Hi! For all my followers of 'Left Behind', my Avengers fic, if you didn't notice it on my profile, I'm not putting it on haitus. It's just waiting for me to figure out exactly what I want to happen. Maybe it'll be updated in the next few days...but I'm not here to talk about that! I'm here for Sherlock! And John! And their friends! (Well, about that...but you'll understand later!)

I'm looking to make this around twelve chapters. It'll be some Sherlock-whump, and a little John-whump. Nothing compared to the pain I'd like to put them through, but for my first fic, I'm going to take it easy. :D

Dilapidated. Old. Disgusting. Those were all words that I used to describe the building in front of me and my colleague Sherlock Holmes. A thousand other words came to mind also, but those were my favorite.

We were at an abandoned house where a murderer was suspected of hiding. Three bodies had been found, and Sherlock had deduced that this would be the murderer's hiding spot. It was falling apart, completely rotted wood, two stories of rusty nails and termites.

Sherlock was standing next to me, examining the house with his usual style. It was early in the morning, around eleven, but very overcast, typical northern England weather for November. Chilly, but never snow, just icy rain. I stomped my feet to shake away the chill and get some blood flowing.

"Boring," Sherlock said.

"Excuse me?" I said, looking up to him, "How is this house boring?" We were outside the town, about fifteen miles away from civilization. Who knew that Scotland Yard had jurisdiction out here? I sure didn't, but Sherlock had insisted on coming out. Of course.

"The house is delightful. Your thoughts are boring." Sherlock replied, having already moved on in his head to more important matters.

"You really can't know what I was thinking of," I said doubtfully, "I've seen you do logical things, amazing, but logical. However, even you can't read minds."

"You were thinking of the weather, and how London never gets snow. You were wishing it would, but know it would require going abroad. You were complaining about the freezing rain."

I didn't dignify it with a response. I really needed to learn how to keep my mouth closed about things like that.

"You were glancing up at the sky and shivering. Dead giveaway that you are thinking about the weather." Sherlock explained in his way of sounding like he really didn't care.

He then moved on to the house, and pointed at one of the upper story windows. I noticed he wasn't as warm as he pretended to be- "I'm only as cold as I allow myself to be, John." – as his hand was shivering slightly. It was bloody cold out.

"I am perfectly fine, John," Sherlock said in a bored tone, "No doubt, as a doctor, you noticed I was shivering, but it is nothing. It will be warmer inside. Now, if you care to direct your attention to window on the second story, farthest to the right, you'll see it is clearer, not as cracked."

"So? What does that mean?" I said, wishing we would hurry on inside. I stomped my feet again.

"Clearly, it is a point of entry. The murderer entered there multiple times, thus requiring him to replace the window so it would be easier to get in and out. He should have gone with leaving a hole, it would have been much less noticeable in this vulgar place," Sherlock sniffed, clearly miffed at the murderer's lack of originality. I think the only reason why he took this 'boring' case was to torture Anderson and Donovan. Unfortunately, Anderson was sick, and Donovan had another case Lestrade had assigned her too. It disappointed Sherlock greatly, but I convinced him to keep with the case, and not throw Lestrade under the bus. So here we were.

"So are we going to have to climb up there?" I asked.

"No, John," He said in his 'how can one be so stupid?' voice, "We're going in the front."

"Why? Don't just tell me that because you don't want to climb up there, I've seen you leap from building to building so it's not that…"

"Good, John, you're partially deducing," Sherlock said approvingly, "We're going in the front because it is more than likely locked, and barricaded."

"And…won't he expect us there?"

"He expects no one to be able to get in there. He would have protected it the best, figuring it would be the weakest part of the house."

"So, that's really where he least expects us?"

"Exactly." Sherlock climbed up the steps lightly. I muttered under my breath about how silly the whole thing was, and followed him up.

Before Sherlock could knock at the door, a bloodcurdling screech filled the air from right next to us, and devilish face popping out at us from beside the door. Its eyes flashed while it maniacally laughed after the scream quit out suddenly.

My hands instantly went to where my gun was normally, but I hadn't brought it, assuming it would be more than just Sherlock and I here today. But a few moments, when my heart returned to normal and my adrenaline settled.

It was fake, a novelty hollow's eve toy you can find at any market. Sherlock had just calmly turned towards it and stared at it intently until the sound died and it stopped moving.

"Jesus," I said, glancing at him.

"Did I forget to mention that this was once a haunted house attraction and is no doubt home to all sorts of childish pranks and scares?" Sherlock said, relaxed.

"Yeah, a bit!" I said. I wanted to continue, but Sherlock had already broken down the front door, and entered the house.

"John! Come on!" Sherlock stepped back to stare at me expectantly, "Whatever are you doing out here?"

"Planning your murder," I muttered, and made to step over the doorstep, but Sherlock's arm appeared over my chest, stopping me.

I waited for him to speak, but he was running a light touch over the lock. What he found seemed to concern him, but I knew if he wanted to tell me, he would, and I didn't want to know if he didn't. He would all put it together in the end, and no doubt I would figure it out then.

He then let me pass, turning around so suddenly, his coat flew out and hit me. He flipped the lights. We were in some sort of entryway, with a grand staircase that was about the width of four normal staircases, expanded into darkness above us. There were four rooms branching off around us, and Sherlock had already disappeared into one of them.

Ooh, scary! Not much of cliffie, but don't worry. I love cliff-hangers! *Insert evil, sadistic grin*. There isn't much action here, but there'll be more later!

Don't forget to give that review button a nice punch in the mouth (like the kind I like to imagine John will give to Sherlock when he finds out he's alive! Or...the kind I'd like to give to Sherlock for jumping off that damn building and putting me through months of emotional trauma!)