Thanks to the Homeless Net, Sherlock was able to get to the factory just in time to stop Jensen Diray before he could run off. John was ten steps behind him, looking behind every few seconds to see if Lestrade's car had caught up yet. No.

But Sherlock knew he would get to him before Lestrade. And so he ran ahead, shoes clicking the road-and when he turned the corner he could almost touch him. Two more steps, and he tackled Diray. Diray turned underneath and fought at him, scratching and punching at Sherlock. Sherlock pulled a gun from his waist, settled in between his belt and his back, and (after hesitating) slammed the handle against Diray's face, knocking him out. Sherlock shuddered and rolled his neck, cracking it.

John was just behind him when he stood up and stepped over Diray. He held the gun away from him, dangling it in his hand towards John. "Take it," he said quietly, shaking the gun in his direction. John looked confused.

"Sherlock, you know how to hold a gu-"

But Sherlock shook it even more, turning his head away, and shouted at him. "Take the gun, John!" And john snatched it out of his hands before stuffing it under his belt. Immediately, Sherlock gained his composure and exhaled.

"How in the hell did you grab it?" He walked over and gently kicked Diray's side. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Please, John, do give me some credit." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and click-click-click went the buttons. John hunched over, breathing in.

The sound of sirens came into ear shot. Sherlock turned quickly as John stood up. "Wait, or go?"

John looked down at Diray. "Wait, I guess. No sense hurrying."

"Fine." Sherlock leaned over Diray and reached into his pockets, finally pulling out a ticket for the cinema.

"See? He was there. 3:40 pm. If he had contacted her at all, if he even bumped into her, he'd have grabbed-" Sherlock kept searching the pockets, the jacket, until finally he pulled out a card.

John took a sharp breath in. "But her ID? Why? That's so obvious-"

"It was a disguise, John. She was never at the station when we were tracking her down. Look at his build. He's not very short, and thinner than I am-he was dressed as her and grabbed our attention Tuesday night. So we'd follow, thinking it was her. The blonde hairs on the jacket, remember?"

John rubbed his neck. "It was a wig. You said it was fake hair."

"Yes, because it was. Stupid, Stupid." Sherlock shook his head. "How could I have not noticed before?"

But before he could get an answer the Yard's cars pulled up, one with Lestrade, one with Sally, and an ambulance. Lestrade walks up and kicks Diray. "Take him," he tells the officer stepping out of his passenger seat. "I'll question him later."

Looking at Sherlock, he takes a deep breath. He looks at John. "Nice with the gun. Saw from the bridge."

John cleared his throat. "Oh, um…no, that wasn't me. All Sherlock." Sherlock stepped away just then, clicking the buttons on his phone. He coughed.

Lestrade's eyes nearly popped out of his skull."Sh-Sherlock? Apparently I need glasses." His hands rested on his hips. "Sherlock, really? After last-"

In an instant Sherlock turned around. "Shut up, Lestrade. You're wasting time."

John glanced over at him. He was breathing quite heavily. Lestrade cleared his throat. "Right. Anything else, then? Or are we just taking back?"

Sherlock huffed. "Take him back. He's been dressing as her all week. She's probably in the basement here." He turns to step away.

Lestrade looked toward the building. "Aren't you coming down, then?"

Sherlock stopped. "Mmm…no. Come John." He started to walk away. Lestrade gave John a look, to which John could only shrug, and follow.

When he caught up with Sherlock, John lightly hit his hand against his arm to tear his attention away from the Blackberry. Sherlock didn't even look up. Its buttons went click-click-click."What?"

"You didn't want to stay."

"That's what I said." Click-click-click.

"But…" John paused. "Why?"

"Not important." Sherlock looked up from the phone and John knew not to inquire further despite wanting to. "Food?"

John thought. "Yes, nothing at the flat."

"Angelo's is just-"

John interrupted. "Angelo's is fine."

"What was that about, the gun, then?" John twirled some spaghettis onto his fork. Sherlock was lightly picking tiny piece of the bread and eating them slowly. Better than nothing, John though, but still not a lot after 3 days of working.

Sherlock looked up from his hands. His answer was even shorter than before. "Nothing." His eyes looked past him somehow, and through him too.

John swallowed and looked away.

He was reading the paper and drinking the last sip of tea in his cup when Sherlock padded down the stairs in his flannels, t-shirt and dressing gown. His eyes looked heavy. John glanced up.

"Didn't you sleep? You went in quite early."

Sherlock walked past him and into the kitchen. He came back with the kettle and held it to John's cup, and once John realized and held the cup out for him, he poured.

"I-err….thanks. How did you-"

"You were tilting it all the way back." Was the monotone reply as Sherlock back from the kitchen and past him. He threw himself on the couch laptop in hand.

John looked at him. "So?"

"So?"

John sighed. "Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock typed away. "No."

John looked back to the newspaper. Better to ask questions with no eye contact. "How long's it been?"

No response.

John rolled his eyes. He heard Sherlock stop typing and shifting on the couch. The silence was going to be broken, so he waited.

It was barely a whisper.

"Three weeks."

John nearly spit the tea out. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock started typing again. John threw the paper down and set the teacup onto the table. He pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to the couch. Sherlock didn't look away from the screen, typing even faster than before. Who types that fast?

"Let me see." John said quietly. Sherlock slightly leaned away from him and replied, "You're in my light."

"I don't care. Show me."

"I don't even know what-" But before he could say anything else, John grabbed his left arm and pushed his dressing gown sleeve up. Five patches on his arm, 3 holes at the crook of his elbow. They were swollen. John couldn't breathe.

"Sherlock."

But Sherlock had slapped his arm away, and shook his sleeve back down. Back to typing.

"Sherlock, you promised."

"Promised not to what." It was a statement more than a question.

"Wha-what do you think? How long has this been going on, Sherlock?" he was getting angry now.

"I've told you, John. Three weeks. More or less." Sherlock stared at the screen. But he stopped typing.

John sighed. "If you would just tell me-"

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "There is nothing to tell."

"You're lying."

"It wouldn't matter-"

"It does to me!" John yelled out, making Sherlock jump and hold himself for just a second- eyes wide and breathing hard. He looked straight ahead.

John looked down at him, and he immediately regretted it. Sherlock looked like a child- trapped within his own body; he was shaking slightly but trying not to show it. His chest was moving rapidly and John could swear he might have been able to hear his heart pounding in his chest. He had his right hand pressed into the crook of his left elbow, where John knew it hurt most. He gingerly kneeled down beside the couch, careful not to startle Sherlock.