John Watson was having a particularly stressful day. His Wednesday morning had started off with three patients all coming down with a nasty bout of flu, one patient who sat with a trashcan in his lap slightly green and threatening to spill the contents of his stomach any second, and the next was a crying child that he had gently tried to calm down to no avail.

Now, after lunch, John stayed in his office, waiting for the next round of patients to begin. He sat behind his desk facing the gray September sky watching the cars and people several stories below moving bustling about like small insects in a frenzy.

John had always loved London, but ever since he returned from the war he felt unsettled. The dullness of everyday life was not something he had anticipated, but it was so palpable—a constant presence in his mind. His limp had gotten worse and his shoulder ached, especially on cold days and winter was fast approaching. John found himself thinking more about the future. In two weeks the lease in the flat would be up, and he would either need to find a new place to live or just renew the current one. John hated his flat, although he would never admit it outright to anyone. It didn't feel like home, as he came back from work each evening to an evenly made bed complete with hospital folded corners and a spotless desk. There was nothing personalized, no pictures or trinkets that gave any indication as to the personality behind the man that was living there.

Sherlock was having an annoying day, but then again, every day was either annoying or dull unless a particularly good murder came up, so there was nothing new there. He was sitting behind the microscope in St. Barts, studying a particular piece of shallot skin that had been found in the dead man's pocket when Sargent Sally Donovan barged in.

"Hey, freak. Lestrade has been calling for you."

Sherlock ignored her, focusing instead on the degree of thinness from the shallot skin. "He says he has something you might like, an assignment of sorts."

When Sherlock still didn't respond, she shrugged and turned from the door. "Suit yourself then. It's not every day that we have three linked murders."

Sherlock's head snapped up immediately but she had already left. He took his phone out of his pocket, and had two missed calls from Lestrade.

To: Lestrade

Serial killer? What is the body count?

Less than a minute later, a response:

From: Lestrade

Nothing confirmed, at least 3.

Sherlock grabbed his jacket and took a cab to Scotland yard.

As John was shutting down his computer and getting ready to go home for the night, there was a soft knock at his office door.

"John?" Sarah's voice was muffled through the wood. John cleared his throat.

"Erm… yes. Come in, Sarah." She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her.

"Crazy day, wasn't it? I thought it would never be over." Giving a sigh, she sat on the edge of his desk. He noticed the way her skirt slightly rose above her knees as she moved. He forced his eyes upward and gave a weak smile.

"One of the busiest we've had in a while. Tends to happen when the weather starts to turn like this. People get sick." He shrugged. To his own ears, his voice sounded forced. Sometimes it was difficult for him to have a normal conversation when the weight of the dullness of the day settled in over him. It wasn't that he disliked working with his patients, or Sarah, or anyone else. There was just something missing that John couldn't figure out. As if she could read his mind, Sarah glanced over him carefully.

"Are you happy, John? Working here, I mean. Because sometimes I get a glimpse of your face and…." She trailed off, looking at him uncertain if she was crossing a line.

"No! No, I love working here. I'm fine, I feel like I am just trying to adjust still, you know? I was discharged less than a year ago." Sarah nodded.

"Listen, I normally wouldn't mention it. But I heard from a colleague of mine that there's this job opening. It seems pretty interesting, but nothing permanent because it will only last for a few months. You… you like to travel, don't you?"

John considered this. Yes, he did like to travel. He'd been thinking about it more often lately.

"It's in New York City. You'd be working closely with a forensic analyst. There's been isolated sickness around the States, mostly British citizens and they're trying to figure out the cause."

John laced his fingers together, but remained quiet.

Sarah said quickly, "Of course, you might not be interested. But I thought it sounded like you. And you'd have a job when you get back."

"I have to admit, the change of pace sounds nice…."

"Just think on it, and let me know tomorrow. Have a good night, John." Sarah smiled and left his office. John sat, looking off into space. He'd been to the United States once before, on a family holiday when he was sixteen. Isolated sickness sounded suspicious, and somewhat dangerous. At the thought of danger, John's head began to feel light, his heart started to race.

"I'll have a what?" Sherlock's voice rang out in the small office. Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson were standing behind a seated Lestrade at his desk.

"A partner, Sherlock. You'll need a partner, a doctor more specifically. You'll work together closely to solve the case. This isn't typical. There are two parts to this."

"Dull. I don't need anyone. I can figure out as much as any doctor can."

"Do you want the case, or not? Because I can pay someone else to do it, someone who will be more grateful…"

"No," Sherlock snapped, "I want the case. There hasn't been anything this interesting in ages. You can keep your money." Lestrade sighed and put his elbow on his desk, resting his head against his palm. There were at least six hairs that had turned silver on Lestrade's head since the last time he had seen him, Sherlock noted.

"You'll need the money I give you. There's one more thing I haven't told you about this case."

"Well?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Don't make me guess—"

"It's in the States." Lestrade finished for him.

"Obviously. Your nails are bitten down, a nervous habit when you fly. There's a small red stain on your collar, pizza sauce- higher concentration of tomatoes because of the color, usually found on New York style pizza or some other low-end Italian food, stain looks to be about eight hours old. You had three American quarters sitting on your desk when I walked in, and a small ink sample on your right palm, meaning that the ink from your tourist visa rubbed off on your skin as the customs officer handed your passport back. So. New York City, fresh off the plane."

Lestrade stared at him.

"Right. Well… what we have so far isn't much. We know that people are getting sick. There was a small breakout in New York this week, and the same sickness seems to be shown in North Carolina, and a third group near New Orleans."

"And why do we care about the United States? Why does this fall under our jurisdiction?" Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't I mention? These are mostly British citizens. There have been at least three deaths that I was telling you about so far. All British, all in the east village of NYC. Suddenly the British government is interested, and putting pressure on us."

"Mycroft," Sherlock said bitterly, "He'll do anything to get me out of the country."

"Don't be thick, Sherlock. Mycroft didn't cause these murders"

"Of course not. But he would direct your attention to it, conveniently sending me away to work out the case." Lestrade turned toward Anderson and Donovan. "You two, give us a moment, will you?" Dovovan shook her head and the two of them left the office.

"Listen, Sherlock. You're the best man I've got, and I'm only willing to admit that half the time. I won't want anyone else doing this."

Sherlock gazed steadily at him, not saying anything at first. When Lestrade was about to give up, Sherlock suddenly spoke.

"When do I leave?"

Lestrade smiled, "Day after tomorrow. I'll send you your ticket, and the information of the doctor as soon as I have it. The two of you will meet at JFK, rent a car, and you'll receive further instructions from there."

Sherlock left his office without another word.