A/N: So, I've decided to try and cross these two great series. I know there are far more Sherlockians out there than Irrelevants, so if by any chance there is any Sherlockian interested in reading this but who has never seen Person of Interest, watch these two videos: /watch?v=UqhT3_oZ2CY and /watch?v=6QseSt0QkY8 and you'll understand what's going on. (You should also try watching the series, it's amazing)

Finch looked at the screen and frowned. The machine had been behaving erratically for some time now, and it showed no sign of improvement. That virus Stanton had implanted, whatever it was, had certainly affected his creation, which was working slower than usual, taking its time to bring them information. For instance, the number that had just come in was the first in two full days, and if he was sure of one thing was that crime in New York didn't take such a long break. But he'd have to deal with that later, because right now he was carrying out some research on their latest number.

A few minutes later, Reese entered the library with a paper glass of green tea, his favourite. He wordlessly put it on top of Finch's desk and absently patted Bear on the head while staring at his partner's screen.

"New number?" the tall man asked.

"Name's Sherlock Holmes. British, single, one brother working in the government, used to be a 'consulting detective' for Scotland Yard. Helped them out with some cases and gained a lot of notoriety. Doctor John Watson, his flatmate, wrote up some of their cases in his personal blog."

"Where is he now?"

"Well, that's the thing… A year ago, Holmes jumped off a rooftop. He died on the spot."

Reese looked at the various newspaper articles that appeared on the screen, reporting the incident. It seemed the man had been declared a fake, that he was no genius, and that was what had led to his suicide. However, if the machine had come up with his number, there was definitely something off with that picture. The ex-CIA agent would never forget Teresa Whitaker, the girl who had supposedly been killed when in reality she'd kept up that ruse for years.

"Do you think that his death wasn't really a suicide? That he was murdered, and now the killer's going after someone else?" Reese recalled the recent case of the murderer who took his victims' identities, and how they had been given the numbers of his previous killings.

"Maybe, but it seems a bit strange that the killer would only come out again after a year. Besides, I've uncovered some evidence that suggests something else was going on. According to the newspapers, his body was processed by the St. Bartholomew's morgue. However, I've hacked into their records, and while there is a death certificate signed by a certain Molly Hooper, there is no record of his body ever being stored in the morgue. Usually, they're kept for about a week. Apart from that, two bags of blood were reported missing that same day, and what's more, the following day, this Hooper woman called in sick. It seems suspicious. Additionally, I've looked into the cemetery's registers, and Mr. Holmes' body was apparently not put inside his coffin, because the family said something about donating it to science… It seems too much of a coincidence. "

"So, maybe Hooper helped him fake his death and disappear? Didn't anyone else know of this? What about his flatmate? She can't have pulled off such a thing on her own."

"Well, I've looked up his address, and he still lives in the same place. His records don't show anything strange, no unusual money drawings, or anything else that might suggest a connection. The same goes for Hooper."

"But we can't be sure they aren't aiding him somehow. I need to talk them both, Finch. Do you think you can arrange for me to travel to London? "

"Actually, I've already made some plans for that. Doctor Watson and Molly Hooper are travelling here next month. They were selected for a course in an important medical school. The doctor is going to have a course in surgery, while Ms. Hooper is coming for a special injury detection course."

Reese smiled. "Can you actually make up something as big as that?"

Finch gave him a look. "I've created several false identities for you, Mr. Reese. I can certainly get some doctors to pretend to be teaching."

John stared at the rain falling outside. He'd been sitting in the same position for a few hours now, not that he cared. Nothing seemed to matter anymore; nothing ever happened to him, just like it used to be before moving in to 221b.

After coming back from Afghanistan, he didn't exactly know what he was going to do. Heck, he didn't even know how he'd make a living from a simple pension. And then he'd met Sherlock. Despite the strange introduction he'd had, he had felt a sort of connection from the very beginning. Their months living together, solving crimes, had been the best ones of his life. Although there were times that the detective could really annoy him, and sometimes he wondered if he would be better off living somewhere else, deep down he knew he wouldn't have changed that way of living for the world.

Yet that had been taken from him, in the form of a single man: Moriarty. The criminal had appeared out of nowhere and started taunting Sherlock, giving him puzzles, challenging him in a way nobody else had until that moment. Both had turned into the other one's obsession, both brilliant, cunning men with little sense of morality and sometimes lacking empathy. It had started as a threat, then turned into something much more serious. After discrediting his best friend in every possible way, after making the whole world believe Sherlock was a fraud, he had forced him to kill himself. And now John was left alone, with no clue of what he was supposed to do.

He didn't care about Sherlock's last words that he was a fake: to John, the man would always be a genius, and nobody would change his mind. What really bothered him, what kept him up most nights, were the images of his violent death, his bloody corpse lying on the pavement, and then seeing his lifeless eyes, staring out into nothingness. Plus, he had no idea of what his life was going to be now. Sure, he'd helped the police out, but always as his friend's assistant; he lacked that kind of insight in cases. Nor could he find inside himself any wish to go to a crime scene.

He sighed. Maybe this course he was going to take would help, if only a bit. He really had no desire to visit New York, but the opportunity and the fact of having been chosen among other doctors made him feel he had to go. So he'd accepted, and in two days he was leaving for three weeks. He knew he wouldn't feel any better, but perhaps a bit of time off, trying to avoid thinking about all that had happened, would do him good.

He went over to the table and looked at the ticket. Since Molly had been given the chance to attend a course as well, they'd arranged to go together. He just hoped that it wouldn't be extremely awkward, considering they didn't know each other that much. Usually, she cared more for Sherlock. Just like him…

Yes, he could definitely use some time away from home.

Reese stood silently by one of the airport's cafes, carefully studying the people who had just got off the plane and were leaving. He had looked at some pictures of Watson and Hooper and was now waiting for them. He was supposed to be some kind of assistant to one of the doctors (whose identities he had no idea of) and bring them to their hotel, which would allow him to keep a close eye on them in case they tried to contact Holmes. Speaking of whom, they still didn't know where he could possibly be.

Ah, there they came. The tall man straightened and walked to where they were both carrying their luggage, talking rather quietly. He got closer and said, "Hello, my name's John Hamilton. I'm the assistant of doctor Keith Andrews. Are you John Watson and Molly Hooper?" When they both nodded, he added, "I'm to take you to your hotel. Please follow me. Oh, let me help you with that." He took both of their suitcases and carried them effortlessly across the airport, the other two trailing behind.

While they got inside the van and he put the items inside the boot, he looked at his mobile's screen, which now read "John Watson – FORCE PAIRING COMPLETE". He swiftly pressed a few buttons, and as he climbed into the vehicle, he checked it again. It now read "Molly Hooper – FORCE PAIRING COMPLETE". While he started the car, he thought of this whole case again. With access to the unsuspecting people's mobile phones, he would be able to track them with ease, something they would need if they were to find Sherlock Holmes in time. He still had no idea whatsoever of what their roles in all of this was, but he was going to find out.