Prologue
Playing the violin usually helped him think at night, but with the noise his neighbours were making next door, it was hardly worth trying to fight it. He never understood the idea of a party at three a.m. with obnoxiously loud music and the base ready to collapse the entire structure. It's a good thing he didn't sleep much. But the senseless noise of the intellectually impaired next door did make it difficult to concentrate. In the absence of sleep, thoughts are the only companion to a genius. He rarely slept.
The noise was just another reason to miss Baker Street. Despite being in the heart of London, it was a relatively quiet place; inhabited by mutes in comparison to this lot. Any neighbours he had never lasted long with the strange company he attracted, but they were all reasonably quiet when it counted. Now that he was on his own, he couldn't afford to live in London anymore. Any attempts at finding another flatmate had resulted in frustration. The few he had given chances to did not possess John's tolerance and understanding and enjoyment of his lifestyle. No, they weren't John. But John was the past. He was never fond of suburbs, so when London was no longer available, he had settled for Birmingham. A city's a city when everyone you had grown fond of now thinks you're dead.
Sometimes it felt like he had never met John. Sometimes Baker Street felt like a dream. He was as addicted to the puzzles as ever, but the resemblance Birmingham bore to London made him feel an unusual tugging sensation in his chest that he did not like in the slightest. Never in his life had he felt such an urge to run as far away as possible, but he was always one to listen to his instincts. So he travelled to the States and was renting a small flat in Los Angeles, California. He absolutely abhorred the place, and that's why it was so ideal. This move was not intended to be permanent, and this would ensure it.
There was no shortage of interesting cases, though. The United States is a breeding ground for murderers for some unknown reason. While serial killings and violent crimes are not limited to the States, they certainly have a reputation for occurring here the most. And the more competition, the more creative they get. He frequently assisted the Los Angeles Police Department under a false identity should the media here be as interested in him as they had been in London; the last thing he needed right now was John seeing his face on an international news website. He had even worked closely with profilers from the Federal Bureau of Investigation on a case, something he'd secretly always wanted to experience. They, of course, hated his ability to see more than their eyes, trained for years in the academy, could in half the time with the evidence.
Aside from the generally useless input from the LAPD, he solved the cases on his own, his lonely trade faring better than it used to without a partner. He made enough money to get by. But when there wasn't anything to do, no case to consume his attention, he found loneliness hurting him for the first time in his life. That was peculiar and unwelcome. So he worked almost 24/7 now with the police or with independent cases to distract himself from the pain he would never admit to. With work still to be done tracking down the last of Moriarty's dogs though, those nights of nothing to distract him were few and far between. He had made up his mind that he would not return to London until he could be sure that his return would be safe for the people that had almost been killed because of his game with the consultant criminal.
He didn't possess mirrors anymore. The one over the mantel at 221B used to help him see things he couldn't, but now they made him remember things. "He's so thin, he almost never eats," he had overheard John saying to Mrs. Hudson one evening, voice wrought with apprehension. The last time he had looked in a mirror, he could count his ribs. They had always slightly protruded, the result of a naturally slim build, but apparently he was forgetting more meals than usual. He didn't like hearing those ghosts, so he had thrown the mirrors out a window. But they still found ways of plaguing his consciousness.
"Have you been up all night?" John asked as he emerged from his room, a hint of concern in his tone.
"Wasn't tired," he replied monotonously, "too busy thinking."
"Sometimes I worry about you," John mumbled under his breath at a volume he assumed Sherlock couldn't hear. Of course he had.
That was another necessity he found himself indulging in less. Every time he walked to the bedroom, for sleep or not, he found himself slapped in the face with those looks of silent concern John would get when he thought he wasn't looking. Naturally, as a doctor, he was concerned for everyone and anyone's health, and apparently Sherlock's eating and sleeping habits were considered unhealthy. But whenever he found himself ready to sleep, and he went to his room, those memories would wake him up. When he was truly in need of sleep he would slip into unconsciousness wherever he was: on the chair, on the couch, at his computer, sitting on the windowsill, wherever his body decided it was time for a break. The sleep never lasted long, but it was all he needed now.
He still kept up with the police force in London, despite his departure from the city. Their incompetence was infuriating sometimes. From the newspapers alone he could tell them what they had missed, but in fear of John consulting with them still, he said nothing to them. Not even anonymous tips. They managed to close enough cases to keep the people satisfied and that would have to be enough for him for now. But he still kept up with what was happening there. Which was why he was going back.
Three weeks ago, a serial killer had emerged in the heart of the city. One victim a week, precise to the day. The city was no stranger to crime. It was the frequency and short time table that alarmed its residence, and an overwhelming sense of panic had set in. The police were doing what they could, but this one was something new. He was brutal and ruthless, but not sloppy the way most aggressive types usually are. Working with the FBI had taught him a substantial amount about the mind of a serial killer, and now he would put that to the test back in London. It was a big city, but the police would be everywhere. For the sake of the sanity of those he left behind, he hoped they wouldn't spot him. Or at least would stay out of his way. Unless it was Anderson. That might be amusing.
He was on the plane now, just departing from LAX. With eleven hours direct flight from Los Angeles to London Heathrow Airport, he had plenty of time to review the biased news sources and official filtered statements from the police. But it's all he had to go on for now. One thing he could tell for certain is the killer had a remarkable amount of training and patience. He would be able to tell more once he saw the victims.
He hoped the police would cooperate for once.
UPDATE: I went back and changed a few minor details that I realized did not sync up with where the story ended up going in future chapters. Should hopefully prevent any confusion.
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