"You look stunning," John smiled at his date, a rather beautiful blonde woman. He had been looking forward to this date all week. The moment he sat down, his phone vibrated. "Sorry. That must be my room mate. It might be important," he explained, taking out his phone.

You forgot the milk again. SH

Sherlock, it wouldn't kill you to step foot into the market. JW

It would not be improvable considering the last incident at Walmart. It could happen if I'm not careful. SH

I might kill you if you're not careful. JW

You won't kill me, John. SH

John sighed. His date had been staring at him for a good ten minutes now. He chuckled, "Sorry about that. Shelock was just being an idiot as always." His phone vibrated again.

"You know what," the blonde haired woman began, a sarcastic smile on her face, "I'll leave you and your boyfriend to it."

"He's not my boyfriend!" John stammered automatically. "Rebecca-" he began to plead, but it was no use.

Watch me. JW

He sat at the restaurant. This was the third time this month he had lost a date because of Sherlock. He decided to walk home to clear his head before Lestrade was the one solving Sherlock Holmes' murder. When he reached the flat, he counted to ten before opening the door. "I hope you're happy. My date left. Again," John reprimanded.

"Why would that bring me pleasure?" Sherlock asked, still leaning back still in the armchair.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Sometimes I wonder if you actually are gay for me," John sighed.

"Likewise, John I wonder the same about you," Sherlock chuckled, not even blinking.

"What the hell does that mean Sherlock? I know what it means, but I'm the straightest man to ever be straight!"

"I can think of a few counterexamples to that," Sherlock said in his usual lofty tone.

"Alright, let's hear it, I want to know," Sherlock opened his mouth, "Nope, nevermind. I don't, let's not." At that moment there was a curt knock at the door. Obviously, Sherlock wasn't going to open it, so John walked over to the door to welcome the guest.

"Male, about 5'3", rather agressive at times," Sherlock deduced.

"Oh shut up, you're brilliant, we got it," John irritably called. He opened the door, "Come in. Have a seat." In came a stout looking man who took a seat on the sofa.

Sherlock turned to look at the two men. He stood to circle the guest, "So, why are we here? Oh, nevermind that. I know why, you obviously are mourning a loved one, you reak of alcohol but not the cheap kind, meaning either this is a temporary habit or you're rather wealthy, however, considering your occupation, I highly doubt it."

"Quite the observer you are, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you will be able to solve my brother's case and bring justice to our family," the man spoke.

"Tell me why this was significant enough for you to travel all the way from your flat just to tell me," Sherlock asked, leaning back in his armchair.

The man pounded his fist on the coffee table, "Because I refuse to believe my brother committed such a stupid act!"

"There we are, straight to the point," Sherlock smirked.

John finally intervened, his palms out in front of him. "Tell us exactly what's going on, but before you do that, tell us your name."

"My name is Bill Piper, and I'm coming to inquire about my brother, Harold Piper's case," the stranger said in a calmer, more put together tone.

"Now, tell us what happened, from the beginning," John inquired.

"Well, he's been an addict. To all sorts of things. Heroine. Alcohol. Cocaine. You name it. He was found dead in his bed. They said he overdosed on cocaine, but he was smarter than that I know. I refuse to believe that happened," Mr. Piper sighed, "They did an autopsy. Nothing but heroine and an abundance of cocaine was found."

John sighed, "Mr. Piper, this is simply a matter of accepting your brother's death and we can direct you to sources that-"

"There have been six other overdoses on cocaine in London this week," Sherlock mumbled He stood, "Mary Lou, Drake Coulsom, Robert Hammershield, Yvonna Finch, Carl Olders, Fiona Williams, and Harold Piper. All on the same day. I'm assuming, Mr. Piper, that your brother's death was pronounced on the morning of the twenty sixth? This means he was exposed to the drug late, the night before. None of them seemed to have any other signs of trauma, but how can that be possible..."

"It looks like we have a case, Mr. Piper," John stood, smiling, holding out his hand.

And just like that, John Watson was taking a cab with Sherlock Holmes to the one place he h ad never, in his wildest dreams imagined he'd be going: the local drug joint. "Sherlock, tell me again why you know the directions to this place so well? John asked.

"I have some old friends waiting for me there," Sherlock said. He remembered going when he was a teenager. He used to bring his own syringe (personal sanitary preferances), cigarettes, but everything else was supplied. He used to stay there for hours at a time, sometimes even over night. All that time, wasted, wasted, wasted.

John nodded, knowing exactly what that meant, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, John, it was only my fault," Sherlock sighed. The cab stopped in front of the shady restaurant walking distance from the joint. They paid the cabbie, stepping out into the starry night. They walked in silence for a while, but John soon broke it.

"Sherlock, maybe it will be best if I go in and you don't," John suggested. He'd seen a perscription drug addict at his clinic as well as to his reaction to being around the drug. He didn't want it to happen to Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled a bitter laugh, "They'll eat you alive, John. I don't want to send you alone." Because despite every effort to seem like he didn't, Sherlock Holmes cared for John Watson. They both walked in and Shetlock took a deep breath in, "Oh, the sweet smell of opium at night. It's very nice to see you again, Ramond. I see you still have not bathed."

The older man in front of them scowled, "What do you want, Holmes?"

Sherlock took out the list of seven names, "Have you recently seen or heard of these people?"

Ramond briefly looked at the list and handed it back, "Why should I tell you?"

Sherlock sighed and pulled out a twenty. "Go buy yourself something... intoxicative."

"I've seen Mary Lou and Harold Piper, but not for months. I heard they went to rehab or something," Ramond informed.

Sherlock raised a brow, "Rehab. I need to make some phone calls." And he stalked off, John quickly walking behind him. He was practically running home with Sherlock, who was practically as excited as a child on Christmas morning. Of course, serial murders were Sherlock's version of Christmas.

"I'm pretty sure texting while running is as bad as texting while driving, Sherlock," John heaved, "Home is that way! Where the hell are we going?"

"The lab," Sherlock said casually, stopping to let John catch up.

"And why the hell are we going there?" John asked.

"I ordered blood samples from our victims. I want to check them myself. There has to be something that has been overlooked," Sherlock explained, almost sounding as a child who received a new toy.

John, still catching his breath, "Alright, let's take a cab."

John called a cab, and throughout the way, Sherlock was as jittery as a teenage girl about to meet her favorite celebrity. "Sherlock, why are you getting so worked up? I've never seen you like this?"

"Because... I have a bad vibe about this, John, something is very wrong here. It's becoming too easy. We're being toyed with, but I don't know how just yet!" Sherlock snapped.

When they reached the lab, Sherlock immediately went to work. He came to the obvious conclusion that they were all poisoned a long time ago. Now, he had to find the poison. It was the only way these people could have mysteriously died. "I need a bile sample," Sherlock told Molly.

Molly furrowed her brow, "A bile sample?"

"Yes, the poison has to be storing itself somewhere if its not in the blood. I noyiced that the liver is significantly damaged, however, it could be a cause of the drugs or the poison or both, we don't know yet," he explained.

The moment Sherlock began testing the bile, he pushed the microscope off the table, "Call an abulance, they're all alive."

"What?!" John and Molly exclaimed. John pulled out his cell phone and dialed for an ambulance.

"But there was no pulse!" Molly shouted across the room.

"Someone must have stopped it," Sherlock explained.

Brandon Hoffer, a middle aged divorcee sat on the rugged old couch of his apartment. He wasn't taking his divorce well at all, though the last few years of his marriage were hell. His wife was his highschool sweetheart. She fimally saw him for who he was and fought back.

Allow me to tell you a story about Brandon Hoffer. There was a girl who adored him from a distance in highschool. It was a stupid crush, but when she told Brandon, he was an absolute douchebag to her. Now, he thought about how his life would have been if he had given her a chance. He wouldn't be doing... this.

He was a janitor at a rehab facility. He had gotten fired as his job as an accountant years ago. He sighed, getting up. At fourty five, he was incredibly obese, his hair was practically all white.

Maybe there was one way to be in control. Over life. Over death.

Sherlock sat down in the flat with John once the ambulance came and took away the bodies. "Start from the beginning," John requested.

"In the bile of the bodies, I found Clonazepam. It's a medication that could kill from an overdose, but if not given in a deadly dosagee, it paralyzes you. Now, it wasn't detestable in the blood samples because it often stores itself, hence the bile sample. To prevent us from finding the Clonazepam, our suspect put an abundance of cocaine in the victim's system. They meant to kill, but they were not well researched, so its obvious that it is someone from the rehab facility. We can rule out patients and staff. There would be no motive there, but as Lestrade just texted me, the janitor confessed to the deed after hearing that his vuctims were still alive. Now, let's deduce this janitor man. Brandon Hoffer. I went to high school with him. He was insufferable. However, it seemed that his midlife crisis led to a spree of thrill killing. This was not the case. He wanted to control people like puppets, just like he did with a girl in high school. He broke her down, that's how he got his kicks," Sherlock told proudly.

"That must be a record, less than twenty four hours," John said in amazement, "Can I go to bed now?"

"After you get the milk," Sherlock chuckled.