A sequel to my first Sherlock story, "the Computer Criminal" due to popular demand (contains some references) so go check it out if you haven't! I'll try to update as soon as I can, but I'm thankful to my faithful followers! Enjoy!

"And here we are," John announced as he pressed the "enter" key and the last post of his newest blog released onto the website.

"A little bit of food for the starving children?" Sherlock raised a presumptive brow as he referred to John's fans waiting for him to post a new installment on his website of their adventures together.

"Sherlock, it took me two whole months to write that one," John gently closed the cool screen of his laptop, "you should be grateful."

"Grateful!" the detective sneered,"For what?

"For actually bringing us business," John laughed bitterly, "for getting us positive popularity, for showing people that there is someone out there who can actually solve the unsolvable ones."

"True, but they certainly don't provide much help," he sniffed as he walked into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, the Computer Criminal case was one of the biggest of our careers," John stood in the doorway.

He didn't say anything, just snorted with discontent.

John sighed, he knew Sherlock didn't like to talk about it. Ever since Gerald Price the murderous computer genius had targeted him personally along with his friends, there was a glowing hate in his eyes.

"Any new clients?"

Sherlock sipped his tea and walked back into the living room. He threw a disorganized group of papers bound together by a paper clip on the floor in front of John.

"Just a few," he shrugged.

"Sherlock, there must be a hundred in this stack," John tutted as he sighed and reached down to pick them up.

"Oh, John, they're all rubbish," he had a look of distaste on his face, " 'Mr. Holmes, please help me find my wedding ring, I think it was stolen,' 'Sherlock Holmes, I'm in need of a detective for my bank account fraud,' 'Investigative team to find missing boyfriend,' so on and so forth," he flopped down on the couch, "it's a waste of my time and talent," he took another sip begrudgingly.

"Stop whining, you love cases," John sat on his designated chair and faced his friend.

"I love cases, John, cases-not jokes."

"These people don't find them as jokes."

"Well, those people don't have IQ's above 50," the detective snapped.

"Wow," John looked at Sherlock and shook his head slightly, "someone is testy today, isn't she?"

"Shut up," he growled as he raised the teacup to his lips once more.

John laughed under his breath and opened the paper that was resting on the table next to his armchair. There wasn't anything particularly interesting going on ever since the Computer Criminal case. "Siege at Scotland Yard" was printed in large bold letters on the cover of multiple issues after the detective team along with Andersen, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Donovan had been trapped in the building for hours at the hands of a killer.

"What's it say?" Sherlock looked at John with a bored expression. He knew Holmes didn't really care, he just wanted to occupy himself.

"Just the usual," John sifted through the pages for an interesting article, "nothing too exciting."

"Ah," Sherlock smiled, "it's a comforting feeling to know that the 'usual' for John Watson the Soldier has now become boring. I've taught you so well."

"Have not!"

"Face it, Watson, your'e becoming more and more like me," the detective's eyes danced with amusement.

"You just keep sipping your tea, will you?" Watson gave him a side eye, "Before I have a crack at you."

"You could try," his eyes held the origins of a challenge.

They both cocked their heads at an excitingly familiar sound.

"Footsteps are quick," Sherlock observed, "car door shut hard, front door opened roughly-"

"It could only mean one thing," John agreed.

Both of them smiled in anticipation, "Client."

Sherlock and John flew out of their seats and into action. Holmes ran to the kitchen and dropped his teacup roughly into the sink. John flinched but did his work as he moved the chairs in order and gathered all the excess junk from the desk and threw it in his room. Sherlock was throwing his experimental objects in the fridge. Anything ranging from fingers, eyeballs, tongues, and toes went in, and he ran both hands through his curly hair. John was shrugging off his shirt and slipping on formal shoes and a button-down on himself. The consulting detective sprinted upstairs to his room and reappeared more refined, without his blue robe and bare feet. A strong cologne scent filled the flat and it looked unnaturally clean as a knock came at the door.

"Come in," John called and the latch turned.

Sherlock made every mental detail of the man as he walked through the doorway. He was tall, maybe 6'2", middle-aged around 45 judging by the dark hair with gray flecks, his eyes had heavy circles around them that seemed imprinted into his flesh which suggested he worked late nights. His eyes had been red-ringed from crying and his nose was stuffy from sniffling. Judging by the wrinkles around his eyes, on his forehead, and shaping his mouth, he had a long stressful job that taxed him most of the day. That was just the start.

'Ello," he spoke in a natural London boy accent, he's a local. But his tone was sad and sorrowful, "Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, I presume?"

"Yes, you've come to the right place," John was hospitable as ever as he welcomed the man inside.

"I-I have a case for you," his eyebrows furrowed in distress and he wiped his face with his sleeve.

"Why else would you be here?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Y-yes, of course," the man nodded but John shot Holmes a glare, "may I sit?"

"Please," Watson went and sat at his own accustomed chair while Sherlock did the same.

"Begin," the detective's fingers were steepled under his chin. He was excited for this new case, finally something to liven up his life a little.

"Well, yesterday, I-I was walking home from work on King's Road-"

"Where do you work?" Sherlock interrupted.

"At the butcher, o-on the Vale," he stammered, "I take the same route everyday. It wasn't too late, so thought I'd meet up with my friend, Laura-"

"What time was it exactly?"

"I-I don't know, sir-"

"Guess."

"Um," the man scratched his head, "it had to be around 8:25 PM, sir."

Sherlock nodded. The man started off blandly, no surprises just his story, but continued, "I-I was walking by her flat when I noticed all the light's off. It was dark, strange, because she-she likes to stay up late, you see."

"How late does she usually stay up till?"

"I-I'd have to say around 1:00 in the morning, sir, on a good day."

"Continue," Sherlock instructed, "and at a quicker pace, if you could." John rolled his eyes.

"R-right, so I went over to see if she was okay, if she needed anything," at this, his voice started to waver and tears stung his eyes, "I went for the door and it was locked, so I went to the window to see if anyone was home. It had been raining earlier, it was hard to see, y-you know how it is winter time."

"What was your degree of visibility?"

"Well, the glass was all fogged up, so I wiped it off with my sleeve. It was slippery, about 80%?"

"Keep going.'

"W-well, sure enough," his voice choked up, "there she was, lying on the floor, blood everywhere. She was killed, I'm sure of it!" he wailed, and brought his hands up to cover his face as he sobbed, "I-I-"

"Stop," Sherlock's eyes were closed.

"Holmes, he isn't done yet," Watson scolded him, this man was obviously distressed, "I'm sorry, sir, please continue-"

"No, John," the detective opened his eyes and stood, "he doesn't need to."

"I'm sorry?" the army doctor looked at him skeptically, "Why not?"

"Because, I know who her killer is," his eyes remained closed.

"What?" John's eyes grew wide and he looked at the client who was equally terrified and shocked, tears still streaming down his cheeks, "Come here a minute, Holmes," John walked into the kitchen and Sherlock begrudgingly followed, eyeing the client as he walked.

"What is it, Watson?" he demanded, angrily. He hated interruptions.
"Sherlock, that man just saw his friend's murdered corpse, and you think it's okay to blatantly announce who the killer is while he's still grieving?! At least give him a little time to process, or let him finish before you shatter him completely!"

"Yes, John, but you see-"

"No, no, absolutely, not! This is pushing it now, Holmes, you need to have some more respect for the clients!"

"But, Watson, you don't understand-"

"Understand? This isn't a matter of understanding! It's a matter of you realizing that these people aren't all like you, they don't all have this tough, emotionless exterior like you."

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock shouted and Watson silenced from shock, "The reason I stopped him is because he's the murderer."

"What?" Watson took a double take, terror and shock in his eyes, "It can't be! That man in there is falling apart just talking about it!"

"It is, Watson," Sherlock nodded, "he put a very convincing show on, I must say, the man should've been an actor-"

"No, no, Holmes!" John shook his head in growing fear and disbelief, "How-why?! What, is he doing in our living room, then!?"

"To cover it up, to make it look like it wasn't him if we brought in the case report as his detectives," Holmes explained, "it's easy to piece together, Watson, please I thought you were smarter than this."

"That's not the situation right now, Sherlock!" the gears in his head started turning, it didn't make sense, "of all people, why you, Holmes? You are the greatest detective in all of England, I mean surely he'd know better than to come to you!"

"John," Sherlock looked up and nodded to the living room. Watson turned around and gasped. The chair was empty, the whole room was empty. No client, no murderer.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson!" Watson ran through the doorway and sprinted downstairs to see if their old landlady was all right, "Holmes, phone Lestrade! We need to find him!"

"Fine," he rolled his eyes and walked over to the desk where he picked up his mobile, "it's probably just a prank call, Watson, the man clearly was desperate for attention," he dialed the number for Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade anyway.

"This is Lestrade," he heard the familiar voice after a few rings.

"Graham," Sherlock spoke.

"Yes, hello, Sherlock," Lestrade sounded annoyed, It's Greg. There was no point in correcting him.

"I need to report a murderer," his voice slighlty wavered in laughter and amusement at the thought of it. He was calling up Lestrade on a fluke case.

"What?! You know, I don't even want to ask, but what the hell is going on down there, Holmes?"

"New case."

"Well, business is good, I presume. I've got a big catch here for you too tomorrow. I was just about to phone you actually, my boss sent down a new and highly classified case from up north, they want us to handle it. Come take a look, the info will arrive tomorrow."

"I guess I could make a quick stop," he watched as John entered the flat once more and locked the door firmly including all the windows.

"Good," the DI nodded, "now what's this about a murderer?" he still sounded mystified.

"Nothing, it's nothing, goodnight, Lestrade," he hung up the mobile in one swift movement.

"Did you tell him?" John panted for breath from running up and down.

"Absolutely," Sherlock lied.

"Good, now let's keep an open eye tonight, Holmes, just in case."

"Oh, yes, Watson, I'll be very vigilant," the news of Lestrade's new case buzzed through his brain all the while.

The next morning, Sherlock came downstairs early to a quizzical sight in the living room.

"John?" he gawked.

His army friend was seated right before the door, a pistol in his hands, and his eyes closed. He snored lightly and his head lolled back, but it seemed he had been sitting there all night in case the "murderer" client came back.

"I'm up," he groaned as he rolled his neck, "bloody hell…"

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. People were so mystifying these days.

"I thought he might come back," John stretched as he sat up and he holstered his weapon, "I wanted to make sure we were safe."

"And you were doing an excellent job, dear Watson, top of the notch."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock smiled with amusement as his friend's silver hair was all in patches and he was wearing the wrinkled clothes from yesterday.

"Quick, get changed, Lestrade has a big one for us today."

"Lestrade? What about yesterday's client? He could still be lingering around," John looked out the windows instinctively, his army senses alive.

"Don't worry about him, he's no threat."

"Are you sure? Sherlock, you said it yourself, the man is a mur-"

"A prank caller, Watson, a man low enough to drag his self down to our flat and waste our time for someone to give him the attention he yearns. It's clear in the facts, John."

"Prove it," John poured himself a well-deserved cup of tea. He had been skeptical of the drink ever since the Computer Criminal case, but right now he didn't care if it was poisoned or not. He drank it fervently.

"He said that he worked at a butcher shop on the Vale," the detective boasted proudly, "but his hands were immaculate and polished. A butcher has blood trailings underneath his fingers and scars from hacking meat all day long. This man's hands were glossed and taken care of, it was unusual because a butcher doesn't mind getting blood and dirt on him, it's part of the job. This man, however, seemed oddly refined and cleaned up for someone who works around with animal entrails all day," Sherlock thought about his good appearance.

"Well, maybe he just cleaned up since last night, Sherlock?"

"Did you see his performance? The man was trying to sell us his lugubrious grief, but someone with that much lament and mourning wouldn't have time to shower, pick up a nicely pressed suit, comb his hair, and clean his nails before coming here. The man would've called the cops, brought in for a questioning or a statement, and stay at the police office half the night. He's here early enough, so it seems that he wouldn't have time to go home and prepare," John was slowly becoming convinced. His shoulders became more relaxed.

"And finally," the detective concluded, "in London wintertime, condensation forms on the inside of windows, not the outside. So there's no possibility, I quote, 'hard to see' from the outside because of the glass fogging up. He claims to have wiped it off with his sleeve to see her corpse, but there should be no condensation there in the first place if he was outside."

"Wow," John breathed in amazmdng, "Sherlock, that-that was incredible.

"Well, don't flatter yourself," Sherlock was dressed in a navy blue button-down, ironed perfectly, with black pants and blazer that made him look crisp and sharp. His hair was neat-as neat as it could be-and his shoes were polished, "quickly now, Lestrade's case is waiting."

"What's the case about?"

"I'll know as soon as you, and I want to know now, so hurry up and get changed. No time to waste," Sherlock floundered about the flat, waiting in barely contained anticipation to leave to Scotland Yard.

"Oh, all right," John grumbled, "I'll be down in ten minutes."

"Make it five," Holmes flapped open the morning paper and seated himself in his chair.

It was exactly 8 minutes and 17 seconds later that John reappeared on the steps. He looked like his usual self in a light orange button-down and his brown aviator jacket. His hair was neatly combed and a sharp cologne radiated off of him. His pants were nicely pressed and Holmes knew that behind his belt was his famous pistol.

"Off we go," Sherlock sped to the door and swung his coat on his shoulders. He followed the quick detective down the stairs as they waved a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and stepped into the street.

Chapter 2 will be released soon! Leave a review/follow/favorite!

I don't own anything related to BBC or Sherlock.