Just a little forewarning: there will be blood and depictions of gore. If you don't like, or can't handle such things, then kindly exit out of my story. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock's POV and texts will be bolded

John's POV and texts will be italicized

Lestrade's POV and texts will be underlined

John. Help. SH

What did you do?

I'm stuck in a cab. The cabbie won't let me out. SH

There's a trick called paying for the ride. Do that.

Boring. He practically gassed me the entire way home. SH

Pay him, Sherlock.

Oh, fine. SH

He isn't getting a tip, though. SH

That wasn't so hard, was it?

Of course not.

I was practically suffocating in his bodily fumes! What do you want me to do? SH

I don't know... deduce the hell out of him until he kicks you out?

That's what you always do.

I was too busy trying to stay alive for me to want to deduce anything. SH

Don't be so melodramatic. You fill our flat with much worse smells all the time.

Yes, but nothing as disgusting as flatulence. SH

I don't know, Sherlock, rotting body parts are quite close.

They are not even close in comparison. What comes out of the human body before death is infinitely more disgusting. SH

Fine, fine. But you're out now.

Yes. I got the milk you asked for, as well. SH

You did? I thought I'd never see this day come.

We were out, you were busy, and it was the only logical outcome that I had to be the one to get it. SH

Well I'm glad you see it that way.

I also got those biscuits you're so fond of. SH

Is it my birthday?

I don't know, is it? I can never remember birthdays. There's always much more important stuff to worry about. SH

It's a figure of speech, Sherlock.

Oh. SH

Either way, do you want a cup of tea or coffee? SH

I'd prefer tea. What's gotten into you?

Nothing. Why? Is all of this 'not good'? SH

No, on the contrary. This is very unlike you.

I just feel like doing something for you instead of you doing everything for me for once. That's all. No other reason. SH

Like I said. Very unlike you.

Hold on.

What did you do?

Why would you ask that? Can't I do anything nice for my flat mate without being asked if I did something? SH

No, because you never do that. You have obviously done something.

I may or may not have accidentally burned your jacket. Nothing huge. SH

Did you touch my military stuff?

Sherlock. Which jacket?

Now, John. It's not a big deal. You didn't even notice it until I said something! SH

Sherlock. Did. You. Touch. My. Military. Stuff?

You know how I hate repeating myself, John. SH

Yes or no, Sherlock? Tell me it wasn't the jacket I'm thinking of right now.

These biscuits are quite good with a little bit of milk. You should try some. SH

Oh my God.

Seriously, John. These biscuits. Amazing. SH

One box, Sherlock. One single box in the entire fucking flat I told you not to touch and you have to go and root around in it. You can't just leave well enough alone, can you?

I bought milk, your favorite biscuits; I'm even willing to sit through one of your idiotic telly programmes. Will saying sorry help any? Because I think not. SH

No, Sherlock. It will not.

Well, I'm saying it anyway. Sorry for burning your jacket you specifically told me not to touch. I wanted to know how the material would react to close flame and I was mistaken in using yours. SH

I don't care, Sherlock.

I bought you biscuits! SH

I don't care for your bloody biscuits!

I'm sorry, John! How many times do I have to say it! I AM SORRY! SH

Sorry won't cut it, Sherlock!

What will, then? Tell me! SH

Nothing will!

You can't seriously be that attached to a jacket! It's a jacket! SH

As if you could understand.

Then help me to understand, John! Is it sentiment? You know I'm not good with sentiment! SH

This is like explaining poetry to a goldfish.

Then by all means, read me Robert Frost or something else if it will help me to understand. SH

You don't get it! No matter what I say, it will carry no meaning to you! Plus you'll just forget it the minute I'm done!

No I will not, not this time, not if you just explain it to me. This is getting ridiculous, John. You can't stay mad at me forever. SH

I served in Afghanistan wearing that jacket. There's still the hole for the bullet that pierced my shoulder and the blood that came from that wound and many others. There are people whose only remains are the blood and dirt on my jacket.

Did you even empty the pockets?

I apologize, John. I will apologize over and over and over again if it means anything, anything at all. I wasn't to know and for that beg your forgiveness. SH

Of course, I did. Everything inside is in the box I found it in. SH

Something positive at least.

I am sorry, John. SH

You can't possibly expect me to believe you didn't mean to. It was in the box under my bed.

I had thought it was just a simple military issue jacket you wore. SH

Don't give me that bullshit. I told you not to touch it.

I must have deleted it and I apologize again for that. SH

Deleted it, right. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Delete everything that doesn't suit you.

How long are you going to be angry at me, John? What do I have to do to make this right again? I should mention your jacket wasn't completely burned. Just the cuff of the left sleeve. SH

Fine.

John? SH

Forget it.

No. SH

Why not?

Apparently nothing I can do or say will fix this, so no, I'm not going to just 'forget it', especially when I don't know the solution to this problem. SH

Just leave it, Sherlock. It doesn't matter.

It does to you, John. SH

It's just a jacket. Don't do it again.

Are you going to come downstairs and get your tea? Or would you like me to take it up to you? Although, with how long it's been sitting, it's probably cold now. SH

I don't want any.

But you said before. SH

I changed my mind.

Fine. It'll be down here when you're ready. SH

Just throw it away or drink it yourself.

As will the biscuits. SH

Sherlock.

John. SH

Not good.

Oh. Sorry. SH

But I still stand by what I said. There'll be tea and biscuits when you're ready. SH

God.

As much as I hear that, no it is not my name. But thank you, anyway. SH

Wait, was that 'not good'? SH

A bit not good, yeah.

Well, I'm apologizing an awful lot tonight. SH

I know. Surprising.

I need to pick up some other stuff and talk to Lestrade about a case. Coming along? SH

Not today, Sherlock.

Fine. The biscuits are in the cabinet next to the tea. I'll be back later. SH

Yeah, got it.

Thanks.

Sherlock read the last two messages over and over as he walked down the stairs and out of 221b. He knew he shouldn't have touched that box. He should have listened to that little nagging feeling in the back of his mind. He threw a glance behind him at the window above, then turned back to hail a cab to NSY.

John threw the phone on his bed with a sigh. Damn that curly-haired bastard. He was like a cat, when specifically told not to touch or do something, touching or doing it was exactly what he did. The doctor rubbed his face before lying down on his stomach and reaching under the bed to pull out a medium sized cardboard box, rising to sit cross legged the box placed before him. It took him some minutes to open it and take a peek inside. There was his uniform and -blast! there was the burn mark. He scratched it almost absent-mindedly. In a way, it only added to the jacket's overall worn look. It could've been caused by the battlefield. And wasn't that what Mycroft had said? John smiled sadly as he took the uniform out gently and placed it on the floor. With Sherlock Holmes, the city was a battlefield. Under the dust-coloured clothes were several items, all of which were most dear to him yet at the same time painful to watch. He hadn't even thought about them for the longest time. Now, he started going through them as he waited for his flat mate to return.

Sherlock took his phone out after talking with Lestrade. He wanted to say something to John, possibly apologize more, but he knew that wouldn't do either of them a bit of good. John was right. Everything about this was definitely 'not good.' If only he'd kept his curiosity at bay, none of this would have happened. And now Sherlock was worried he might lose his friend. Damn. He pulled his mobile back out and tapped away at his screen.

Lestrade sends his regards. SH

John moved the items around with his finger. Memories of people he'd served with flashed behind his eyes. Some of them had died, but most of them had returned to their ordinary lives and he'd never heard from them again. It was funny how that happened; at first you're living with someone, laughing with them, you fear and fight with them, and the next minute they are gone in one way or the other as if nothing had ever happened. He took out a photograph and studied the faces on it. He couldn't even remember their names, not all of them at least. He sighed and let the picture fall back in. Sherlock was right. What did it matter? He was clutching onto things and happenings long past and it helped no one, merely caused him pain. He should learn how to let go.

The beeping of his phone alerted him, and he reached out for it, huffing slightly at the text. Right.

An interesting case?

Open and shut murder. Nothing important or blog worthy. SH

A shame. It would've kept you busy.

Yes. SH

You're coming back then?

Another quick stop, then yes. SH

All right, then. I'll be upstairs.

Sherlock stared at the text. He was honestly at a dead end on ways to cheer John up. He'd just have to let the army doctor sulk until he felt better or... or what? Sherlock didn't have a clue. He tapped out a quick reply.

Fine. SH

Sherlock?

Yes? SH

John rubbed the bridge of his nose before sending his reply. He was still mad at his flatmate, but at the same time he was aware of how futile it was. Sherlock didn't— probably couldn't—understand what having his most personal belongings played with meant for John, so there was no point in being angry for a long time. And after all, the man had apologized. He sighed as he typed.

It's all right. Just... ask permission before you touch my stuff again.

I will. Are you all right now? SH

I'll manage.

The doctor stared at the box. He was starting to feel like dwelling in the memories Sherlock's stunt had brought to his mind only made things worse.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he stood in the random aisle at Tesco's he'd picked to hide out in until he knew it was safe to return to the flat and read the text a couple of times before texting back. He knew John needed time. And he could give John that.

I really am sorry, John. SH

Yeah, I know. It's all right.

I'm at Tesco's. Do we need anything else? SH

That depends on what you've managed to destroy lately.

John couldn't help smiling as he hit the send button.

We do need more flannels. Running a little low on them. SH

All right then. That should be it.

All right, on my way back, then. SH

Sherlock pocketed his phone and grabbed a few flannels and some other things he knew they'd need and slowly made his way to the check-out. He didn't hail a cab, opting to walk the rest of the way back to the flat.

John pressed his hands together in a very Sherlock-like fashion and leaned his elbows against his knees as he resumed in studying the box's contents, focusing mainly on his dog tags. He was very fond of them, even though he'd never worn them since returning. The most memorable time of his life had been stored away in this one small box under his bed and he'd never even... No. That wasn't right. The most memorable time of his life had started few weeks after he'd returned, in a different battlefield, under the orders of a man he'd follow to the grave without a question. This? This was nothing but junk compared to what his life was now. In the army he'd tried to help people who were there solely to kill other people, and he'd taken part in the latter as well. With Sherlock, it was different. Better. In Afghanistan he'd never, not once, been proud of what he'd done. With Sherlock he cherished every second.

Sherlock changed his grip on the bag he was carrying, pulling his phone back out and contemplating sending John another text. But what would he say? What could he say? Sherlock hated not being able to say something, anything. He wanted to tell John that everything would be okay, that he wouldn't touch his stuff ever again, even with permission. Before, Sherlock didn't know John's attachment to his military past was this significant. John hadn't made it a point to tell him about his time in the Queen's Service so Sherlock never asked. The same went for John, he never asked Sherlock about his past and even if he were to, Sherlock would most likely brush him off, change the subject, anything to get it off him. He didn't like to talk or even think about his past. That's just what it was, the past. A time long gone and dealt with. There wasn't a need to delve back in time. Especially now with John by his side. Doctor John Watson. The healing mercenary. Not afraid to kill if someone was in trouble, yet couldn't stand the thought of someone killing. His very being boggled Sherlock's mind.

John packed his belongings back into the box and closed the lid. He'd taken a good look at every photo and every small item, relived the time of heat and dust and sand and sometimes even blood. He sighed. With Sherlock, the life was so similar yet significantly different. There were the missions, the chases, the danger and the thrill, occasional injuries and the triumph of victory. And the man himself? The most infuriating being John had ever encountered, yet at the same time something so special it was impossible to turn away from him. The man was a genius who didn't even know the basics of the solar system, could tell a person's entire life story with a single glance and kept body parts in the fridge. He scared almost everyone he met away and acted indifferent, but there was a heart under the cold shell, feelings, and a human being who genuinely cared. John only had his blog as a memento from their adventures, but he didn't need anything more, did he? He wasn't angry anymore.

Sherlock could see 221B off in the distance. His mind was still racing, still trying to create words he knew wouldn't make a difference. But he hoped anyhow. He hoped John would come out of his room and sit on the couch with him after they ordered Chinese or Indian and watch crap telly while he yelled at the screen. He wanted John to eat his too-sweet biscuits and drink his tea-with-a-little-milk-and-no-sugar. He wanted John to not be angry at him anymore. Sherlock felt miserable at the fact that he'd caused John to be this way. It was his ignorance once again that hurt someone he was close to and that just wouldn't do. He opened the door to the flat and shut it with an audible click. When he reached the kitchen, he noticed nothing had been touched. Opening the cabinet where the tea was, he also noticed the biscuits hadn't been touched either. He sighed and put everything away as he continued to text John in hopes that he'd be calmed down enough to actually come talk to him.

Do you want Chinese or Indian tonight? SH

I also just found a menu from that Thai place down the road you like. SH

John leaned against his bed, eyes still on the box. Now that he'd had time to think and examine it and compare it to his current life, it was starting to seem meaningless. He wasn't the same John Watson anymore, the limp was gone and other burdens ought to be as well. His nightmares certainly were, thanks to Sherlock making sure he was most of the time too damn tired for even having dreams. He huffed with a smile. Damn that man. Hopefully he'd never change.

He turned his gaze to the bedroom door when he heard sounds coming from downstairs, and judging by the heavy steps and the lack of "woo-hoo" it wasn't Mrs. Hudson. John licked his lips pondering whether to call the man, when his phone beeped again. Typical Watson/Holmes household communication.

No need to keep apologizing to me, Sherlock. Order whatever you like. Come upstairs, I want to talk to you.

Sherlock smiled faintly as he read the text and sent a text of his own.

Fine. SH

Sherlock put the menu's down and made his way upstairs. John's door was open so he walked right in. "Yes?"

John didn't bother standing up when he heard Sherlock arrive, merely gave him an acknowledging look and a light nod as he put his phone away. It was always difficult to tell what the man was thinking, but John had learned to read his flat mate during the time they had lived together. The detective was still worried. Somehow it was almost heartwarming to see the usually so stoic man actually, genuinely sorry for something he'd done. John nudged the cardboard box closer to the detective with his foot. "Throw this away for me, will you?"

Sherlock looked at the box at John's feet, the same box he'd grabbed the worn and tattered jacket from. "John?" He looked from the box to his flat mate. John couldn't be serious, could he?

John shook his head and waved his hand dismissingly. "Just do it, okay?" He let his hand drop and looked at his flat mate. "It's just junk, right? Dirty clothes, meaningless items. I've got to let go someday, right?" Unable to bear the piercing look of the detective's eyes, he lowered his gaze. "Just dispose of it."

"But..." Sherlock honestly didn't know what to say. His mouth opened and closed, trying to find words, just any words to say to his friend. "You can't be serious." Okay, maybe that wasn't the right thing. But it was the first thing that came to mind.

The doctor frowned and threw his hands up. What was he expected to say? "Okay, look, I know I snapped at you, and I'm sorry. But I've been thinking about that, and you're right, you know? In a way. It shouldn't carry so much meaning. I don't need them, I never use them, and there are few happy memories in that box so why should I keep it? Just...help me get rid of it."

Well, that wasn't the response Sherlock thought he'd get. "All right." The words got caught in his throat. "All right," he coughed and spoke louder. "Where?"

John raised his eyebrows. 'Where'? It should be obvious where. "What do you mean, 'where'? Just throw it away." He paused for a moment before adding, quietly: "It's trash." He brushed his thumb over his lips focusing back on the detective's face. What was with Sherlock today? First he acted all nice and considerate -even if it had been to make up for what he'd done- and now he acted like John had hit him with a shovel. "You ok?"

Sherlock fixed a pointed glare at the box, trying his hardest not to look at John. "Fine." Sherlock spit out the word like it was venom. He picked the bloody thing up off the floor and pushed past John, taking the stairs two at a time.

Once the box was out of his sight, John let out a long exhale and pressed his palms to his eyes. There it was, he'd let go. He'd allowed Sherlock to throw away months of his life, but it was good. He wouldn't have let anyone else do it. Not even himself. And it was for the best, after all. The feeling of having his guts ripped out would pass soon and everything would return to normal, except he'd be feeling better, liberated. He was certain of that. The doctor stood up and followed Sherlock downstairs, stopping in the living room to take a look around. "Sherlock?"

Why would John want to get rid of something he'd claimed had huge import in his life? Why? Was it something Sherlock had said? Was it something he did? Was it just John being John again, completely unpredictable? Sherlock stood in front of Mrs. Hudson's bins, holding the damned box in front of him.

The detective was nowhere to be seen, so John helped himself to the tea Sherlock had brought. The one already brewed had gotten cold, but the water boiled quickly for another cup. He ate some of the biscuits while he waited. His favourites, just like he'd been promised. Good old Sherlock and his abilities to constantly surprise him. Sherlock's expression bothered him a little, the man had seemed almost lost. And why wouldn't he be? John had been angrier with him than he'd been in a long time, and now he'd just changed his mind. But would someone like Sherlock actually be bothered about it?

Sherlock knows he shouldn't, he most definitely should not look inside the box, look closer at the objects he'd thrown haphazardly into the box after plucking them from the pockets of the coat to see the real reason why John would want to throw it all away. Off in the distance, a dog barked, startling the detective a little and making him drop the box. The jacket fell out of the box and pictures scattered everywhere, but the thing that caught Sherlock's eye were the little silver dog tags that lay scattered on the ground around Mrs. Hudson's bins.

A faint crash coming from the outside caught John's attention, and he hurried to the living room windows to open one of them so he could take a look. Something about it all reminded him of the time when Sherlock had apparently thrown an American criminal out of the same window as a revenge for hurting Mrs. Hudson, and he had to fight back a smile. The sound had probably come from his stuff being thrown away, but he had to make sure, had to see it...

...scattered all over the ground. He raised an eyebrow, clutching the window frame. "You okay there, Sherlock?"

John's voice above him made him jump. He hurried to put everything back in the box and throw it away. "Fine, John. I'm fine. Just slipped a little bit. How are the biscuits?" He tried to change the subject. Get John away from the objects in the box, well… ground, get him to go back inside to his tea and biscuits and crap telly. He was mortified. Had John caught him? Did John know he wasn't going to throw the box away, but wait until John had gone to sleep that night and then slip out to retrieve it? He couldn't have. But no, his hands gripped the ledge like a lifeline. No, this was all going wrong.

John frowned. Something was definitely off. "You sure you're okay? The biscuits were fine, thanks." He heard the kettle pop in the kitchen and looked over his shoulder. "Just throw those away and come back inside. I'll order some Chinese if that's okay? The same for you as always?" Sherlock could spend all his time in experiencing different versions of...well, anything, except food. At least it made planning dinners quite simple.

"I'm sure." He refused to look at his flat mate, refused to receive the inevitable judgment, possible hatred at snooping through his things again. He just continued to put everything back in the box and made it a point to show John that it went straight into the bin and that the lid was firmly in place over it. "Chinese is fine." He left it at that and made his way back inside.

Seeing Sherlock handling the items that held so much meaning hurt in a way John couldn't describe, so he pulled back and closed the window so he wouldn't need to look at it. As he waited for Sherlock to get his bony ass back up he made a brief call to the same Chinese restaurant they always got their meals from, poured boiled water into two cups -just in case. He looked up when the taller man arrived, keeping a straight face. "Thanks."

Sherlock still couldn't look John in the face, "You're welcome." He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea even though John had set one out for him. He added too much milk, not enough sugar. Not at all like the way John made him a cuppa. It was dreadful, not sweet enough, and bland. He honestly didn't want to face John, didn't want his anger again. He could face the sadness, the hurt, but the anger would be too much.

John took a sip of his tea while keeping his eyes on Sherlock. Something was clearly amiss. Sherlock was many things but rarely absent-minded, though that was exactly what he was at the moment. The doctor placed his teacup on the counter and took a hold of Sherlock's arm. "Hey. What's wrong? You've been acting strange since you got back. If it's about me yelling at you, then I'm sorry. Like I said, you were right. Those things shouldn't matter. Okay, I'm pissed since you stole my stuff and used them in your crazy experiments, but it's okay. You do that all the time. So what's wrong?"

Sherlock tried not to flinch when John's hand wrapped around his bicep. He listened closely as his friend asked him for the umpteenth time that night if he was okay. He wasn't, but he wouldn't tell John that. "Nothing. Everything's fine. Why would you think something was wrong?" He tried to compose his features, make then unreadable.

"Why would I-? Sherlock", John raised his voice slightly and made his friend turn to face him, eyes fixed on Sherlock's. "This isn't you. You're avoiding me, you're jumpy, and you never, ever do that. So tell me, what is it? You haven't been yourself today and I want to know why." He was silent for a moment to let his words sink in. "I know you, Sherlock. You can't hide things from me. So one last time: what is it?"

Sherlock couldn't help but look at his friend's face now that he'd been forced to. He stared into the stormy blue of John's eyes and just stood there, not saying a word because if he did, John would hate him.

The silence continued, and John kept staring. Something was definitely wrong; he had no doubts of that. "Sherlock," he said again, softer this time. "Talk to me. I thought we trusted each other enough to be able to talk about anything. I'm certainly willing to listen. And hey", he shrugged and tried to smile. "It's not like you can do more damage than you already did. And even that is...all right. So be out with it."

He didn't want to do this, he didn't want to hurt John all over again, but he had his reasons. He reached into his pocket slowly to keep the jingling to a minimum. John didn't know he'd taken the tags, the tags covered in John's dried blood, from the box.

John's eyes drifted slowly down to the metal plates Sherlock was holding. He had to stare them for several heartbeats to let what he was seeing sink in. His tags, dirty and scratched, were the only remains of the box. Hopefully they were the only remains. He'd made up his mind and didn't want the memories brought back into the flat piece by piece. He withdrew his hand and brushed it over his face thoughtfully. "Why did you take those?"

Sherlock shook his head and returned the tags to his pocket. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll take them back. I know you wanted them gone, but I just- I- it's parts of what brought you to me, I think. I'm sorry." Sherlock turned to make his way back downstairs to throw them in the bin where they belonged.

"Okay, okay. Hold on." John grabbed the detective's arm again to stop him. "I'm not asking you to- Look, it's fine. I just wanted to know why. It's not like you've ever shown any interest towards my life or stuff." Keeping his dog tags solely because the army was something that had brought them together showed odd sentiment. John knew Sherlock wasn't an emotionless machine, but even he was surprised. "It's fine, really, but why the tags? You never do anything like that."

Sherlock shook his head and tried to break out of John's grasp. "Just forget I said anything, forget everything. It doesn't matter, anyway." He wiggled his arm a little bit, but John's grip never faltered. Sherlock couldn't stand this. John was supposed to hate him for keeping the tags. He was supposed to yell at Sherlock, demand he throw them out again, something, anything other than this. "Please... just— please?"

John didn't let go, and refused to forget. He took a firm hold of the man's shoulders and pinned him against the counter, once again glad for the fact that despite being shorter, he was stronger than the detective. "Please, what? Just forget about the fact you chose to sneak back in the most precious part of my most valued belongings? No, Sherlock. I did throw them away, but they're still mine. I wouldn't be saying anything if this was anyone else but you, trust me, but you don't do things like this, not ever." He gave the man's shoulder a squeeze that was supposed to be reassuring. "Can you just trust me and tell me why?"

Sherlock finally burst, yelling at the younger man. "I DON'T KNOW WHY, JOHN! And that's what scares me the most! I don't understand why I want to keep them, but all I know is that I do! Is it petty sentiment? Is it something else entirely? I DON'T KNOW!" He screamed, trying desperately to get away from John. He continued to struggle, but spoke in a quieter voice, "I do trust you, John. But, please… Let. Me. Go."

Had he not grown used to people, sometimes even Sherlock yelling at him, John would've staggered back, startled by the sudden outburst, but he stood his ground though visibly taken aback. He didn't know if it was because of the shouting or the words, perhaps a bit of both, perhaps because of the overall abnormal behaviour of his flat mate. "...Okay." He said finally, and took a step back. "It's okay; I'm not going to push you. I was just..." He didn't even know himself, so he just shrugged. "You can keep them."

Sherlock didn't even make a reply. He just grabbed his coat and scarf from where he'd left them and ran out of the flat, flinging the tags over his shoulder, not really caring where they landed. He needed air. He needed to be away from 221B for a while. Away from all the feelings and sentiment he couldn't understand. The only question, though, was where would he go?

John stumbled a little when Sherlock pushed him as he walked past, but didn't go after the man. He flinched when the metal plates fell on the floor with a clink. He waited until he heard the front door slam shut before taking a step and picking the tags up, running his thumb over the sleek metal and the carvings there, scratching the blood spatters with his fingernail. Sherlock had kept them perhaps because they were small enough to hide and they also bore John's name. Sentiment. Very odd kind. He made his way into the living room and sat down on his armchair the tags still in his hand. After a while, he opened the chain's lock and wrapped it around his neck, where it belonged, and waited for Sherlock to return.

He didn't deserve to have a person like John in his life. Sherlock was a disease, ready to infect any good thing with his freakishness. It would only be a matter of time before he'd done something to push John away, just like he'd done with everyone else. And the very thought of John not being in his life scared him more than anything. Sherlock wandered aimlessly through the streets and back alleys of central London, not looking for anything in particular. He desperately wished John would text him, beg him to return to the flat, anything, but what would he say once he got there? 'Sorry for storming out, I'm just having a really hard time understanding sentiment and feelings'? John would understand, of course. John always understands those things. Sherlock reached into his pocket, feeling around for his mobile and groaned when he realized he'd forgotten it in his haste to leave the flat.

John hadn't really paid attention to the clock they had, but now its ticking was annoying. The flat was empty and there was a pressing silence. Mrs. Hudson was who knew where, and so was Sherlock, and the whole day had been so damn strange it was starting to be too much. Sherlock being all considerate and domestic, the fight about his belongings, the memories, damn Sherlock again, his dog tags and now this. He felt like he'd barely had time to process it all, merely gape and wait for the next surprise to appear. He found himself most concerned about Sherlock. The man had been acting strange, and if he didn't know better John would say it was because of feelings of some kind. Surely the man had noticed it himself and left because of it. If sentiment coming from the detective was strange for John, how confusing could it be for Sherlock? He sighed, again. They'd need to talk about this once Sherlock got back. Maybe. Someday, at least.

He dreaded asking Mycroft for help. But he knew he had to get back to the flat, and right now, he was just a tad bit too drunk. He knew he shouldn't have stopped off at the friendly looking pub. He looked for the nearest CCTV camera and pointedly looked at it. The camera swiveled knowingly and suddenly, there was a sleek, black car pulling up alongside him. Damn, Mycroft. He knew he shouldn't have asked for help. Thankfully, he was too drunk to care too much. How long had it been since he'd stormed out and left John all by himself? Sherlock checked his watch and then burst out laughing. Seven hours. It had been seven hours since he'd been away from John, four consisting of non-stop drinking. He'd definitely pay for it in the morning, wait, afternoon. It was already morning. He giggled quietly at the sun in the sky.

John had been sitting in the chair for an hour before he got up and tried calling Sherlock, only to hear his phone ringing in the same room he was in. Damn that man! Couldn't even take his phone with him! Sherlock had spent half of the day acting strange. Of course he wouldn't stop now. John walked from room to room, trying to decide what to do. There was no one he could call. He didn't even know where the blasted man had gone off to, and in his current state, it could be anywhere. No use calling Molly or Lestrade, either. Eventually, he had no other option but to go to sleep and wait for the man to come back. He slept restlessly, spending most of the night listening for the door, but it was all for nothing. When he woke up, the dog tags still around his neck, there was no one downstairs. Not even Mrs. Hudson. Only a note from the delivery man since he'd forgotten to open the door for him and accept the food he'd ordered. John sat back down in his chair, ruffling his sand-coloured hair, deciding that if Sherlock hadn't returned in two hours he'd go looking for him. It'd give him something to do.

As the car continued to roll forward, Sherlock looked out of the window only to turn back in pain. His eyes hurt. A lot. John wouldn't be happy with him. He felt the urge to smile when 221B came into view. He noticed a rather large brown bag sitting in front of the door. Oh, the food. He'd forgotten all about it and cold Chinese actually sounded pretty good right about now. Hell, anything sounded better than nothing. He thanked the driver with a hiccough, and opened the door to the flat after lifting the bag of Chinese and reading the note.

John was usually hungry after waking up, but this time he didn't feel like eating anything. Not even the biscuits, not tea. He merely washed his face and checked his overall look only to find himself -in his opinion- as shabby and average looking as always, dark shadows under his eyes which was usual nowadays, thanks to the detective. His hair was bound to turn gray any day. He splashed some more cold water to his face and checked the time before heading out. Two hours, he'd said to himself. He couldn't wait for two hours. He took his jacket off the rack and opened the door, only to be greeted by the familiar figure swaying to and fro, hair messy and eyes red. "Jesus," was all John could manage as a hello before rushing to take a hold of his friend, knocking the brown bag aside as he did so. "Where the hell have you been? You didn't even take your phone!"

Sherlock hiccoughed again, losing his balance at the same time. "Out." He pushed John aside after grabbing the fallen bag and stumbled his way upstairs. He looked around, noticing the numerous cups of tea sitting on the table and smiled. "Had a ni-" Damn hiccoughs, "nice time."

Out? Well, clearly. John followed his friend upstairs staring at him with disbelief. Sherlock's breathe reeked of alcohol, so the man had probably been doing what confused men did when they wanted to avoid their problems; drinking. And heavily, by the looks of it, though John couldn't say for sure how much it took to get Sherlock drunk. "Nice time? Are you mad?" John shook off his jacket and tossed it on a chair, grabbing Sherlock by the arm again. "You look terrible. And you smell even worse. I'd ask what the hell's gotten into you but since you probably won't give me an answer, I'm just going to tell you to take a shower." He sniffed, and then grimaced. "Are you still drunk? You should eat. It will ease your hangover."

Sherlock lifted the brown bag full of Chinese food. "Eating now," he opened the bag and took an egg roll out, biting through half of it. "Shower later." Sherlock honestly didn't care if the food had been stepped on by a million dirty feet, it tasted heavenly.

John opened his mouth to argue, but changed his mind. After all, it didn't matter when Sherlock would eat, as long as he did it, and since it happened voluntarily it was best not to say anything. John stood still instead, glaring at his flat mate with a mixed expression of concern and disapproval waiting for the man to finish his breakfast. "You could've at least taken your phone, I tried calling."

"I prefer to text." The words were out of his mouth before he could think of anything else and he blinked a few times. Part of the chewed egg roll might have fallen out of his mouth, he didn't know. He was looking at John's face. The saying, 'If looks could kill' flitted through his mind.

John scoffed. "Texting doesn't help if your phone isn't with you!" He snapped and pointed at the device in question that was sitting on the living room desk where John had put it before going to sleep. He shook his head in defeat. "At least you're finally back. Finish your breakfast, and take a shower."

"On second thought, that sho-" Sherlock didn't have a chance to finish that sentence as the contents of his stomach decided to make itself known. "Jesus," he heaved again, scrambling to get to the sink. "Oh, God," the words left his mouth in a deep groan. "John, help."

Despite his disapproval, John didn't need to be told twice. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulder and guided him to the bathroom sink bracing himself for what was to come, and making a mental note of arguing with himself later about whether to make the man repay him for having to clean up after him or not. "Next time you may want to think twice before drowning yourself in alcohol and then stuffing your face." He made a face, and tugged at the detective's shirt with two of his fingers. "Take these off and get yourself clean. Do you need help?" Hopefully, no.

Sherlock made a noise and waved John off as he kept dry heaving. "Phone. Where is—?" He fell to the floor where he hunched violently over the toilet and kept heaving. "Make it stop, John. Please, just make it stop, I can't take this."

"I'll get you some painkillers soon, but other than that, there's nothing I can do. You just have to wait for it to pass." He knelt beside the detective still keeping a hand on the taller man's back. "You want your phone," He asked, "Why?"

He couldn't even form sentences as he tried to breathe and shook, "Missed," he gasped and tried again. "I missed—" Sherlock's hands grabbed at thin air before falling back to the rim of the toilet.

"Missed? Missed what?" He placed both hands on Sherlock's shoulder and tried to make the man look at him. He'd lost count how many times he'd done that during the past 24 hours.

"Your call," Sherlock gasped and finally turned to look at John. "I missed your call." He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing but choked a little. Finally he coughed and could breathe a little. "I missed your call, John." He repeated.

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but couldn't stop a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, you bloody well did. Come on. Let's see if we can make you look like a human being again." Since Sherlock didn't seem to be willing to cooperate, John started unbuttoning the man's shirt without asking further questions. Though sour, his voice wasn't unkind. "You stink as if you've spent your night in a garbage can."

"Sorry," Sherlock whispered. "I'll remember to drink less next time." He shivered at the sudden cold air on his chest.

"I'd prefer you didn't drink at all." John pulled the dirty shirt off and tossed it aside before gesturing at the man. "Get up. I assume you can take the rest off yourself. I'll be in the living room."

Sherlock watched as John exited the bathroom. He could only imagine how he looked at the moment, hunched over a toilet with vomit and bile running down his chin. Just then, Sherlock remembered John's sister. Oh, no. Everything about this was a bit not good. "John!" He called out. "John, wait!"

John had almost made it to the kitchen when he heard the call, sighed, and returned. Leaning against the doorframe he eyed the man on the floor. Sherlock was a miserable sight, half naked on all fours, his face and chest dirty and only a limited control over his body. John was rather glad to be the only one to see the great detective now. "You need something?"

"Yes," he nodded weakly. "This won't happen ever—" he breathed in through his nose a couple of times, "happen ever again. I promise." He tried standing, having to grip the sink for leverage before he could get to his feet fully. "I won't- I'm sorry."

John bit his lip while listening to the promises. They say that only three kinds of people told the truth; kids, those who were drunk, and those who were pissed off. On the other hand, everybody knew not to trust what a drunken man promised, especially if it concerned quitting drinking. "Yeah, I know. You've been sorry a lot lately, must be a new record." He stepped closer to offer the detective support. "Let's just get you cleaned up."

He knew that look, the one John gave him. "I mean it, John. I'm good at reading other people, but not myself. It was a moment of weakness and one I shouldn't have indulged. I know I'm not good with feelings or sentiment and I thought that maybe, for one night, if I stopped acting like myself, I could understand it a little better. I thought maybe I could see it from someone else's perspective." He shook his head. "I was oh so very wrong."

John's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was there. "Yeah, I noticed. It's all right. Though I'll be damned if I understand what kind of sentiment can make you act like that. I thought I was the emotional one yesterday." And every other day, in fact. "I'm glad you at least acknowledge it. And now, for the last time: take that shower. I wasn't kidding when I said you stink."

Sherlock grimaced at John and nodded. He was starting to smell himself. He really did stink. "I'd really like a cup of your tea afterwards. And maybe a couple of those biscuits. I might be able to hold something down then." He started to unbuckle his belt and trousers, but stopped when he remembered John was still in the room with him. "On second thought, coffee, I'd really like a cup of coffee."

John laughed and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Right, something to eat, some vitamins and painkillers. And water, you're dehydrated. Doctor's orders." He cleared his throat when Sherlock started undoing his belt and took a step away. A naked body, be it a man's or a woman's was nothing new to him, but with Sherlock it did make him somewhat uncomfortable. "I'll be waiting then. Call me if you need help."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded again, waiting for John to leave before he continued undressing. He turned on the spray and stepped into it, groaning as the hot water hit his back. Splaying his hands on the wall under the shower head, Sherlock let the water run over his head.

John made his way into the kitchen like he'd intended to, turned the kettle on and made himself a sandwich as he waited. Now that Sherlock was back and there was no reason to worry, he'd regained his appetite. He was skeptic about the coffee his flat mate had requested, but brewed some. People had different ways of dealing with hangovers. Maybe coffee would do Sherlock some good. Lost in thoughts, he fiddled with the dog tags still around his neck. Perhaps he should take them off; they did belong to Sherlock now after all.

Sherlock didn't know how long he stayed under the spray. He could hear John messing around in the kitchen, probably fixing the coffee he'd asked for. He finally poured his shampoo into his palm and lathered it up, scrubbing at his scalp viciously. Once he was done with that, he scrubbed his skin until it was red and puffy. He let his head droop; resting his chin on his chest as water dripped off his nose and clung to his eyelashes. He mind raced, never-ending in its functioning. Satisfied that he didn't smell like a dumpster, he turned the shower off and went into his room for some clean clothes.

Perhaps John should have a chat with Sherlock about this new drowning obsession of his. First with alcohol, now with water. He'd been in there for over twenty minutes and the coffee was starting to get cold. Not that Sherlock would probably mind. Any caffeine sounded good to John when he was hung over. Perhaps it was the same for the detective. Finally he heard the door opening and the sounds of bare feet leading into the detective's bedroom. John had taken a seat by the dining table that was still covered with remains of Sherlock's various experiments and leaned towards the living room. "Feeling better yet?"

Sherlock walked out of his room in his usual sleep attire; pajama bottoms, grey t shirt, and his blue dressing gown. "Infinitely better," He sighed, sniffing the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He noticed John fidgeting around with the tags around his neck. So he'd decided to take them back. Sherlock tried not to let that little bit of news show on his face.

John nodded when Sherlock joined him in the kitchen. The man looked better as well. "That's good." He noticed the look given to the dog tags, so he hurriedly opened the lock and offered the small plates to Sherlock. "Here, you wanted these."

Sherlock was speechless again for the millionth time in the past 24 hours. He just stared at John, mouth open. He went to reach for them and then stopped. "I-Th- You better keep them. I mean, they are yours after all." His hands clenched at his sides, desperate to grab onto the metal plates and not let go.

John raised an eyebrow. "You did steal them back. And you rushed out immediately after I pointed it out and asked you why, so obviously these hold some meaning to you." He looked at the gleaming plates. "I did throw them away. So, yeah. You can have them. No need to steal them now."

Involuntarily, Sherlock's hand rose up and cradled the little pieces of metal that had John's name engraved on them. He couldn't say anything. Something was choking him. He definitely did not like the feeling.

There was odd feeling in the air as the dog tags changed owner, and John rose to his feet studying his friend's face with the same concern he'd been feeling the past few hours. "These really mean that much to you? You've never even seen these before."

"I know, John," He spoke softly, fearing his voice might crack. "I don't understand it any more than you do." He continued to stare and run his fingers over the tags. There were still little flecks of dirt here and there, but more than anything, in every crack and crevice on the metal, John's blood from his wound and in some sick way, Sherlock was glad. If John hadn't been wounded, where would Sherlock be now? Where would John be? Would he still be touring in Afghanistan? Possibly a tour in Iraq where he might have been fatally wounded and perished in the hot desert? It hurt Sherlock to think about these things.

It was no use staring, if Sherlock admitted not knowing something it was best to believe him. Somehow it made John happy to see how much his ever so cold friend cherished the seemingly meaningless dog tags, and he knew he couldn't even begin to understood why that was. This was Sherlock. The answer had to be complicated since it couldn't be solely about sentiment. "Well, it's all fine. You can have them. There's also coffee, if you want any."

Sherlock looked up at the word coffee. "Oh, that sounds marvelous." He closed his hand around the tags. He'd have to put them on later.

John huffed and shook his head slightly, sitting back down. "Help yourself. And promise me you'll think twice before doing that again. At least take me or your phone with you, I'd hate to have you dart off and disappear from the face of the Earth."

"I am sorry, John. It was never my intention to worry you. I was merely trying to find something out about myself." He turned towards the kitchen, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and pouring himself some coffee even though there was already a cup on the counter for him. "I just went about it the wrong way."

"Yeah, well", John started pulling a newspaper closer— it was three days old, but that didn't matter, "I'm the one who knows a couple of things about feelings in this household, so I'd appreciate it if next time you talked to me instead of a bartender. Nothing good comes out of a bottle. But hey, you're a grown man. It's not my place to tell you what to do or not." He turned a page trying to sound like it didn't matter. Of course it mattered. He'd never met anyone like Sherlock before, and somehow, in some ridiculous, unexplainable way, he felt responsible for the man. Protective in a way.

He listened to John, feeling more miserable at how he'd went about it as every word passed his friend's lips. He wouldn't be drinking ever again. "I won't be making that mistake again."

John smiled. "I know. It's all right, Sherlock, really. I just want you to know you can talk to me, about anything, whenever you feel like it, okay?" He looked up from the paper. "I'm your friend and I want to help you, but I can't do that if I don't know what's wrong."

"If I know what's wrong myself, I'll be sure to let you know. Promise." Sherlock smiled and took a sip of his coffee.

"I'll keep that in mind." He gestured towards the seat on the other side of the table. "Sit down. Good to see you've at least gotten your good mood back."

There's nothing like a friend who understands you to a point and doesn't care about the rest, Sherlock thought. "You just make fantastic coffee." He grinned.

John laughed quietly and leafed through the pages trying to find something interesting to read. "One of the reasons I'm so popular among women. I'd make a brilliant husband. Too bad someone makes sure that will probably never happen, so I just need to keep using my undeniably brilliant skills on you." He took a sip of this tea and gave Sherlock a look to assure him he was only joking.

Sherlock choked on his coffee a little. Spluttering, he set his cup down and beat himself on the chest.

John turned to look at his friend. "You okay?" Just how many times had he asked that already? Half a dozen? Maybe more? "Careful. I don't want you to choke now. That would be a miserable end for you."

"A very miserable end, indeed," Sherlock wheezed. "What were you saying before?"

The doctor kept his eyes on the detective for a while before answering. "I just said that I'd make a brilliant husband given the chance, but since I'm living with you the chance will probably never come. So, drink up." He laughed shortly and turned back to his paper.

"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock mumbled under his breathe. Sherlock coughed a couple of times before turning his attention back to him coffee.

John hummed as he turned the page. Sherlock wasn't as quiet as he probably thought he was. "And why is that? You've systematically ruined every date or relationship I've had so far."

"It isn't my fault your choices in girlfriends are horrid, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept them from falling on John.

John scoffed. "I'm not actually trying to pair them up with you, so you shouldn't have anything to say about them." Sadly, Sherlock was right. Every relationship he'd started had been with a woman who wouldn't have been the right one for him in the long run. But this was a matter of principle.

Just then, Sherlock's mobile alerted him to a call. Not even looking at the screen, he picked up. "Sherlock Holmes," a couple of seconds ticked by before he spoke again. "I'll be right there." He hung up and bounced to his feet, nearly sprinting into his room to change.

John bolted up from his seat as Sherlock rushed by, "Where are you going? Hey!" He followed the man to the kitchen door, stopping to stare at the detective who was rushing about as if he hadn't just spent the night out drinking and just returned only to throw up all over the bathroom. "I thought you didn't have a case."

Sherlock threw his dressing gown and shirt over his head and threw it somewhere. He heard John huff. It must have landed on his head. "It's Christmas, John! Triple murder, locked rooms," he threw a quick look at John. "Oh, this is heavenly." He shed his pajama bottoms and quickly put another pair of trousers on.

John yanked the shirt off his face and kept staring at the detective. So this was what made Sherlock Holmes forget about his hangover? Of course, what else? "You're not going are you?" He realized it was a stupid question the moment he'd said it. "Of course you are. I'm never even going to try and understand you." He turned to return to the kitchen muttering 'locked room' and 'triple murder' under his breath with the shirt still in his hands. Well, at least Sherlock was back to normal.

Sherlock poked his head back into the sitting room. "You're coming aren't you?" He finished dressing and walked back into the sitting room.

John unplugged both the coffee maker and the kettle, placing the gray shirt almost gently on the counter. So much for the relaxing breakfast. "Coming? I suppose I am. I can't let you rush about in that state, who knows what you might do." He fetched his jacket from the chair he'd thrown it on. His past self wouldn't have just said yes to a question like that, but a lot had happened since he'd moved in 221B. Nowadays, following Sherlock to the battlefield was the most natural thing to do. "Where are we headed?"

"The Blind Banker. Ring any bells?" Sherlock gave John a toothy grin.

John blinked. "You remember my titles?" He couldn't decide whether he should laugh or not, so the sound that came from his throat was indistinguishable. He stepped closer so he could press a cool hand briefly over Sherlock's forehead, "Are you sure you're all right? No fever, but with you that doesn't explain anything." Remembering the phone, he darted back to grab Sherlock's mobile. "Tell me the details, will you?"

"Apparently our dear friend Seb found three of his employees in three separate rooms. Here's the best part, though. They were all decapitated. And it just gets even better, John!" Sherlock smiled widely at him. "The heads found in each room, they didn't match the body and the doors were all locked from the inside." He grabbed John's shoulders and shook him gently before releasing him. "Come on, Lestrade's waiting at the scene for us." He grabbed his coat and scarf, throwing them on quickly and grabbing his mobile from John.

'Decapitated bodies, brilliant.' John didn't even bother groaning, just rolled his eyes at the detective's back as he followed him out. He'd wanted a flat mate and what had he received? This lunatic who got off from solving crimes, the more horrid the better, fired off guns indoors, made questionable experiments and only God himself knew what else. And what did it tell about John that the man in question was also the best friend he'd ever had? "Are you going to take the tube? You know, just in case the next cabbie's trying to gas you to death."

He glared at John. "No." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and checked the time.

John laughed. "All right then, just asking. It was funny, though."

"No, it wasn't. I almost died from the fumes, they were that toxic." He continued to glare at John.

John didn't let the glare bother him. "My heart weeps for you. All things considered, you got what you deserved."

Sherlock fiddled with the tags he's slipped around his neck when he was changing. "Are we back to that again? How many times do I need to apologize for you to stop being angry about it?"

The doctor huffed quietly and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm. "I was just kidding, Sherlock. It's all fine. I stopped being angry several hours ago."

Hours, Sherlock thought. He'd been gone longer than that. He just shook his head and looked out the window.

John let the silence continue for some time before it became uncomfortable. "You're all right with it as well, aren't you?" He wasn't even sure what he was asking, but it had to be said.

Sherlock continued to finger the little bits of metal, "Of course I am. You just keep making it a point to bring it up at every single chance you get."

John bit his lip. "Well, I'm not scolding you for what you did. Not anymore, that is. So it's okay to talk about it." He followed the movement of Sherlock's fingers from the corner of his eye, a small smile still on his lips. "Okay for me, at least. I know you didn't mean to, so it's fine. I threw all that stuff away, so it doesn't matter what happened to it. I'm just saying that I don't want us -you- to think of this as a sensitive topic. It's all...fine."

"Fine," was Sherlock's only reply. He honestly didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to relive John's anger and hurt at what he'd done.

"'Fine'? Okay then." John finally remembered he was still clutching the man's arm, and pulled his hand back quickly resuming in looking out of the window. "So, any ideas concerning the case?"

He ignored John's first remark. "A few, but I have to wait and see the crime scenes to confirm any." He had his phone in one hand, still fingering the tags with the other and looking out the window, his mind racing with ideas.

"Yes, of course. I was just trying to make a conversation." Most of the time it was a futile attempt, but since Sherlock had been acting strange for a good long while, it was worth a shot.

Sherlock looked over at John. "John," he started. "I- You-" he stuttered. "Thank you." He settled on. 'Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for being John,' he thought. 'Thank you for everything. Just... Thank you.'

It took John few heartbeats to react. Thank you? For what? He turned his head back to his eccentric flat mate. Perhaps he didn't need to know. That was the point with mutual feelings. "Thank you," he repeated.

Sherlock smiled. "I mean for the tags. I'm still trying to figure out what they mean exactly, but thank you anyway."

John laughed and, unable to help himself, clasped Sherlock's arm again. "Let me know when you find out. It must be something remarkable."

"Something remarkable..." Sherlock murmured. He looked out the window again and noticed they were close.

John took out his wallet without a question and checked its contents ready to pay for the cabbie like he always did when Sherlock was too busy or just too Sherlock for such trivial things. "You know what would make me happy? If you asked for money for what you do. I mean, you're brilliant, and they need you, desperately. You could set any price you want and they'd have to pay you. It would make our life a bit easier."

"I've told you before John," he shoved John's wallet away and threw a couple of notes at the cabbie. "I do it for the Work, not the money." He exited the cab and strode up to where Lestrade was leaning against his cruiser.

"I know, I know you do, I just-" He blinked at the voluntary paying and hurried after the detective just in case he'd somehow end up having to pay for something else, stuffing the wallet back into his pocket as he walked. "I'm just saying it would make things easier. I'm not making a lot of money and I have no idea how we're managing now. They're practically exploiting you, at least judging by how they treat you. That's all I'm saying."

Sherlock sighed loudly and turned towards John. "I have money, John."

John raised his hands. "I know, I've got savings too. I was just trying to make a point." He nodded towards the glass doors. "Best we move on and get this over with. Unlike you, I'd like to get decapitated bodies dealt with as soon as possible."

He moved ahead of the detective inspector and took the lead. "Where are the rooms?" He asked Lestrade over his shoulder. The older man just pointed in three directions, leaving Sherlock to deduce the exact rooms. He took off quickly in the first direction, coming up to the room with the first body. "Does anyone have a key?" He shouted. He faintly heard Lestrade shout back, "No." Well, damn, looks like he'll have to pick the lock.

John took his usual position next to Lestrade and out of the way, frowning slightly at the mention of the absent key. "Hasn't anyone been in the rooms yet?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Called Sherlock right after I got the call."

"Well, that's a first." He scratched the back of his head. "How were they discovered?"

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the exact picture. "The last two were seated at their desks, each holding a severed head. But the first one was bent over in front of the door like she had been kneeling at the time of decapitation. All doors locked from the inside. Anderson hasn't even been inside the rooms. No one has. I can't find maintenance to open the doors, nor can I find anyone that would have the keys. It's like someone in here doesn't want us going in to those rooms for a reason. But what reason, and why?"

John listened to the explanation while watching Sherlock fiddle with the locks. "Well, I suppose we're about to find out." He continued, and then spoke in a hushed tone towards Lestrade, "He's going to be impossible during this case, you know. Severed bodies and not a clue how they got there and why." He spoke louder now. "Do you think this could be an inside case? Maybe it's someone here who did this and is trying to stop all investigation?"

Sherlock twisted the lock pick in his hands, listening to John converse with Lestrade behind him. His mind ran through every possible scenario, drawing heavily on the details Lestrade just provided him with. Finally after what seemed like ages, the lock clicked and it swung open slowly to reveal a woman's body with a head situated just to the right. Sherlock strode right into the room, stopping in the center and turned around 360 degrees, absorbing any detail he could. But as for what John said about it being an inside case, he spoke loudly, turning around to face the two men, "Congratulations, John. You're right on both accounts."