Summary: Sherlock and John are following the trail of a case that seems comparable to any other. Intriguing for the Consulting Detective, but somewhat unremarkable. Until, that is, the trail leads to a situation which is much too close to Sherlock's heart than he'd like. John discovers, finally, what Sherlock had been up to for those cloaked 3 years... and the consequences. The pair end up on a dangerous adventure to Serbia, where evil awaits.

A/N- I'm a HUGE Sherlock fan, so, of course, had to write a fiction about it! I've only ever written for Charmed before...

This one only disregards events in 'His Last Vow'. It has no Johnlock, but a lot of bromance, as I love the pair as best friends! There's some romance elsewhere, too. And some very dangerous men from the time Sherlock spent as a tortured prisoner in Serbia, as well as other people from his hidden past. Action and emotion. Emotion first, though. The action will come later, I promise. At first it'll be slow-paced, to plz bear with! The story hots up, I swear!

If anyone is reading this (Timmy, I know you are!) please drop me a little review if you can with constructive criticism! :-)

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Chapter 1:

Brooding

With an ease so effortless it was almost eerie, Sherlock stroked the violin bow across the strings, which produced a dulcet, melodic tune that filled apartment 221B, Bakers Street. The tune perfectly framed the atmosphere of the room; mellow and endearingly dark. Uniquely decorated in a style that was a quirky take on classic, the apartment was like a stage for the worlds one and only Consulting Detective, on which he danced (although the man himself would gravely disagree that this imagery was suiting- with a smirk- as he was far above such dramatics). Sherlocks eyes were closed and a frown was etched faintly into his forehead. Because, of course, he was thinking. Why else would Sherlock Holmes play the violin? For the mere sake of it? Preposterous. Rarely, even, for the amusement of company. No. Even when composing for pleasure, Sherlock always had an ulterior motive for playing his violin, whether it be relaxation or a catalyst for his thoughts. On this occasion, it was definitely the latter.

John could tell Sherlock was thinking. It was the robotic movements that gave his purpose away; Sherlock swayed more fluidly when he played for relaxation. Funny that John knew that. Being heterosexual and all.

Frowning, John decided to worry about how he knew such intimate details about another man later. Instead, he worried about what Sherlock was thinking about. He shouldn't really, as his friend was a grown man, and a remarkable one at that. But John had to be concerned because: a) Sherlock only needed to really think when he was on a case, which he currently wasn't, b) lately, Sherlock had been brooding and looking faraway a lot, and c) John had to live in his old apartment with this odd man for another two weeks, and the violin would surely wear on his nerves.

Placing down his newly brewed cup of tea, John tentatively wandered into the kitchen, not wanting to arouse Sherlock's suspicion. Leaning on the doorway frame, he lowered his chin to his neck cleared his throat loudly. Waited. No response. Sherlock continued to play his elegant masterpiece and dance with that odd frown on his face.

"Sherlock?" John stepped forward. "Penny for your thoughts?"

John regretted the patronising question immediately, and, by the looks of it, so did Sherlock. The man snapped his body around like a whip, and the music ceased. A dark eyebrow shot up.

"O-okay then. You don't want to talk. That's fine," John grumbled. "I was having a lot of fun chatting away to myself anyway."

Sighing, John span on his heel and stomped back into the kitchen. He had no idea why he bothered with that antisocial, pompous man. Best friend or no best friend, John had no obligation to care. He tried his hardest not to care at all that, since Sherlock had 'arisen from the grave' (which proved to John that he had a messiah complex), he had been... different.

Even after all these years, John knew that the old Sherlock didn't zone out nearly as much. And, even when he had, it had never been at such strange moments. Suddenly glaring at nothing whilst in the middle of a conversation- normal Sherlock behaviour. Quietly gazing out of the window when attention wasn't on him, as if day-dreaming- not normal Sherlock behaviour. John found himself wondering, yet again, what had happened to Sherlock during those three years that he'd been dead- what he'd gotten up to- to make him so brooding. Had it really been that bad?

But, whatever. John had, due to Sherlock's constantly rude mannerisms, decided not to care.

In the kitchen once again, John angrily attacked his tea with the spoon that'd been sat beside it. Grumbling to himself. Cursing Sherlock. Wondering why he cared about the man so damn much.

"You're not mad at me, John. You're just missing Mary a great deal." Sherlock called his statement breezily as he placed his violin down. John turned to scowl at the back of Sherlock's head and all those dark, tousled curls.

"What?" John huffed, "how'd you 'deduce' that one then, oh godly genius who's presence I quiver in?"

Sherlock straightened his back and stared innocently. "Well, isn't it Mary- not you- who takes her tea with sugar?"

John looked down in surprise at his cup of tea. Which he'd just stirred a generous heap of sugar into. Aghast, he stuttered and, finally, cursed.

"Try not to panic, John. I'm sure you can survive a mere fortnight without her. Consider that you did manage 30 years." Sherlock said as he strode into the kitchen.

"Yes, yes, I know. But, come on, what 'girls holiday' lasts 2 bloody weeks! I mean, a weekend is fine. A week? Perfectly normal. But what sane woman has a fortieth birthday bash in Ibiza for 2 weeks?" John fumed, pouring his sugary tea down the sink.

"Yes, I do understand you completely. All that sun and sand... All those luminous, sweaty people jumping around in the dark, sliding against each other. It's disgusting. Comprehendible for celebration's sakes, but how much can one take?" Sherlock shivered at the picture he'd painted.

John continued to grumble to himself as he washed his mug to the point of dissolving: "I didn't know she even had any girl friends, let alone one so close she'd invite her to I-bloomin'-biza!"

Sherlock tilted his head. "So, you see, this was never about me and what was on my mind. There was something on your mind." He said. He stared at John expectantly, getting closer.

Oh, he wants to try talking now, does he? That's different. John thought. "Hmm..." He mumbled, scrunching his lips together.

When John said nothing, Sherlock continued: "the peculiar circumstances, which you've just mentioned, surrounding your wife's sudden holiday are leading you to worry that it is something to do with her past, is that it?"

"Umm..." John shook his head, eyes dubious.

"Your eyes have been flicking to your phone all day; Mary can't call you from Ibiza, can she? Far too expensive. So you're waiting for another call. The police maybe?" Sherlock gave a sympathetic look. "You've really no idea what call you're waiting for. You just don't believe she is in Ibiza... That's what you're thinking."

John blinked. "I wasn't actually. I was just missing her! Do- do you think... She's up to something...?"

"... Oops." Sherlock grimaced. He tried to dig himself out. "No, John, I don't- I thought you did. But, erm... To make you feel better..." In truth, Sherlock had absolutely no idea how he could make John feel better; he'd be worrying his little head off now.

Breaking the silence (in which John fumed, smoke practically tumbling from his ears, and Sherlock stumbled over his words guiltily) a phone buzzed. Sherlock's phone.

"Oh joy, a case!" Sherlock declared. He jumped on the spot and skipped over to his phone which lay on the countertop.

"Well good. I'm glad someone's happy." John sulked.

Despite what his facial expression suggested, John didn't worry too much for Mary Watson. He had long stopped thinking of her as a helpless, innocent woman (if he ever had!) He knew Mary had a sensible head on her shoulders, and would never endanger herself while she was avec baby bump! Mary, whilst carrying their baby girl, would stay safe. Sherlock, on the other hand... One could very easily panic about that unruly madman.

John watched Sherlock's unchanging expression until, in a few short seconds, he hung up the phone.

"That was Gordon." Sherlock said.

"Greg!" John corrected irritably.

"Of course it was, I just told you that." Sherlock replied, frowning, "he does have a little case for us. A murder case. He's in a room where he is positive the murderer was before the crime, except there are no fingerprints what-so-ever. Nothing to go on." Sherlock chuckled. "Poor man's stuck, bless his silly, unremarkable soul."

All of a sudden, the Consulting Detective raced from the room. "Oh... I guess we're going now, then!"

Sherlock appeared once again, now lavishly cloaked from neck to knee in his long, gloriously stylish coat of pure Irish wool.

"Yes. Unless... Are you doing anything more pressing currently? I guess you could have a second attempt at that tea while I'm gone." Smirking that knowing, crooked smirk- as was his habit- Sherlock sauntered from the room, the tail of his coat catching up seconds later like the trailing smoke from a firework.

For a few silent seconds, John stood awkwardly. Then, grinding his teeth, he cursed out loud and went to grab his jacket.

Greg Lastrade hung up the phone with a swift click, and looked around the room in which he stood. Forensic scientists were swarming the excessively opulent room, scanning every microscopic detail of its lavishness. The man who'd once lived here, who was now deceased, had had an expensive taste. It was unfortunate that he'd been taken from such a wonderfully beautiful, homely little place, which he'd obviously worked hard at to make it look as stunning as this.

The scientists were clearly losing hope; in an hour, they'd found nothing of interest. They'd been ever so careful in their searching of all the things the suspect would have touched... Nothing.

Greg smiled as he thought how silly they would all feel when Sherlock Holmes walked into the room and stunned them into silence with his offhand deductions. Lestrade always felt proud to be stood next to Sherlock when he was fluently reading off his thoughts to the room.

One of the forensic teams men stood up, sighing in annoyance. "When's your quack coming then Lestrade?" He asked. He's met Sherlock before, Greg assumed correctly.

"Soon." Greg replied gruffly, "and he's not at all a 'quack', as you so respectfully put it. He's Sherlock Holmes."