This started years ago as a different story, as a different fandom! This was written before I even knew what was… But now it's been adapted, updated, made relative to the Sherlock fandom.

Not sure what's going to happen yet, suggestions always welcome

Um. This is going to be my first attempt at a non-one-shot Sherlock story soooo. Yeah, hope you all like it!

R&R appreciated :D

Wayoming

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He could see his victim from where he stood. Could almost taste how close she was, how easy it was going to be. She was dressed to the nines, sparkling heels making her stumble every few steps, almost breaking her neck. Almost doing his job for him.

He came out from the alley he had been lurking in slowly, quietly so as not to alert her to his presence, and began walking behind her, mirroring her steps. He could smell her perfume floating back to him on the warm evening breeze, and breathed in deeply.

She was speaking on her mobile, his concentration too focused on the task in hand to hear what she was saying, or who to.

"I'm on my way now…Yes I'm safe…I'm at the station…waiting for the night bus, the tube stops after 2…no I haven't! I said I wouldn't and I haven't! You never trust me!...You know what, I'll see you when I get home…Whenever." She hung up, her inebriated state causing her to drop her phone in the process. He swept forward and helped her up, the slimy grin on his faced missed by the woman before him. He looked into her eyes. She smiled and thanked him, attempting to remove her arms from his grasp. He merely tighten his grip, squeezing until she squealed in pain, tears coming from her eyes as she begged him to let her go.

He smiled broader than before as he transferred both her slim wrists into one of his hands, and pulled her close to him, brushing his lips against her ear.

"Scream," he rasped "and this will hurt more." He was lying of course, but her fear shut her up, her tears now flowing down her face ruining the make up she had painstakingly applied mere hours ago.

His knife flashed under the streetlight, and her eyes widened, and remained frozen with shock as he plunged the knife into her stomach. He watched as the stark relvelation that she was going to die filled her eyes. He let her drop to the ground, and she clutched herself, no noise escaping her as she sank. He avoided the blood she was coughing and spluttering as she gazed up at him, silently begging for mercy. He moved behind her, pulled her by her hair, and drew the knife across her throat, before releasing her hair once more.

He replaced the knife in his pocket, and turned swiftly on his heel, turning a few corners to rejoin the bustling night life of London. The street empty once more, the sound of clubs and police cars whining in the distance, finally becoming silence as the girl faded into the darkness.

-x-O-x-

John Watson's eyes snapped open. A cold film of sweat covered his exposed body. He squinted as the gloom cleared. He sat up gingerly and glanced at the mess he had made his bed. His coverlet was kicked almost completely off the bed itself, and the sheet below was wrinkled and twisted- a testament to his uneasy night.

He felt the emptiness creeping up on him again. The feeling that he wouldn't achieve anything of note, that he would waste years of his life, and no one would remember him. That he would be forgotten like so many before him.

He bolstered himself. No, it's not like that anymore. He thought about all the good he had done in the last few months, before the turn of the new year. He thought about what had happened in the pool, unresolved, unforgotten. How he had helped, in his own small way, to save lives. His life had become meaningful and useful.

There weren't many reminders of his life before Baker Street. He didn't need them, his memories were more than vivid enough to keep waking him night after night. Dawn was barely breaking through the crack in his curtains, his alarm clock read 05:37. Well, he might as well get up, he wasn't going to get back to sleep any time soon.

He trudged sleepily down the stairs to the kitchen he shared with his flat mate Sherlock Holmes, whose absence from the front room was noticeable. Apparently Sherlock had decided to sleep for once, or had at least confined whatever experiment or paperwork pertaining to their latest case to his room.

But that was the thing that niggled at him, there hadn't been a case for a while. Only a week, but a week was enough for someone as easily bored as Sherlock. John remembered the infamous bullet-created-face in the wall, and sighed. They were never getting their damage deposit back from Mrs. Hudson.

Upstairs, holed up in his room, Sherlock was pondering. Still dressed, lying atop his bed, eyes closed, thoughts running through his head faster than a freight train. Images of things that constantly occupied his mind revolved and whirled in a heady dance, analysis quick and sound in each circumstance. Moriarty. The bombs. The choices made. The lives lost. Sherlock allowed himself a small admission, that that case had proved that his inductions were perhaps not as spot on as he'd like to pretend. It was the only one of his, their, unsolved cases. And it bothered Sherlock endlessly.

A soft sound blurred the edge of his concentration, a repetitive noise. Three times, in quick succession, obtrusive, obnoxious noise. The noise became sharper in his mind, became more insistent. The door. Someone was knocking. John.

Sherlock opened the door of his room and was greeted by a sleepy faced John holding a cup of tea in one hand, and pulling Sherlock's mobile out of his pocket with the other.

"Lestrade called. Thought you might like to ring him back." He said handing Sherlock the tea and mobile. Sherlock grinned, and shut the door in John's face.

"You're welcome." John said to himself as he returned to the sitting room to retrieve him own tea. Though he didn't let himself get too comfortable. If Lestrade was called, something was up, and Sherlock and he were probably going to be summoned any moment.

Well, thought John to himself, I better enjoy this tea while I can.

-o-X-o-

So ah, yeah. Let me know what you think. Whether I should carry on or not, thoughts about whether this story should include slash or just cannonesque plot.

ANYTHING :D

Much love!

Wayoming

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