This was brilliant. Three serial suicides, and now, a fourth. And a note! It was all Sherlock could do to contain his giddiness. Things were really going to get exciting now. The consulting detective could already feel his blood pumping faster through his veins, and it took all of his willpower not to jump around like a deranged lunatic. That is, until he thought to ask Lestrade who was on forensics.

"It's Anderson."

Oh, perfect. Just perfect. Anderson was Sherlock's least favourite person to work with, and the feeling was mutual. Anderson was the epitome of why Sherlock couldn't stand idiots. Honestly, how the man kept his job was one thing Sherlock couldn't deduce.

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock protested.

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant," the tall, thin man insisted.

"Will you come?" the detective inspector asked.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

Lestrade seemed relieved. "Thank you." He left, then, and Sherlock couldn't contain himself any longer. He leaped into the air, twirling around the room, letting loose his joyful shouts. It was an irritation that Anderson would be there, of course – and that was an understatement – and though Sherlock did need assistance, all the small details held little significance. No matter. The game was on!

After giving Mrs. Hudson instructions regarding a later meal, he turned to John, who was still sitting in the chair he had claimed. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

In moments, he was out the door, running down the stairs. He was just about to open the front door and step out into the chill of the January day when something stopped him. A shout, an outburst from his potential flatmate that floated down a floor below to the consulting detective.

"Damn my leg!"

His hand was on the doorknob as he glanced upwards, surprised. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson had just unwittingly said something patronizing to set John off, but John didn't seem at all the type of person to shout profanities at harmless older women – well, even if the woman in question had been married to a man involved in a double murder and running a drug cartel, and had been an exotic dancer, herself, but that wasn't the point.

The point was, up until now…Sherlock had had the wrong idea about John Watson. It was easy enough to tell at a glance that the man was thoroughly depressed, but, perhaps, it hadn't been for the reasons Sherlock had initially thought. As much as he hated to admit it, he could get his first impressions wrong on the very rare occasion. He had a knack, he always had, for being dead-on about people and their deeper thoughts and secrets, but John seemed to be the exception.

Sherlock had thought, only moments ago, that it was simply Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that John suffered from, but this outburst changed everything. A man haunted by the war in Afghanistan, as well as his own wounds, real and psychosomatic, suffering because of his memories of that time…No, that had been too simple. John Watson was a straightforward man, but Sherlock already knew that there were surprising layers there. John wasn't simply depressed, he was angry. He missed the action, and the danger. He was furious at his empty life, at being treated like an invalid, when he craved more.

A small grin tugged at Sherlock's lips. He knew right then that he didn't need an assistant after all, because there was a willing participant only a floor away.