It was already looking like one of those nights. Lestrade was driving way too fast and cursing intermittently under his breath. Anderson was sulking in the back seat, as he'd been doing for the past week, since apparently she can't want to concentrate on this frankly horrific case and not on his constant neediness. Which, in all honesty, was a complete turn off and was making her seriously reconsider the 'on again' part of their current 'off again'. And Sally? Sally was fully expecting to have to play keep away with the media bright and early tomorrow morning, because there was no way they were not going to sniff this one out.

This case was one of those that was going to keep her up at night for years to come. Their killer didn't seem to have a type aside from 'pretty'; he didn't keep to male or female victims, didn't hold to any type of pattern they could see. They had nothing in common that they could find. And the violence of the attacks...she'd seen a lot in her years working beside Lestrade, but this one was definitely going to haunt her. There had been three victims so far, one older female, and two young males. All had been raped, and then just...brutalized. Tortured to the point of death, and then killed by simply waiting; all but one of them had bled to death, and the reports said it would have taken at least an hour in each case.

They had found the third victim this morning, after a five day lull. He couldn't have been more than 25 years old. They hadn't even been able to confirm his identity yet, which is why she hadn't argued when Lestrade had called in the Freak. Oh sure, she blustered as much as usual, but secretly, she just hoped he solved it quickly. If they had many more victims, there would be public panic as word got around. It would make their jobs that much harder.

So this morning, Holmes had breezed onto the scene, that doctor of his at his heels, and spouted off enough to give them some solid leads. He'd run off after a few leads of his own, and left them with the more tedious work known as actual investigating.

It had been near midnight when Lestrade got the text. It wasn't the 'found your man for you, idiots' text she'd been hoping for.

New crime scene, was all it had said, followed by an address. Which likely meant they were in for an all nighter, followed by what was almost certain to be a very grueling press conference in the morning.

So that was how they'd ended up screaming through traffic a bit too fast than was warranted for the situation, Lestrade cursing, Anderson sulking, and Sally trying to come up with clever ways to calm the bloodthirsty press in a few hours.

They screeched to halt outside the building, which turned out to be what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Cliche and predictable, but she supposed there was a reason for that.

The room they entered was soaked in darkness, a feeble little camping light trying to chase it away and failing miserably. The scent of blood was thick in the air, and very, very close to the little lamp that could, was a body.

She was confused at first, because this wasn't the way the bodies are generally displayed by this killer. First off, it was clothed. Second, the victim was no where near their killers type; she could see enough under the blood spattering his face to know that no one would describe this guy as 'pretty'.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out, and then jumped when a voice came from the corner of the room.

"Here. Your killer, Lestrade." His voice sounded...off. Rougher than usual perhaps.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what happened? Where's John?"

"I believe it's obvious that there was an altercation and I killed him." It chilled her a bit, to hear those words spoken with such a lack of emotion.

"You what?" Sally blurted before she could help herself, flicking on her torch and shining it toward the Freak.

"Killed him, Sally, do keep up." The torchlight found his face and he jerked his chin to the right, closer to the lamp. "The victim was restrained there, face down over the table. This one fought more than the others; you can see the marks on the floor where the table was violently shoved several times. The cuffs were looped around that pipe there. Your victim was lucky enough to break a thumb and slip one of the cuffs before the killer got bored and ended it."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade trailed off, glancing over the body again. The guys throat had been hacked open, violently. "Sherlock this doesn't look good for you, you know that right?"

The freak just blinked at him, several times in fact, apparently bothered by the torchlight in his face.

Lestrade sighed.

"Right, well then, where's John?"

"Upstairs."

Greg gripped his forehead tightly for a moment.

"Sherlock, you know we have to bring you in. I am sure it was self defense, but we have to...anyway. Sally, take care of it. Anderson, start processing the body and call in your team. I'm going to..." he gestured warily, and headed up the rickety stairs.

Sally grinned, she really couldn't help it. This was something she'd been waiting for for a long, long time. Sure, he'd get off, wasn't even likely to see trial with that brother of his that she'd seen lurking about more than once, but actually getting to slap the cuffs on him and shove him in the back of the car? Almost enough.

"Well then, Freak, this has really made my night. You want to resist a little, feel free." She smirked at him, and pulled out her cuffs. It was petty, she knew. But god, did he have it coming. This would carry her happily through his insults for the next month at least.

Anderson wasn't processing the scene yet, content to watch as Sally approached Holmes, but he had set up another light source. It was still incredibly dark; she could see little more than the Freak's face, everything else was obscured by that coat of his, but there was some purplish bruising dusting lightly across one cheekbone, along with a bit of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Yeah, he was definitely going to get off on self defense.

She grabbed his right arm, automatically spouting Miranda at him.

"You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defense..."

She pulled up the sleeve of his right arm, watching his face, distantly noting how pale it was becoming and how he wasn't tearing his eyes away from her cuffs. She slapped the cuff in place without looking, and tightened it a bit more than she'd later admit. His whole body jolted, but he didn't resist.

"...if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say..."

She grabbed his other arm and yanked up the sleeve, only to be startled by the sound of clinking metal as something fell from the cuff of his coat. He jolted again, and made a soft sound in the back of his throat, something she'd never heard before and to hoped to never hear again. His eyes clenched shut tightly.

She stared dumbly at the dangling handcuffs for longer than she really should have. His pale wrist was shredded and bleeding freely, the silver metal stained and grimy and...

She dropped both of his hands and stepped back with a short cry of shock, her hand flying to cover her mouth. She wasn't as stupid as he made her out to be after all, and the picture fell into place so violently she was surprised no one else in the room heard the crash.

"What, did he pinch you?" Anderson sneered from behind her. "Need some help? Please say you..."

"Daniel. Shut up. And go get Lestrade."

"Shut up? For fucks sake, Sally, it isn't as if..."

"Now! And call an ambulance as well." She shouted, and it came out half strangled. Holmes' muscles jerked again, and she raised her empty hands and moved back toward him. Behind her, there was a sharp intake of breath from Anderson, maybe he'd put it together as well, but she honestly couldn't give a shit at the moment. She focused all of her attention on shifting her perception from 'bane of my existence' to 'victim rapidly sliding into shock'. The cuffs were tinkling softly now, one set dangling from each wrist, as he trembled. He was blinking again, fluttering eyelashes over eyes that were way too glassy for her liking, and she knew his brain was scrambling to keep up.

"The killer had combat training, but it wasn't professional, likely learned from a friend recently returned from military service, his accent suggested he hailed from..."

"Sherlock. I didn't notice, I am sorry, but I am going to take those off now, is that alright?"

He tried to sneer, but it came across as more of a grimace than he likely intended.

"Of course you didn't Sally, you all see what you want, not what is actually there, you don't observe, idiots, the lot of you, you..." he trailed off, blinking again, his muscles locked tight as Sally reached forward with her key to remove the cuff she'd put on him. She looked this time, she observed, and saw the horrific swelling in his right hand along with more blood and rent flesh from his struggles in the cuffs. He stood frozen as she gently undid the cuff and tossed it across the room. He jerked his hand back when she reached for the other.

"Don't." he said so quietly, she almost didn't hear it.

"You are going into shock, let me get the cuff off and then you can sit down, alright?" She tried to keep her voice soothing, but couldn't help but think she was failing. This was Sherlock, after all, it wasn't as if she could lie to him to keep him calm.

He choked out a laugh, and closed his eyes, exhaustion marring his features.

"Not possible."

She swallowed harshly, and moved toward him again.

"Just let me..." she quickly undid the last cuff, making what she hoped were soothing noises when it stuck to his swollen flesh, and let it fall to the floor with a resounding clang. Sherlock tried to pull away, but he slipped, and she instinctively grabbed him, holding him upright. His eyes rolled back in his head for a moment, before resettling as completely dazed. The subsequent jostling moved him further into the light, and she found herself staring stupidly at his bare feet while his head lolled briefly on her shoulder. His bare feet, and the blood trailing down the sides and back of his bare calves. She realized he must be naked under the coat. Of course he would have grabbed it, wanted to cover up before people arrived, a common response for victims of...

How sad was it that she couldn't even acknowledge it in her head? She was specially fucking trained for this, she'd done it several times, if not dozens in her lifetime. She took classes on the psychology of victims to better understand how to help them, and was damned good at it. Of course, like everything else, that all failed spectacularly when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

She was in the process of trying to lower him to the floor when he started fighting her. His attempts were weak and unfocused, but the shock was rapidly setting in, and she didn't want to hurt him.

"Sherlock, don't, it's fine, we're going to help you." Her soothing voice was starting to sound awful to her own ears now, stupid and flat and not enough...

"Stop, just let me go home, I'm fine..." he mumbled, before letting out a terrible groan when she finally got him laying on the ground. He stopped for a moment, his eyes glassing further as he fought to remain conscious. A shattered bit of a shriek was bitten off suddenly in his throat and he was batting weakly at her hands.

"Lestrade! We need the doctor, now!" she shouted toward the stairwell. Sherlock doubled his efforts, his entire body trembling and nonsensical words pouring from his mouth. She pressed firmly on his shoulders to keep him as still as possible.

There was a loud crash from upstairs just then, followed by raised voices.