Disclaimer Time! I don't own Sherlock or any characters portrayed within (except for Rahne, Aubrey, and anyone you don't recognize from the show). Those honors go to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. My hat goes off to you, my good sirs.

((A/N: A few facts in this story will not be correct. Please keep that in mind and do not complain to me about them. This story is not based completely in the real world considering that most of it was written at ungodly hours of the night/morning. That being said, enjoy the story and feel free to leave me some comments. Also: 'Rahne' is pronounced 'rain'.))

The door to 221b Baker Street needed to be oiled, the hinges giving off a whisper-quiet scream every time the door was opened. The thought flashed through Sherlock's head and was quickly replaced by another, thoughts flashing through his mind in an unrelenting torrent. He needed a new case. He imagined that this was what addiction felt like for the idiot masses that surrounded him on all sides. Weeks had passed since he had last faced off against Moriarty. Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear out the memories of that night, trying not to dwell on the fact that he had been outsmarted, but the memories ran through his mind anyway. Firing the gun, the noise of the explosion, flying backwards into the pool, pain and darkness. He woke up several hours later in the hospital, one of Mycroft's agents filling him in on the events that had occurred since Sherlock had been out. Both he and John had been blown back by the explosion; Sherlock into the pool, John into a wall.

Moriarty had escaped.

That fact was the only one that Sherlock could hear. Not that John had a broken leg that would make his psychosomatic limp as real as he had imagined it. Not that the explosion had cracked or broken most of the ribs on Sherlock's right side and had severe burns on the right side of his chest, or that he had been clinically dead for three minutes before being resuscitated by one of the agents that Mycroft had set on him. The only fact that registered was that Moriarty had escaped. The only man ever to best his mind had gotten away from him. That was enough to make Sherlock want to scream like the door hinges.

A cold breath of wind brushed his skin, causing him to shiver and realize that he hadn't moved inside since he had started this ridiculous flashback. He shook himself irritably and stalked inside, listening to the hinges scream in frustration as he shut the door behind him. He ran lightly up the stairs, quieting his footsteps as he saw John putting water in the kettle. Sherlock grinned at the prospect of mayhem. He crept forward, waiting until he was close enough to John to smell his aftershave, before he spoke. "The front door really needs oiling." The kettle clanged on the floor, water spilling across the tiling. John jumped in place, throwing an elbow back to catch Holmes in the ribs. Sherlock winced and chuckled as Watson unleashed a torrent of profanity. "God damn it Holmes! Stop doing that! You really need a new case before you start trying to dose my coffee with something." Holmes looked mildly insulted. "Why would I resort to such primitive methods? If I wanted to test a drug on you all I would have to do is inject you while you were sleeping." John sighed as he grabbed a tea towel and mopped up the spilled water on the floor. "Somehow, Sherlock, that doesn't reassure me at all."

An hour later the phone rang. John cast Sherlock an annoyed glance after it rang several more times and Holmes had made no move to answer it. The phone rang twice more before John roughly grabbed it from Sherlock's pocket. "Honestly, it's like living with a four year old." Holmes smirked as John answered the phone. "Oh, but John. I am so much more intelligent than the average four year old. Even when I was four." John shot him an annoyed look as he took down information on a pad of paper. "Right. We'll be over this afternoon." John hung up the phone as Sherlock said, "No we won't." John glared at him. "Yes, Sherlock, we will be there. You are driving me insane. I don't care if this is a case to help them find their keys, you will use this to occupy your mind. Even if it is for half a minute!" John snapped at him. Sherlock frowned. "I am not going."

Two hours later John rang the doorbell, Holmes standing behind him, annoyance playing over his features like lightning in a thunderhead. The door was opened by a pale woman who fidgeted as Sherlock looked her over. Red-brown hair and blue-gray eyes, underlined by bruised circles that made her eyes seem bigger (They look like bruises, Sherlock mused, but the more likely cause is lack of sleep.). Glasses with black plastic frames. An oversized, black zip-up hoodie that probably came from a boyfriend (or girlfriend, Holmes mentally added, remembering John's sister), a gray tank top. A silver ring with a Celtic knot pattern on her left thumb that clicked against the door as her hands twitched against it. Light flashed from a key that hung around her neck. Black gym shorts that went down to her knees, a faint scar running out from underneath them, curling around the side of her knee and out of sight behind it. "Y-you must be h-h-here for Aubrey. C-come in then," she stuttered before disappearing into the house, leaving them to close the door behind them. Another woman appeared; casting an annoyed look in the direction the other woman had gone.

"I apologize for Rahne, she's not very good around people. I'm Aubrey McLean." Aubrey's voice was husky, warm. She had a body that many men no doubt lusted over, full and hourglass. Holmes could actually see his colleague beginning to fall under her spell. "Please, follow me," Aubrey said, sweeping down a corridor. One hundred and twenty steps later they were in a sitting room and Aubrey was motioning to chairs for them to sit in. Once they were all seated comfortably, introductions made and tea poured, Aubrey started on her story. "Our house was recently broken into and several articles of some great value were stolen from us." Sherlock interrupted, "'Us' being…?" Aubrey glanced at him, "Myself and Rahne, the girl who answered the door. She is somewhat of a shut in. I don't know the reason she opened the door for you. Usually when she hears the doorbell she's off like a shot. Barely any of my friends realize that I have a sister," Aubrey laughed, a light sound like dust motes in sunshine, "Can you believe that some of them actually thought she was a ghost?" Sherlock could feel himself becoming irritated at the woman and took a breath to calm himself.

"You've checked the local pawnshops and reported it to the police?" It was John asking the question, not Sherlock. "Yes, of course Mr. Watson. The police have tried their best, I'm sure, but they have no leads to go on. The pawnshops near here have all denied seeing the items, and I am inclined to believe them. The items stolen were not as easy to get rid of as a television or a stereo. You would need to find specialized buyers, someone to authenticate them, a reputable shipping company." Sherlock cleared his throat. "What exactly was stolen? I assume that you were insured." Aubrey nodded, "Of course, Mr. Holmes. The items in question were heavily insured; we've already been questioned by the insurance agency. They found it satisfactory and said that they will pay us by the end of the month. That being said, they are family heirlooms and I would very much like to have them back. As to what was stolen…" Aubrey trailed off, rifling through a sheaf of papers, handing both of them a pair of photographs with pale, fine-boned fingers. They were of three gilded animal skulls from different angles; the first was canine, possibly jackal, the second corvus, a raven or a crow, the third was vulpine. They were intricately decorated with chips of gemstones. "One of my many-greats grandfathers found these in some location or other. No one really knows where they originated." Sherlock flicked the pictures onto the table in front of him. "I'll see what I can do," he said, rising to leave. Aubrey blinked, surprise on her beautiful face. Apparently she had been expecting more questions.

"I'll contact you if I need anything else," he said on his way out the door. He could hear John's voice murmuring pleasantries behind him, Aubrey returning them. His hand was on the doorknob when he sensed someone watching him. He turned his head and saw Aubrey's sister, Rahne. She was mostly hidden by a turn in the hallway, and she seemed surprised at being seen. She turned and ran down the hallway. His boredom momentarily relieved by her odd behavior, Sherlock turned and went after her.

Sherlock followed the sound of raucous music down one hallway, then another. He finally reached a door with the words GO AWAY written on it in thick block letters. He opened it without knocking and was greeted by utter chaos. The room itself was dark, pieces of fabric acting as curtains, hanging over a skylight. The floor was concealed by a layer of clothes and books. A desk was pushed up to the wall in front of him, strewn with trash, prescription pill bottles, ibuprofen and Excedrin bottles, junk food and fast food wrappers, empty cans and bottles, crumpled papers, and assorted pens. Two monitors, currently off, were the only things on the desk that were clean. The only illumination in the room came from a television on top of another table in the far corner, which appeared to be showing the paused screen of a video game. More pieces of fabric hung from the ceiling on his left, hiding what he assumed to be a bed and the room's occupant.

He pulled the curtain back seeing a huge nest of blankets on top of a king sized mattress. He stood there for a few moments, watching the pile of blankets. They stirred, but otherwise nothing happened. He sighed and sank to the floor, determined to wait her out. A few minutes went by, his phone buzzed. Probably John asking where he'd gotten to. It could wait. A few more minutes went by and the boredom was almost overwhelming. A flashing light drew his attention and he picked up a wireless controller. He leaned against a wall and selected NEW GAME.

There was a massive upset in the blankets, but still no pale-skinned woman appeared. More time passed as Sherlock played the video game and Rahne watched. "You're doing it wrong." The soft voice almost startled him. He looked over at the mass of blankets next. Rahne still hadn't emerged, but light reflected off her eyes, two pinpoints of light in the dark of the room. "Is that so?" he questioned. "Yeah, is so," came the retort, no stutter evident. She was in her element, calm. Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if she were holding some kind of weapon under all the blankets. "Press right trigger to fire, left trigger to aim. You're doing it wrong." Sherlock looked at the controller. If he was being honest he had never used a gaming console, so everything she had just said was gibberish. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" The quiet tone was exasperated now. "Maybe if I could see the controller I'd be able to play better." Shuffling from under the blankets. "Please don't turn on the lights." A hand emerged, "I'll show you what I mean." Rahne sat up, blankets falling away from her. She'd taken off her glasses and her eyes glowed in the dark room. She moved towards him and light glinted on the knife in her hand. Sherlock grinned, right yet again. The grin made the woman in front of him freeze for a moment, before determinedly moving closer. She grabbed the controller with her free hand, flipping it up. "This is a trigger, this is a bumper," she said, pointing each one out with the knife. She withdrew and leaned against the wall, watching the screen. Sherlock continued playing.

"Not going back under the blankets then?" He watched Rahne shrug from the corner of his eye. "Stuffy under there," she said, words accentuated by the sound of a soda can being popped open. "Would you like one?" Sherlock shook his head, swearing quietly to himself as his character fell off a cliff and died. Rahne laughed softly as his character respawned. "You really need to start saving your game more often, mate." He could hear the smile in her voice. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" he asked. The knife snaked out and pressed a small button near the center of the controller. The save screen appeared on the television. "Ah," Sherlock said. "You've never actually played a video game before, have you?" Rahne asked. "They have no basis in reality, and therefore are useless to me," Sherlock replied. "Loads of things have no basis in reality, loads more do but they are useless anyway," Rahne said. "No facts are useless," Sherlock maintained, eyes still on the TV, thumbs still working the controller. "Is that right? Then tell me, genius-man, what possible use could knowing the longest tapeworm pulled out of a human intestine have? Or knowing that the world's biggest pancake was cooked in Rochdale in 1994?" Sherlock shrugged, "I'm sure that there is something that that knowledge would be useful in."

Rahne laughed. "Half-wit." Sherlock growled as his character died again. "I give in. This game is impossible." Rahne laughed again and took the controller from him, turning off the console and TV, plunging the room further into darkness. "So tell me then, Mr. Holmes. Why did you come after me?" She asked from the darkness. He heard her move and take a sip of her soda. "Your sister…" he began. "Yes, yes, yes," Rahne interrupted. "I know why you're here, Aubrey got you looking for those bloody heirloom skulls. I asked you why you are here, in the dark, playing video games and talking to Aubrey's secret sister."

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I was bored." A laugh. "Boredom is a good a reason as any I suppose, Mr. Holmes. You've been bored a lot lately, haven't you?" Sherlock shook his head and then, remembering how dark it was, said "No". He heard a tap as she set the can down on something hard, a clear bit of floor perhaps. "Don't lie, Mr. Holmes. You've been looking for Moriarty and he's more a ghost than those in the Tower of London. Since he disappeared you've had no puzzles intricate enough to actually occupy your mind for longer than a few minutes. And it's been driving you crazy, hasn't it?"

By the time she had finished speaking he was on her, pinning her to the floor. "How do you know that?" He demanded. Her only response was to laugh, an ugly, half-crazed sound, nothing like her sister's. His hand gripped her jaw so hard it hurt, so hard that she would be standing in front of the mirror the next morning, looking for his fingers outlined on her face. "Tell me," he snarled. She just grinned in response. "What's the matter Sherlock? Don't like it when you meet a puzzle you can't solve?" His hand squeezed tighter, if possible. Suddenly grinning hurt, but she forced herself to continue. It was just so much fun to see him so infuriated, so close to human. As close as either of them would ever get to being human. His eyes darkened with rage, he looked like a wraith, all black hair and eyes, pale skin and red lips. Curiosity pulled at her mind again and she dug her thumbnail into the pressure point between his thumb and forefinger, her head darting forward before he had a chance to reclaim his grip. Her lips smashed into his, biting his lower lip. She tasted blood, coppery and warm, and she backed off, rolling to her feet, still grinning. He rocked back and looked up at her from his position on the floor.

She looked like a murderous apparition, his blood painting her lips red against her skin, so pale he could see the veins pulsing in her arms. His hand rose to his mouth and he looked at the blood on his fingers in numbed shock. He had been kissed. While he stared at his bloodied fingers in shock she had already moved on, turning on the monitors. He could see a document open on one, half the visible page already covered in type. A movie playing on the other, the volume low enough that the actor's voices were barely audible murmurs to him.

"When you're done just standing there, you can let yourself out," she said, her level voice breaking through the confusion in his mind. Sherlock left to the sound of voices and the music of keys being pressed rapidly, refusing to think of why he was so rattled. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket before he reached the door and cleaned the blood off his face. Sucking on his bitten lip, he exited the house, making his way home.