Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any related characters. This story is for entertainment only.

Warning: there is a character death in this fic (not in this chapter, though. Later.)

It's kind of short, but I wanted the end of this chapter to be a very specific point, and I couldn't make it much later.

Updates will be on Thursdays. :-)

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It's A Long Way Back To Baker Street: Chapter One

The Impossible Victim

Tuesday, 12th April 2011

"I want a case," Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade, who had come to Baker Street to inform Sherlock that they'd arrested George Reilly McCabe just a few hours ago, rolled his eyes. "You just solved one," he reminded Sherlock. "This morning."

McCabe was the youngest of three brothers, one of which was dead and the other of which he hadn't seen since age twelve, and recently he'd killed three men over a period of two months. Lestrade had come to Sherlock as soon as Joseph Kyle, the third victim, had disappeared, and then Kyle had turned up dead, and a week after that Sherlock had told Lestrade that the killer was a man named George McCabe. It had taken almost another week to locate McCabe and then arrest him.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "I did, but - as you said - that was this morning."

Lestrade glanced at John, who shrugged and carried on reading his newspaper. "Right," he said, "I'll call you if we get another homicide."

Smiling widely - and slightly creepily, if Lestrade was being honest - Sherlock said, "Thank you, Lestrade."

Lestrade nodded and decided it was time to leave. Saying his goodbyes to Sherlock and John, he headed down the stairs and closed the door to 221B behind him. Just as the door thudded against the frame, his phone rang, a soft yet shrill sound emanating from the pocket of his dark suit jacket.

He pulled it out. "Lestrade," he answered automatically.

"It's Sally," the voice on the other end informed him. "Look, you need to get over to Cloth Street. There's been another one."

"Cloth Street?"Lestrade questioned. "Wait - another what?"

He heard Sally inhale on the other end. "It's in Smithfield. Pretty near Bart's," she told him. "And...another murder. Another like McCabe's." She paused for a second. "Well, attempted murder. He's at Bart's."

Lestrade was silent for a minute. "McCabe's?" he questioned. But... McCabe had been behind bars since this morning - there's no way he could have killed and dumped someone else. It was impossible. Another victim was impossible. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure," Sally told him. "Just get here as soon as you can." And she hung up.

Lestrade shoved the phone back into his pocket. He hesitated for only half a second before bursting straight back into 221B. He hurried up the stairs to where Sherlock and John were bickering over - oh, it didn't matter what. They looked up as he entered.

"Back so soon?" Sherlock asked, his smile widening as he realised what this meant. "Excellent."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, his voice serious, "are you sure McCabe was the right guy?"

The crime scene had held nothing of interest, as far as Sherlock was concerned, so they had headed to the hospital to check on the victim's condition.

Harris Beck lay in the clean, white bed, his pale blond hair like a halo around his battered head. He was unconscious, and the nurses had told them he wasn't going to wake up for at least a few more hours, due to the pain medication they'd put him on.

John, as a doctor, was allowed in to do a quick external examination of Beck. "He was tortured," he told Lestrade, pulling one of Beck's arms above the sheet. It was covered in scars. Knife wounds, like the others. The face had not been left untouched - red ribbons lay across his cheek, delicately balanced on his nose, like grisly decorations - but the arms bore the worst of the wounds.

Tucking Beck's arm back under the sheets, John went to check the machine. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. How had John not noticed -?

"This wasn't a copycat," he announced.

Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock. "Do I get an explanation?"

Sherlock nodded. "The journalist woman - Kitty Riley. The one who came to the scene to try and interview me. She got a picture of Joseph Kyle's hand. The scar."

"I'm sure Detective Lestrade completely understands your explanation," Sally said sarcastically, "but I don't. Care to explain some more, freak?"

"So, she published it," Sherlock continued, rolling his eyes. "A copycat would copy every and any detail they could find - but Beck doesn't have the scar."

Lestrade nodded. "Maybe he didn't think it was that important? Or he didn't see Riley's article?"

"No," Sherlock said, rejecting both of Lestrade's suggestions at the same time. "Everything was important. Every other detail was right, however minor. If this was a copycat, he would have had to research, to find out everything he could before he killed."

"Okay," Lestrade said, "an accomplice?"

"The only possibility," Sherlock agreed. "The scar on the victims' hands mirrors the only injury George McCabe sustained the day his brother died. That's his part of the signature. Everything else -" He gestured to the unconscious Beck. "- they do together."

"Yeah, but," Sally interrupted, "how are we sure it's not a copycat? He could have just... Missed something. People do that sometimes, you know."

Sherlock glared at her. He'd already explained this. "Every other detail was right," he reminded her. "The oldest of his scars is three days old, which is how long the other victims were kept for. He was found without a single item of his possessions with him - probably everything was dumped at the abductuon scene, just like the other victims; the killer never takes anything but them. Details never mentioned in the press. And yet, he manages to miss the one detail that was mentioned?"

Sally scowled at him. "Show off."

John, who had been checking something in Beck's mouth, turned to face Sherlock. "There are knife marks in the back of his throat," he said, glancing at Sally and then back to Sherlock. "As far as I remember, nobody's mentioned that one in the papers either."

Staring at John, Sally opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to decide differently. Instead, she looked at Lestrade for direction, as John went back to checking Beck's throat.

"I'm going outside," Sherlock announced. "I need some fresh air."

He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and headed outside. John hadn't noticed he'd started up smoking again; Sherlock wondered vaguely what his friend would say if he knew. Stop, probably.

He lit up, leaning against the wall as he did so. A minute or so later, as he was enjoying the calmness outside and the bitter taste of his cigarette, a plain white van pulled up in the car park. He paid little attention to it; most likely, it was someone come to check on an injured friend or relative.

He sucked in again, enjoying the rich, bitter taste as it spiralled down his throat, and stared at the sky. It was blue, an innocent colour, often associated with young children. And almost cloudless; only a few whisps of cottony, white cloud could be seen.

The stranger from the van brushed up against Sherlock on his way to the door, and Sherlock was about to protest when he noticed the black ski mask and the sharp needle point pressed to the side of his neck.

"Sherlock Holmes," the stranger said. "I was hoping you'd be here."

And he pressed the needle plunger down.

Sherlock was falling. Falling down, down, down. Falling like rain from the clouds, or rocks from a cliff. He was falling. That was all he knew.

He hit the ground only a split second later, head throbbing, heart thudding painfully, the blue sky above him slowly fading away into darkness. His eyes pushed closed, though he fought - and fought hard - to keep them open. It became harder to hear, to see, to feel anything. It became harder to fight. Harder and harder, until it was impossible not to give up, and he slipped away.

He was engulfed by nothingness. And, eventually, he embraced it.