I was frustrated, and doing a poor job of containing it. I was honestly afraid my eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets. I'm a doctor, God dammit, not a bloody writer. I smacked the backspace key over and over again and then angrily watched the little blinking line in the blank text box. Sometimes this blogging thing was really difficult. Especially when Sherlock always speaks up about how he didn't agree with this or wasn't flattered by that. But I know he likes them. Otherwise, he wouldn't read them.

"You're still at it?"

Speak of the devil.

I breathe out heavily and turn to glare at him. "It's not as easy as it would appear to be, Sherlock." I tell him, returning my gaze to my laptop. I watched him as he silently walked up behind me in the reflection of the screen. His somewhat ratty t-shirt, striped pajama pants and long blue housecoat seeming to be the outfit of the day. During these sorts of times, when there isn't a case, Sherlock doesn't seem to care much for dressing differently each day. "Boring." To quote him when I made the mistake of asking about it. He either lays around on the sofa thinking, or plays in the kitchen with the head in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave. And of course, he whines often. I'm afraid that is he doesn't get a case soon, he'll relapse and not even three nicotine patches will be the answer to that problem. I continue to watch his reflection. He continues to stand there like a statue. "Well, aren't you going to eat some breakfast or something?" I ask, annoyed with him breathing over my shoulder.

"Sorry, what?" He asks, his slender index finger reaching over me towards the screen. "The fact that you won't fix that counter is distracting me."

I bite my tongue. Maybe I was satisfied with 1895 hits. Was that so bad? "Eat, Sherlock," I repeat, "breakfast, as in the food you have in the morning."

He grunts. "Eating is dull," he says, shuffling away towards the sofa. He walks right on top of the coffee table (like I have asked him a thousand times not to do), and then flops down on the cushions.

I stare at him over the laptop for a moment. 'Make him breakfast,' I think. But he should make his own bloody food! I'm the one that does all the shopping; he could at least make a cup of tea. I look at him slightly curled up, facing the wall for another second. "My God," I mutter, standing and stomping into the kitchen. I throw a bagel in the toaster and start making two cups of coffee.

"Could you get my phone, John."

"I'm making your breakfast, Sherlock."

"It's on the coffee table."

I stand with my arms crossed. He doesn't roll his head around to see my anger. I grumble as I make my way to the coffee table, snatch the phone up, and then place it somewhat aggressively into his hand hovering in the air. Sherlock pulls it down towards his face and fiddles away while I go attend the toaster that just popped. As I'm spreading butter along the sides, Sherlock smacks his hand down on the coffee table, leaving the phone there to quiver for half a second. "This morning is so hateful, John!" He exclaims loudly.

I walk over to him, plate in one hand and mug in the other. "Lestrade still got nothing for you?"

The spite on Sherlock's face answers the question well enough. He takes a bite of the bagel much like a shark would take a bite of a seal, and then a long sip of coffee. It was, actually, a somewhat hateful morning. There was a thick fog through London, giving off a depressing state, and the rain fell constantly and hard on the streets. There weren't many people walking about, and only the occasional car or taxi would slip past the window. The heavy rain smacked the glass of the windows in such large quantities that it ran down much like a waterfall.

I sit down at my desk again, rubbing my hands over my eyes. What does a blogger that writes about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes do when Sherlock Holmes is angrily ripping apart a bagel?

In the moment that thought passed through my mind, my stomach seemed to fall. Odd. As a soldier I would sometimes get gut feelings and then have some crazy patient come through that day, or feel the death of someone that took a bullet to the chest, but I'd never had it since then, never since my feet touched ground in England once more. Did it mean a case was coming? Did it mean something had happened to Harry? I look up at Sherlock yet again. He was sitting lazily on the sofa, drinking his coffee and beating his fingers against the arm. You could tell how much it was bothering. 15 days without a case, even a small one, was starting to worry me. Sometimes my 'stupidity' was enough to distract Sherlock from that, but this time, it wasn't. It was like he was rotting away, or about to implode on himself, and the one thing he needed was just brushing his fingertips but he couldn't grasp it. It was if he was reaching with all he had, like his life depended on it (and in a way, it did), and right as he would try and wrap his hands around it, a little string would pull it back, and Sherlock would have to start reaching all over again. You could see the pain in his sea coloured eyes, you could hear it in his voice when he complained.

Sherlock stood to add his dirty dishes to the ever growing pile in the sink when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. "Morning, boys," she said, just shuffling in past the doorframe.

"Is there something we can do for you, Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, smiling.

"Oh no, dear," she said, shaking her head and then gesturing over her shoulder. "There's a young girl here, says she's looking for Sherlock."

You could practically hear his chocolate brown curls whipping around. Looks like the gut feeling was for a case after all. I glanced over at him in the kitchen. He nodded. "Alright," I said. "Send her up, then."

Sherlock's housecoat billowed out behind him like a cape as he swooped into the living room, taking his usual seat, and then pressed his palms together and rested his fingertips against his lips. I pulled a chair in from the kitchen, placing it between our two chairs. I sit down and then stand right back up as a soaking wet girl with delicately freckled skin walked somewhat timidly into the flat. "Hi," she said, her accented voice somewhat quiet as I strode towards her.

"Hello there," I said, smiling at her, "John Watson." She was around five foot three, and as I shook her hand I could feel cold droplets of rain on the back of her fingers. Her teeth seemed to chatter slightly from the freezing drench, and I gestured towards the seat reserved for her. She sat and hers eyes darted to Sherlock for a fraction of a second and then were fixed back on me. I assumed that having him try to read your life story with that intense stare of his would be kind of intimidating.

I took my seat across from her and grabbed the notepad and pen on the table adjacent to my chair, flipping to a blank page. I glanced at Sherlock. His gaze was still darting up and down her figure.

"That's nasty weather we're having," I start. I was still waiting for Sherlock to give the green light on this client.

She shrugs, "It rains most of the year back home," she replies, giving a small, closed mouth smile. "I like it, actually."

I smile back. "So, you're from Ameri-"

"Canada," Sherlock interrupts. "Tell me, and please, make it interesting."

She holds her sight on Sherlock now. "For nearly a decade now, there have been severed limbs washing up on the shores of beaches, rivers, sometimes turning up in the mailboxes of politicians all over the country," she starts. "And people go missing a lot more often than usual. Kidnapped, abducted, that sort of thing. I think that the limbs and the abductions are linked, but the police won't have any of it. They say they've got the military investigating, but I know that's not true."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "How do you know that's not true?"

She hesitates for a moment. "I have a friend in the Forces," she answers.

I wince. Giving out information to civilians is not taken lightly in any military. It must have been a close friend.

"He's not your friend," Sherlock tells her.

Here we go.

"Excuse me?" She replies.

Sherlock leans forward in his chair. "He is not your friend; he is much more than that. You are in love with him, you have been for years, it's easy to tell, and to start you wouldn't give an exact name when you said where you got your information, so protecting your source because you don't want him to get in trouble, you also hesitated before answering, again, you were questioning yourself and whether he would be safe. You are concerned about him because he is a military man and you often don't know where he is or if he's alive for that matter, your pupils dilated as you answered, so you are scared because you don't know that much. You haven't seen him in a while, only talked on the phone or written letters, because the picture of the young man in military uniform sticking out of your jacket pocket looks like it's about a year and a half old, and it has fingerprints and is folded in a few places so you carry it with you a lot because you miss him, and he doesn't contact you as much as you wish he would, perhaps because he's a busy man but more likely because he's writing to his girlfriend. Did I miss anything?"

I rub my forehead. The shock on her face was somewhat painful to see. "His name," she replies.

"Adam," Sherlock states. "It's written at corner of the photograph I can see." He stands up and sticks out his arm. "Sherlock Holmes. I'll take the case."

She stands slowly and shakes his hand, "Dana Jacobs." She says. "And thank you."

I hand Dana a cup of tea and she smiles at me, "Thanks." She gingerly takes a sip, and then wraps all ten fingers around the cup. Sherlock takes a sip of his own tea while mucking around on my laptop, finding the next flight that can get us to Vancouver. I told him that if he asked Mycroft he could probably fly us there right now but he quickly shot that idea down and has been pouting ever since.

I take a moment to review our new client. Her medium length hair that was darkened by the rain was slowly drying to a red blond, with small little waves running from root to tip. Her skin was almost as pale as Sherlock's, but where she lacked colour she had freckles, not just on her nose and cheeks, but all over her face, a few on her chest, and some on her hands. She wore no makeup, and her bright green eyes were piercing but warm at the same time. She wore a black leather jacket with slightly long sleeves, a forest green V-neck shirt underneath that, skinny jeans and deep brown combat boots. She almost looked like the classic feminine badass from movies, except her face was kinder, and she was shorter. And I knew plenty about being short.

Even though I knew Sherlock would get pissed off when I asked these questions, I needed to make some sort of damn conversation. "So you're what, 20, 21?" I ask.

She shakes her head, "19." She replies.

I'm taken back slightly, "Wow," I muster, "that's uh… that's young."

She laughs, "Don't worry about it," she replies. "I know. I always seem older to others."

"I knew you were 19," Sherlock chipped in. I give him a glance that said 'Shut it.'

"Are you in University, then?" I continue.

"Yeah, University of British Columbia."

"What are you studying?"

"Forensics."

I really hope Sherlock doesn't think she's like Anderson.

Sherlock stands up and flips the laptop screen down, handing it back to me. "Pack your bags, John," he tells me. "Plane leaves at midnight."

I huff as I place the laptop on the small table beside me, "You couldn't have picked a more decent hour?" I remark.

"The time change will let us be awake for longer, more time for the crime."

"Right, because sleeping isn't important at all."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John."

"God dammit, Sherlock!"