Disclaimer: I don't own anything from BBC America or Sherlock, but here's a new story for you guys! Hope you like it and PLEASE review and tell me what you think!

It was a new case. Thank God. Sherlock finally didn't have to wait around at home listening to John's silly complaints about how they were out of milk or where the clicker was. So boring. Lestrade had sent him a quick text, "Serial killer. Kidnaps only redheads, all bodies found scalped. Need help, come quickly."

"I'm going to the Yard," Sherlock shouted to John who was in the shower, "Don't know when I'll be back."

"What?" he heard John's muffled cry.

Sherlock was already out the door.

"Ah, you're here," Lestrade called when he saw the tall consulting detective walk through his office.

"Another murder," Sally Donovan narrowed her eyes and her voice was filled with bitter sarcasm, "you must be excited."

"It's not the murders that excite me, Sergeant Donovan, but the murderer," he retorted to her as he stepped into Detective Inspector Lestrade's office. Her eyes trailed him as he approached the desk.

"Killings, all of them. They're brutal so you might want to take a minute to prepare yourself before looking at the photos-"

Sherlock snatched the pictures out of the hand and stared at them intently. He looked past the brutality and violence of the image to uncover the true meaning and messages underneath.

"Interesting," he muttered under his breath.

"What is?"

"Shhh."

The pale lifeless eyes of the victim stared at Sherlock through the photo, but he looked at her body language, her clothes, her injuries, what weapons could have inflicted them. In a quick twenty-second sweep, Sherlock already had analyzed and deciphered most of the mystery. The killer had actually snapped the photo, only three fingers of his hand shown on the bottom right corner.

"Hmmm," Sherlock set the photographs down on the desk and typed something up on his phone, Lestrade's waiting eyes glued to his every movement.

"Well?"
"The killer is dying."

"Well, aren't they all."

"No, I mean he's sick."

"How do you know?"

"Just look, the wounds inflicted upon the victim were by a long solid object, either a club or a stick. But don't you see how the varying colors of the bruising alongside the wound show that his hands were shaking?"

"How does that prove he's dying?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The hand," he pointed towards the snap of the murderer's fingers, "clubbing of the fingers suggests heart failure."

"Heart failure?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Do you know nothing?"

"Ha-ha, but is there anything else?"

"Always. You're looking for a male between 45-53, dark brown hair, tall, and recently divorced."

"How do you manage to get all that from one teensy photograph?" the detective inspector blubbered.

"It's because he's a psychopath," Anderson appeared leaning on the doorway.

"Ah," Sherlock smiled tightly, "Anderson, don't you have someone else to incessantly annoy?"

"Isn't it amazing," Anderson gestured to Lestrade, "how this man can figure out all the clues of a murder because of three fingers?"

"It's because the capacity of your small brain cannot contain the knowledge it yearns to seek," Sherlock turned to the sergeant who rolled his eyes, "as I was saying-"

Sherlock smiled as shut the door on Anderson, "The hair on his fingers, dark brown slightly greying, between ages 45-53, tall because his hands are large, suggesting at a larger man, recently divorced because of the glimpse of the ring on his third finger. Dirty, old, damaged, but not thrown away. If he left her then he would have gotten rid of it, but no she left him, he kept it out of sentiment."

Lestrade was writing down furiously in his notepad.

"Update me when the next victim is in the morgue," he called to Lestrade as he walked out and proceeded to text Molly the same, he smiled to Sergeant Donovan and Anderson on the way out.

Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade pounded on the splintering green wooden door, "Open up! It's Lestrade!" Sergeants Donovan and Anderson behind him.

No answer.

Usually both doors were open and either John was fussing about the kitchen or Sherlock was running around with a new experiment. God knows about his experiments. It was 9 that night and the sky was already black, the winter wind chilling to the bone.

"Maybe he got attacked?" Anderson raised his eyebrows.

"No," Lestrade tried to wrestle with the knob, "Sherlock would probably scare em off with a wild deduction before they could do anything."

"Here," Sally reached up above the doorframe and pulled out a rusty old gold key.

Both detectives looked at her.

"What?" she defended herself, "I only found out about this when I came here to install the cameras in their flat."

She wiggled the key into the slot and it clicked open.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called, "Sherl-"

He stopped short at the sight in front of him. The flat was clean, it was neat. The papers that were usually scattered across the desk was put into little piles, the kitchen countertop cleaned and wiped, the refrigerator actually held food along with body parts, Sherlock's coat was hanging on the chair nicely folded, John's laptop was plugged in to charge and telly was turned off. But what surprised Detective Inspector Lestrade the most was the sight of Sherlock Holmes, the world's biggest arse, lying down on the couch, his eyes shut. He was wearing a dark blue t-shirt and grey sweat pants with black socks, his night robe on the chair. He had a wool blanket around his body, one long arm draped across it. His legs were resting on the opposite end of the couch and his dark curly hair was in a disarray. Sure, Lestrade had seen Sherlock drugged by Irene Adler, unconscious in the hospital after getting shot by Mary Watson, but sleeping? He didn't think Sherlock ever slept. It seemed unusual and wrong. His demeanor was not cold, hard, and bitterly sarcastic, but it wasn't the peaceful, angelic look that kids had either. He seemed calm, relaxed even. His pale face was illuminated even more under the moon's glow and he was breathing deep and even.

"Oh my-"

"Out," Lestrade cut Anderson off and ordered the two to leave.

"What? Why?" Donovan looked at her boss, "we just got here-"

"Out, I said, now."

He ushered them to the door and closed it tightly, locking it from the inside. He knew Sherlock, and he knew that his friend wouldn't want the two detectives that constantly annoyed him to see him like this. The Detective Inspector looked back once more at the sleeping man and proceeded to look around the flat. A note by John was left on his laptop.

Gone to the clinic, flu outbreak. Be home soon.

Lestrade knew Sherlock would come home and show off too John about the new findings he'd manage to deduce, unconsciously feeding John's booming blog. He opened the greymacbook laptop resting on the desk and typed in John Watson into the search bar. The blog appeared and Lestrade moved the cursor and pressed the link. Nothing had been published yet. There was a small number one icon next to a title that said "drafts". He clicked that and saw the beginnings of a blog write-up appear.

He skimmed his eyes over it. Bingo. Pulling out his camera phone, Lestrade took a quick shot of the screen.

"Do you have a warrant?"

Lestrade stiffened when he heard a voice to the side of him. It wasn't deep like Sherlock's, sure enough John was standing in the doorway. He had on a brown corduroy jacket with dark pants and his grey hair was slightly ruffled from the wind, his briefcase seemed like a weight in his hand but he wore an amused smile on his face.

"Hello, John," the detective inspector had a sheepish grin.

"Greg," John raised his eyebrows in slight question as he set his bag down.

"I'm sorry for intruding-"

"That was Sergeant Donovan, not you."

"How do you know that?"

John pulled out a small tablet that had a black and white grainy picture of both Anderson and Donovan on two separate camera screens, "You think your sergeants are the only ones who have cameras?"

Greg smiled and laughed, clever John Watson, always looking after his friend.

John turned around and saw his friend lying down on the couch, he looked for a second then turned away like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"I just had to collect some of the evidence," Lestrade gestured to his camera phone.

"I won't tell Sherlock," John turned and smiled at the man while sitting down at the desk.

"Thanks," Lestrade began to walk to the door and stopped, "how do you do it?"
"What?"

The detective inspector nodded at the famous Sherlock Holmes sleeping on the couch.

"How do I live with him?" John's face became thoughtful, "Sherlock is an amazing man. He has, as you have known, an extremely keen intellect but that came with repercussions as a child if you can imagine. He was forced to grow up and be better than anyone else and a brother like Mycroft couldn't have helped either," John scoffed, "he's easy. Leave a little food and water, remind him to go to bed now and again and it's manageable."

Lestrade smiled and shrugged his shoulders, "Goodnight John," he dipped his head and looked to Sherlock, "night, Sherlock."

The door closed to flat 221B.

John walked stiffly out of his bedroom still clad in his pajamas, hair sticking up, and eyes bleary from sleep. The apartment already smelled of fire.

"Sherlock?" John rushed into the living area, "Sherlock!"

"What is it, John, stop shouting," Sherlock was staring at his laptop. The apartment was already a mess and it wasn't even half past eight. The once neat apartment from last night was back to its usual hurricane of papers and odd Sherlocky experiments. Sherlock was fully dressed in a mint green button down with a black suit, his leather shoes were spotless and his hair was a neat curly pile on top of his head. A complete contrast to last night's Sherlock.

"Bloody hell," John fanned the air with a magazine, "what's that smell?"

"Overboil."

"What?"

"The tea, it's been on the stove for too long."

"Why didn't you get up and get it?" John asked while running over and turning off the fire.

"Because I didn't feel like getting up and I knew this exact scenario would play out, do grab me a cup on your way back," Sherlock didn't look up from the screen.

"What're you working on?" John placed a steaming cup in front of his flatmate.

"Oh, John, can't you guess?" Sherlock glared at him.

"A case?"

"Very good, your brain does work."

"What case?"

"Killings. Serial killings."

"You always like those ones, what did you say to me once? It was from A Study in Pink case-"

"Have to wait for the mistake."

"Yeah, right, so what is the mistake?"

Sherlock was silent and steepled his fingers under his chin.

"You don't know?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Oh my God, you don't know," John smiled.

Sherlock stared at him with his piercing blue eyes and shoved his phone into his friend's face. A gruesome picture of a young woman lying dead on the floor met his eyes and John turned away.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked the doctor.

"Sherlock I just woke up!" John turned away, he couldn't get the image out of his mind.

"John, what do you see?"

John forced himself to stare at the photo to appease his friend,"Gruesome wounds, blunt force. Stick or a club-"

"The girl, what about the girl."

"Young, skinny, tall, blue eyes, brown hair-"

"Exactly!" Sherlock slammed the laptop screen down.

"Alright, calm down," John raised his eyebrows, "what's wrong with brown hair."

"All the victims, John, have had red hair. Each of them were red-haired women, and now the killer murders a brunette. What to make of it!" Sherlock hissed.

"Maybe he changed his mind-"

"People don't just change their mind, especially serial killers!"

"What if this is the mistake?"

"No, its too obvious, you don't make a mistake like this-it's so significant. He's trying to make a statement," Sherlock began to pace the room, "brown hair, brown hair, brown hair. Tint of red? No, possibly dyed? No…"

John realized Sherlock wasn't talking to him anymore but was entering his Mind Palace. He slowly stepped away in the kitchen and let the brilliant mind do its job.

John knew that this case was going to be a taxing one. Sherlock rarely ever was outdone, if anyone were to question his motives he would deliver you an intricate rant that was more brutal than a beating. John read the paper, fixed himself another cup, and dusted up the kitchen a bit with no sound from his friend in the other room. Sherlock could stay like that forever, in his Mind Palace. His record was three days just sitting on his chair, fingers tapping against the plushy arm. John had to force him to eat by threatening that he'd take away his secret smoke stash.

The flat was quiet, peaceful for 95 minutes until Sherlock finally awoke.

"Aha!" He cried and came storming into the kitchen.

"What?" John asked,"what is it?"

Sherlock pulled out the head in a plastic bag from the fridge. John scrunched up his nose and looked away.

"Sherlock, can I ask why the head has to be out while I'm eating?"

"Man up, John, lives are on the line. Now, Mr. Hogard doesn't mind,"Sherlock looked into the head's dead eyes,"I have been performing an experiment having to do with human hair, John. How certain hair dyes affect the decomposition of the body. I got the report from Lestrade that there was traces of hydrogen peroxide and intermediate chemicals which can create a basic hair dye or coloring. This proves why the victim's hair was not red but brown."

"Are you sure it's hair dye?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked over to the counter where he picked out two chemicals and dipped a brush in each. He dabbed the liquid from one brush onto the matted hair of the head on the right side and did the same with the other.

"Observe."

He proceeded to start wiping away the dye with a wet cloth and surely two odd patches of hair were blond and a russet brown.

"You think the killer dyed the victim's hair?"

"A possibility."

"Why would one go through all that lengths?"

"Maybe they knew I was investigating, maybe they wanted to throw me off?"

"But with hair dye? Hell, if I was being investigated by you I'd stop murdering altogether. If the killer knew you were investigating, then he must've known that you would connect the hydrogen peroxide with hair."

"Yes, John, but if you were a psychotic murderer with a heart failure condition and you beat women to death, do you think you would be capable of reasonable thought at the moment?"

"Well, I suppose not, but if he is being able to manage to stoop you then he must know what he is doing. Maybe he is connected with previous murders? Maybe he is experienced?"
"Already looked, nothing that coincides with these patterns, and before you ask, yes they must coincide with the patterns. Killers think they are unique and try to make a murder with their own taste and style. Some prefer guns, knives, or in this case, big sticks. Now, if you found a red headed woman walking down the street and you were a strange, middle-aged man, how would you get her to follow you?"

"Hypothetically speaking, if I was a murderer on the prowl I would try to hit a sensitive spot in women. Children or family."

"Brilliant," Sherlock started to pace the floor, "you approach her, a flushed look on your face, and tell her your child is missing. Go on."

"Well, then I would ask this woman to accompany me to where I last saw my child."

"Mmmm, no, too risky. Something urgent, something tempting! Aha! "Look I see my child over there! Help me stop them!"

"Yes," John was on his feet now too, "take them down the wrong corner, boom, in the car and drive off."

"The murderer doesn't seem to stray far past Luxembourg and Brighton, now he hunts somewhere not too crowded. Avoid malls and tube stops. Someplace where he can blend. Many alleyways or corners."

"Jenningstons Square," John piped up, "half the street is corporate fancy offices and the rest is slums with homeless and thugs. Good place for a child missing deception and many alleyways for the junkies to hide, but still a woman in a suit can be seen leaving the office."

"Perfect," Sherlock smiled, his piercing blue eyes alive, "let's go catch a killer."

John and Sherlock ran back into the flat, panting and sweaty, well at least John was. Sherlock rarely seemed winded.

"Well?" John asked his friend.

"What?" Sherlock looked at him incredulously, "are you saying all that ruckus and you didn't take away one little detail? Oh my, I can't imagine how your silly little minds cope."

"Alright, enough," John cracked his back, "what do you got?"

Sherlock started to stomp up the stairs to the flat, his coat trailing and voice echoing.

"I went to the receptionist desk to the five corporate offices on the street. Only one of them reported a young woman missing, but it was rumored that the boss let her go. You know these receptionists, chatty little things. I couldn't get her to stop. She said that she believed that the missing girl had something bad happen to her. Nancy does Tarot, you see? Nancy is the finance clerk, fine woman. She saw in the cards that the missing girl was going to die soon, but she was too scared to say anything. So Jaclyn-"

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence.

"Sherlock?" John narrowed his eyes, "go on, something about Jaclyn-"

"Shh," his friend hissed. The tall, lanky detective was erect, his eyes wide and alert, lips pursed, hair ruffled, and skin pale.

John reached into his back pocket and pulled out his revolver.

"What is it?"

"I left the kitchen light off," Sherlock dipped his head to the shadow of light peaking out from under the door.

John cocked the gun.

"I'm going to go in first," Sherlock whispered very quietly, "you follow me, cover me, and if I get shot then you will be in a bloody boatload of trouble, do you understand?"

"Quite."

Sherlock reached his hand over and gently gave the green splintering wood door a firm push. It creaked on its hinges and opened sinisterly. Nothing happened. John held his revolver with a familiar grip. No sound, no movements. Both men felt like they were in a thriller movies, suspense building up by the second. Sherlock took a light breath and rushed into the kitchen his coat and John billowing behind him.

To Sherlock it wasn't a surprise to see what was before him. He wasn't expecting a battalion of soldiers who to be pointing their bayonets and shooting up the block. John might've, but what did he expect to do with a revolver? Come on, John, think it through. But there was a particularly gory sight awaiting the detective team. It was another victim. Her body was draped across the counter like a doll, her eyes wide and lifeless, her skin pale and cold, veins created spiderwebs under her skin, her hair was chestnut brown.

"Jesus," John turned away while Sherlock remained unnerved. His hands were stuck in his coat pockets and his blue eyes flitted across the scene.

"Examine the body, John."

"What? No-"

"Examine it, John."

Sherlock's voice was low and threatening. John was rarely ever familiar with this tone, it was mainly used with the enemy, but right now John was. He was done with this case. It had gotten too far. The killer knew where they lived and maybe he would target one of them. But Sherlock was working, yes he was silent but he was sprinting through ideas in his Mind Palace faster than John could form a coherent thought. And now John was in the way.

"Sherlock, there's a dead girl in our kitchen!" He lowered his voice as to not alert the neighbors, "now, this case has gone on long enough. Call Lestrade, tell him sorry but this is a no-can-do-"

"I'm not calling Lestrade, examine the body, John, now," Sherlock's lip curled slightly.

"Fine, I'll call him," John walked over to his bag he set down and rummaged through it looking for his mobile.

"Do not call him," Sherlock hissed, he was quick as lightning and each syllable was stressed. Sherlock never attacked with fists, but with his own words, "If you are not going to be useful in this case, then get out."

This stopped John. He looked up with cold eyes to see Sherlock's jaw set and his mind made. John thought Sherlock always valued their friendship, that he would pick John over a case any day, well at least he had hoped it. But today, he learned the real answer. Sherlock Holmes was a ex-addict, a detective, a lawless, cold, calculating, rude, and disrespectful arse and Sherlock never had friends. John finally understood Donovan's words the first day he met Sherlock.

"Wow," John nodded his head, "alright then, I can see what's more important to you. Good luck on, uh, this," he tried to turn his head away from the dead girl, "get that cleaned up."

John picked up his back, grabbed his leather coat and stepped out of flat 221B.