What the hell has he been doing out there anyway?

Didn't he learn last time?

No time to think now. Barely time to breathe.

He knows it's a long shot, but he has to get to the ones that were closest, cover be damned. He can help them and he isn't going to bloody well sit there and listen to that man scream in agony in this god-forsaken area.

That is the last thing John needs.

One more he can't save.

He is a fucking surgeon, he shouldn't even be on this run. But after the last trauma team had cocked it all up, to no real fault of their own. It's all the damned replacements. No, he needs to be here. He has even gotten to them, has helped extricate the soldier, and staunch the lads' injuries enough to get them mobile with himself still breathing; even if it is barely just to the morphine, shock, and blood loss. Not to mention what he is going to try to knit back together once they all get back safely.

Two days until leave.

Feels like an eternity.

Skyping his sister, John knows he'll have to get a hotel. He refuses to babysit her for the two months he is going to be back home in London.

London.

It would be wonderful. Cool weather, rain, city air, bookshops, his favorite cafe. He couldn't wait to be back, at least for a short visit. Just to recharge. Then, he can come back, patch more people back together, and start their road to rehabilitation. The next day, John receives his missive with his tickets. That night all hell broke loose. They have four still in critical, two gone to this world.

Yes, he needs the break before he sets fire to something. They were too young, nineteen and twenty, respectively. God, was he ever that young? He feels worlds older than the thirty-four (almost thirty-five) that he is. John closes his eyes, trying to picture it. Quiet normal hum of city life; just enough to push the edges back. Bring him back from the brink of the anger he feels. Only one day - twenty four hours - and he will be on his way there.

The first thing John does after the flight is get a cab to just take him around a bit. He has arrived at a busy time of day and just wants to take a circuitous route to his lodgings. The cabbie is more than happy to oblige, only making minimal small talk. Finally, he arrives and tips the cabbie generously for his time. Grabbing his baggage, he goes to the small desk and checks in. Asking to have his things brought up to his room, he takes the copy of his room key before heading right back out the door into the bustle.

Twenty nine hours after he receives his packet, John in home.

He is glad he took the recommendation. The room is quietly appointed, wood paneling with clear coat varnish on one of the walls and attached ensuite to possibly warm up the more minimalist design of the rest of the room. It is pleasant, yet spartan. All about utility.

Yes, very comfortable.

John stows his two duffels into the wardrobe, he moves into the ensuite, and flicks the taps to start a hot bath to soak in. Bless, he needs to wash the travel off. The sand and grit. He is so very thankful he can almost kiss the proprietor of the hotel. As the water runs, steaming the room, John calls downstairs to order room service to have it brought up in an hour. Then, as an afterthought, asks for two bottles of Stella to be brought up straight away, feeling indulgent.

A short while later, as he shut off the taps, the knock he has been waiting for summons him to the door. Opening it, he motions for the two bottles and the opener to be left on the small side table immediately beside to the right of the door. The young woman smiles and places them swiftly before leaving, closing the door behind her.

Oh, thank God, this is going to be heaven...

Hot bath and later dinner brought up John decides as he slides into the bath with the first bottle, the wondrous play of the heat against his skin and the icy chill of the beer causes him to smile. Simple pleasures, thankful heart, restful heat. Going through his mental itinerary is a fairly simple feat as well. Mike and he would be meeting in a few days to catch up, to see Bart's as it is now with the newest modifications, and possibly meet Mike's new girlfriend. Maybe he can ask if his girlfriend has a single friend they'd like to bring along for him. He is going to be in London for a bit, no reason to be alone the whole time.

Then there is Harry, she has claimed to him over the last several months that she's maintained sobriety finally. John would really love to see that, he just doesn't know if he should really get his hopes up. How many times has she said that before? How many leaves wasted when Clara is 'working' so he can play nursemaid. He swore, at times, Clara used his leave to get a little break herself. John tries not to begrudge her, but she has no earthly idea how much he really does not need to take care of another person for most of his leave.

John knows these high stress situations will get the best of him if he doesn't take the time to care for himself first. He is always on for his patients, the others on base as well, if they stopped by at clinic. They know he will listen. This time around, after everything, all he wants is a truly small amount of rest, time with his mates and hopefully sober sister and her wife, and just maybe someone warm in his bed from time to time if he were lucky.

He scrubs, still contemplative, until he is mostly pink, then rinses in the shower before dressing for the evening. John decides to go downstairs to the pub to quietly read and people watch. A nice way to re-acclimate to the bustle of the City. Dinner can be had downstairs instead of closeting himself up in his room. It is a good plan of action and he is ready to see another face besides his own.

Might as well enjoy myself.

In just a few short hours, unbeknownst to John, everything would change.

And he would have someone new to be thankful for.

Sherlock unzips the black bag carefully, not wanting to ruin the specimen before him. Laying it bare, a thin ghost of a smile wisps across his face accompanying the miniscule shot of adrenaline that has begun coursing through his system. Peering at the cold cadaver, he turns thoughtful before finally voicing a concern to the woman beside him.

"How fresh?" He must know.

It is imperative to the soliloquy about to play out in this theatre of death.

"Just in," the woman replies, "Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."

The man straightens imperceptibly, "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."

Body bag removed now, only flesh on the steel, how marvelous. The man circles the table, reading only what someone as keen as he can; there is no one like him in the world. He is meant for this. Stopping, he coolly regards the flesh in front of him when, what seems like out of nowhere, the first strike lands heartily.

A good resounding flogging ensues. The texture of the flesh, the lividity, still usable. This would be most helpful to his endeavor. The woman, now in the observation area, flinches at each strike. She is full of admiration for this gentleman. Her eyes shine with morbid fascination and glee.

Watching this man work; the things it does to her.

She waits until there is a pause, then sliding back into the theatre a few moments later, she attempts to get his attention.

"Bad day, is it?" she asks breathlessly of the man.

He ignores her inane question, starting in on his notepad.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes, a man's alibi depends on it," he states. "Text me with the results."

He throws out as an aside not quite knowing if she would have thought to do so of her own volition.

Molly is saying something, but he is already calculating out mentally how he believes the bruises would bloom on the corpse he has just thoroughly thrashed.

Ugh, she will not quit. He would have to answer her. It is only polite.

"Sorry, was deep in thought. You were saying?" the man queries of his peer.

Good.
Civil.
Succinct.

She gazes at him intently, "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?" She responds; thrilled that she has finally asked him.

"Black, two sugars," he responds. "Please. I'll be upstairs." He leaves her to watch him walk away yet again.

"Okay…" she whispers as she follows.

Finalizing his notes for the night, he quietly slips into the depths of His City.

Sherlock knows where a good place to start looking for his suspected murderer might be. A slightly posh establishment, mostly men, mid-thirties to forties. He would not be so much out of place if he was meeting his brother there for dinner. Mycroft can understand the need for multi-tasking when one is trying to reach sensitive information. Hailing a taxi, Sherlock intends to close this case tonight. He just needs a good cover.

And he finds it sitting at the bar of the Grazing Goat.

Thirty four, blonde, holds himself comfortably, but something about it speaks either military or Met; Sherlock is leaning military as he has a tan.

Mycroft and he conduct their discussion quickly as his brother chooses to have coffee with a pear tart. His diet seems to be going well, so Sherlock doesn't goad him about the luxury. They discuss Sherlock marking his six months of sobriety; and of the D.I. he has met, has begun working with. Toward the end of the meeting, as Mycroft excuses himself, he remarks on the blonde man that Sherlock has been keeping tabs on during their time together. If Sherlock found he and the stranger have similar interests, he would have a file ready for him in the morning available for drop off.

Sherlock, as always, tells his older brother that it wouldn't be necessary, knowing Mycroft has intentions of doing it anyway. He sits there for a few more moments, keenly focusing now on the gentleman at the bar. It only takes a few seconds for him to turn and look in Sherlock's direction. With a relaxed smile and tilt of his head he greets the gaze by lifting his pint in salute and taking a drink before nodding to the seat beside himself.

Sherlock made his way to the bar, keeping eye contact, but in a shy curious manner, so as to not frighten off his cover. If the overheard conversations were any indication, the surgeon might be as clever as Sherlock hopes he'll be.

"Hello. Date didn't go so well?" The man quips pleasantly.

"No, but not particularly bad either. More indifference, truth be told."

"That one of the reasons why you kept your eye on me the whole time you've been here?"

Yes, clever. Good.

"One of them." Sherlock decides to be honest, to see where it might lead.

"Oh?" the sandy blonde returns, "what were the other ones?"

"I don't know if I want to ruin the lovely time we are having and tell you, actually."

"Yes you do. I can see it all over your face. Pretty how your eyes change when you're holding a secret."

"And am I holding a secret, doctor?"

"Well, there." The man answers, straight to the point. "That's one...those eyes of yours, they pick up on things. You've been paying attention to my hands."

"Among other attributes." Sherlock colours slightly, purposely.

"Well I can promise you, my hands are quite dexterous. Would you like another glass?"

"Please…"

"John." the stranger offers, extending his hand. "And you are?"

Finally, a name!

"Sherlock."

"Interesting name, that." John leans to just parallel with Sherlock's ear whispering his intentions, "Bet it would sound beautiful coming across my to find out?"

"I might be persuaded, but first I have my own proposition." Sherlock notices the killer leaving with a new quarry. "It's most likely going to be dangerous, but a military man such as you wouldn't be bothered with that, would you?"

"No, not bothered at all. Dangerous can be fun." John asks, his eyes bright. "What type of danger are we currently discussing?"

"Not that type as yet, something more of the mortal sort. There is a man who just left that might very well be dangerous to others."

"You're having me on now. If you're just here for a flirt, it's all fine and good, you just have to say so."

"Honestly John, I am a horrid story-teller. There is no fathomable way I could make up stories as fanciful as the truth I live. Would you like to help me, then maybe some dinner?"

"Well, I can't have a civilian accidentally killing himself all because he's a twig going up against Goliath can I?" John smirks gleefully.

"Thank you, John. Let's go before she is harmed..."

"She?"

"Yes..." Sherlock stands and walks to the door, opening it for John. He finds himself hoping that he has calculated this correctly. "That is his method. Picking up younger ladies who he then drugs, drags off to the nearest alley and-"

"Yeah, I get the picture. Let's go get the bastard, shall we?"

Oh, this will be an interesting night indeed.

"Yes, we need to get them separated as quickly as possible."

"Are we now?" John answers keeping up with Sherlock's brisk pace. "With no backup of any sort? No police?"

"John, I'm not calling 999, they won't get here in time. You may feel free to do so though. If you do tell them you need Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Alright, on it." John dials, "I need DI Lestrade to New Quebec Street. Grazing Goat. Possible rape in progress."

John places the mobile back in his jacket, staying on the line, allowing the operator to locate them as well as keep tabs on the situation. The two become very aware of the man turning the corner, a woman indeed with him..They pick up the pace and can hear an altercation as they turn into the darkened space, Sherlock commanding the area.

"Stop! " Sherlock booms into the depths of the alleyway. "The police will be here any moment. Let the woman go."

"Bugger off, twat!"

"Oh, such manners. Unhand her."

"Fuck off, mate!" Then the man's voice, registering the full extent of Sherlock's words, turns to ice. "The police?"

John feels the hairs begin to stand and calm settle all at once, as he is used to this type of standoff.

The muzzle flares. The concealed weapon the man has waiting sends a bullet hurtling towards them both. John sprints to Sherlock, moving to tackle him out of harms way. Sherlock, using the momentum, rolls off John, voraciously hurling himself at the attacker pinning him to the ground. Zip-tying his attackers hands - then for good measure - his ankles as well Sherlock takes stock of the situation.

"Doctor, see to the woman please." He calls over his shoulder. "I believe she has passed out."

"Can't…" Came the weak reply from behind him. "Help will be here soon."

"John?" Sherlock runs the few feet to the man and sees that he is bleeding profusely. John has been shot in the upper chest, wounded because of him. Maybe even saved Sherlock's life in his heroic idiocy, but gauging at the amount of blood now seeping over John, he might have just given his own. "John! Stay awake!"

"Yea, I'm here. Sorta." Blessed hell, this is a pain he did not want. Ever.

"Tell me what to do." This is turning grave. John is bleeding more than he should be from this caliber, nicked something vital then. Sherlock stays kneeling, pressing his hands to John's face. "You must focus, what can I do for you?"

"Stay with me. Please. Lie if you have to. Say... say you're my fiance. It'll get you the access you wouldn't get as just a friend." John was rasping. "Least I know your name... gorgeous angel... that you're special."

"I am hardly special, John."Taking the other man's hand steadily in his own, Sherlock's gaze becomes analytical, then immediately softens. "You silly stupid hero, do not die. You're wearing your ID's right?"

John gasps, his breath shortening. "Yea…"

"Alright," Sherlock quickly removes the tags and hangs them around his own neck before bending and whispering to John calmly. " I have them, they're safe. I'll tell them what they need."

Looking just past them he can see the medical services team heading to them. Just behind, he sees the silhouette of Lestrade.

"They're here. Hold on John, please." Sherlock yells at the emergency personnel, allowing some of the real fear he feels to creep into his voice, making it sound earnest. "Lestrade! My fiance! He-he's dying, help please! Please!"

"What's this?" Lestrade calls back in answer. "Fiance?"

"Yes! The man you want is there, trussed. Please…I have to stay with John. Please fix it for him… he wants- he needs me."

"Sher-Sherlock…"

"I'm here John. Lestrade! Call Mycroft." Sherlock pointedly looks away, pained, before turning all his attention quickly so the Detective Inspector would feel the brunt of Sherlock's demanding wrath. "We're going to need him."

As they load John into the ambulance, Sherlock jumps in along side, explaining who he is in rapid fire.
The medic looks to the DI for confirmation. The single nod Lestrade gives him is enough to keep Sherlock there as the doors close. Taking John's hand back, he remains as unobtrusive as possible for possibly the first time in his life.