was not impaired, John dug his way out of the fogginess in his brain and tuned in to the sound of the kettle wailing on the stove. He turned and saw the two mugs sitting on the counter by the boiling kettle. For a moment, he leaned against the counter and tugged at the string around his robe in confusion. His mind was not ready to decipher why someone would have put the kettle on already.

As he awoke, sitting in his chair with the paper, he concluded that obviously, Mrs. Hudson had come up early for some sort of chore or to deliver a message to the boys and decided to be kind and put it on for them. When it was done, John poured the hot liquid into each cup and returned to his seat. He was vaguely aware of the shower quietly running in the back of his mind. He pondered this for a moment until the noise shut off, and it was quiet. Quiet, at least, until the door banged open and Sherlock came walking out, ruffling his hair with a towel, his robe tied tightly around his waist.

"Morning." John said, watching him walk to the counter where John had filled his cup. "Poured your drink. You should thank Mrs. Hudson-"

"Why?" he asked, taking the drink and turning to look quizzically at John for a second before the knowledge came over his face, that look of, Oh, of course.

"I put the kettle on this morning. Thought I'd get an early start." He said, almost mocking the phrase. Yes, in fact, mocking it. He sat down across from John in the lounge, crossing his legs, taking a sip of his drip before placing it next to him, and steepling his hands under his chin, staring at John.

The silence that came across the flat was unsettling, so John raised an eyebrow at the man, not used to this behavior. Sherlock threw his hands into the air, exasperated.

"How long until you ask? My god-" he said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees.

John rolled his eyes. "What's going on, then. Tell me."

Sherlock smirked, a gleam in his eye that only made an appearance when he had received a case that had really pleased him. "Oh, no-"

"Yes, yes! It's perfectly wound, John, perfectly puzzling…" he shot from his chair and started pacing around the room, waving his hands all around him, making motions to go with his words. John knew this mood; it had been around a week or so of inactivity, just long enough for the detective to start losing himself, when something perfectly crafted comes in from Lestrade. And now, he would spend every waking second devoted to it. John could already picture the sleepless nights and coaxing just to have a bite to eat, and getting irritated, as Sherlock himself got frustrated. Truthfully, this was not John's favorite mood of Sherlock's.

Sherlock paced the length of the room, raking his hands through his damp hair and fixing his eyes on John. "Would you like to know what it is?"

John knew that saying anything but ok would result in an angry look and the same answer he would get if he said yes. So he simply nodded and sipped and folded the paper in his lap.

"It's an eight, at least, which is why I've taken on the completely useless task of getting ready to go out. I thought I should mention seeing as your brain is still only functioning at half capacity trying to keep up with me now. You're stuck in your sleep-"

"Sherlock."

"Right, an eight, the murder of a couple down in Stratford. A stabbing, father with two wounds, mother with three. Back, stomach, leg. Stomach and back. Each bled to death because the ambulance was called too late by their daughter of sixteen coming home from school to find her parents dead on the floor." Sherlock, pacing again, laughed bitterly in the back of his throat before continuing.

"The girl was sent to live with her aunt in London while the murder was being sorted out at her own home. Three weeks after the initial killing of her parents, the girl is kidnapped and declared missing. People on the streets claim it looked like just a regular man with perhaps his sister walking down the street, but they didn't realize the girl had been threatened at gunpoint and was being taken in plain sight. Reports of what the man looked like were given, but all are different and none are accurate. People and their stupid little heads…" Sherlock shook his head almost in pity for the stupidity of the human race.

Sherlock abruptly sat back down and rested his head on his hands, staring at the wall just over John's shoulder as he talked.

"It had been around three days after the girl was kidnapped when the aunt was murdered. Stabbed. Four times. Twice in the stomach, once in the leg, once in the chest. She lived alone, and quickly died to blood loss. Obviously the same person killing because there is not coincidence of the family orientation or the similar stabbing technique. So who's the killer?"

John met Sherlock's eyes, cold and calculating and full of so many thoughts John was almost compelled to look away. "That's our job."

"I'm not finished. But yes." He said coolly. "There was a sighting of the girl, alone on the streets back in Stratford by a man that ran a shop. He said that she came in with a hood over her head, bought food and a cheap keychain, and left. There was no sign of her kidnapper anywhere in the area. But the body of a man, stabbed five times, that seemed to match clues given of her captor was found in an apartment building a few blocks from her parent's house."

Silence hung in the air as John digested the case. "You finished?"

"Quite."

"So what are we doing today, then."

Sherlock just looked at him. "No input?"

John raised his eyebrows. "You expect me to try and weave together some big, fabricated explanation of this thing before you tell me what we're doing?"

"Yes."

John sighed loudly. "You want to know who the killer is?"

Sherlock just stared, intrigued.

"I think it's got to be some family friend. Do we know the family life of the girl? Were her parents good to her?"

Sherlock was silent. So John huffed and continued.

"Because if her parents were no good to her, perhaps a family friend tried to resolve something and it just got out of hand. Maybe they aren't right in the head. That would explain trying to protect the girl by killing the kidnapper. But then, why was she kidnapped? And why would they kill the aunt?"

John waited for the snide remark on, Good try, but… but it never came. Sherlock just stared at him until John just grew slightly uncomfortable until Sherlock jumped up and said, "Get dressed, we're going to Stratford. Examining the scene of the first crime. Don't wear anything you would mind getting dirty."

John was about to question when he thought better of it and went to get ready.