Finally I was back home; my own 221B Baker Street. I set my medical bag on the floor and sunk into the couch. Holmes wasn't home yet, and although I missed the man a bit, it had been a stressful day and I was glad to have a few moments to myself.

I chose a book from the bookshelf next to me and opened it, instantly immersed in the plot and the characters.

I hadn't been reading for more than half an hour before the door was thrown ajar and in strode Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Halloa, Watson!" he chattered.

"Hello, Sherlock! Where have you been?" I answered, looking up from my novel but not putting it away.

"Buying groceries," Sherlock said dully, holding up one bag. I could guess what it contained; tea leaves, milk, bread, and maybe a handful of cigars.

"Mmm, I see," I said. "There's a first time for everything, eh?"

Holmes glared at me, but it was with an air of humor.

"And what have you been up to, John?" He asked me, slowly making his way to stand by the couch.

"Reading, actually. This is quite good." I held up the book in my hands and went back to it. I read for a moment or two before I saw Holmes out of the corner of my eye relocating to a spot behind me. He waited for a moment; shy, something that was very rare with him and that I appreciated. Then he wrapped his arms around my figure, resting his head on my shoulder. My heart fluttered pleasantly. He was probably reading over my shoulder, too.

"Turn." he said into my ear.

"What?" I asked, hardly willing to leave the printed world.

"Turn." he repeated matter-of-factly. "The page."

I laughed a little in indignation."I'm the one reading this book, not you, Holmes!" I turned my face to his, and instantly realized how close our faces were.

"Well, my dear Watson, I started reading it as well. And I need you to turn the page."

I rolled my eyes and went back to my book.

Sherlock fondled my torso with his long thin fingers. My heart picked up its pace considerably, but I tried not to show it.

"You can't stay mad at me." Sherlock laughed at my expense.

I finally put my book down, resigned. "Maybe I can't," I answered. I turned to look at him and was met by his smiling face. His grin was contagious, and I smiled, too. I kissed him on the mouth for a moment and broke away, running my hands through his hair before heading to the kitchen to make myself some tea.

"Would you like some, my friend?" I asked him.

"Why not?" He loved to answer with another question. His voice was muffled; he was in the other room, and his nose was probably already buried in my book. I rolled my eyes, but I smiled, too.

As I set to boiling some water and listening to the occasional turning of a page from Sherlock, I heard a doorbell from below, followed by footsteps on the stairs. A moment later an elderly woman showed her face, which was ridden with misery. Holmes and I put down our tea and novel and met her at the door. We shook her clammy hand and she introduced herself as Elizabeth Clarks.

"My dear Mrs. Clarks," my friend said. "What is the problem?"

"It's terrible," the woman said, hardly coherent. "My daughter was murdered."

Only because I knew Sherlock so well could I tell that his eyes had started to twinkle; it had been so long since we'd had a case and he was finally back in his element. "Well, miss, take a seat and tell us how this came about." He motioned her towards a chair and she gladly sunk into it.

She looked sadly at us for a moment before proceeding. "My darling Joanna… She was seventeen years of age. You know the age; I had finally allowed her to go to the theater with a boy she'd been talking about for years. James, that's his name. Good fellow, I met him. So did my husband. He was a perfect gentleman. Anyway, they went to the theater together, and were going to a fancy little place to have dinner afterward. When James came back, it was six o'clock, and we hadn't been expecting him for another two hours. He was all shaken up, so pale, shaking so bad. He told us that he had left Joanna in their seats at the theater while he went and purchased a playbill for her; oh, how she loved the theater. But when he came back, she was gone. He searched everywhere and couldn't find her. He asked everyone if they had seen her, and one woman said she had. That woman said she'd seen another man come and sit in the seat next to her, James' seat, and they talked for a moment before he took her away. She said Joanna didn't look happy. The second James told us, my husband and I stood up to go looking for her… but we didn't have to. She was lying in front of our doorstep, dead. No blood or anything, just a great bruise on the back of her neck and her collarbone." Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes.

Holmes stood and put his hand gently on the crying woman's shoulder. "No need to worry, ma'am. I'm on the case." Oh, I'd have to have a talk with my friend. He was very near laughing as he tried to comfort the woman and I'm sure that wouldn't do.

"And where do you live?" I cut in.

"236 Brewer Street. You will find me there." Holmes nodded his thanks.

The woman had one more thing to say. "Oh, and Mr. Holmes," she sniffed. "There have been two more like it. Two people other than Joanna were found with the same bruising, sitting on their doorsteps for their poor families to find."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up imploringly, daring her to go on. "Oh, yes?"

"Yes, sir. A school teacher and a police officer were the other victims."

Sherlock straightened and slapped his hands on his thighs merrily. "Well! I think we best get started, miss. Thank you for your time. I'm sure we'll find our man soon." I stood and ushered the woman out, embracing her tightly before she left. "I'm so sorry," I said in her ear. "She won't have died in vain." Elizabeth Clarks smiled at me, though her eyes were again teary, and descended the stairs.

Turning back, I slipped my arms through my coat. Holmes had already done so, and was gathering his materials. "To Brewer Street?" I prompted with a smirk.

"To Brewer Street!" Holmes shouted with a hearty grin, thrusting his fist triumphantly in the air.