John Watson ran hard through the streets of London, his feet pounding against the hard cement tiles. He was so close. After all of his work, his observing, his dedication, he was going to be rewarded. Panting, he chased the sillouette, who he promised him self would not get away again.

He had gotten the call from Lestrade weeks ago.

"John, there's this case I would like your help on."

"Why me?"

"You're good, John."

"Lestrade, I'm...I'm not Sherlock."

"I didn't say you were. Get down here."

"All right, Lestrade." and with that he hung up the call. He grabbed his old, worn coat and threw on his shoes. He hadn't done any 'detective' work with the police since Sherlock died. He had stayed at the surgery, solving mysterious cases of stomach aches, body injuries, and common colds. Now was his chance to venture out on to something real. Something dangerous. 'Oh, God yes.' He thought to himself as he dashed out of the door of his flat.

When he arrived at the station, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were waiting for him. He noticed the sly looks being exchanged between Sally and Anderson, the small flash of smiles flickering across their should-be concerned faces - according to how Lestrade looked. The detective inspecter himself was a bit absorbed into the case file, the brow furrowed deeply. He frowned and sighed to himself, then looked up and looked to John, some relief blossoming in his eyes.

"John! So glad you could come." he stated, as if he hadn't implied that John had to come regardless on the phone.

"Me too. So...what's the story here?"

"We may have a serial killer. There's been two reports of homicide, and they were deeply familar to each other."

"In what ways have you seen so far?" He asks, accepting the file Lestrade hands him. He shuddered a bit thinking how excited the world's one and only consulting detective would've been ecstatic to be solving this case. Remembering his old friend's scale, he decided that this case was at least an eight.

"Both victims had rusty nails shot into various areas of the head. The first victim had ten shot into her brain through the back of the skull. The blood was cleaned off of her, and she was placed on a park bench with a note on her that said, 'Let's count!'. The second victim, also female, had twelve lodged in her brain, same as the other. She was placed in a lounge chair by a community pool. Those are the only similarites we have, but we believe he or she will strike again. Most nail guns use this certain type of nail, and it's too general to come up with which type of gun the murder used. "

"And you don't know where or when?"

"No. We traced the records of the two girls and they were both students at the community college." he said carefully.

John continued to examine the file. Both girls had been juniors. The one course they had in common was Advanced Manufacturing.

"Lestrade, interview the students in this class. One of them must have known the girls, had something against them. You're probably looking for someone inventive, someone clever. Also, probably someone with a fetish, or OCD." the the three just looked at him, like how they used to stare at Sherlock.

"How do you know all of that?"

"Lestrade, you're probably right that this person is a serial killer. The victims were in the same class and period, killed the same way, and also had been cleaned up. It says here in the report that the girls had been murdered in their homes, and no signs of struggle occured, meaning that they probably knew the intruder. Maybe a classmate or friend or profesor. The fact that the first victim had a note that stated 'Let's count!' on it, and how the second victim had precisely two more nails in her skull than the first indicates that it was on purpose. The second girl was the murder's second target. The murderer's going to keep adding more nails when he kills. I can't think of a reason, as he or she could just use the same number to kill each time, but he or she doesn't. They probably have a common case of OCD where there has to be continuous counting of something for fear that something bad will happen if one doesn't continue the cycle. This person probably has a rust fetish of some sort, considering they used rusty nails each time." He stops and just looks back at the officers.

"That's great, John. So we're looking for someone in their class and who is also handy when it comes to making things?" Sally questioned.

"Sounds accurate to me. See, we're all making connections now." This was it. He had his chance to take something other than the safe, boring path. He had a real case.

Since then, there had been four more murders. They were also students taking interest in the advanced manurfacturing course. John, Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson had all been able to figure out an older student was the killer, who as John predicted, added the amount of nails in increments of two for each new kill. Tonight was the night they were going to bust him before he was able to continue his vicious streak of slaughter, catch him, take him away. All went according to plan until he ran.

That's where John was now, chasing the murderer. The other detectives were on his heels, trying to keep up with John's surpsingly fast pace. James - the killer - wound his way through back alley ways, trying to be evasive as ever.

"Oi! Stop! You can't keep running!" John called, when all of a sudden he tripped on something. He crashed to the ground and looked to see the dreaded nail gun had been left there hastily, and John tripped over it. On top of that hee couldn't hear James running any more, and he felt as if all of this was just a part of the sick man's plan all along. Make sure his follower falls, loses his bearings. All so he wouldn't be caught. "Shit." He sighed. He heard the eery scrape of the murder weapon being dragged up off of the cement, and the tip of a nail being pressed to his head. He had been so close, but of course he'd been beaten.

"Sorry for this, but I guess you'll have to be next. It really does break my pattern though." The killer drawled, seeming to savor the moment. The loyal blogger stayed on the the ground, waiting for death. He glanced around hoping to see his commrades. No one. They'd been lost in the sea of buildings, trying so hard to follow. He felt James tighten his grip on the now signiture weapon, and he closed his eyes tight.

"I would suggest you put that down." A low, ragged voice called.

"What the-!" The killer was pulled off of John. The blogger turned around to see a long, fluttering waist coat as the mysterious man knocked the murderous kid unconcious. He emptied the nail gun of it's contents before calling out to Lestrade.

"You." He said it, and tried not to believe it. He got up and looked into those icy blue eyes before turning on his heel and running. Surely he'd gone mad, because Sherlock Holmes was dead, his best friend was dead.

"John! Stop!" Sherlock called. 'Not real, not real. Ignore it. Not real.' John thought to himself as he ran, hearing once again, feet pounding against the pavement besides his own. Sherlock grabbed on to him, holding on tight, making the army doctor grind to a halt.

"You lied. You killed me." He turns and says to Sherlock, not denying it any longer.

"John let me expla-"

"No. You can't just come back and...and..." his vision blurred, and before he knew it he slumped to the hard, cold ground unconcious, overcome by what must've been shock. 'Sherlock.'