Chapter One

A long time ago

We used to be friends

But I

Haven't thought of you lately at all

1.

John looked anxiously up at Sherlock, practically hopping along beside him in an attempt to keep up. He had rarely seen the man move this fast, and for a moment he allowed himself to become absorbed in the steady focus on his face – then John reminded himself what was coming up and, with a quick turn of the heel, stopped directly in front of Sherlock. Watching him skid to a halt was an experience as long limbs flailed in an attempt not to crash; finally Sherlock's features folded into a scowl.

'John, what on earth is the matter with you? Come on –'

'Um, Sherlock, there's something I need to talk to you about. Something Lestrade asked me to tell you.' As John paused to scratch the back of his neck and wrinkle his nose up a little, wondering how to handle this, Sherlock had snatched John's arm, demanding that they walk and talk. John knew that letting him watch CSI had been a mistake; he was coming out with these ridiculous phrases all the more often. Puffing a little as Sherlock dragged him along, he began, 'no, Sherlock, you see –'

It was too late. They were here, on a river bank some way out of London. The stones rumbled under John's feet as they skidded to a halt, Sherlock sticking his hands in his pockets and frowning, head tilted to one side. Typical thinking pose. Lestrade hovered nearby, waiting stiffly for Sherlock's reaction; after a moment he turned to John and mouthed,

'I thought I asked you to –'

He was interrupted by a shrug from John and Sherlock's low, smooth voice asking,

'Who are you?'

There was a beat of silence; for one peaceful moment all John could hear was the sound of rushing water and bird song. It was sunny – a nice day. He thought how nice it might be to come alone – maybe with a girlfriend. Perhaps he could bring Sarah along with a picnic –

'I'm sorry, did you not hear me? What's going on here?'

The girl, bent over the body, straightened and eventually turned, a smile on her face. She was tiny, framed almost comically in an enormous cardigan, her messy hair pulled up into a pony tail – ready to work. Not here to impress, then. She smiled and held out a hand to Sherlock, her grin fading a bit at the man's stony expression.

'Sophie O'Malley,' she told him, sticking out her hand. John watched Sherlock carefully, rocking back on one foot for a moment. He wasn't sure what he was expecting – an explosion, maybe. Sherlock Holmes literally spontaneously combusting; it would certainly make life easier, if not a little more boring. He certainly wasn't expressing the barest lift of the lips – a blur of recognition before his face retained his normal stern countenance. People only would have seen it if they had been thoroughly scrutinising him; Sophie certainly wasn't. She had turned, slightly, distracted by the screech of a seagull, not noticing the slight hitch of breath that only someone stood as close as she was could have heard. Turning back, she retracted her hand with a light shrug.

'What's she doing here?' Sherlock asked Lestrade, rather distinctly not looking at Sophie as he tugged off his gloves – as if he were preparing for a fight. He straightened his shoulders, ruffled a hand through his hair; turning back into himself again. Preparing the front.

'Sophie's agreed to give us a hand with some cases; she's been very kind,' Lestrade smiled, nodding towards Sophie who blushed, looking down at her feet.

'It was nothing. I enjoy it.'

Sherlock took a step towards Lestrade; they were practically nose to nose. It remained like that for a tense few seconds, until Sherlock finally started up,

'You pay her! You pay her – how much! Is it per case or hour? My God, really –'

'Sherlock,' Lestrade muttered, his voice low in warning. 'Don't be rude.' He at least had the sense to look uncomfortable. Sherlock wheeled on the girl, his coat fluttering in the wind – but she had disappeared. Kneeled, now, next to the body, the dampness of the pebbles soaking in through her leggings as she shivered uncomfortably. She pulled up the eyelids of the corpse, then inspected his fingernails.

'He just turned up here – no form of identification in his pockets. A wallet, but all the cards were taken that gave his name or address. Just some junk left in there. Washed up from the river; we can't find any matches for his picture on anything. It's a total mystery,' Lestrade told Sherlock as John pressed a hand to his forehead.

Sherlock kneeled down next to the girl, beginning to flip through his coat pockets. Double checking. As he sat in silence, the girl started up abruptly,

'I need the money, that's all – Lestrade's a family friend, he offered me the job –'

'Yes, thank you for your pleasantries, but I'm working. Kindly be quiet.'

Sherlock was quick – confident. It was barely a few seconds before he started up,

'He has a manicure – his suit's expensive too. So an office worker then. Neat shoes – everything's not just neat it's perfect. Pristine. Hair not just combed but gelled – look how it's stuck, even after he's been floating down the river. He's middle-aged, upper-class – his face doesn't match any security records then? So either he's from out of the country – or. Very, very top-secret agent. The country's secret weapon. That would explain the bullet hole – it's from no hum-drum pistol. Judging by the size and the fact that the bullet came out the other end, it's the Varsity L19; the most high-tech stuff going. Lestrade – get my brother on the phone. Case solved – I suppose we won't be needing your help, Soph –' here he stopped. John watched him again, whilst everyone else was still absorbed. Lestrade desperately scribbling notes, Sophie studying the body. The same hitch of breath, a choke at the name, before he started up again after barely a pause, 'Miss O'Malley.'

Sherlock straightened, began to walk away – they all began to walk away, bar John. He still watched Sophie as she peered closer at the body; then she went rigid. Scrabbling into the pockets, she pulled out the wallet and began frantically poring through the so-labelled "junk" that had been left in there. Finally she held out a hand, not even turning, calling out,

'Stop!'

A/N: I am warning you guys now that this story will contain:

swearing

references to drug use

sex

I gave it a K rating because you don't get ratings on books, and I wanted people to come in with an open mind. I'll put warnings the chapter before if anything explicits going down (so far we have one sex scene that I've written, so we're doing well folks!).

Expect swearing throughout.

I DON'T LIKE CENSORSHIP OKAYS?

Also I hope you like this! If you review I will buy you cookies and send them to you*

*By cookies I mean virtual cookies and by "send them to you" I mean write you a lovely thank you message.