All was quiet at the flat, just as Sherlock liked it these days. No clients for weeks, meaning no grisley deaths to solve for insane customers who can tell you already who the murderer was, but needed some one else to bring justice. But that's one thing Sherlock couldn't do. Not anymore, at least. The one man murdered all those people. People with family and friends. But the one man Sherlock couldn't ever bring in. So he spent the days in the flat, and the nights, well the nights were reserved for relieving his tension. Tension built from a day of hiding from clients, and turning those who knocked on the door.

But today was different, for little Irene didn't knock; she practically broke down the door in her haste. Her stringy black hair tumbled into her face, and she was breathing heavily. Running to the flat, most likely. The 7 year-old's voice barely even waivered and she said, "Mr. Holmes, the Repo Man got my dad, and you're going to help me."

"No." Sherlock said gruffly, swinging himself out of his chair and picking up his violin. "I will tell you the same thing I tell the others: I solve the crimes, I don't arrest people."

The violin began to play, and Sherlock ignored the girl. "But you're going to help me. My name is Irene Adler."

The tune stopped abruptly. "Adler?"

"I thought that may catch your attention. Follow me."

Sherlock stood stiffly over the body of pharmaceutical professional, Dr. Adler. A large gash was riddled across his torso, and his entrails were missing. "It's His handiwork, no doubt."

"Well, yeah. No duh." The little girl stood impatiently near-by, her riding crop circling down by her side and occasionally slapping her knee.

Sherlock frowned at her smugness. "This is going to cost you."

Irene smirked, and, quick as lightning, pulled her bribe out of her sachel. "I figured it might."

The little glass vile glinted in the lights of the city. Sherlock's lips parted eagerly, and his fingers twitched with need. Irene held it expertly out of his reach. "It's a 7% solution. Pure. No grave robbing involved, just undistilled Zydrate."

Sherlock's knees threatened to weaken with desire and addiction, but he willed himself to stand. "Your talking about sending me in against the Repo Man. It's going to take more than one vile of Zydrate."

"I know. That's why I'm offering you ALL the viles of Zydrate. Dad wasn't just the creator, he was addicted, too."

Sherlock took the bribe. "Deal." Then he took out his gun and shot the drug into his system, before setting off down the alley.

"I want the Repo Man's head on a stick!" Little Miss Adler cried after him.

It was a request he could easily fill, for he knew exactly who the Repo Man was, and with a personal score to settle and a large enough bribe to get him started, Sherlock was a very dangerous, very determined man.

The Repo headquarters were quaint, nothing you'd look twice at, and certainly nothing you'd think would harbor a deadly legal killer. Just a house with a darkness. Nothing more. Sherlock picked the lock, and slipped inside with ease, sliding down the stairs with silence and stealth. Finally, he reached the basment room filled with surgical equipment, the smell of bleach, and the Repo Man. Sherlock leaned casually in the doorway and spoke to his back. "Oh, John. What have you gotten yourself into now?"

The shorter man in his worn and bloody GeneCo uniform straightened and squared his shoulders in a military fashion. Turning slowly, John said, "What have I gotten myself into? What about you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not taking lives and organs on the streets."

John clenched his fist and almost screamed, "Look at you! Addicted to Zydrate and almost homeless!"

"You were a Doctor, John!" Sherlock yelled back, "You were supposed to fix people! Starting with me!" Sherlock turned away, the light catching the large, mangled scar behind his ear. "But that's life, I guess." He whispered.

John cast his eyes down. "Sherlock, I tried. That tumor was-"

"I know! I've heard the medical jargon already." Sherlock glared at him, "'It's terminal, Sherlock', 'I can't get it all out, Sherlock'" The former detective mocked in a childish way that was not typical of him. The last months since John left had changed him dramatically.

"Sherlock, I TRIED MY BEST TO SAVE YOU! You were my best friend."

Sherlock's eyes blazed. "Well, you failed, and then you left me. Addicted me to a drug, destroyed a friendship, and left me for dead!" There was silence in the room. "Now there's a price on your head, and death on mine. I'm in pain, I'm dying, and that makes me a man with nothing to lose."

Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed John by the front of his uniform, lifting him and throwing him across the room. John quickly gathered himself off the floor in time to throw a punch into the tall man's nose. Sherlock reeled backwards, blood spurting from his nose. But the lanky frame bounced back quickly and grabbed the doctor again. "Sherlock, please!" John cried. "I don't want to hurt you!" He swung Sherlock around and into the wall, pinning him there.

But Sherlock's head connected with the wall, causing the tumor in his skull to burst. Stars danced behind the blue eyes, and Sherlock coughed once, spattering blood across John's face. The doctor backed up quickly, and the detective collapsed to his hands and knees on the cement.

John rushed forward again, "Sherlock, let me help you!"

Sherlock shrugged him off roughly and rasped, "Leave me alone!"

He coughed again, blood pooling on the floor. This time, he let John help him to sit against the wall. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Tears started falling down the ex-army doctor's face.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I wish you would've just came home."

"I'm so sorry." John whispered desperately.

Tears fell silently out of Sherlock's closed eyes, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. "John," he forced out, "My head hurts." Then he took a ragged breath, exhaled gruffly, then was still.

John's tears turned to outright sobbing as he held Sherlock's body in his arms. There was a pain in his chest that seemed to swallow him whole, and forced him to his feet. Carrying the tall man in his arms, he climbed the stairs and walked to the backyard. Then, he began to dig. Soon, he'd made a hole six feet deep, and seven feet tall. And with arms painted in dirt and blood, he buried his mate, and signed his resignation from GeneCo.