Authors note: Here it is: my very first Fanfiction, ever.

I'm giddy, gleeful and gasping with fright. I've always had a passion for Sherlock Holmes and for writing but it wasn't till the BBC series Sherlock (be still my beating heart…) that the two smashed headlong into each other. With a beautiful addiction to Johnlock, my love for romance as well as mystery is now here for your pleasure! Please feel free to read, review, follow and favorite! Especially the review part, I hunger, practically starve for criticism.

The rating will remain M for swearing but later this rating will include some smut.

This story is Beta'd by the exceedingly wonderful, forever knowledgeable Breathing is over-rated. Thank you, again, for the millionth time.

EDITED: This chapter needs editing, I know. Don't give up if you don't like it, the rest are way better! Just need to find the time to sit down with this and not cry... love, Angie/V

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, all are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not, sadly, own Sherlock that is the property of both the creators and the BBC.

"I'm fine, here all alone, this is almost like a home. Take this blood, straight from my arms, and tell me just where I belong..."

-X's by I Kill Giants

Chapter I: A First Glimpse; Not Boring

John POV

I have no bloody idea how I allowed Harry to talk me into this.

Support groups for female alcoholics are supposed to be attended by the recovering female alcoholics, not their male siblings. But Harry had gotten the flu and practically begged me-in that weak, sickly voice she knows I can't refuse-to take her place for the night; missing a meeting would result in a metaphoric "step-back" in progress towards recovery. So she had proceeded in attaining permission from both her sponsor and her proctor to use me as a stand-in. Marvelous.

"You may meet someone," she had suggested encouragingly.

"A cute recovering-alcoholic woman, I'm sure. I bet they'll love me, the war-battered limping man," I huffed in reply, making it clear that I really didn't want to do this. Harry's frown immediately followed my self-deprecating words.

"You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself sometime." She chided, while her words held no malice they were certainly filled with annoyance.

I had heard all this many times since moving in with Harry, she didn't seem to like the way I talked about myself. To be honest, tensions had been getting high and I'd only been living under her roof the three weeks since I'd returned from the war. Though I had been looking for a flat of my own, London was an expensive place and it was not surprising that very little was affordable on an army pension. Harry had been kind in letting me live with her for the time being but nonetheless the drab, cramped guest room was on the verge of suffocating me. Feels like I've been cooped up there for ages and the nightmares certainly didn't help…

Not that going to a support group for alcoholic women was my idea of being out-and-about.

I was starved for something. But that something has kept just out of my reach.

As I entered the facility I walked right into the smell of bad coffee mixed with not-so-subtle hints of sweat and cigarette-smoke. I was then greeted by Hello-my-name-is Samantha, a short woman with hair that framed her wrinkled face, broken only by thick glasses. Her frumpy purple dress had me thinking, correctly, "proctor". She quickly gave me my own Hello-my-name-is badge, on which I promptly wrote 'John', and ushered me to a seat within the circle. My eyes moved around me to inspect the supporters'. You had your stereotypical alcoholics, if one can think of any. From my seat they included the snobbish movie-star type, the continually mourning gothic young woman, a few older woman crying unattractively, and…

As I reached the lot which circled directly ahead of me, my wandering eyes stopped as if they had crashed into a brick wall.

Outside the circle sat a man, leisurely in posture but his eyes were agile in his own cat-like inspection of the lot in front of what could be referred to as his territory. It was easy to tell he wasn't there as a stand in like myself. His long over-coat was wrapped round his even longer frame, giving the impression he could leave at any moment for something more important and he wouldn't be bothered what you thought of it. His black suit coat rested over a white button-up again in that casual and uncaring manner, his dress trousers thin, outlining still long and still thin legs… he radiated mystery and dared someone to acknowledge it.

Even for me, who has never dabbled in anything that isn't worthy of the label 'Vanilla', he was… endearing. Fascinating. And I had only studied his clothing and posture so far.

His face walked the ledge just shy of falling into alien in appearance, striking and precisely featured, contrasting with dark, curled and unruly hair. The cheekbones and bowed upper lip gave the air of a dangerous romantic who would charm you with the lips in a warm embrace, then slash you with the bones as he turned away. But the eyes are what really disarmed me. They seemed to never stop moving over the people which sat seemingly oblivious to him, they were like the eyes of a fly on the wall. Forever observant.

Then they rested on me, and narrowed.

He seemed to do a quick sweep of me, inspecting from head to toe, taking in my appearance as if there was a neon sign above my head reading, "ODD ONE OUT". His eyes rested for a split second on my aluminum cane (why did I suddenly feel the need to hide it; why did I feel embarrassed?) then they met my own.

They were a clear light colour, at least, that's what they looked like. It was difficult to tell from this distance. If I had been asked to guess I'd have said silver or a pale, clear blue. Simply because it'd have been as unique a feature as the rest. He looked both 12 and 30+ all at the same time.

We held one another's gaze for a few seconds before my ears contacted my brain, telling me someone was beginning to speak. I broke away from the cat-alien-man's stare and tried to focus on the meeting at hand. I was eventually introduced by Hello-my-name-is Samantha, and I waved with a tight smile on my face, trying not to show how out of place I felt. My eyes eventually came to rest on the man-boy and I found him to be looking back. I tried not to think about how his eyes only seemed to stop moving when they were focused on me…

The rest of the meeting was a blur. I was asked to speak about my and Harry's childhood, which was no real story. I didn't talk much and to be honest I didn't really listen either. I was, quite simply, bored. With everything really.

Except the man I had just gotten a first glimpse at. And I didn't even know his name.

Sherlock POV

Is this really what people do? Sit around and pour their hearts out in the form of liquid self-pity whilst trying to top the others bad experiences under the impression of alcohol? Waste. Bloody waste. The only reason I'm here is the case, the work, there is a killer targeting alcoholic woman, always from a different group whether it's anonymous or private such as this one, always those who have quite recently become sober. All three of the current victims had been younger, unmarried, previously heavy drinkers. All poisoned in their drinks. Could be jealousy killings, perpetrator can't bring herself (obviously a woman) to stop the consumption and kills those who can… one of currently 8 possibilities.

At least I had convinced that Samantha woman with the ugly, ill-fitting dress [recently gained weight due to a high caloric intake, probably symptom of newly developed drug habit, also visible in her constant movement and rather ghastly complexion] that I was inspecting the group for my sister who had recently 'lost her way' and turned to alcoholism. Simple lies are often the most effective, especially when dealing with simple people.

I had inspected each woman sitting in the circle before me, careful to look sorrowful and empathetic whenever anyone looked at me, observing for anything either interesting or suspicious. A widower, an unhappy wife, a nurse, a frat-girl, etc. Each woman is as dull as the one before. Either the killer is very good at hiding or she is not here. I expect it is the latter as there is not a single thing worthy of notice about any of them. Any, stave one.

One who really isn't a woman at all…?

He watches at me whilst I inspect his clothes [sensible, not solely for style, comfortable; red cardigan over off-white button shirt, all well fitted. Worn dark jacket resting on back of chair, jeans are worn but nicely casual; shoes are light brown and scuffed, more so on the right than the left suggests a limp; not boring], his appearance [short, straight, ashen blonde hair, thin and athletic but not lanky, exceedingly straight posture, uncomfortable position yet procured out of respect; not exceedingly boring], his demeanor [army through and through, based upon the tan either Afghanistan or Iraq; not entirely boring] and the superfluous cane resting on his right side [psychosomatic, obviously; certainly not boring]. When our eyes meet I find myself narrowing mine in frustration. This is certainly not the killer I'm looking for yet I am picking him apart piece by piece; and finding nothing really conclusive to his motives nor his life, besides its war ridden past. His capturing dark blue eyes hold my attention in the strangest manner, as if he can find all of me simply in my eyes (impossible really, the eyes are not actually a window to the soul).

Eventually his gaze falls from my own and he does introduce himself as John, as his nametag indeed states (idiot, of course he has a nametag). Such a simple name really, not unique at all. But I can find nothing truly boring about him. At least not the observable surface. Which is not an ever day occurrence. Hardly even an every week occurrence… I want to stay and actually initiate social engagement with this man, which is an extremely uncommon thought to pass through my mind I admit, but the case must dominate my attention always if it is to be solved.

After the mindless nonsense that is group therapy ends we all move on to a social free-time before finally being set free to, gladly, part ways. I think briefly of the man with the deep-sea eyes but the simple act of unconsciously remembering he was here is a tad… unusual. Not the type of unusual that I can deal with during a case. So I do my duty and politely thank the proctor of the meeting and turn to leave the facility. But before I can I find myself looking back at literally the only other man in the room.

He is chatting with the ill-clothed proctor woman, his side to me. He is obviously done with the conversation but is unwaveringly polite. A fault, in my opinion, but those eyes of his, those deeply fascinating iris', are reflecting an unrestful look, a look I know entirely too well. Boredom.

John.

Such a simple name, commonplace really, for someone who is really… not boring.

I will be seeing him again.

You know what to do now, lovely reader. Praise or problems; credit or critique; love or loathing, review and tell me! Thanks for reading, please continue to!

Forever yours,

Angie/The Venturer