"Mycroft?" Watson opened the door and found Sherlock's brother on the other side. He looked more tired and surly than usual and his air of superiority seemed momentarily diminished.

"Where is my brother?" Mycroft's eyes flickered past John Watson into the flat of 221B Baker Street. It looked just as disheveled as usual: papers piled on the desk, a laptop screen glowing brightly underneath more papers, and an assortment of chemicals on the kitchen table. Not satisfied with John's silence, he moved quickly past him into the apartment, straight to Sherlock Holmes' bedroom.

The door was cracked and Mycroft didn't bother with knocking or gently rousing his sleeping brother. "Sherlock!" he barked, his voice penetrating Sherlock's colorless dreams. Sherlock groaned and rolled over, his back deliberately facing Mycroft. "I am growing impatient," Mycroft said, and pulled the blankets off of Sherlock, who quickly rolled back over and his tired eyes glared at Mycroft.

"Do you have any idea what time I went to bed?" Sherlock sat up on the edge of his bed and blinked several times to gain focus of his surroundings. He then turned his gaze back to Mycroft, his hands were covered in a thin powder which suggested he was wearing latex gloves earlier and there were a few drops of blood on his left shoe. It was easy for Sherlock to figure out Mycroft needed his help. Again.

"It doesn't matter, I suggest you get up. There's an urgent matter I need you to attend with me," Mycroft turned around left the room. John met him in the living room with a questionable look, which was promptly ignored.

Mycroft took a seat on the sofa and pulled out his phone, checking various messages. John studied him for a moment, when Sherlock trudged into the room, looking surly and miserable. Mycroft stood up and grabbed his coat. "Let's be on our way then?" He reached for the door knob.

"Are you planning on telling me anything about this murder? Or should I just guess?" His voice was deep and each word meticulously chosen.

"Perhaps we should just go," Watson said quietly, trying to absolve any argument that was already brewing.

Mycroft let go of the door and walked towards Sherlock. "Believe me; you'll want to see this firsthand. I won't say anything until then".

Sherlock stood for a moment, debating his next sentence. Instead, he grabbed his coat and scarf and walked out of the door. Mycroft made eye contact with John, who merely shrugged.

The London air was brisk for March; however the sun shone brightly, trying to promise Londoners that the day couldn't possibly be bad. Mycroft's car was parked in the front and he gestured for the men to get inside.

It was uncomfortable sitting in the backseat with two other grown men. John's thoughts were lingering on to where they could possibly be headed. Ever since he came to know Sherlock Holmes, his life was never dull, that was certain. On some days, though, John wished he could just lead a quiet life of desperation. Sherlock's voice penetrated his thoughts.

"You could have just rang and told us to meet you at St. Bart's," he muttered, crossing his arms.

John looked out the window and saw that the car was indeed approaching the hospital they spent so much time in, particularly in the morgue. He wondered if the love-struck Molly Hooper would be eagerly waiting. She reminded John of a puppy who loves their master no matter how mistreated it was.

The car pulled up to the visitor's entrance; Mycroft, John, and Sherlock exited. They walked in silence with Mycroft leading the way. Sherlock's eyes were taking in every miniscule detail: the nurse's puffy eyes indicating she had just broken up with her boyfriend, the receptionist's chipped nails indicating she had just come from kickboxing class, and the couple in the corner trying to digest the fact that their son did not make it.

Sherlock constantly detached himself from the harsh reality he was forced to live in; involving emotions was something he kept from doing, if he could help it. There have been one or two cases in which he could not help but let his feelings get in the way. But those cases could be counted on one hand.

Mycroft led them to the third floor. Sherlock and John exchanged looks that said: "where the hell are we going"? The third floor consisted of many critical care patients.

Nurses and doctors busied themselves from room to room, checking on their precious patients. A couple of nurses hurried towards a room with a crash cart, defibrillators on top, to a room at the corner, where an obnoxious beeping sound was coming from. Sherlock figured that he wouldn't be going to that room, with the family being shoved outside, so they could attempt to save a dying husband. No, Mycroft had a wonderful case in store for them, Sherlock knew that much.

But Sherlock wasn't prepared when they entered room 323.

A woman laid on her back, eyes closed. She had deep auburn hair and fair skin, with a few faint freckles on her cheeks and nose. The most striking feature of her face was the fact that most of it was bruised: someone had clearly beaten her and used an extreme amount of force. She was on a breathing machine and IVs were connected to administer morphine and various other pain and anxiety medications. A heart monitor was hooked up to her and John glanced at the screen, she was resting peacefully for someone in a coma.

John reached down and picked up her chart. "Unidentified female, around the age of 27… Covered in multiple lacerations on her back, legs, and arms… Bruised face, but no permanent damage...Multiple bruises all over the body, with no broken bones, however, there is a compound fracture in her left tibia, and several bruised ribs." He read the major parts out loud. "She's been comatose for three days now," he added. John looked up towards Sherlock, whose face was blank, as if in shock. Mycroft smiled slightly.

"John, I'd like you to meet one of our closest friends – Fiona Murphy," Mycroft said, his gaze fixed on the unconscious woman.