DISCLAIMER: i do not own anything BBC or Sherlock. this is simply a fan-service document.

I will not be updating this normally, it is only an escape from my other fanfictions. once i am finished with those it will be updated regularly. Thankyou for reading!

Men and women were falling all around him as John desperately clutched his gun in his hand. The dusty ground was splashed with blood as he raised his gun and shot the Afghanistan soldier running towards him. The man fell to the ground with a cry of pain then lay there twitching and breathing shallowly. It didn't make John feel too horrible to have killed, he was used to it…horribly used to it…but still it didn't feel like the right thing.

He had mostly steeled himself against his feelings. To do this…To make a difference, be a hero. But heroes don't exist. Yes…Sherlock had told him that…

"John…"His eyes snapped back to the man lying on the ground, and almost instantly his walls proved to have faults enough to crumble around him.

"Oh G—" He fought back the bile rising in his throat as he looked down at his friend. "Oh my God…" The tears stung hotly in his eyes as he stared with wide eyes at the most brilliant man he had ever known.

Possibly the most brilliant man in the entire world.

How did he get here? When did he get here? Surely he hadn't come with John... And why was he dressed in— No…He wasn't wearing anything other than his casual wear.

"Sherlock." He didn't like the way his voice cracked when he said his friend's name.

John sat down beside his friend. He was a doctor, he could fix this. He could still save him!

"John, don't." The curly haired man whispered before Watson was even able to touch him.

"Why not?"

"It would be a waste of energy."

"No—!"

"Yes."He insisted. If Sherlock said it would be a waste that meant there was nothing that John could do…

Why?

"Why are you here?" Watson asked, causing the other man's lips twitched up to form a smile.

"Why are we all here?" His moonlike eyes had begun to glaze over, his breathing stopped.

"SHERLOCK!"

John awoke gasping. Another one of those horrible dreams, and this time it had involved Sherlock. Why had it involved Sherlock? Why did he—

"You had a nightmare." Sherlock entered the room with that overly confident air of his, and sat down on a chair that—John didn't remember being there beside his bed before.

"Yes." John sighed. "But it was no different than usual."

"Wrong." Sherlock stated, placing a news paper down on the bedside table. The front page was an odd article, saying something about the Ripper… Sherlock waved his hand in front of Johns face, a frown forming on his lips. "It's only proper to listen when one is talking." John looked at Sherlock and rolled his eyes.

"How is that wrong Sherlock?" He said, a smile playing over his lips.

" It was plenty different than usual, because this one had you tossing and turning more, thus the disheveled hair, the tired eyes crusted with tears," John felt his the crusted remains of the tears himself as Sherlock pointed it out. The dark haired man continued. "And the way that you were moaning…" He paused, allowing room for questioning.

"How-"

"You saw the chair by the bed yourself my dear Jonathan, put two and two together,"

"You were watching me sleep?"

"I was bored, very bored." Well, he guessed, it's better than putting bullets through the wall… "You were reacting differently this dream so I wanted to try and see if I could figure out what you were dreaming of. Simple as that." He took a breath and scanned Watson again. One could hardly notice when he scanned them, his eyes barely seemed to move, and yet the angel faced man saw everything. "Now, you were dreaming about Afghanistan. You had killed someone, or someone had been killed in front of you, but obviously it was someone you cared about." His piercing gray eyes seemed to bore right through Watson's.

"How do you—"

"Humans give a lot of hints as to what they are dreaming about when they dream it. Did you kill me John?" John's eyes widened slightly, causing the other man to smirk. "So you did!" He seemed to get a thrill to this fact. "When you awoke you looked horribly pale, the kind of pale one has when they have seen a death they did not wish to see. Since you have killed many I can deduce that it was someone you cared about. When you saw me, your eyes widened slightly, and your shoulder's relaxed. You had been muttering a name in your sleep I could not be sure that is was my name, but when I saw your reaction I knew that it had been mine."

"You watched me sleep…" John couldn't help but find the fact somewhat creepy, to have someone looming over you, studying your face… Sherlock growled.

"Yes. I already stated why."

John shrugged and began to get up with a sigh.

"Black, thank you." The detective smiled and stood up along with Watson.

"I wasn't going to ask if you wanted tea."

"I know. But you were getting up to make yourself something to eat. You stomach had growled, and you got up with a sigh that said 'time for breakfast' I would like some tea."

"What do you say?" The other man looked at his friend.

"Thank you John. I want black tea, with orange."

"And…The magic words?" John hinted.

"Abracadabra? Alakazam? Simsimsalabim? John, I have no time for your word games."

"Please, Sherlock. The word is please."

"That is not a magic word John."

"You'd be surprised."

"Hmmm…."

They stood by the dead body of a woman just over 20. She'd been shot, multiple times through the stomach, down to the uterus, and then there were the cuts…. It was a horrible thing to look at. John nearly lost his lunch when he saw the woman lying face up, dead on the floor, the lower half of her body mutilated. Her head of turned to her left shoulder, her palms facing upwards, left leg extended, right leg bent, and two long gashes across her throat. The woman's intestines had been drawn out of her body and placed above her right shoulder some parts between her body, and her left arm.

From what John could see, the death had been immediate. The mutilations inflicted after her death.

From what he could piece together about her, she had been pretty, long blonde curls, the back of her head covered in blood from the pile that had spread on the floor. Her clothes were laced and face heavily painted, though pushed up past her navel. Could she have been a prostitute?

Sherlock of course had been excited. Ecstatic even over this new case. They had called the case the new Ripper. Now, as he scanned the body, pulling out his microscope, touching her, his mind working a mile a minute…

"Not a prostitute." He murmured, as he closed the microscope.

"What do you mea—"

"You haven't moved her yet, she is wearing a wig. The perfume on her says flirting, not whoring. The makeup is carefully put on, expensive brand. Definitely not the kind of money she would make as a whore. A drinker maybe, thus the strong scent of alcohol on her… Now… Where is her purse?" Sherlock looked around impatiently.

"She has on a wig?"

"Yes, whores do not need wigs; they would not remain on, and therefore serve as useless. Unless she was trying to disguise herself, but what kind of a whore would need to do that? Unless she wasn't a whore at all. By the quality of the wig, it is bought by someone with money. She has money. She is from out of country, the tan line on her ring finger says that she is married; when she came here she took the ring off. She came here recently, about a week ago if I am right, and I am always right. Now the question stands, why was she on the run? No, she'd had plans to say here longer. Working in disguise, maybe she is an agent of some sort."

"The U.S was sending over a few agents to work on a case."

"Fantastic, she is one of them. Now, her purse."

"She didn't have one with her."

"Lies, the skirt she is wearing is meant to be matched with a purse, now where…ah," He suddenly stopped, his grey eyes widening slightly as he appeared to have found it. Sherlock strode past the detectives and pushed back a pile of boxes that had fallen to the floor. Behind the boxes lay a purse which he picked up carefully in his pale hands. Turning it over again, he knelt down and emptied the contents of it onto the floor.

"Sherlock what are you—"

"Shhh! I am thinking. Phone—"his hand shot out and he grabbed hold of the phone that had belonged to her. Not surprisingly, it was an Iphone. Everyone seemed to have one of those nowadays. He slid the lock open, and then was confronted with another password. Quickly he entered a pin and it came unlocked. How he had known what the pin was…It was anyone's guess. "Recently acquired phone, most likely as a part of her role, there was a hint. It was an easy password. She probably had a bad memory." He went on mumbling as he ran his fingers over the screen, and then placed it on speaker phone as he called someone.

The phone rang, and then was picked up.

"Hello?"

"Is this her husband?"

"Who is this?"

"Yes, it is." He smiled, but then that smile fell. "Your wife was working for the C.S.I was she not? Yes, it seems that she got into a bit of trouble here in England."

There was silence for a moment on the other end.

"What do you know about Kate?" the man asked, his voice becoming more defensive.

Rather than stating all of the facts that Sherlock had deduced, he simply took a deep breath.

"I know that she was murdered. I am Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. We have just found her body." The line was silent again, before the man spoke, his voice broken sounding.

"She's dead…?"

"Yes, murdered, now I need you to tell me—"

There was sobbing from the other end, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and sigh impatiently. He really had no patience for mortal emotions.

"Sherlock…Maybe you should give us the phone…" Said man looked up at the other detectives through thick lashes. He sighed and handed them the phone continuing to look through the purse, and when no one was looking, he pocketed a few items.

"Well," He sighed, getting up. "I suppose it is time for us to go now John."

John looked over at his partner, and left the body of the woman to follow the curly haired man out of the room.

"There is more isn't there?"

Sherlock smiled that ever so brilliant smile that he seemed to only show to John as his eyes twinkled.

"Oh much, much more~" He mused. "Did you hear that man's reaction to her death?"

"Yes. He was crying, perfectly reasonable—"

"Wrong john, those were fake tears, not earnest ones. Now why would he try and fake tears? And the sounds in the back ground, yes… He is in London. But why is he in London? He is supposed to be in the U.S far away from his wife. And yet he is here? A coincidence? I think not. But there is still murder…why did he do it?"

"Why was she shot there?" John murmured, continuing the thought. His partner turned on his heel, his grin growing wider as he placed his hand on Watson's shoulder.

"Precisely! There are many other places that one can shoot to kill someone, and he chose there. Maybe she was with child." He said absentmindedly, as if he didn't truly believe that himself.

"Presuming the husband killed her…maybe it wasn't his child."

"And he was jealous? No… He wouldn't have gone that far to-or would he? But why would he cover it the way he did, no finger prints John. Maybe he was trying to give a scare. Maybe the style of killing was meant to be like the Ripper's. Why, John, would he need to kill his own wife? Was it because she was dressed as a prostitute and it would be simple to give the Ripper scare, but…Ahhhh…" His eyes widened slightly. "But if she knew something. Something that he didn't want her to know…"

"What could she know?"

"She was an agent John… there is a lot that she could have known…The question being, what did she know that he didn't want her to know?"

"Well…" John murmured, thinking for a moment. He really had no idea how Sherlock could come up with solutions so quickly, maybe it was because John always tended to over think things. Why was Sherlock even asking him these things? He probably already knew… What was the case she came here from the U.S for? "Why would they send an agent here when we have agents of our own?"

"Yes John!" Sherlock turned on his heel, letting go of John's shoulders. Without the other mans hands there is was suddenly cold… "The case! Based on the governments website agents were coming to investigate—"

"Website?"

Sherlock sighed. "I hacked it, bored." Because, 'bored' seemed to be justification enough with Sherlock…

"Nice."

"Yes, isn't it? Now, the files said that a man came here from the U.S. He's our killer, and she had been following him, thus the agents coming here when they have me. He had a past history of killing… whores and drunks, tearing them apart, even that woman. Did you smell the alcohol on her?" He smiled. "Impersonating the Ripper... But he's made a mistake." Sherlock grinned. "He knows too much,"

No, john hadn't smelt anything but the putrid odor of death.

"Too much?" He questioned.

"Yes john." He raised a hand to hail a cab.

Really, John was surprised that he didn't just—

Impatient, Sherlock jumped in front of the cab coming down the road.

Of course

"He would have stopped, Sherlock."

The dark haired man turned around to face John and moved away from the front of the vehicle, opening the door and sliding in.

"No he wouldn't have. Do you really think I would go throwing myself in front cabs for the thrill of it?"

"Knowing you? Probably." He stated, sliding into the seat beside the curly haired man. Sherlock smiled at him and then turned his head to the window as he told the cabbie their address.

The two men sat in silence... John decided to think back to the woman's body. Her organs placed in the same exact spots the Ripper had placed HIS victim's. He'd done nearly a perfect replication of the killing of Catherine Eddows. No signs of struggle… How could a victim not struggle when in that position? It wasn't as easy as movies made it out to be to slit someone's throat. Had she been drugged? Drunk perhaps? They would have to check her system. Maybe it was a poison.

But why?

…Why go through all of the effort to do that to her body when he had already killed her?

John felt sickened; it was horrible, bloody horrible that someone would do this terrible deed... For fun.

"Are you sickened by it John?"

"What?"

"You look utterly repulsed. Like you just stepped in something wretched."

"Sherlock, I just saw the mutilated body of a woman. I apologize if I am not in a cheery mood."

"Well you should snap out of it." The dark haired man said coolly, bringing his face back to the cab window. "You are a doctor after all…."

"Bloody hell Sherlock…"

"Yes John…Bloody hell indeed…."

Out of the corner of John's eye he saw Sherlock's lips twist up into a devious smile.

"It was a message!" Sherlock burst into John's room, holding a cup of tea in his hand and wearing his blue robe. John groaned, and turned to the side. He did NOT want to wake up to this… "A message John, do you hear me?" Before the man decided to jump onto his bed and start hopping about John decided it would be best to give some sign that he had heard.

"Mnnn."

"Oh wake up John, there is much to do today, and the murder isn't even half of it~"

He must have solved the crime, or come bloody well close to it. That or he was on drugs…

"What message Sherlock…?"

"I investigated the killings from the U.S government's file—"

"You hacked the U.S' government?"

"Yes John. We've already gone over this. I hack very well. Something that simple was no match for me." John groaned and lay back done on his bed. "Don't you want to hear what I've figured out?"

"Wake me up later Sherlock."

"No." He crossed his arms and walked closer to John's bed. "You will get up now John."

"And why is that?"

"Because if you do not I will pour my hot tea on you and MAKE you get up. Either way you will get out of bed."

With an exaggerated sigh John sat up and slipped out of bed to be met with Sherlock's arrogant smirk.

"What are you talking about, message?"

"The killer was trying to scare someone. All of the other killings were done—"

"You mean all of that just to scare someon—"

"Interrupting people when they are speaking is rude John. Yes, people are not all as kinds and happy as you think they are. God john, get out of that glass world of yours before the walls shatter and kill you." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "now the man hired the husband. The husband was willing to do it, why? There was something in it for him. Maybe we have a ripper mafia on our hands, but I honestly doubt that. The MESSAGE John, is that he will kill as many woman as it takes until one certain woman is dead."

John stared at him, not quite sure how to respond to that…

"Why…doesn't he just kill her himself?" He asked, waiting as Sherlock brought his cup of tea to his lips and slowly took a sip of it.

"Could be that he wants her to kill herself," He smiled. "Or it could be that he can't find her. Anything really, but he wants her dead. He followed her here to England, I don't believe he was aware that he himself was being followed, he simply picked his next victim solely off of if they were the right type of person."

"You mean a whore."

"Yes John, I mean a whore."

"So….do you know where he is, or how you are going to catch him?"

"We're going to use a woman." John's mouth fell open.

"Sherlock you're not going to—"

"No. john, I;m not going to dress in drag." He sighed. "I'm going to call a friend of mine to come and help." Sherlock grinned and finished his tea before getting up and walking out of the room. John just sat there. Sherlock was certainly something else… But…Who was this friend he was talking about? As far as John knew Sherlock didn't have any friends other than him… He stood up and began to walk towards the kitchen.

"Sherlock, what friend?" He questioned.

The tall man turned to him with a smile.

"The very woman who the man is after, but will never catch."

"You're friends with an American whore?"

"No, I'm friends with a woman who disguised herself has a whore in order to get something or someone, what it was, God knows. But she must have provoked him into this. And she can tell me who he is." There was a slightly irritated look on Sherlock's face. "Though it most likely will not be without a price…"

John just stared at his friend, learning something new about the mysterious man…

"You…have a lady friend?"

"In a way…"

"Are you two…"

Sherlock's moonlike eyes snapped to his. "John, I told you that I am married to my work."

"You could be having an affair; it's perfectly fine to have—"

"You're an idiot." Sherlock sighed. John just sort of pouted and moved to sit in the arm chair. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had told him that, but it was still an annoying thing to hear. "There is nothing going on between me and her. John, I don't understand why you care so much if I have a partner. Not everyone needs one, and God knows that I'll never get anything even remotely close to a partner aside you." He shrugged.

What? John looked at him questionably. He guessed that it would be correct to say that he and Sherlock were partners, but there really wasn't anything sexual about their friendship… no. Nothing at all.

"What is her name?" John asked, trying to get the idea of him and Sherlock ever being like…that out of his mind.

Sherlock sighed and moved to sit on the seat across from him.

"Irene Alder."

Alright, well i hope that you enjoyed this chapter! please review lots on this. if i get 15 reviews i will update. sound like a deal? the more reviews the sooner the update~ Merry Christmas!