Sherlock was up to his normal antics, fluttering about the flat like a mad hatter; turning the sitting room upside down and going on and on about how I'd misplaced his keys. He'd placed them right there, on the coffee table, and since I was the only one that had access to the flat while his back was turned, it was only logical that I'd moved his keys just to spite him.

"They'd be on the rack if I were to move them." Which I hadn't, but I assured him anyway. "That's why we have a key rack, to put the keys on." I said for his future reference, knowing full well he wouldn't make use of it. Sherlock continued turning over odds and ends and looking in the most ridiculous of places for those bloody keys. "Did you try the key rack?"

"For God's sake! They aren't on your precious key rack! I would never-" Sherlock stopped mid sentence. I looked over to see him stuffing the keys in his pocket.

"Where were they, Sherlock?" I asked rather smugly, masking my grin with a sip of tea. Sherlock just grumbled a few obscenities and went back to work in the kitchen. He'd been rather testy of late, in every sense of the word. He'd just been hacking away at a dead fruit fly's genitalia for the better half of an hour, and had gotten nowhere with it.

His hands were trembling as he worked; he hadn't eaten all day, and complained of a nagging headache which he'd affectionately named 'John'. Of course, he refused to take anything to ease his discomfort, and worked diligently through the pain.

When he'd finally come to his grand climax he shouted out a large orgasmic "Oh!" Which usually meant 'John come into the kitchen at once, I'm being clever and I'm in need of an audience.' I put down my drink and paper and joined him at the kitchen table.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and I knew I was in for a long winded explanation.

"Drosophila mauritiana. At a glance it would appear to be its cosmopolitan relative, Drosophila simulans. Oh, but it is so obviously distinguishable by the narrow posterior lobes of the male genital arches." Of course, when Sherlock said obvious he normally meant it was only obvious to him. "Forensics overlooked it as Drosophila melanogaster." I too thought it was just a dead fruit fly floating in a glass of orange juice. "Ah yes, Drosophila mauritiana, endemic to the island nation of Mauritius." Sherlock was quick to jump up on to his feet. "Do you know what this means, John?"

"That the man who broke into Miss Lyon's flat most recently visited Mauritius?"

"Vienna, John, Vienna!" Sherlock shouted. Before I could bat an eyelash, Sherlock was half way out the door, his coat half on, and I was left fully bewildered in only my dressing gown. I hadn't the time to catch a breath let alone ask how in the hell he got Vienna, of all places, from butchering a deceased fly's bollocks.

It was half past four when Sherlock returned to Baker Street, caked in mud half way up his shins and missing his left shoe.

"University of Veterinary Medicine in Vienna. Recently published their first whole-genome sequence of the rare fruit fly. Ralph Moser, A graduate student of Viola Nolte's was on Holiday this past week." Sherlock toed off his right shoe and dropped it with a splat on the recently cleaned coffee table. "The fly was concealed in the lapel of his suit jacket. Given the age of the deceased, the fly must have been in the larval stage when it was smuggled into the country."

"Smuggled?" I asked grabbing the mop and bucket out of the corner of the kitchen. Sherlock removed his coat and threw it haphazardly on the sofa.

"Along with a hundred virgin females."

"Um." I could only hope he meant virgin flies.

"It was imperative that the female flies were virgin, or they'd be of no monetary value to Dr. Mayer, the intended consumer." Sherlock took one look at me and rolled his eyes and let out a berated and overly dramatic sigh. "For breeding John! Dr. Mayer is a geneticist. He hired Moser to steal the flies from his mentor's lab, sneak them past customs, and in return, promised to pay him double what they're worth."

"But…" I started mopping up the entryway before Mrs. Hudson could catch sight of it and have another conniption. Sherlock continued to strip out of his socks, which he left on the back of my chair.

"The fly in the glass wasn't the only male Moser brought over with him. He'd contaminated the batch and was out several hundred quid and a flight home."

"So he broke into the girl's flat for?"

"Collateral." Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt while he simultaneously shimmied out of his trousers. "Lyons worked under Dr. Mayer. She had, in her possession, a laptop with all the team's research data over the past three years; she had neglected to back-up the data on to an external hard drive for the past six months. Moser broke into the flat, stole the laptop, and threatened to erase Dr. Mayer's work if he didn't pay him triple what he owed him."

"So you traipsed about knee deep in muck… why?" At this point, he was stripped down to his pants, with his hands on his hips, with an 'isn't it obvious' look on his face. "You were able to get your hands on the laptop?" Sherlock nodded. "Moser's in police custody?" Sherlock nodded once more. "You know, the window is wide open." And with that Sherlock stripped himself of his underwear and stood stark naked in the middle of the front room with the door and all of the windows open for all the world to see his shockingly white bum. "How much'd we get for this case?"

Sherlock turned smoothly on his heels and made a hasty retreat to the bathroom and with that I had my answer.

"You know! If you keep taking up clients pro bono we'll be out on the street!" I heard the shower sputter into life. "Mrs. Hudson will have no qualms about throwing your pearly white ass out on to Baker Street, with no more than a tea towel to cover up with." Sherlock merely slapped his bare buttocks in response. Ever the exhibitionist, he continued to pace the hallway, deep in thought.

His face always made little twitches and his eyebrows contorted in an odd fashion when he was thinking hard about something. I dared not delve. I could tell he was in a mood or on the verge of one.

He would classify this case as an unanticipated 5; in retrospect, not worth his time and effort. He was taking on more and more boring cases of late and was teetering on the edge of an epic meltdown.

It started with pacing; then moved on to heavy sighs. From there it could branch and head down the 'throw everything that's not tethered down' path or the 'sulk like I'm a moody twelve year old' path. Then there was the roaring stage, followed by the 'no words, just grunts' stage. Then he'd go catatonic, which would allow me to get the hoovering done without him going barking mad over the noise. Such was life with the madman.

"Sherlock, the shower's running." I reminded him. He completely disregarded me as he returned to the front room. He wandered over to his chair and took a seat. He crossed his legs and started fiddling his fingers through the air as if he was playing an imaginary violin. He had his brows furrowed in concentration and his eyes fixed on a set point across the room.

"My keys."

"Yes?"

"They were on the hook."

"Yes." I said with a 'Where are you going with this?' tone.

"And you hadn't moved them?"

"Nope."

Sherlock hummed in response. I thought to myself, was he really that bored, that the case of the misplaced keys was so pressing he couldn't be bothered to shower? Sherlock was cat like in his grooming regiment; it was unlike him to pass up a hot shower. His bottom lip started to pout, ever so slightly. He let out a heavy sigh and started into a pitiful sulk. He sunk down into his chair.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock." I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Hold up, let me phone Lestrade, tell him to tell the world to stop spinning so we can all throw a pity party for Sherlock." Sherlock worked up some misty eyes.

"You're mocking me." He looked at me like I'd just kicked his chemistry set or set fire to his favourite shirt.

"You're sulking naked. You've seriously reached a new low." I continued scrubbing the floors in a frail attempt at ignoring Sherlock's childish behaviour. After five minutes of silence I couldn't stand the sound of running water any longer and made way for the loo.

"Is it too much to ask for a good murder?" Sherlock asked the air. "I would even take a half decent one if that's all there was." I turned off the tap and sat on the edge of the tub.

"Maybe you'll get one for Christmas!" I shouted. "That is if you're good!" I near jumped out of my skin when Sherlock appeared at the doorway. He was absolutely ninja-like at times. He leaned his head against the door jam and let out another sigh.

"Oh, what's the point?" He said throwing his arms into the air. He walked over and stepped into the damp tub. He sat down in the middle and drew his knees up to his chin and let out another deep sigh.

"Would you like a bath instead?" I offered.

"So I can wallow in my own filth?" He snipped. "No, just turn on the shower." I drew the shower curtain half closed and turned on the shower head. Sherlock sat, moping under the water stream. Beads of water dripped off his hair. He stared at the tub's faucet. He had a sad frown painted on his face like a operatic clown.

I was faintly aware of how much his head pained him when he was bored. I assumed it was somewhat like the hazy dull ache one gets over summer when there's nothing remotely fun to do, only intensified to the Nth degree. I've been painfully bored before, but I have never carried on like Sherlock does.

I started washing his hair, hoping he'd take over because I never did it right. He continued to pout, and sigh, and mope. It wasn't like I was going to run out, commit a murder, come home, and shout, 'All right, Sherlock, I've just killed a man! Tell me how I did it!'

I turned off the water and Sherlock lolled his head over in my direction and mumbled something unintelligible.

"You can't just wait around for people to start dropping like flies." I tried brushing his hair back from his forehead but he jerked away and let out a low growl. "Hey, don't take it out on me. Isn't my fault it's been a slow past couple of months."

"94." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. He, of course, was referring to the abysmally low homicide rate in the London area.

"Yes and it's only August. Maybe the holidays will bring the worst out of people. Come December I'm certain those numbers will skyrocket." I often feel like I've lost my touch with morality, especially when I'm reassuring a naked man that people are viciously murdered all the time! He needn't worry about case work ever running out.

It had been a dull season. Even I was disinterested in the majority of our potential clients. Sherlock was constantly badgered by major business conglomerates to spy on their competition, desperate housewives looking to catch their husbands in affairs to cover up their own affairs, and little old ladies that had completely lost their marbles and didn't know precisely why they needed a private detective. Even when something mildly interesting found its way on to Baker Street, it could only occupy Sherlock's attention for so long. He needed something to redirect his focus.

All I could get out was a, "Sher-" before he abruptly responded.

"No."

"But-"

"No." Sherlock shot up and out of the tub and stormed out of the room. I followed him with a towel in fear Mrs. Hudson would pop in on a moment's notice and see Sherlock in all his glory. Sherlock waved away the offer but thankfully retreated to his bedroom. He threw himself on the mattress, let out yet another sigh, and stared at the ceiling.

I sat on his bedside, not yet looking to end the conversation. "Right, if you're so smart, what was I going to suggest?" Sherlock ignored me and continued his staring contest with the ceiling. "We really should look into getting-"

"No!" Sherlock shouted. He groaned and rolled over on to his stomach. I pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger in frustration.

"It'd give you something to do in your down time. Something constructive and far less… Sherlock!" By then he'd placed a pillow over his head and was trying to asphyxiate himself so he wouldn't have to listen to me. He'd once succeeded in knocking himself out, so I wasn't about to take my chances.

I straddled the man's backside, yanked the pillow from his grip, and held his arms firmly in place by the wrists. He gave a brief struggle before giving up completely and letting out a heavy sigh.

"Why not?" I asked, letting go of his wrists and taking a seat on his bum. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and looked solemnly at the headboard.

"Ankle." Of course he had to bring up the sour subject of the bull terrier that had once locked on to his ankle at uni and instilled his distrust in all canines. He likely expected me to drop the subject because the owner of this particular bull terrier had been Sherlock's only friend during his two years at Oxford. It was the chance meeting with the man's dog and Sherlock's ankle that had led to them forming their friendship.

Of course I am apt to believe their relationship was anything but platonic seeing as Sherlock referred to the encounter as a 'prosaic way of forming a friendship'. And since when did it matter if making friends lacked poetic beauty? In fact making friends should be completely unromantic. Should be.

I often worry about the man and his 'friends'.

"Yes, you've told me a thousand times over. However, we wouldn't get a vicious breed. I was thinking more along the lines of a bulldog. Perhaps a blood hound? You'd like that!" I gave Sherlock's shoulder a light nudge. "Help you with your cases."

"I haven't the time." Sherlock said with a low moan. He cradled his head in his hands.

"Yeah, when is old Mr. Two-First-Names coming into town?" I knew full well his name was Victor Trevor but I hated to speak his name out loud. It always left a sour taste in my mouth. I hadn't met the man but I swear I was ready to chin him already. Sherlock spoke all too highly of him. They'd grown apart since Victor's father's passing and recently they had gotten back into contact. Oh joy!

Victor had moved to India to take over his family's tea company. How brilliantly exotic, Sherlock must think. He had business in London and wanted to get together. For tea. I even had to convince Sherlock to take me along with him. He was going to go it alone! His logic: Victor Trevor isn't my friends; therefore, why should I have tea with him?

"This weekend." I jolted slightly at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"This weekend? You mean this upcoming weekend?"

"No, this weekend." Sherlock mumbled into the bedsheets.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock twisted at his hips to glare at me. "I mean this weekend."

"Sherlock, it's Friday, do you mean-"

"Is it?" Sherlock asked truly unaware. His expression lifted. "Oh well… he should be in tonight then." Sherlock said nonchalantly, twisting his torso to lay flat once more.

"What!" I shouted in disbelief. I dismounted his derriere and knelt beside him. "You serious?"

"Of course." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me as if my concerns were unwarranted.

"Tonight? You mean he's coming here tonight?"

"Yes." Sherlock rolled on to his side and propped up his head on his hand. "I told him he could stay with us. I knew you wouldn't mind."

Wouldn't mind? Wouldn't mind! My mind shouted but all that came out of my mouth was an exacerbated, "Wh-ju-hu! Ah!" I was frightfully unprepared for visitors. There was mud on the coffee table for Christ's sake. Sherlock was naked! To say I was in a panic was an understatement.

Sherlock looked at me with amusement. I felt like tearing him limb from limb. I bolted off the bed and out of the room to make a feeble attempt at straightening up the flat for the unwanted company. Sherlock tried to follow but I snapped my fingers at him and pointed him in the direction of his room. He rolled his eyes and let out a huff.

I spent a good two hours scouring the flat from top to bottom before Sherlock waltzed out of his room, buttoning up the cuffs of his shirt's sleeves. I gave him my best death glare before the door bell rang. I was a sweaty mess and hadn't had a proper shave in days. I debated hiding away until the weekend was over.

Sherlock gave me a grin and hurried down the stairs to answer the door. I gritted my teeth. He'd never answer the door otherwise. I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. I wringed my hands as I waited on the top step. When Sherlock opened the door I couldn't look, I walked right back into the flat while Sherlock's back was turned and took a seat in my chair.

I bit at my thumbnail and breathed uneasily. I could only hope the man was hideously disfigured, fat, had a glass eye, anything! Of course not. I regretfully turned as the two amiable fellows entered the flat. I swallowed my panic and stood up to assert myself.

I looked up at the beautiful man. Of course he was taller, of course he had a moustache, and of course he was blond and thin and looked like a young James Wilby. I groaned on the inside but kept my composure. I offered my hand first.

"Doctor John Watson." Emphasis on the doctor.

"Victor Trevor." Of course I know who you are you prat.

"Ah, yes." Sherlock said reaching for Victor's bag. Their fingers brushed against each other briefly before Victor released his bag and in that moment I wished my eyes could shoot daggers. "Let me show you to your room." Sherlock was being accommodating. I could feel my eye twitching. He led Victor to his room and left him to settle in. I grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him into the kitchen for a private word.

"And where are you planning on sleeping?" Sherlock shrugged in response. "The upstairs room is a war zone! You could have at least given me a day's notice."

"You were home all day." He pointed out.

"Yes, but I wasn't expecting company!"

Sherlock looked over the kitchen and at the floors. "Hm." He hummed softly. "I must say, I'm surprised at you."

"Oh shut up, Sherlock. You haven't the slightest idea." Having another man encroach on my territory was nerve wracking. I would never pull a thing like this on Sherlock and he knew it.

"Haven't I?" Sherlock asked lifting an eyebrow.

"No, you haven't. Now stop being… so…" I flailed my arms in his general direction to convey my mute point.

"Arrogant?" He offered.

"Cocky." The corner of Sherlock's lip twitched into a brief smirk at my off-handed comment.

"Gin?"

"We haven't any."

"You could pop off to the store, give us some alone time." Sherlock raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"I have no reservations about chining you."

"Now, now, John." Sherlock patted my head and my lip curled into a snarl. "Down boy." He said with a wicked smile. I could only hope his mockery was a sign that he wasn't going to try anything stupid to jeopardize our relationship. He pulled out a crisp folded twenty and held it between his two fingers. "Do be a dear."

I snatched the note from his hand. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. Fine, he could have his alone time with his friend. He could see what I cared.

When I returned to Baker Street with the gin and tonic water, the two were chattering away like hens in a coop. I could even hear laughter from the stairwell. Sherlock's laughter.

I clenched the bag tightly in my fist and walked straight into the kitchen. Sherlock popped up from his chair and took the bag off my hands. "Here, allow me." He started playing bar tender and I debated retreating to the upstairs bedroom. I took a seat on the sofa, as far as I could from Victor who glanced over at me several times as he spoke with Sherlock.

I paid no attention to what they were saying and instead started composing a text.

He's here. I stared at Victor as I pressed send. I was immediately met with a ping.

And? I knew Greg had nothing better to do on a Friday night.

I think I've just met my doppelganger. I didn't feel like mentioning he was my far more attractive doppelganger.

Could be. Maybe he just upgrades models every ten years or so. I smiled at Greg's comment. I wished I actually felt like an upgrade from Victor Trevor.

Sherlock handed me a drink and I sorrowfully put the phone to rest on the coffee table. He took a seat next to me and I felt a small flutter of hope. Victor angled the chair to get a better look of us two. I started to feel a bit shameful for the way I was thinking about the man. I hadn't really given him the chance. However his gaze was fixated on Sherlock and I couldn't help but feel at least a little resentful.

Sherlock had three people that he'd ever called his friend. Me, Greg, and this guy. DI Lestrade set him on the straight and narrow and gave him a new purpose in life and while Sherlock would never admit it, he was forever grateful. I wasn't even remotely threatened by Greg but Victor was unknown territory. He was everything I wasn't and it showed.

Sherlock would hang on his every word when he spoke. Victor was interesting, exotic, familiar but new. Even his name was more interesting than mine. I was just the nagging housekeeper. A personal assistant.

I gulped down my drink far too quickly and found myself becoming light headed. I was slightly more relaxed with their back and forth banter, however I desperately wanted Sherlock's attention. My hand found its way to Sherlock's thigh. He never once broke stride in his conversation with Victor as he scooted away from my reach and went to stand.

He fixed another round of drinks. I immediately noticed mine was heavy on the tonic. He wasn't about to get away with cutting me off so soon. When his attention was diverted I swapped his drink with mine and finished it off before he had the chance to say 'boo'.

I was quite content with our little game. Sherlock didn't let it show but I was trying his patience. I rested my elbow on the arm rest, held my head up with the palm of my hand and grinned at him smugly. I debated stretching my legs out to rest on his lap as he'd done to me, too many times before, when I had company over.

I knew I was flirting with disaster and trudging on a mine field where Sherlock and his old mate were concerned. I wasn't sure what would set him off, but I was willing to press all of his buttons to illicit a response.

Their talk about fencing, boxing, chemistry, and their days at uni bored me greatly. I actively and covertly tried to close the gap between us. Sherlock edged away until there was nowhere to run. I expected him to lash out like a cornered animal; instead he extended an arm and draped it over my shoulder. He crossed his long legs, settling in, and I couldn't hold back a content grin.

However, when Victor excused himself to use the facilities, Sherlock was quick to chide me on my behaviour.

"I expect better of you!" He scowled.

"You do now?" I chuckled drunkenly. If looks could kill I wouldn't be writing this now. I returned Sherlock's fierce glare. When Victor returned I excused myself from their dull conversation and headed upstairs to lie awake, writhing with anger.

How could I sleep with them cackling downstairs? I had never heard Sherlock so happy. We laughed together but we never prattled on until the wee hours of the morning. It was near two in the morning before Sherlock came rolling into bed, sloshed and grinning ear to ear. I curled up on the edge of the bed and kept my back turned to him.

I'd had to move a mountain of boxes and knick knacks to get to the bed in the first place. I hadn't used the bed in ages. It was a few inches shy of a full sized bed, perfect for a bachelor, but abysmal to share.

Sherlock coughed and I could smell the stale stench of tobacco smoke on his breath. I was more than infuriated with the man. When he reached out to draw me closer I dug my elbow in his ribs. He was insistent though and managed to wrestle me into a reversed embrace. He nuzzled into the nape of my neck and whispered everything but an apology.

He nipped and kissed at my shoulder, and pleaded for more with his hips. I wasn't giving in that night. I kept my resolve and he drifted off with his face pressed against my back.

I woke with the rising sun. I remembered my phone on the coffee table and wrenched myself from Sherlock's death grip. He rolled over and reached out sadly brushing his finger tips on the pocket of my pyjama bottoms as I made my way out of the room.

I was praying Victor wouldn't be up and about but there he was in our front room, tying his tie and buffing his shoes for his daylong meeting. I wished him the best of luck and he left in a hurry, much to my delight. I reached for my phone and was taken aback by the amount of texts I had received. Greg had obviously had a long night.

He was called in at four in the morning for a murder investigation in Whitechapel. He had sent me a long list of details along with photos. Woman, aged forty-three, five foot two inches, found on Durward Street at 3.40 AM. Her throat was slit twice, her abdomen mutilated with one deep jagged wound and several smaller incisions across it.

I checked my watch. 6.15. Greg had only just sent a text three minutes prior. I typed a response excitedly and rushed upstairs to inform Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Murder!" I yelled with a new found energy. Sherlock drew the blanket up over his head and rolled away. I dressed quickly. "Woman, aged forty-three, stab wounds to the abdomen, hardly any blood at the crime scene, come on Sherlock!" I nudged him.

"Not interested." Sherlock groaned. "Wh-How?" I asked exacerbated. I had already donned my shooting jacket and half had my laces tied, I was ready for some excitement and Sherlock wanted to sleep in? I wasn't having it. "Get up!" I pulled his light frame out of the bed and on to the floor; he wavered on his feet, and pouted. His hair was in disarray and he hadn't bothered to change out of his day old clothes. I handed him his Belstaff coat and we were off.

On the cab ride I let Sherlock catch some much needed sleep on my shoulder but the moment we reached the pitted side street I shook him awake. Police cars lined the street and blocked off the view of the crime scene. We were near some run down flats coated in graffiti, rubbish spilled out of bins and littered the streets, and the air smelled heavily of smog due to the construction cranes that loomed in the distance. Overall, it wasn't the most pleasant of places to be murdered.

We were let under the blue tape and were instantly greeted with the gruesome sight. I was grateful that I'd skipped my breakfast when I saw the flies buzzing about, crawling into the wounds of the deceased. Sherlock gave the woman a half-hearted look. He even nudged her foot with his own. Sherlock yawned like a lion and let out a grunt.

I noticed the bruising on the woman's face. The marks were circular, perhaps from the pressure of finger tips. She appeared to be missing some teeth, five in total. Under the jaw line, immediately below the ear, was an incision that ran roughly four inches across the throat. Directly beneath it was a circular incision that was far deeper; down to the vertebrae. There was a jagged deep wound that ran the length of the lower abdomen. She had been stabbed on the right side several times, in a downward motion.

Greg had mentioned there wasn't much blood, only about a half a pint, if that. The severity of the wounds would suggest that blood loss would have been more significant. It appeared that the blood had congealed and soaked the woman's hair and clothes, which would explain why there was so little of it. Therefore, it was likely she was killed on location, with a quick cut to the throat and the abdominal injuries were inflicted post-mortem.

Sherlock continued to yawn loudly and stretch. He'd obviously caught on to something. He truly wasn't interested. Greg made his way over and asked the question that was on everyone's mind, "Well?"

"Eighth of September. 5.30 AM. 29 Hanbury Street." Before Greg could respond Sherlock started walking away.

"And what'm I supposed to find on Hanbury Street?" Greg asked with a look of discomfort.

"Jack the Ripper of course." Sherlock said with a malicious grin.