Hello, this is my very first fanfic EVER, so sorry if the characters are a bit OOC. The story will contain spoilers for Series Four, so I recommend you go watch that first if you haven't already (it's out on DVD now). I do ship Johnlock and it is vaguely in there, but is mostly background noise. Enjoy!

I sipped my cup of tea, trying not to look too exasperated at Sherlock's incessant pacing. My eyes glazed over the bland page in front of me, and I kept sneaking peaks over the top of my newspaper. My flatmate was rather fascinating when on a case. Dark curls over brooding ice blue eyes. Haughty expression. A brilliant mind making brilliant connections that, naturally, would be completely obvious in retrospect. Who actually knew what went on in that head? Not myself for sure. Of course, I could see the very tip of the iceberg, but even after many years of friendship, the rest remained submerged and elusive.

"Gertrude is wrong!" came a sudden declaration. I turned back to see Sherlock's eyes focused on my own.

"Gertrude? Who's Gertrude?" I frowned.

"You know. Gavin. That police officer we keep helping out. Lestrade."

"Gertude's a girl's name!" I protested loudly.

"Whatever! George! Who honestly cares? Does his name even matter? The point is, he and the rest of that incompetent lot think it was a freak dog attack disguised as a robbery gone wrong. Makes sense at first - the window was smashed after the murder, and body moved into position, didn't take enough valuables, traces of grit on shoes, dog hair found on clothes, savage mauling on side of face obscured by knife strikes."

"So, they're right," I pointed out.

"Watson, I think that you of all people should realise this was not the case!" he shot back.

"No, the grit was planted - someone else rubbed the shoes over a pavement after - the scratches are inconsistent and the grit only comes from one area. They also weren't being worn when the crime took place - the bloodstains don't match up and there's not enough shine. No traces of dog saliva whatsoever in the side of head. In addition, severe bruising to the brain and skull fractures suggest a heavy object. That and the additional factor that he had a physically abusive wife all points to a domestic murder disguised as a freak dog attack disguised as a robbery gone wrong! Solved!"

"Wait, the wife was abusive?"

"It's blindingly obvious John, next time please at leat try to understand the intricate connotations of a human's appearance!" Sherlock pulled on his long trench coat.

"Hurry up John, Gary won't figure this out by himself!"

Downing the last few drops of my English Breakfast, I set the newspaper and mug on my armchair before hurrying out of the room after my infamous companion.

I was woken up at three in the morning to the mournful tune of Sherlock's violin. The wife had been arrested, Sherlock had regretted taking such a mundane case (why can't anyone be creative anymore?) and I had attempted to find a new problem. Evidently, my endeavours were failing. I tried to go back to sleep, but the haunting melody was relentless.

Ruefully I slipped on my slippers and padded downstairs. The insomniac was gliding around the room, violin tucked elegantly under his chin. His eyes, I noticed, remained fixed on a specific point out of the window. Suddenly, Sherlock threw down his violin and flung himself against the glass.

"Watch, John" he breathed.

I tiptoed over and peered outside. The sky was a typical purple/orange colour due to the appalling light pollution. Sherlock's eyes were fixated on a person standing on the street opposite.

All we could make out was that she appeared to be dressed in a long, loose dress of some sort and hooded cloak.. She stood there in the light drizzle for a few moments, before turning and walking away. Suddenly, there came a loud crack and she vanished.

I blinked a few times before coming to the conclusion it must have been a trick of the light and the woman had simply stepped into a shadow. I looked at Sherlock. The edge of his mouth twitched. Then he was dashing out of the door. I sprinted after him, slamming the door shut as we hurried out into the street. Several vehicles sped pass under the orange glow of the street lamp. We crossed the road to where the lady had been standing. Sherlock's eyes danced from place to place, analysing the environment. Producing a few swabs and ziplock bags from his pocket, he bent down and collected some orange fibres, as well as several traces of mud.

"Fascinating," he whispered.

"What is?" I queried, the heat of the case making my heart beat frantically against my rib cage as I stared up at Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock turned to face me, intrigue and excitement dancing in his grey eyes. He stood up to his full night and gifted me with one of his rare genuine smiles.

"The game, Dr Watson, is on!"

I should post a new chapter every couple of days. On the off chance anyone is reading, please review and tell me what you think!