A/N: This is a rewrite of a previous story i did called 'The Greatest Game: A study in Fear'. I recently got re-inspired. If people like it, i'll continue!

Takes place after the pool incident in season one/two but before the first encounter with Irene Adler.

A small crack of light came from under the door, illuminating the bed. The girl lay there, watching the shadows move behind the door. There was a creak of the floorboards and someone moved in front of the door, blocking the small shaft of light. Quiet voices came from the other side, too faint to make out no matter how much she strained her ears.

The girl curled up tighter, pulling the covers up to her chin. She closed her eyes tight, listening intently as the door opened. Soft feet padded over to the bed and she heard the faint sound of breathing. She dared not move, give any indication that she was still awake.

A hand, long elegant fingers, brushed against her cheek, gently moving a strand of hair from her face. She suppressed a flinch at his touch, keeping her eyes screwed shut although she knew better than to think she was fooling him. Under the covers, her hand dug into the mattress, trying to draw comfort from the contact. She thought she heard a faint sigh and the hand pulled away.

After a minute, the footsteps retreated and the door was closed.

Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. – Aristotle

The flat was dark, a single shaft of moonlight shining through the window. The only sound came from the clock, steadily ticking. John padded out of his bedroom and across the darkened living room towards the kitchen. As he set about making himself a drink, a soft voice came from the shadows.

"Couldn't sleep?" John spun around sharply, hand flying out to grab a knife from the draining board. His eyes scanned the flat, searching for any sign of a threat, and landed on a figure almost completed camouflaged against the sofa. A car drove past and the shifting moonlight illuminated a patch of pale skin and a defined cheekbone.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You scared the hell out of me! Why are you lurking out here?" He flicked on the living room light. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut against the evasive light and let out a long groan until John turned it off.

"Thank you…"

"Now, why are you out here?" John put his water down and lent against the wall, arms folded. He was exhausted and hoped he could deal with this quickly before he fell asleep on his feet.

"It doesn't feel right..."

"What doesn't?"

"Everything!" John groaned. Clearly this wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped.

"Sherlock, it's three in the morning. Can we put your existential crisis on hold until the sun is up at least?"

Sherlock jerked upright and John suppressed another groan, wishing he'd just gone back to bed.

"Moriarty, John. No one's heard anything since that night at the pool. Why?"

"You mean the night he kidnapped me, strapped a bomb to me and tried to kill us both? I don't know why and honestly I don't care, I'd rather been enjoying the peace!"

It had been almost two months since the night at the pool. There had been crimes and cases but nothing that screamed Moriarty. With each case that they solved with no sign of him, Sherlock grew more and more frustrated.

"But it doesn't make sense John! He's a showman, he should be trying to top himself not skulk in the shadows. Why is it taking so long?"

"Maybe he's on holiday? Maybe he went to buy more suits? I don't know Sherlock but let's just enjoy the peace and be thankful for it before he decides to call you up with another bomb threat."

John turned to go to his room. He managed a step before the phone rang. For a second a paranoid fear that Moriarty might indeed be on the other end gripped him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock grabbed the phone.

"If that's Moriarty, tell him…" John struggled to come up with a decent threat. "Tell him to go stuff himself…" John muttered before heading to bed. He collapsed onto his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He could hear Sherlock talking in the other room and then silence. He let out a sigh of relief and began to drift off.

"John!" His covers were jerked back and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock's face inches from his own. "Get up!"

"What? What's going on?"

"That was Lestrade. He's got a case for us."

"Right now? What do you people have against sleep?" He pulled the covers back up.

"Get up!" Sherlock yelled and dragged the covers off again before walking out of the room. John reluctantly got up and pulled on some clothes before heading out. Sherlock was already dressed and on his way down the stairs. John hurried to catch up.

"So what's this case?"

"I don't know."

"What? What do you mean you don't know?"

"It means that I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

"Lestrade didn't go into details, just said we needed to get down to the docks right away."

"And that was enough to wake me up and drag me out in the middle of the night?"

"You weren't asleep."

They reached the street and hailed a cab. Sherlock was running through potential cases, getting steadily more excited with each possibility, as John sat in silence wishing he'd invested in a lock for his bedroom door.

They drove to the docks where police tape had been set up around a shipping container. Lestrade was waiting for them.

"Evening gentlemen."

"Don't you mean morning?" grumbled John.

"Sorry John, but this couldn't wait." Lestrade lifted the police tape and they stepped under. He led them over to the container and handed them gloves. "We got an anonymous call about screams coming from the shipping yard, we sent someone over to investigate and they found the container, doors open and a body inside."

"I'm waiting to see what part of this couldn't wait," said John.

"And I'm waiting to see what part of this required my involvement," snapped Sherlock, losing interest already. Lestrade rolled his eyes and gestured for them to enter. They stepped inside the container. Two small spotlights had been set up, shining at the wall furthest from the entrance. A figure was displayed there, arms raised above their head. It was a woman. She'd been stripped naked, bruises were dotted around her body and there was dried blood on her left ankle. Her head hung down, long dirty blonde hair covering her face. But it wasn't the body that drew the attention of the men. It was the wall behind her.

Scratched into the walls were two words. John looked around and saw that they were repeated on the other walls, over and over again. Sherlock Holmes.

"Ahh… now I see why you called," Sherlock said, admiring the walls. John went over to the body and cast his eye over it.

"She wrote this. Look at her fingers. They're bloody, her nails are worn down. She clawed these into the walls."

"Not all of them. The one behind her head. It's larger, the marks are clearer. Done with a tool, not by hand. Probably after she died and was put up there." He turned to look at Lestrade. "Has a cause of death been determined?"

"The coroner's not had a look yet. When your name appears in giant scratched letters on the walls we tend to postpone normal procedures."

"Fine. John, ideas?"

"Well the reports of screaming and the bruises would initially indicate that she was beaten, but they're starting to heal so they're not recent. Judging by her level of malnutrition I'd guess that she starved to death."

"Well done John." John blinked and looked at Sherlock, waiting expectantly. Sherlock looked back and raised an eyebrow.

"That's it? No remark about how I got everything wrong?"

"No, you did very well." John looked at him, waiting for the inevitable 'except'. "The marks on her ankles, they were caused by rope. She was tied by the ankle for most of her stay, not by her arms. She was only strung up after she died. The room was cleaned, heavily by the smell of disinfectant. Whoever did this wanted my attention but not to be identified just yet. There's a piece of china in the furthest corner, looks like a broken plate, most likely thrown against the wall. Whoever was holding her here made an effort to feed her but she didn't want to cooperate, indicating she was held for a prolonged period of time, long enough to move on from fear and become angry at her captor. Her clothes are gone but there's no bruising on her legs, no visible signs of sexual assault. Her captor either wanted to dehumanize her by taking them or thought they would be of use to us and wanted to prevent that. Probably both. There's a faded burn mark on her ankle but a faint spot of colour not quite covered up, a tattoo that could be used to identify her if it were still visible."

"Right… but why would someone want your attention and then not let you know anything?" Lestrade asked, frowning.

"To make it more interesting."

John, who'd largely been ignoring Sherlock's monologue, had moved closer to the body and gently lifted her head to inspect her neck for signs of bruising. Her hair fell to the side exposing her face. He let out a yell and recoiled at the sight. The girl's eyes had been cut out, her lips cut into a twisted smile.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, touching John's arm.

"Yeah, just surprised me…"

"Well it appears our killer has a taste for the macabre." Sherlock approached the body, eyeing the damage with cool disinterest. "Come along Watson, let's go."

"You're leaving?" Lestrade seemed surprised. John frowned. He thought that Sherlock would want to inspect the container a little longer but then again, he'd probably gained all the information he could within seconds of entering the crime scene.

"Yes. There's nothing more we can do here. Tell me when the coroner's results come in." Sherlock swept out of the container and John followed, trying not to look back at the girl's mangled body.

As they reached the street, Sherlock fished his phone from his pocket and began typing.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting a list of missing persons." He was using that voice that implied it was obvious

"Why?"

"Because John, this killer removed all discernible marks, anything that could be used to identify them. Eyes, tattoos, clothing. What goes into a missing person's report? Hair colour, eye colour, tattoos, birth marks and clothing that they were last seen wearing."

"So you think that the girl was listed as a missing person?"

"Yes."

"And all that we know is that she had some form of tattoo on her leg and that she's blonde?"

"No. We know that she had some form of tattoo on her leg and that she had dark hair."

"How…?" He hated asking, knowing that he'd only feel stupid when he heard the answer, but his curiosity was too insistent to keep at bay.

"Her roots, John. They were starting to go dark. Her hair was dyed." He sounded almost bored with the whole thing. John had hoped the excitement of a new case would last just a little bit longer.

"That's not much to go on." Sherlock looked up from his phone for the first time and gave a smile that made John shift uncomfortably

"Of course not John, that's why it's a challenge. If it was easy, it wouldn't be worth my time." He pocketed his phone and waved at a taxi driving by. It pulled over and Sherlock paused before getting in. "You get the next one, I'll meet you back at the flat." Before John could protest, Sherlock had disappeared in the taxi around the corner. He sighed and checked his pockets. No money, of course not.

He sighed again and started walking, heading back to Baker street.