Chapter 1

John was not sure whether the weathermen on local London television were completely inaccurate, or London's weather really was so unpredictable. But he was sure that when he was watching the tele the day before, that there was no chance of showers. And yet there he was, standing on the edge on the street in pouring rain, holding six bags of groceries, trying to call for a cab.

When he left the flat, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, so naturally he had no umbrella or raincoat. John cursed at himself for being so ill prepared. Afghanistan had been one temperature and one weather condition the whole time he was there, and he hadn't yet gotten used to the change in scenery. Although, if asked, he would've chosen London over Afghanistan any day.

The grocery bags only got heavier as he stood there. Finally, after practically jumping in front of it, a cab stopped for him.

"Thank you," he said to the driver as he settled himself comfortably in his seat. "221B Baker Street, please."

John apologized awkwardly to the cabbie for getting the seats so wet as he exited. The older man put up his hands. "Nothing to fret. Not the first time." John smiled at him.

Mrs. Hudson was at the door when he entered. "Well, Sherlock is having one of his fits again."

"Oh, dear," John said quietly. He started walking up the stairs.

"Yes. It's an awful one this time. Haven't heard him say a word since you left. I talked straight at him– he can be awfully rude anyway– but I talked straight at him and he just stared at the wall! Like I wasn't even there. You know, sometimes I worry about you two. I don't know how you could stand–"

Mrs. Hudson's voice faded away as John reached the top of the stairs. He almost dropped the groceries as he looked down on the floor. Two magazines were on fire.

"Dammit," John said as he stamped out the fire as best he could, but there was too much. "Mrs. Hudson! Fire!"

He heard the woman yelp in fright before he set the groceries on the coffee table. As he ran to the kitchen, Sherlock emerged with two small sandwiches on a plate and one in his mouth. "John? What's wrong?" he asked, his mouth full.

"Fire," John said as he jumped passed him. He ran a rag underneath the faucet and went back to throw it on the flames.

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock said angrily. He placed his plate of food on the table next to the groceries and shooed John away from the pile of burnt magazine.

"Sherlock, what the hell? Did you start that?" John asked.

"Yes," the other man said as he gathered up the remnants of the papers.

"Sherlock! You could have started a serious fire! What were you thinking?" John's face was red with anger as he yelled.

"Calm yourself. I was doing an experiment," Sherlock responded calmly.

"An experiment?"

"Yes. On the different burning reactions of printed ink."

John scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion before becoming angry again. "What the hell is that good for?"

Sherlock paused, dropped the burnt papers on the floor, and walked back to his sandwiches. "I don't know. Just to see?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway with a fire extinguisher. "Move, boys!"

"No, stop!" John yelled. He grabbed the red cylinder. "It's fine. We have it under control." Sherlock grinned as he nibbled on his sandwich.

After being calmed down, Mrs. Hudson walked back down stairs, holding the extinguisher tightly to her chest. John sighed as he sat down beside Sherlock.

"So, what's all this about?" he asked reluctantly.

"I was bored," Sherlock said. "It's either experiments or the heroine."

John nodded. He would rather have the experiments.

Sherlock's boredom had led him to occasional drug use. Stimulates were often his drug of choice, since marijuana and alcohol only slowed his mental functions. John was able to convince his friend to quit for the time being. Not just for serious health reasons, but that it wasn't fair to drag John into Sherlock's own legal troubles. "Guilty by association" they say.

"I understand, but why don't you try just going out?" John asked. "I mean, like a normal person."

"And what do normal people do, John?" Sherlock sighed.

"I don't know. Go to the theatre. Or go to a pub, I don't care, but don't set the bloody flat on fire!"

Sherlock grimaced and turned away from his friend. John got up and grabbed a broom to sweep up the magazine pieces. "Mrs. Hudson said you were ignoring her." John mentioned.

"I was thinking."

"About?"

"Just about my next case," Sherlock said.

John laughed. "And how do you know what your new case is?"

Sherlock gave a quick laugh before turning on the television. John stopped his sweeping to watch.

"Breaking news from Royston, Hertfordshire today," the young female newscaster said. "Two hours ago, a young woman was found at the bottom of a nearby pond. Police say that she did not die from drowning but was in fact murdered. Local authorities say they will branching out their team to accommodate for the lack of discernible evidence. More on this situation to come."

John looked at his friend who was smiling broadly at the television. "That's not even in Lestrade's district, Sherlock. Sorry to burst your ego, but that's not your case,"

"Did you not hear?" Sherlock asked angrily. "They will be 'branching out their team'. Obviously, they will come to me. I'm surprised Lestrade isn't here now." He got up to look out the window.

"Sherlock," John began. "Just because you are the world's only consulting detective doesn't mean that every D.I. in the United Kingdom wants to consult with you!"

His friend turned and smiled again. "Ah. But you are missing the most the important part, John. They will come for me, because they know about me."

John rolled his eyes.

"My dear, John," Sherlock chuckled. "Royston is my hometown."

And with that Lestrade came charging through the door and up the stairs. "Sherlock, I have something to ask you–" he started.

"Yes," Sherlock said turning towards the detective.

Lestrade looked confused. "I haven't even asked you yet."

"I'm guessing it has to do with the Royston case."

"Well, yeah," Lestrade blinked.

"And I will go. John, pack up. We are going away for a few days," Sherlock said as he went to his bedroom.

Lestrade and John looked at each other blankly. "And how did he figure that one?" Lestrade asked.

"Apparently, he grew up in Royston," John replied.

"Inspector Henith did mention Sherlock meant a lot to the town. I guess I didn't know exactly what that meant," Lestrade said as he scratched his head.

"Are you coming too?" John asked.

"Henith wanted me as much as he wanted Sherlock," Lestrade grinned happily. "We're old pals, Fredrick and I."

"Did they...mention me?" John asked. He was just as famous as Sherlock, after all.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, but he said Sherlock should bring anyone he sees fit. And I'm pretty sure you'd be on that list."