AN: So here we are, my latest story and the first story that I've written for this fandom (can you call it a fandom? I guess so...right?).

I usually get nervous when it comes to posting new stories especially when it's based on a show I don't usually write for.

To be honest, I don't really know when the idea for this story came to me, but I thought it would be a good idea. Seems to be going pretty well at the moment.

Well, let's get to it.

Hope you all enjoy it!

Disclaimer: With the exception of the OC in this story, I do not own any of the characters used, they belong to the brilliant, amazing minds that are Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

Chapter One – Out of My Zone

"John, I've already explained this." Sherlock sighed, exasperated as he descended the stairs, John close behind him. "The cause of death was not strangulation, as Lestrade's idiotic team decided to inform the deceased relatives without even concluding anything with me. Honestly, how can a group of forensic scientists be so blind? It was plain to see, it was a good thing that I was even there, or else it would have been another case they'd ha-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, breaking the sociopath from one of his usual tangents.

"It was exactly what I had predicted from the moment I entered the scene. The man died from inert gas asphyxiation but because of the hand marks, which he left, around his neck due to the fact he could not breathe it looked as though he had been strangled."

John stopped and ran over the events of their latest case in his head, remembering the details of the way in which they found the victim. He remembered the man's eyes, wide with fear and almost as though they were going to pop from their sockets and he shuddered.

"How many times go I have to go through this?" Sherlock moaned, "Go and ask Mrs Hudson about her favourite brand of biscuits if you want such a repetitive conversation…"

Sherlock came to a stop as he reached his front door. It happened so quickly that John had only realised at the last moment bumped into Sherlock's out-stretched hand.

"What the…?" John asked, only to be silenced by a sharp look from his friend.

John watched as Sherlock knelt down and swiped a finger through the small red pool on the floor. He brought the sticky substance to his nose and inhaled, the smell confirming what he had known from the second they had entered the building moments ago.

"Is that…?" John frowned.

"Shh!" Sherlock hushed as he stood up to push the already open door further ajar.

The room was untouched, a quick scan of the room told him that nothing of any value had been taken, so he crossed burglar off his mental list of possible intruders. Using the droplets on the floor as a guide, the two men made their way into the flat, heading towards the open plan kitchen.

"Sherlock." John called, pointing towards the sink.

The detective turned his head and noticed the red liquid that covered the sink and the taps. He quickly spotted the missing glass from the draining board, filled with the washing up Mrs Hudson had done earlier.

"Stay back, John." Sherlock warned, gesturing for him not to move.

"Why? Who's in ther-?"

"Stay. Back." He repeated, his firm tone giving the doctor to do as he was told.

John sighed as he trudged back towards his chair and slumped into it. He hated it whenever Sherlock told him to stay away from things. The man was more than capable of handling himself. A small smile worked its way across John's face as he realised that Sherlock was just trying to keep him safe.

"You can be nice after all, Sherlock."

Sherlock continued on towards his bedroom, but quickly backtracked turning to face the bathroom door. His entire flat smelt of blood, sweat and tears, but as he stood outside the bathroom there was one smell he knew instantly. Fear.

He paused and carefully reached for the handle, his hand enclosing the cold silver metal. He applied just enough pressure to slowly open the door, the muffled sound of running water becoming clearer as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. He was greeted with a young woman slumped in the bath. The overwhelming smell of blood spilled out into the hallway, but he didn't care. He was sure Mrs Hudson had a can of air freshener somewhere. Within seconds, he shuffled out of his jacket, knelt down beside the bath and was taking her pulse.

He had to admit, it surprised him when he found it to be at a slow, continuous pace. Another quick scan and he deduced that she had to have been in her current position for at least 4 hours, at least. He moved fingers and clasped her hand, she was unconscious but he knew that if she were to wake within the next few minutes, the contact would be a source of comfort to her.

"It's alright. You're going to be alright."

He wasn't entirely sure if she could hear him, he remembered John would always say it to those they found in a compromising position, even though he didn't see the point. But given the current circumstances, he felt that it was one to those it could be used. He concluded that it was another form of comfort. Something Sherlock didn't have a PHD in.

He shifted his weight slightly so that he could grab a towel and a flannel from the basket under the sink, dropping the flannel into the pool of water that surrounded her feet.

The missing glass was now in shards in her free hand and Sherlock had finally solved the puzzle as to how she had ended up in the bath.

"Sherlock!" John called, breaking Sherlock from his mind palace.

"John, go and check on Mrs Hudson and bring me some newspaper!"

Rolling up his sleeves, Sherlock wrung out the flannel and proceeded to wash off the veil of blood that covered her slim frame. By the time John had arrived with the newspaper, Sherlock had completely cleared the blood off her chocolate skin, the water in the bath now a deep red.

"Don't come in!" Sherlock snapped as he heard John pull on the handle. "Just leave it on the floor outside please."

"Please?" John frowned. "Please? He never says please. Well, only to Mrs Hudson, he knows she'd kill him if he didn't, but not to me. What the bloody hell's going on?"

John decided not to ask, he knew that whatever it was, Sherlock could handle it, instead he let the newspaper fall to the ground with a loud slap before returning back to his seat. He couldn't understand why Sherlock wouldn't let him inside the bathroom. He had already worked out that whoever was there was covered in blood, he had followed the same droplets as Sherlock. Perhaps it was someone John knew?

A thought he quickly shook out of his head, Sherlock couldn't have known everyone John knew, and he didn't really have that many people he counted as close friends. So it couldn't have been anyone he knew. Whoever was in there, he was sure he'd find out soon enough.

Sherlock opened the door to grab hold of the newspaper before returning to his position at the side of the bath, his hand clasping that of the unconscious woman. He opened up the paper and reached over the bath, taking hold of the broken shards which lay in her hand. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open and she squeezed his hand.

"It's not mine!"

"Damn it!" he exclaimed, dropping the shards he had in shock.

"It's not mine." She repeated, shaking her head.

"What isn't?"

"It's not mine." she said for a third time, holding his gaze for a few seconds before falling back into her unconscious slumber.

Sherlock continued with his task, rolling up the newspaper into a ball and throwing it into the bin behind him. He quickly stripped her of wet clothing, deciding to keep her underwear on. He was sure she wouldn't be too happy to find someone had stripped her naked whilst she was unconscious, even if it was with good intentions. Turning on the shower, Sherlock cleaned off as much of the blood as he could, remembering to be as soft and careful as he could. He could still feel the sense of fear that was emanating from her and he didn't want to do anything to make it worse.

He emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, the woman now in his arms, her head on his shoulder, wrapped in his jacket for an extra layer of warmth. He could hear the sound of John's foot tapping its usual rhythmic beat, shaking his head before kicking open the door to his bedroom, sending a booming echo through the small hall.

"What the bloody hell was that?" John shrieked, jumping out of his chair.

"Oh, do relax, John. If your life was in danger, I highly doubt it would involve me kicking down the door to my bedroom now, would it?"

"You know; I beg to differ on that. I do recall Mary telling me of how you pulled burning logs from a bonfire to save me." John smirked, as he made his way into the bedroom.

His mouth fell open as he saw Sherlock sat by the side of his bed, moving damp strands of her hair away from her eyes. He stood there in shock, simply watching as his friend continued to be as delicate as possible with his task of putting her under the covers.

"Sherlock…there's a woman in your house." John finally said, pointing.

"I can see that, John."

"She's in your bed."

"I put her here."

"She's in your coat."

"Yes, John. I put her in it."

"She's unconscious."

"I know, John."

"Who is she?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, shaking his head. "But I need you to check her over."

John looked up at his friend on the opposite side of the room and frowned.

"Wait so, let me get this straight, there's an unconscious woman in your flat, in your bed, in your jacket and you have no idea who she is?"

"John, if I did, I wouldn't exactly what her to be spending time unconscious and covered in blood in the bath unless I wanted her like that. Can you check her ov-"

"You know the last woman who was in your flat, in your bed and in your jacket ended up dead."

"Well, thank you for reminding me of that John. You know I'm not one to re-visit the past. Now, are you goi-"

"And, not to mention, she just so happened to have top secret documents, which she stole from your brother only to give them to Moriarty, who she just so happened to be working fo-"

"When you are done informing me of events I have been present at, perhaps it might be a good idea for you to shut up and check her over for any injuries. Is that something you happen to be capable of doing, Doctor Watson?"

John was taken aback by Sherlock's outburst. He never called him Doctor Watson. Well, he rarely ever did. He hadn't meant to push his buttons, it was just the fact that, based from past events, every time a woman Sherlock knows has ended up in his bed it hasn't ever ended well for the woman. He didn't want the same thing to happen again. Not after the way Sherlock felt for the last woman who was here.

"It is." He replied, apologetic.

"Good, then I suggest you begin then, don't you?" Sherlock said as he left the room, and headed down to Mrs Hudson, the bag of damp clothing that belonged to the nameless woman inhabiting his bedroom in hand.

By the time he returned, John was in the hall about to close the door to his bedroom.

"Hold on, John." Sherlock called, quickly scooting past him and back into his room. "I don't believe it would be good for her to wake up alone."

"Point taken." John smiled, heading back into the room and sitting on the window sill.

Sherlock dumped the bag at the end of the bed and rested the back of his hand on her forehead.

"Diagnosis?"

"She's got a fractured wrist, a few cracked ribs, a concussion and a strained calf muscle, which means it's going to be hell for her when she comes to put weight on her leg. Nothing a few days' rest won't fix."

Sherlock nodded in thanks, which John matched with a nod of his own, and the two men looked at the woman in between them, sound asleep.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't the kind of man to comment of a woman's beauty unless it was related to an investigation. Yet there was something about this woman that intrigued him. Perhaps, it was the mixed smell of blood and fear he had caught on to as he arrived home. It seemed to ignite his usual senses. Not to mention the fact that he had a number of questions to ask her as well, stupid ones, that under the usual circumstances he would have been able to figured out himself. But if he was going to be any help to her, then he needed to ask them all the same.

He frowned and ran a hand through the curly mop that was his hair. Usually whenever anyone arrived at his house without his knowledge, he ended up in some kind crazy spider web of a mystery. Yet, as he looked upon her sleeping form, he couldn't help but think wrong place, wrong time. Why? He wasn't entirely sure, and that frustrated him more than anything. Well, that and not having anything to do.

"Any ID?" John asked, breaking Sherlock's train of thought.

"Nope," he answered, popping the 'p'. "Mrs Hudson didn't come up to check what had happened. She thought the loud thud from the bathroom was us."

"What did she think we were doing?"

"Hiding a body for Lestrade."

John shook his head and let a strained laugh pass through his lips.

"Well, to be honest, she isn't far off."

He wasn't that surprised with her answer, with the amount of stuff John had seen since working with Sherlock, he imagined that Mrs Hudson must have heard all sorts of things since Sherlock had inhabited this humble abode. He went to ask a question but his phone rang and he reached into his pocket to see it was Mary.

"It's urm…"

"Go ahead, John. It's probably important," Sherlock said, placing the back of his hand on the lady's forehead.

John nodded and headed for the hall, turning around to pull the door shut. As he did, he caught Sherlock do something he had never seen him do before.

"John?" Mary called from the other end, "John, are you alright? John?"

"Hmm…what?"

"Are you alright? I tried calling you earlier but you weren't picking up."

"Yeah, I'm…I'm fine." He replied, closing the door.

The woman's temperature was normal, and her pulse was still as it was when he had first found her. He reached for the bandaged hand that held the broken glass shards and turned it over to inspect the damage. He nodded, satisfied with how it looked. The bleeding had stopped and he ran his thumb slowly across the small gash in her palm.

It was odd, this kind of contact was new to him, yet he felt comfortable enough doing so all the while. he reached forward and ran a hand down her cheek. As his fingers made contact, a sharp jolt ran through his hand and he snapped it back as a reflex. His eyebrows furrowed as he felt some kind of familiarity with everything that was happening right now and it was putting him on edge. There was something about her that he recognised. He knew her from somewhere, he was sure of it. He just wasn't sure where or when. Either way, whoever this woman was, Sherlock had already decided he was going to help in whatever way he could.

The Next Morning

Mrs Hudson poured her third cup of tea, by the time the woman had finished her first. She wasn't really one for tea, but she drank it out of courtesy. She had emerged from the bathroom to find the housekeeper, a fact she had refuted throughout the entire conversation, clearing the kitchen table and setting a tray of two cups on the table. She had already started talking about something to do with her husband but the woman was paying no attention. She was thinking back to the moment she entered the bathroom after waking up this morning.

There was something about the bathroom that seemed vaguely familiar, but she was sure she had never seen it before.

The blood she was sure had covered the tub had disappeared, the glass she had broken was gone. And yet, the bathroom was spotless. It looked as though no one had even stepped in it from the day they moved in.

"You're going to be alright."

That voice…there was something about it that seemed to calm her…intrigue her.

"Don't come in!"

And then a hand…

She looked down at her hand and looked at the gash that stretched across her palm. She remembered the soft touch of someone removing the shards that lay in her hand. It was all her mind could remember, the hands that ran down her arms, whoever they belonged to, she was sure they were strong.

They had to have been, she was sure someone had carried her into the bed. She had no recollection of how she got there. The last thing she remembered was squeezing someone's hand with all her might.

Mrs Hudson shook her head and poured a fourth cup of tea, handing the woman her cup, which she had re-filled, before taking a sip of her own.

"I'll tell you what, he makes such a mess that boy." She sighed, as she looked around the room. "I'm always telling him where to put things and how to keep them clean but he never listens. Sometimes, I think he's deaf. He probably isn't, he does hear me but only when he wants to. It's like I'm looking after a child, and I don't even know what that's like. I don't have any kids. My husband was executed before we even spoke about it."

The woman watched as Mrs Hudson had downed her cup and reached for the biscuits, popping one into her mouth. Part of her was worried that there was something in the tea, Mrs Hudson was drinking so much and that she wondered whether it was just to spur her on, to drink more of her own. Perhaps, it was just because of how much she talked. The only thing she had said was "nice to meet you" after Mrs Hudson had introduced herself.

There probably wasn't the woman she was sitting next to looked completely harmless, but she couldn't take the risk all the same.

"But then again, I suppose that working for the police will force you to neglect the state of your house. I mean, the hours he spends out of the house…"

"I'm sorry, but who are you talking about?"

"Well, Sherlock, dear." She replied, almost laughing. "I mean; you did spend last night in his bed. Did he not introduce himself?"

The woman's mouth fell open and she frowned, annoyed that Mrs Hudson's immediate thought of her was so low.

"No, he wasn't there when I woke up." She replied, biting the inner corner of her mouth to stop her from giving a passive retort.

Mrs Hudson shook her head, and headed over to the kitchen sink, taking the tray with her.

"That's unlike him. The last woman he had in his bed told me that he always made sure to say goodbye before he left. But then I suppose that's because they were dating."

Mrs Hudson was so busy talking that she had forgotten to take the cup from the woman's hand. She looked up at Mrs Hudson, who was still going on about the nature of why she had been in Sherlock's room, and waited until her back was fully turned before letting go and watching as the china ornament fell to the floor, smashing into a million pieces.

"I…I'm so sorry," she apologised, getting on her knees to pick up the shards. "I wasn't watching and I must have knocked it off the table. I'm so sorry."

"No, don't worry." Mrs Hudson smiled, joining her with a dustpan and brush. "Sherlock's always shooting at that blasted smiley face on the wall. These were a present from my husband's mistress, so it's no bother to me. I've been meaning to get rid of them."

The woman held back an inner sigh as she held Mrs Hudson clear up the mess. But, at least it got her to stop talking. If only for a moment.

"You know, I've been going on and on so long that I've forgotten to ask who you are. What's your name, my dear?"

The woman opened her mouth to answer but her mind went blank. For some reason, she couldn't think of what to say. She tried again, only to come up short a second time.

The harder she tried to rack her brain, the more her head began to ache.

"What the hell was going on?"

She couldn't have forgotten her name, surely?

She tried to think back past arriving at the flat but she got nothing. It was as if her brain had switched itself off. Even the memories she had of being in this flat were pretty vague. She knew nothing, not a single thing. It was like the recollection part of her brain didn't exist or was going through some sort of troubleshooting. Her mind just didn't seem to be functioning as it should. The harder she tried to think, the harder her head began to throb. She didn't remember falling and hitting her head, so something else had to have happened.

How does one forget their own name?

She'd hit her head before and been in all kinds of scrapes but never none that on a level where she couldn't remember her name.

This was something else, entirely. Something that she had never known before and that scared her more than anything. Not to mention she was already on edge as it was. This was a whole new level of complicated she was now going to have to deal with. And the only person who could help her, was the man who owned the very flat she was now in.

Mrs Hudson reached over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, breaking her thoughts.

"Everything alright, my dear?"

"I…I don't… I don't know. I don't know."

Mycroft's Office – Central London

"I hate it when he does that," Sherlock snapped, pulling up the collar of his coat as he stepped out of the car.

"Sherlock, it's your brother, he's always going to do that." John told him, following his friend.

John was referring to the car that had picked them up outside of their house when they left this morning. Sherlock always felt as though Mycroft was summoning him whenever his car arrived, and most of the time he was right. Not just that, it meant that Mycroft had caught wind of what Sherlock was up to and that never worked out to be good. Their conversations at office typically ended with Sherlock scolded for getting involved in business that did not involve him. Which, in simple terms, translated to "stay out of my business," something that neither of them ever heeded. Besides, it was very rare that Mycroft ever truly warned Sherlock to stay out of stuff, with the exception of what happened with Moriarty.

The two partners made their way into the building, ascending the stairs, reaching the floor that lead to Mycroft's office. They walked down the hall, past the desk of his personal assistant, Anthea, sitting behind her desk typing away.

"He's in a meeting," she told them, not even raising her head from the screen.

"My brother only says that when he doesn't want to see me." Sherlock replied, breezing into his brother's office.

Mycroft locked eyes with his brother and sighed, shaking his head as the two entered the office. Sherlock came to a stop and locked eyes with his brother, John managing to stop himself just in time before he bumped into him.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

Neither brother said anything and John coughed, sliding past Sherlock and into the room. The usual stand-off between them was nothing unusual, but John wasn't in the mood to sit and watch them today. He coughed, breaking Mycroft's gaze, and stepped out from behind Sherlock and into the room.

"Ah, Dr Watson, please sit down." He greeted, gesturing to the chairs opposite his desk, John sitting down in one of them. "What brings you both here?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned look at his older brother.

"Oh please, don't act like you're oblivious. It was your car that brought us here."

Mycroft popped a cigarette into his mouth and pulled a lighter out of his pocket, lighting the object and taking a few puffs before speaking.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he finally replied, blowing a puff smoke in his brother's direction.

Sherlock had to hold his breath in an attempt not to inhale the smoke. He was already wearing three nicotine patches on his arm as it was, he didn't need any more. Well, at least not today anyway. Besides, that wasn't why he was here.

"Oh, come on, Mycroft," he snapped. "You don't normally send your car unless it's something serious. How stupid do you think I am?"

"I think we both know the answer to that, Sherlock. Don't you?" Mycroft smirked, which he followed with a cool laugh.

He was teasing them and they all knew it. It seemed to be something Mycroft loved to do.

"Now, why don't you sit down and tell me why you're really here?"

John rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the leather armrests, the material shrieking underneath him as his fingers enclosed the wood underneath. Every time John was here it was becoming harder and harder to resist punch him.

"I don't need to sit down."

"Don't be like that, Sherlock. We're all adults, we can have an adult conversation surely?"

"Sometimes, he can be a right twat." John thought as he looked at Sherlock, watching as his friend decided to start pacing the room.

"Look, when you two are done scoring points, can we just get to why you called us, please?" John retorted, to which Mycroft nodded.

The less they had to spend here, the better.

"I believe I would be correct in assuming that you came to ask for my help?"

John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What in the world was he talking about?

"Your help? Wh-What are you talking about?"

Mycroft looked at John as though he was stupid. He flicked his gaze between the pair opposite him and realised that Sherlock had not told him the full truth of the matter. A cold smirk worked its way across the government operative's face and he took another puff of his cigarette, blowing the smoke into the air before he answered.

"Ah, I see, and what is it that you require of me?"

John tilted his head and frowned. Something seemed off. Mycroft knew something…either that or he already knew why they were there. It was like reading a brick wall. The man was so secretive it frustrated him more than he wanted to admit.

"I need access to the MI5 database."

"Well, you already know I can't give that to you. That's clearance that not even I have."

"But it's clearance you can get." Sherlock said, completely unfazed.

An awkward silence held through the room and John shifted in his chair for a second time, wanting to be out of there as soon as. Sherlock turned and looked at his brother, seeing through his lie. He knew what Mycroft was waiting to hear and he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of hearing it come from him. Mycroft most likely already knew the reason why Sherlock was there, if he didn't, he was certain he would before the day was out.

"Sherlock, even if I did, and I'm most certainly not saying that I can, but if I did get you that clearance why on earth would you want it for? It's not as though you're working on a case."

Sherlock ran a hand through his dark brown curls and the corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to hide a smile. He had caught him.

"Well, actually Mycroft, that's exactly what it's for."

"It is?"

"It is?" John repeated, turning to face his former house mate, a look of confusion flooding his face.

Sherlock was always one to take cases without consulting John, but he was usually in the room when that happened, so he knew what it was they were doing. The last he knew the mysterious woman who was now a resident in their (even though John no longer lived there, he was there more than enough that it pretty much was his flat as much as it was Sherlock's) flat hadn't explained anything that they felt necessary to investigate. Well, not that John knew anyway.

What the heck was Sherlock playing at?

Before John could even ask Sherlock what his game plan was, the detective was already speaking.

"It doesn't matter, clearly I can see you're not in the position to help us. I'll leave you to it, Mycroft." Sherlock told him, heading for the door. "Come on, John. The game is on."

John flicked his gaze between the two brothers, taking notice of Mycroft's confused expression before jumping up out of his seat and running down the hall to catch up with the renowned detective. Whatever Sherlock had planned or was thinking of doing, John was certain Sherlock would inform of in due course. Mycroft waited until he was sure his brother was out of earshot before lifting the receiver of the phone on his desk and quickly dialling a number.

"Anthea, I need you to arrange something for me."

221B Baker Street

"Oh, Sherlock! There you two are!" Mrs Hudson greeted as the two walked into the flat.

The woman was sitting on the sofa, holding a cup of tea the landlady, she was now claiming her role was, had made her. Her eyes locked with Sherlock's and she pushed herself forward to the edge of her seat as though she wanted to run and throw her arms around him but she couldn't bring herself to move. Not right now, at least.

"Yes, hello, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock nonchalantly huffed, throwing his jacket over his chair before ushering her towards the front door. "Get out now, please. I need to talk to our guest, if you don't mind."

"Well, that's what I want to talk to you about."

Sherlock whipped around to face Mrs Hudson, a look of confusion on his face.

"And, why would you want to do that?"

"To tell you something, of course."

"Which is what, exactly, Mrs Hudson?" John asked, as Sherlock sighed.

He hated it whenever Mrs Hudson felt as though she needed to involve herself in their investigations. To him, that wasn't her place.

"She doesn't remember her name. In fact, she doesn't remember anything."

Sherlock, who was making his way towards the bathroom, came to a stop. He turned to look at the woman, frozen in place. She looked traumatised by the revelation.

"She doesn't remember her name?" John repeated, immediately suspicious.

"Poor girl hasn't said a word since I asked her what it was."

The war veteran turned to look at her and saw Sherlock knelt in front of her staring into her eyes, he had gone into his mind palace. He was trying to see what information he could gather.

"Are you sure she's not just saying that?" John wanted to ask but he knew better than to disturb Sherlock when he was in his mind palace. Any chance he could avoid being on the receiving end of one of his gazes that tore apart your soul, he would take.

"All I did was ask her what her name was, and she went into some kind of trance. I didn't mean the scare the poor girl. She seems traumatized, bless her."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock finally spoke jumping up and ushering her out of the door. "Perhaps, you can go do some cleaning now."

"That does remind me I've got some washing I need to put out. You know, Sherlock, you really should keep better care of this place, you kn-"

"Yes, goodbye," he interrupted, closing the door once she was out into the hall, John rolling his eyes as Sherlock pivoted and turned back to look at the woman, still on the sofa.

"Right, now back to what's important."

"Yes, the case we're supposed to have taken, I presume?" John spoke before Sherlock could start going off on some tangent that he was later going to have to ask him to explain in simpler terms.

"Yes, John. What did you think we were doing?" Sherlock asked, his voice cold and sharp.

"Well, that depends."

Sherlock frowned and turned look at his best friend, unsure of where John was going with his point.

"I assume you're going to explain, so I don't really need to ask "what on," do I?"

Sighing, the doctor folded his arms and began pacing. He wasn't entirely sure what to say, all he knew right now was that he was frustrated. Well, actually he was more annoyed, or was he both? He couldn't really tell. The one thing he did know was that he wasn't happy with Sherlock at all.

This entire situation seemed odd, too coincidental and that never happened. There was no such thing as coincidence. Things just didn't happen without reason. Not on this scale, anyway.

"Just when exactly were you going to tell me that we had a new case?"

"When I had figured out exactly what it was we were getting ourselves into."

"And what is that?" John asked, to which he was given no answer. "Do you even know?"

"Not entirely, no."

John couldn't help but laugh. Typical. To be honest, he wasn't surprised. Sherlock always seemed to jump into cases without checking what it was exactly he was getting himself involved in. It was just as he said he was "married to his work" and there was nothing anyone could do about it. He lived for the thrill and the mystery.

"But I do know one thing." Sherlock said, almost smirking.

"Which is?"

"My brother knows something, and whatever it is, he doesn't want me to know."

He could tell that John was angry and he didn't like that. It wasn't until he saw the anger in John's eyes did he realise, he had forgotten to let him in on the plan. But he quickly remembered why.

"So, you failed to tell me this because…?"

"Well, I wasn't sure, at first, but it wasn't until I saw his reaction to when I asked for access to the database, were my suspicions confirmed. I needed to be sure first."

The woman wasn't sure what to do, she felt awkward watching the two of them. Listening to them argue, knowing that she was the catalyst behind it.

The guilt filled her instantly, she could already tell that she had stepped into something that was way out of her comfort zone. She wanted to get up and get out of whatever mess she had stumbled across but she had she nowhere else to go. She had nothing, no money, no name, no address. Nothing at all. All that her life was now belonged in these four walls. So until she was able to figure something out, until she could gather up some kind of stability with whatever her life was at the moment, her life was entirely in the hands of these two men. The mere thought of which put her on even more of an edge than she was now.

AN: There we have it! First chapter done and dusted. I hope that wasn't too confusing, I know I did mention "the woman" a lot but I will be revealing her name in a later chapter, which will certainly make things a lot easier. But until then, bear with me if you can.

I might change the ending, I feel as though it wasn't as...not climatic but...urm, hard-hitting, I suppose is probably the best word? Who knows? Knowing me, I'll probably leave it (I wasn't sure whether to put P.S. but then seeing as I've put this AN I guess that already makes this a P.S, doesn't it? You'd think after 4 years of being on here I'd have figured out how to write these by now, but...nope! Now I'm rambling...opps =P).

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XxPikaSixJoyxX