"He's only upset," they had told me. "He just needs someone to talk to. Someone to... attempt to understand him."

But as Sherlock held me against the wall, his body slamming into my own, I begged to differ. I could feel his tears falling onto my naked body, his nails digging into my neck, the knife through my shoulder pinning me to the wall, and his erection invading my most confidential of space. My dignity was slowly, painfully, being scraped away after every agonizing thrust. Soon maybe the same thing would happen to my life. I couldn't have wished for anything more.

There was no escaping now. The blood seeped out of my shoulder. I wanted to scream, but I was unable to gasp for air beforehand. It took me a while to register that I couldn't breathe. Sherlock's hands were clamped around my neck. I fought for oxygen, but it was no use. I was going to die.

As Sherlock's body continued to strike my own, as the hands around my neck tightened, as the pain in my shoulder began to fade, so did my vision. I smiled internally. There was a way out.

The world fell into complete darkness, all senses deceased. And my blood continued to fall, drop after drop after drop...

Two Years Later

"You want to see Sherlock Holmes?"

Leaning towards me on the opposite side of the desk sat the most scary looking man I had ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes upon. His face was coated with scars and rashes, and one of his eyes had been replaced with a glass orb. Of course, that wasn't what frightened me. I was a doctor, after all. His venomous smile worried me. It perfectly finished his almost demonic appearance. "You want to see Sherlock Holmes?" he repeated. His glass eye seemed to glimmer. "The man who stabbed you? Strangled you? Raped you? The man who couldn't have cared less whether you had lived or died?"

I swallowed. Saying 'yes' didn't seem particularly appropriate. "Yes, I'd love to talk to the man who viciously raped and near-killed me." Not exactly the typical reaction of an attempted homicide casualty.

Honestly, I can explain.

It had all started exactly two weeks ago. I was awoken from my sleep at 2:24am after having a nightmare (it doesn't take a genius to guess what it was about). I got up, half walked- half fell into the kitchen, and rummaged in the cupboards for cereal of some sort, hoping that the milk in the fridge wasn't too long out of date. That's when the phone rang.

Just a stupid company, wanting me to give them all my non-existent money, I thought. I left it to ring off, but two whole minutes later the ringing hadn't ceased. I dragged myself up and answered the phone. "Hello?"

Silence.

"Hello? Is anyone th-"

"Jennifer Wilson."

The slow, nasally voice rang in my ear. I froze as the sound registered in my brain, the sound that unmistakably belonged to Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. The line was silent for about ten more seconds before ending, the beep, beep, beep of the phone not registering in my head. Only the voice- his voice- could be heard above the sound of my internal screaming.

Three days later and I stumbled upon a very interesting article in the Daily Mail. A young woman, twenty six years of age, had been raped and suffocated, before being stabbed viciously in the shoulder several times. The method sounded almost too similar to the one experimented on myself. So when I read the name of the victim, I nearly vomited. Jennifer Wilson.

But Sherlock has a life sentence to serve in prison. In fact, it's impossible that he could have committed the murder. Right?

Well, all faith in my own intuition seemed to vanish completely in a matter of days. Tuesday this week and I received an identical phone call at the exact same time from Mr. I-believe-I'm-Incognito, this time referring to another poor soul, "Carl Powers." Yesterday he was found dead in his flat, naked, deprived of oxygen, and with a gaping wound in his shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes is killing again.
Sherlock Holmes is free.

Instantly, I set off to catch the first tube to Brixton, which is how I ended up here in a prison, sat at a desk with a man at my throat and his glass eye seeming to shine straight through me. "After all this time," the man hissed, more to himself than to the man sat right in front of him. "Why does John Watson want to see his little murdering buddy?" He turned to me, his face alight. "It couldn't be to do with the two murders in the papers now, could it?"

I bit my lip. "Both of the cases seem scarily identical to my own, and I-"

"And you wanted to see if he was the one behind all of this. Correct?"

I nodded, and instantly cursed to myself. The man smiled a slow, blood-curdling smirk. "Sherlock Holmes is currently in a cell more than twenty meters underground. Are you suggesting that we would just let him walk away?" The last two words were patronizingly prolonged. I almost stuttered as I answered.

"I would still like to talk to him. Sherlock is clever, maybe he knows who the murderer is-" I was cut off when a hearty laugh escaped from the man.

"You think Sherlock will help you? He doesn't care whether people live or die. You should know that better than anyone, John Watson." His grin widened. "You learnt it the hard way."

Stunned into a mortifying silence, my body turned to stone. I couldn't slam my fists on the desk as I wanted to. Shouting as loud as my lungs would allow didn't seem appropriate either. This man was right. Sherlock was a psychopath who enjoyed violently killing people. No matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, he would never help me. As he had cruelly proved to me two years ago, Sherlock couldn't care less about other people and their 'chemical defects'.

"If that is all, I will have someone escort you out. Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

I stood up woodenly, and not bothering to reply I turned and walked out of the office. And then I ran. Out of the building into the open world outside. And I continued to run, as far away as I could before I felt my lungs would burst.

I couldn't tell the police the name of the newest victim every time I received a phone call, as I would instantly become a suspect. Sherlock (if I did ever manage to fight my way into his cell) would never bother to help. The only person who could do anything now was me. I didn't have a clue how to solve the mystery, but I was more than capable of saving the life.

The next time I received a name, I knew exactly what to do with it.

Sherlock Holmes sat twenty meters underground at the opposite end of London, in a comfortable seat with a hot cup of coffee at his side and a newspaper in his hand. The only movement in the room came from his eyes, darting from left to right as he read.

'Carl Powers was found dead last night in his own flat. His body had been pinned to the wall with a knife through his left shoulder. Police say that he had been raped before being murdered, believed to be the result of suffocation. It is still a mystery as to what significance the shoulder wound has.

'This case is almost identical to that of Jennifer Wilson, who was murdered just a week ago, and was found in her flat, raped, strangled and with a bloody wound to her shoulder. The Police have confirmed that the two cases are, in fact, linked.'

What the police hadn't realized yet was that the same thing had happened to another man, a man Sherlock had not taken his mind away from in two years. Even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have been given the chance. Mycroft had malevolently reminded him of his sins. Every. Single. Day. Each of those days had been lived through in complete desolation, self-reproach stabbing him in the heart every time the same two words were cruelly jabbed into his ears. That name would never stop repeating itself. Never.

His daydreaming was interrupted when a sudden burst of light from above blinded him. Sherlock didn't waste his energy by turning his head towards the shadowy figure who was making their way down the stairs. Instead, he turned his attention to the newspaper again, gazing absentmindedly at it now, rather than bothering to read it. He stayed that way for a good five minutes, both stubborn men determined not to be the first to speak (because speaking is "an irritating way of 'proving' yourself to be approachable and anthropoid," according to Sherlock). The silence filling the room wasn't comfortable. Nor was it uncomfortable. Rather, it was... malevolent, shall we say? Finally, Mycroft sighed heavily, and mumbled something inaudible. Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows in reply, which resulted in another irritated sigh.

"I have news, Sherlock. About John Watson."

There it was again. The name. It took all of Sherlock's willpower not to grimace. "Hm?"

"Oh, come on Sherlock," Mycroft dragged. "You do want to hear the news, don't you?"

Sherlock's silence was replied by a cold shrug. "Well in that case..." Mycroft turned on his heel and headed back up the stairs. "I'll ask the maid to bring your dinner down here when-"

"No!" Sherlock stumbled to his feet. "Wait!"

Mycroft froze in his tracks, a grin invisible to Sherlock spreading across his wicked face. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Tell me-" Sherlock hissed though his teeth. "Tell me the news."

Mycroft's smirk had quickly reached it's full potential. "John Watson," he said carefully, making sure to hide the smug 'I win' coating his voice, "visited the prison today. He wanted to see you."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "What?"

"Don't you worry, it had nothing to do with 'sentiment', as you so romantically put it. According to Andrew he was certain that you had been on a little killing spree." He turned his head slightly towards Sherlock. "Have you?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes. "Not exactly."

Mycroft glared at him, not with disgust or loathing or even with fear, but rather, with a distaste you would have for a particularly unappetizing meal. "I worry about you, Sherlock. Constantly."

Sherlock fell back onto his chair. "I'd be more worried about your hopelessly fictitious relationship with Andrew, if I were you."

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft scoffed. "If you dare accuse me of-"

"First Anthea, then Andrew."Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Getting yourself a new goldfish because the other one died? How... oh, how should I put it? Sentimental of you."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed across the room. "Andrew was cooperative enough for me to bargain with him about your freedom."

"He was cooperative because he was being paid," Sherlock stated. "It had nothing to do with the fact that that your clothing, deodorant, hair and everything else was 'appealing'. It wasn't, by the way," Sherlock added casually. "It's as if you were being a little too optimistic about the sexuality of this man, which I can't understand in the slightest. If I was you, I'd at least find one with two eyes-"

The door was slammed shut, leaving Sherlock alone once again. This time, however, things had changed. John had visited the prison? This meant- Sherlock grinned smugly to himself- that he was desperate. Little Johnny boy had to fend for himself now, and he knew John well enough to know that he would fight. If he was unable to find help, John would make do without it. And if he was unable to solve the crime...

He would save the life.

John would continue to hunt Sherlock down. Step one: use the only possible source of contact he has. Why not make it a little easier for him?

The mobile to Sherlock's left was picked up, and the number was dialed. 01245 587423. He had memorized that number almost five years ago. Only two rings were needed before John hastily picked up the phone. "Sherlock?" John called into the phone. "Sherlock, is that you?"

"Edward Van Coon."

Not many Van Coon's in the phone book, both men mused silently. "If you're there, I want you to know that..." Sherlock heard him inhale slowly. "I hate you for what you did to me. I hate you for repeating... that, on two innocent people. Sherlock, you will not get away with this. I don't know where you are or what you're planning, but I will find you. Just hope I have the strength not to kill you when I do."

For the first time John was the one to hang up the phone, leaving Sherlock shaking with exhilaration. He stood up and, without hint of doubt, danced up the stairs, the door closing with a deafening bang behind him.

Oh, this would be fun. John Watson was back in the game. Sherlock had mourned over the loss of his only friend for as long as he could remember, and now it was plain as day where he would be found.

Sherlock's hunt began immediately. It took him less than an hour to trap his wretched prey.