Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am American so please forgive me for any mistakes I made regarding London and the correct use of words. Enjoy!

The Case of the Disappearing Bodies

The woman walks down the empty streets. She mutters darkly under her breath, her plans have not been going her way. First it had started pouring on the way to the café during her break, effectively drenching her and ruining her brand new heels. Then she had lost an important document at work causing her boss to yell at her for so long that it eventually led to her missing the tram. And finally, because of the missed the tram, she had been forced to walk 10 blocks to her flat through puddles in the middle of the night.

A cab goes flying by, spraying water onto her. She swears loudly, close to tears. She approaches the alley leading to her street. It is dark, darker than normal. A street light is out on the other side. She hesitates, looking into the dim alley. She can barely make out the outlines of a trash can a few feet away from her; there could be anything in there.

Stop being so paranoid she tells herself. She starts forward, cautiously shuffling her feet so she doesn't trip on anything. Her pace picks up as she walks through. She hears a loud bang right behind her and breaks into a run, her heels clacking on the pavement. Suddenly her foot catches on something and she goes flying to the ground. There is a huge unmoving form below her.

She fumbles for her phone, her hands trembling so much that she can barely unzip her bag. Her breathing is coming out ragged. She hits the power button and it lights up. She lets out a high-pitched scream and struggles off of the ground, nearly hyperventilating.

There illuminated by the pale light of her phone is a body. The older man's face is as white as a sheet; through his stomach is a metal dagger, the blood from his chest spilling out onto the pavement below. The woman frantically tries to call 999. She stares at her phone in horror- no service.

Her heart hammers and her breaths quicken even more as she runs out of the alley. By the time she makes it to the nearest phone booth she is hysterical.

"999 what is your emergency?"

"I- there- he's dead ohmygod he's dead."

"Ma'am I need you to calm down; take some deep breaths for me. That's it. Now are you in danger?"

"No, I'm fine. But in the alley, please come, he's in there and there's a knife through his chest. Ohmygod, oh my god he's dead!"

"We'll be there in five minutes, just stay on the phone, alright?"

The woman nearly faints in relief when she sees the flashing lights in the distance. The squad car pulls up and a young female officer hops out. She walks over, "I am Officer Ryan. You can call me Jessica. You said you found a body?"

The woman nods hysterically, tears spilling down her face.

"Do you mind showing me where that is?" The woman's eyes widen, her breath picking up speed again, "It's okay," the officer reassures, "nothing will happen to you while I'm here."

The woman nods reluctantly and walks towards the alley, her entire body trembling. The officer follows, one hand holding a flashlight and the other one resting reassuringly on the weight of her service weapon.

They approach the start of the alley and the woman freezes, pointing into the dark, "In there." Her voice trembles. The officer shines her flashlight in, running it over the ground. It illuminates nothing but wrappers and other trash. She looks at the woman who is staring into the alley with a terrified expression, "But that's impossible, it was right there, I saw it." She starts to hyperventilate again, and the officer quickly grabs her arm, pulling her away from the alley.

"It's alright, just breathe in and out, you are going to be fine." She exchanges a look with her partner. What had just happened?

"So, how have you been?"

John sits across from his psychologist, trying (and failing) to keep his body from stiffening up in her presence.

"Alright," he replies evenly. Almost the direct opposite from the truth, hopefully she hasn't caught on. The therapist scribbles something down on her clipboard, keeping it tilted up so John can't read it. Probably, "still has trust issues" again.

"Why did you miss our last appointment?"

John has this one prepared, sort of a half truth, "My sister Harry just broke up with her girlfriend. She came to me for help that day. I'm sorry I forgot to call and let you know." The excuse sounds prepared, and John is certain the psychologist picks up on it (there's more scribbling on the clip board).

"So, Harry. You haven't brought her up in a while. How did it go?"

John lets out a laugh, which sounds a little unstable to his own ears so he stops. "She stormed out to get blasted at the nearest bar and accused me of going off to war to get away from her." He immediately regrets opening up even the slightest bit to his psychologist (he swears that she can read his mind and is determined to ask all the questions he doesn't want to answer).

"Why do you think you went off to war?"

"To serve my country," John rattles off automatically, his mind being drawn back to yesterday; don't give me that patriotic bullshit. Harry had seen right through it, hopefully his psychiatrist wouldn't be as observant.

Of course she is, making a doubtful "hmph" at the back of her throat and writing something else down. John sighs, staring at the clock. Still 32 minutes and 14 seconds to go.

Sherlock throws a few pounds at the taxi driver and then steps out of the car with a heavy sigh. He had spent the day tracking down leads for Lestrade who had the nerve to ask him yet again to help him with a case lower than a 6. Despite his brilliant deductions, the culprit had escaped to Germany. Lestrade was contacting officials there, it wouldn't be long until they found him, but Sherlock had been hoping for a chance to take down the bastard himself. He was an arms dealer, sure to have some tricks up his sleeves and also sure to put up one hell of a fight.

Lestrade had also asked him about the Parkings' case. Sherlock is certain he had thrown of any suspicion on his part, but Lestrade is still hot on the trail. John hadn't been very careful in his murder; it is only a matter of time before even the incompetent yard finds him. Sherlock knows the court would go easy on John, being a first time offender, soldier, and killer of a pedophile (really he did a service to society), but he would still serve time. For reasons beyond Sherlock's comprehension he doesn't want John to be convicted for this.

Sherlock is so lost in his Mind Palace that he almost doesn't notice the straightened knocker on 221. He growls, swatting it angrily to make it crooked again and then storms in.

"You have a guest," Mrs. Hudson tells him cheerfully.

Sherlock ignores her and stalks up the stairs, ignoring her mutter of "rude". He throws the door open to his flat and growls out, "Hello Mycroft."

He is sitting in the chair across from Sherlock, a chair Mrs. Hudson had insisted on putting in as if Sherlock actually had guests.

"Sherlock," his brother says in that infuriating voice of his, "Do come join me, brother mine."

Sherlock sits across from him and fixes him with the most hateful glare he can manage which is reserved only for Mycroft and low life criminals (criminal master minds receive a much more appraising look).

"I see you have added a chair to your apartment. Have you met anyone new recently?"

The question is innocent enough, but Sherlock narrows his eyes anyway, "You've been following me."

Mycroft smirks at him (Sherlock knows many ways he can wipe of that smirk, preferably violent ways), "I always keep an eye on you, don't want a repeat of '09 now do we?"

"I've been clean since then," Sherlock snaps at him, his already small amount of patience deteriorating.

"I am quite certain."

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" Sherlock is about ready to kick him out of his flat (then check carefully for bugs).

"I am here to talk about your new friend, John Watson."

Mycroft notices how Sherlock stiffens slightly at that, "I don't have any friends."

"No? Then tell me, why wouldn't you hand him in to the police, that's your job, is it not?"

Sherlock just gives him a murderous glare.

"I have his file. Do with it what you wish." Mycroft places the small folder on the table and stands.

"I really must be going," he says on his way to the door, "Do be careful, remember-"

"Yes, yes sentiment is not an advantage," Sherlock mutters shutting the door on his brother.

He sits back down on his seat, his hands prayer- like against his lips, his eyes fixed on the peculiar object that is taking up so much of his thoughts. Mycroft's car pulls away from the curb and Sherlock stands, cautiously picking up the folder. He sits back down, glancing at it for a moment with hesitation, then throws it open. Time to get to know John Watson.

"Sherlock we need your help."

"I just finished helping you with the arms dealer case."

"That was yesterday."

"Was it?" Sherlock glances at the clock. Looks like he had been studying John Watson's file all night, as small as it was (the entire thing was already filed away in his mind palace, John had been given a new drawer all for himself).

"There's this mad wanker at the yard, he's insisting that he talks to you."

"I'm not mad," interjects a voice from the background of the phone call which Lestrade ignores.

"He said something about a disappearing body."

"I'll be there in ten."

"Wait Sherlock…" The line is already dead. Lestrade puts the phone down with a sigh and turns to his newest "witness".

"He'll be here in ten minutes." The witness nods, looking very nervous, his hands clenching in and out of fists.

Sherlock is halfway to the yard when he realizes he wants to make a detour. He directs the taxi driver and sends a text out to Lestrade that he'll be later than originally anticipated. Now to plan out what he is going to say to persuade Doctor John Watson to accompany to the very place Sherlock is trying to keep him out of.

Sherlock is outside apartment 36, as stated in John's file. He hesitates with his hand on the door, before taking a deep breath and knocking.

"I'll be right there," the familiar voice calls out from inside, filled with nervousness. Sherlock rolls his eyes, even Anderson would have been able to recognize the guilt in his voice if it had, in fact, been the yard knocking. Maybe keeping him out of prison will be a little harder than Sherlock had thought..

The door opens revealing his old… acquaintance? There is a phony smile pasted on his face (still not Anderson proof) that turns into a gasp when he sees Sherlock. Sherlock half wants to impersonate a police officer, or do something equally as insane to make John squirm, but instead he just barges in with a nice, "Hello John," (which seems to have the same effect on the poor guilt-ridden man).

"Sherlock," he stutters, closing the door behind him, "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock takes in his apartment, deductions soaring through his mind, "I am here to ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard."

At John's stricken gaze, he continues hastily, "To help me with a case."

"A case?" John seems very confused. Sherlock sighs, remembering that common people require extra explanation for their less-than-brilliant minds.

"You're a doctor are you not?"

"Yes- wait how do you know-?"

"I require help on my cases; an assistant is the best word for it, most preferably someone with medical experience who can tell me the medical information while I make deductions. Sadly my last assistance is… preoccupied, and you seemed the most likely candidate."

"Cases? What exactly do you do?" John's face has only grown more confused.

Sherlock sighs impatiently, "I can explain later, but will you come?" Sherlock schools his expression just in case John rejects him (which he is 99.9% sure he won't).

"What will that entail?"

Sherlock decides to put it in simple words for John, "Looking at dead bodies, chasing down some criminals, and working with the detective who is on the Parkings' case, searching for you."

John only hesitates a moment before nodding.

"A cab is waiting outside, I will wait for you."

The confused look is back, "Wait we're leaving now?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies, more than a little exasperated, and walks out. On second thought he pops his head back in, "Bring your gun."

Two minutes later John is in the taxi, sitting next to a stranger who somehow knows his entire life, with a gun used to kill a man concealed in his jeans. His mind is still trying to process it, but instead of feeling panic or more importantly regret, he feels excitement. He is going to help this mad man catch bad guys and solve cases in his odd way.

John had googled him and found his website the night before. The science of deduction, sounding like a bunch of garbage to him ("I can tell a person's a pilot by their sleeve cuff") but then again Sherlock had somehow known both his name and occupation in the alley a few nights before. He had also seemed to know exactly how and why John killed James Parkings, just needing John to confirm it.

Sherlock notices that John keeps glancing over at him, opening his mouth as if to say something before closing it again. Sherlock sighs, "You have questions, go ahead." He turns to look out the window, waiting for the inevitable moment when John figures out what a freak he is and leaves.

John seems to pause for a moment to decide what to ask first then starts, "That night when you confronted me- you knew things about me; my name, my occupation. How?"

"The same way I know that you have, no had, a psychosomatic limp which you must have fixed that day you fought me, good job. You were a doctor in Afghanistan where you witnessed and participated in the worst of war leading your doctor to believe you have PTSD and where you were also shot in your left shoulder. You have very little friends left who aren't soldiers, and you barely even talk to them anymore. You are estranged from your sister, probably because she is an alcoholic and recently broke up with her long-term girlfriend, Clara. Your sister also gave you that phone sitting in your left pocket right now, although probably angrily after a fight because you haven't called her since even though it's clearly causing more guilt."

John looks angry and confused again, "How the hell do you know all that?" He looks about ready to jump out of the car.

Sherlock admits that his deductions of John are a little bit cheating because he had read the files on him, but none of them are ones he couldn't have made himself (except for maybe that Harry is a girl, it's a good thing he found that out previously because he hates being wrong).

Sherlock knows John will probably hate him for it, but he can't help but leaping into his explanation, "Your limp being psychosomatic is rather obvious, considering that you fought perfectly fine with me a few nights ago and have now foregone the use of your cane, also because you were shot in your shoulder, not the leg, I know this because you still favor it ever so slightly, especially when I had you pinned down."

"How'd I know you have a therapist? Any soldier suffering from PTSD would have a therapist. You have little friends because your flat is not even suited to hold guests and shows no signs of more than one person spending any significant amount of time there. I caught a look at your phone which told me the rest."

He holds out his hand and John hands him the phone; a shocked look on his face that Sherlock is sure will turn to disgust soon. "A nice phone, not something you would be able to afford on an army pension. A gift, then. On the back, "To Harry, Love Clara". Harry could be a distant relative, but you're here in London alone in a crappy apartment so it's doubtful you have an extended family. Sister then."

"Now who's Clara? Clara is clearly Harry's lover who gave her this phone as a gift. But it is not very well cared for, look at the scratches. So they were going through a rough patch, which ended in the break up where Harry gave you the phone. Alcoholic because of the scratches near the charger."

Sherlock shows them to John and continues, "This comes from trying to plug in the phone while drunk; your hand will shake. You never see an alcoholic without them or a sober person with them. You haven't called her and she hasn't called you because the power button is loose suggesting you've been turning it on and off frequently lately, maybe checking for her call or deciding whether or not to make your own to her (it's not like you have any one else to be calling). So you two had a fight the day she gave it to you, and you haven't talked since."

Sherlock finishes his explanation and fixes his gaze out the window, refusing to look at John (and the horror surely written over his face.)

"Brilliant."

Sherlock turns sharply to him, "Really?"

"Yes, absolutely brilliant." John's face is lit up in wonder which sends warmth through Sherlock, an unfamiliar feeling.

"That's not what most people say," Sherlock grumbles.

"Yeah, what do most people say?" John inquires.

"Piss off." The both burst into laughter, odd giggles of joy that makes Sherlock happier than he has been in a while. They fall into a comfortable silence on the rest of the drive to the yard.

John seems to grow stiffer the closer they get to New Scotland Yard. His face is written with apprehension and his hands are clenched into fists.

"John, relax," Sherlock says in the most soothing voice he can manage, "They don't have any evidence that it was you, and even if they did it would be blatantly obvious that you're guilty from your facial expressions. At least try to look like you want to be here."

John takes a deep breath, his expressions schooling into at least a calm expression.

"Better," Sherlock tells him which earns a glare out of his new companion. Note to self: do not treat John like a dog.

The taxi stops and Sherlock jumps out of the cab, ignoring John's grumbling on being forced to pay the tab. He strolls into the building, passing right through the metal detectors, before remembering John and doubling back. Thankfully John is not right behind him and is instead staring up at the building with an agonized expression on his face.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and grabs John's arm pulling him down a few streets. He ignores John's question as to where they're going. Finally he finds her, Alice, sitting on the sidewalk with a guitar case beside her filled with some loose change and a stick of gum.

Sherlock pockets John's gun, satisfied that he can do it without John even noticing. He leans down pretending to be saying something to her and tucks the gun inside her discarded coat. He hands her a 20 pound note. She thanks him and he whispers to her that they'll be back to pick it up in a few minutes before straightening up.

John follows him as he starts back to NSY. "What was that all about?"

"I was just placing your gun in safe-keeping."

John pats his pockets and looks at Sherlock in amazement, "How did you do that?"

Sherlock just smirks at him, and although John tries to look angry he can tell that he is amused. He is much more relaxed when they enter through the metal detectors. Sherlock leads him to Lestrade's office.

He stalks in, John following him with much less confidence.

"Sherlock, about bloody time you showed up," Lestrade calls out to him, standing behind a stringy young man that Sherlock doesn't recognize. Lestrade turns to look at him and looks shocked to see John with him, "Who's that?" he questions in a shocked voice, his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water.

"This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson, who will be accompanying me to the crime scene," Sherlock says in a voice that cuts off any discussion from Lestrade. Lestrade gives him a pointed look, "John, this is Detective Inspector Graham Lestrade."

"Greg," he corrects and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Lestrade clears his throat, "Okay Sherlock this is Peter Douglas…"

Sherlock cuts him of, deductions rapidly running through his mind, "21 years old, a high school dropout, now lives on the streets and makes a living selling drugs, using mostly cocaine himself, high intelligence, really a waste of space and sorry excuse for a human being. He thinks he saw a body that later disappeared, probably a hallucination, very common with cocaine. He came running into the yard asking for me because…" Sherlock hesitates in his deductions and then his eyes fix on the now slightly- horrified witness. "His father was my dealer," he finishes with false calm.

John lets out a strangled cough behind him that Sherlock does his best to ignore. The addict in front of him is giving Lestrade a panicked look now that his illegal occupation has been revealed. Lestrade gives Sherlock that amazed (and slightly doubting) look he gives him every time he makes a few deductions for him.

"The body was real! I saw it, I touched it!" the young dealer pipes up, lifting his hands to reveal dried blood.

"No, you did not," Sherlock tells him in his this-conversation-is-over-voice.

"Sherlock," Lestrade protests.

While Sherlock is doing his best to find his way out of this situation that he definitely does not want anything to do with, regardless if there had actually been a body or not, John Watson is busy filling out his duties as his new assistant.

He procures a swab out of god knows where (probably Lestrade's desk) and swipes the blood from Peter's hands. Most of it is dried and flakes off into the evidence bag. "We should take this to the lab," he tells Sherlock, who is deeply annoyed and ready to storm out of the Yard and get himself as far away as he can from the incident in '09.

"I'll take it," Sherlock snaps at him, grabbing the flakes from his outstretched hand. He storms out of the room as soon as John is finished getting a sample of the Peter's saliva for comparison, making him run to catch up to his longer strides. Lestrade throws his card at John before he leaves telling him, "Call me if you ever need anything." (John guesses this is more for Sherlock's benefit than his own.)

Thankfully John doesn't bring up the new information he's learned about Sherlock so Sherlock slows his steps to let John walk comfortably beside him (John has painfully slow strides). He leads him down to the morgue, heading straight for one of the empty rooms.

He flicks the lights on with a smile, inhaling the scent of chemicals that always make him feel so at home. The only other scent that can do that to him is the scent of 221B; it has a sort of cinnamon-y scent mixed with whatever delicious meal Mrs. Watson has just cooked, and often is just as filled with chemical smells from Sherlock's various experiments as the lab is.

John hands him the other swab and Sherlock gets to work. John sits a few feet away from him, watching him work with curiosity written over his features. Sherlock finds that his gaze doesn't distract him as much as most people's do.

A few minutes later he has the results, "The DNA doesn't match," he tells John with a sigh. He sends the unknown blood through the system hoping for a match.

Normally a case like this would excite him, a disappearing body is a new thing and Sherlock doesn't see many entirely new things in his line of work. This could very well be the works of a criminal mastermind, or just someone getting rid of evidence, but Sherlock prefers the former. However, Sherlock's blood can't help but run cold every time he is around cocaine; even the mention of cocaine makes him want to run far away. In any other circumstance Sherlock would have already been well on his way to far away, but this time he has John Watson, and he very well can't give up on their first case.

Sherlock briefly looks over the small bits of evidence he has in his Mind Palace. The next logical step is to see the "crime scene" (if an actual crime had occurred and it had not all been a drug-induced hallucination.) "Come along, John," he calls out and his new assistant jumps up to follow him out.

"And here's where the body was," Peter tells the group, gesturing to a spot on the ground.

John looks at the completely blank pavement with a skeptical look on his face. There isn't the slightest evidence that a body had been there, not even the faintest trace of blood. Lestrade looks about as convinced of the body as John is, but of course Sherlock sees something that the average brain would never be able to pick up on.

He jumps around the alleyway, studying various patches of pavement with his magnifying glass. He straightens up and paces a few times muttering incoherently under his breath. His eyes suddenly widen in that I-have-just-deduced-something-spectacular way and he strides over to the brick wall siding the alley.

He rubs a gloved finger down it and then brings it to his nose, taking a big whiff. A giant smile breaks over his face, "Arturo Fuente Anejo."

"Who?" John asks him, not following.

"Not who, what. Arturo Fuente Anejo- one of the world's rarest cigars." John remembers seeing an analysis on the 253 types of cigarette ash on Sherlock's page. He decides not to question it, considering how many times Sherlock has already proved him wrong in their span of their two-day friendship.

"Okay, so someone was smoking cigars and wiped their ash on the wall," Lestrade says slowly causing Sherlock to let out another exasperated sigh. Why must everyone be an idiot?

"This was the killer's cigar," he answers trying to keep it as simple as he can for Lestrade's miniscule brain.

"How do you know?" Sherlock just stares at Lestrade with the most incredulous look. How can anybody possibly be this dull?

"Sherlock?" John questions.

Sherlock gives in, "It has been nearly four hours since Peter discovered the body here. It rained yesterday until precisely 4:15 this morning. It is highly unlikely that another person lingered here before the body was found except for the murderer. Therefor we can conclude that the killer smoked the cigar either before or after. My guess is before because the blood was still flowing when Peter arrived, a fresh kill then. The killer was waiting for this man in this alley; somehow he knew he was going to be here. They must have known each other, trusted each other enough to meet in an alley in the middle of the night…" Sherlock trails off, his eyes flicking over the blank alley as if they can see more than normal eyes. It seems to John that Sherlock can see the body right now; his mind is powerful enough to portray the image from a mere description of it.

Lestrade thinks for a moment, "Well then what happened to the body?"

"He moved it" Sherlock responds, a wild spark in his eye. He abruptly turns to John, lifting his collar, "Come along, John, we have some research to conduct."

Lestrade doesn't even bother to protest as John hurries after Sherlock (as if the stubborn bastard would listen to him anyway.)

Five minutes later John and Sherlock are in yet another taxi riding through the streets of London. Sherlock hasn't spoken once during the entire ride and John feels a need to break the uncomfortable silence.

"So where exactly are we going?" Sherlock had told the driver 221B Baker Street.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock looks up at John as if just remembering that he is there. "Oh to my flat, I need to look something up." That seems as much of an explanation as John is going to get; Sherlock promptly goes back to staring out the window with a deep frown. John can nearly see the wheels turning in his head, pieces chinking together as he makes his extraordinary deductions.

They pull up in front of a flat in central London that John would pay an arm and a leg for (he really needs to find a job instead of running around London with an insane detective). Sherlock hops out leaving John with the bill again. He grumbles a "thanks" at the taxi driver and follows Sherlock.

He steps in and is greeted by an older woman who is practically glowing when she looks at Sherlock like a mother would, "Sherlock you're back! And you've brought a guest!" (She sounds genuinely surprised by this).

"Yes, yes Mrs. Hudson we shall be upstairs," Sherlock dismisses her. He hangs up his coat and bounds up the stairs. John smiles at Mrs. Hudson and follows him up.

"I'll bring you boys up some tea, but just this once, I'm not your housekeeper. And I expect a proper introduction Sherlock!" she calls up to them. Sherlock ignores her and throws open the door marching into his flat.

John follows him in and has to restrain himself from making a wise comment when he sees the state of it. The apartment is in complete disarray, stacks of files and yellowing papers stacked haphazardly through the room. All available counter and table space is covered in test tubes with multi-colored liquids and other various experiment-looking things. The only pieces of furniture safe from the chaos of the room are the two chairs sitting facing each other in the center.

John's eyes wander up to the mantle, "Is that a skull?"

Sherlock looks up from his frantic typing at the computer, "Yes, an old friend of mine," he tells John, cracking a sly smile. He goes back to typing, his eyes reading things on the screen at an alarming pace. John stands in the center of the room watching him, a little unsure on what to do.

The crazed excitement on Sherlock's face only grows as he stares intensely at the screen. He leaps up exclaiming, "I've got it John! He is brilliant, extraordinarily brilliant!"

"I'm sorry, who's brilliant?" John asks, confused yet again by the puzzling man in front of him.

"The killer, of course! Come on John, we don't have much time until he strikes again." Sherlock practically runs out of the room, nearly trampling Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs with a tray of tea.

"Leaving already, Sherlock?" she asks, throwing a disappointed look at the tea. Sherlock is already pulling on his coat, with John right behind him. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, we must go- the game is on!"

"Alright dearie. But I do expect a proper introduction," she sternly looks at Sherlock, gesturing at John who is already half way out the door.

"As soon as we find him," Sherlock promises and follows John out.

John tries to just go with the flow, but eventually curiosity gets the better of him. "Where are we going?" he asks Sherlock breaking him out of his reverie again. He doesn't seem to mind, seeming pleased to be reminded that he isn't alone.

"To the yard. We need to talk to Peter again. He's clever, he saw more that night then he thinks he did."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaims as Sherlock bursts into his office with John trailing behind him. Lestrade hastily takes his feet off his desk and brushes off some donut crumbs from his shirt.

"I need to talk to Peter," Sherlock tells him, more of a demand than a request.

"Tell me what you know about the case, then I'll let you see him," Lestrade counters.

Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh, "Where is Peter?"

"Remember what I told you about withholding evidence, Sherlock…" Lestrade threatens (not very efficiently.)

Sherlock resists the urge to argue back, only for the sake of saving time (there is a murderer on the loose after all), "The body Peter found was not the first victim; he was in fact the 6th confirmed victim of our killer. The first body was discovered two months ago in central London. All 6 bodies disappeared when the people who discovered them went to phone the police. 3 of the people who discovered a body simply did not have a cell phone on them like Peter, and the other two claimed that the signal suddenly cut out where they found the bodies. Every time the police did not believe them because there was no evidence."

"And the officer on duty didn't notice a pattern?" Lestrade looks troubled by the news.

Sherlock is at the end of his patient. "Have I not proved the ineptness of the police force on multiple occasions, including yourself, Lestrade? Now will you promptly show me to Peter, I need to talk to him."

Lestrade grumbles something, but he leads Sherlock and John out anyway. "We're keeping him in a holding cell until the case is over."

"I don't remember anything," Peter spits back, every muscle tense as he faces off with Sherlock who is well within his personal space and doing his best to be intimidating (Sherlock Holmes is intimidating even when he's not trying to be, so when he does try it is a frightening experience to say the least.)

"Think harder, you must remember something from that night," Sherlock growls to him.

"I told you everything I know, I was high that night what more do you want from me?" Peter is practically in tears.

"Why don't you go over it again," John interjects in a kind voice, shooting Sherlock a hard look. He scowls but takes a few steps back and softens his gaze slightly.

Peter relaxes noticeably. "Okay, so I was wandering the streets, high as fuck, I had just snorted some high end stuff. I didn't see the body until I tripped over it. I was so high it took me a minute or two to realize he was dead. I got off him and backed away, getting a clear view of him. He was white, short black hair and cleanly shaven. He had sharp features and was wearing an expensive- looking black suit. There was a dagger through his chest, with a plain wooden handle. He was still warm when I landed on him," Peter inhales sharply at the memory and forces himself to continue, "He must have been just killed."

Sherlock lets out a sigh which causes Peter to stiffen up again and shoot a helpless look at John. John gives him an encouraging smile then looks at Sherlock with just as apprehensive of a gaze. "Are you sure that's all you remember?" Sherlock asks, sounding slightly disappointed.

"Yes," Peter answers, his voice trembling.

"Thank you for your time, you have been very… helpful," Sherlock drawls out and then turns to John, "We will be going now."

"We will?" John asks, giving him a confused look.

"Yes, come along now John." John follows him out.

"What was the point of that, we got absolutely nothing out of it?" John asks him once they're out of ear shot.

"Oh, I think we got plenty out of it," Sherlock says with a predatory grin that is more frightening than reassuring. "I need to talk to the officer on duty during the calls." Sherlock and John walk off in pursuit of Lestrade, John having to jog to keep up with Sherlock's longer strides.

Sherlock finds Lestrade in a meeting with a majority of the police force. They are talking about the murder of some important political figure, boring and most likely obvious. Sherlock has no problem interrupting him, "You can let Peter go; he doesn't know anything."

Lestrade trails off on his explanation of the evidence found at the scene, "I'm in the middle of a meeting Sherlock," Lestrade says, giving him a glare that would make most people cower (but of course not Sherlock).

Sherlock glances at the board, "The husband did it. She was sleeping with the butler. He poisoned her morning tea."

Lestrade's mouth is literally hanging open at that. "Alright everyone," he says gruffly, "Take five."

The officers disperse, glancing curiously at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes of whom they had all heard so much about. "I can't let him go Sherlock, he's a drug dealer."

"Do you have evidence of that?" Sherlock questions rapidly.

"No, but I'm getting a warrant…."

"Good, but while you're getting that warrant you have no right to keep him here. Let him go."

Lestrade narrows his eyes at Sherlock's persistence, "Why do you want to free him so badly?"

Sherlock seems to ignore the question, ordering Lestrade to do something else for him, "I need to talk to the person or people on duty when the phone call was made. I need to hear the recordings."

Lestrade decides not to push on Sherlock's obvious avoidance to answer his question (he'll keep an eye on him), "I'll go look that up."

A few minutes later John and Sherlock are talking with (more interrogating) the person the phone calls were made to, a young female officer who is clearly very new to the job.

"And you didn't notice the connection?" Sherlock practically yells at the poor girl.

"N-no, sir, I just thought they were prank calls," she stutters back, her eyes watering. John would have laughed at her calling Sherlock "sir" if Sherlock currently wasn't being such an insufferable bastard.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and John thinks the worst is over, until he sees Sherlock's intense gaze flicking over the girl, deducing her. Being that Sherlock is the most insensitive human being he has ever met; John can tell that this is not going to end well. He clears his throat and Sherlock jerks his head to him. He subtly shakes his head at him hoping to portray, "not good" in his gesture.

Sherlock seems to understand because he pastes a phony half-smile on his face and says, "Thank you, we will take it from here."

The girl lets out a shuttered breath and briskly exits the room. Sherlock gives John a questioning look, "What did I do wrong?"

"What were you going to say to her?" John asks him, feeling a little bad for the genuinely confused look on Sherlock's face.

"I was going to tell her that her boyfriend of two years has been cheating on her for at least one year with a string of lovers. Also her father has turned back to alcohol, probably from the recent passing of her mother."

John just gives Sherlock a look.

"Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah." Sherlock stores that away in his Mind Palace for future reference (he will have to ask John later if that pertains to all deductions or only certain personal ones, but for now they need to focus on the case at hand).

Sherlock pops in the first tape. The shaky voice comes on- victim one. Time to make connections.

Fifteen minutes of recording later John still has no idea on the who, why, what, or how of the crimes. The last tape cuts off and John opens his mouth to ask Sherlock if he had heard anything when he hears the detective muttering to himself.

"What was that?"

Sherlock fixes his captivating eyes on John, "Why John, why do they disappear?"

It takes John a second to realize that Sherlock wants him to answer, "To get rid of evidence?"

"No, if he wanted to do that he could just dispose of the bodies before they were found. No, this is different, this is a game to him, he's playing. But why? Who is he playing the game for?"

"The police?" John pipes in hopefully.

"Maybe," Sherlock says, giving John an unreadable look, "Regardless, we have to go to the other crime scenes."

Twenty minutes later they have found and dragged the officer on duty to the first crime scene. She keeps glancing warily at Sherlock, as if expecting him to start yelling at her again. Thankfully he is too lost in his Mind Palace to pay her any attention.

She shows them where the caller said the body was and then stands off to the side watching Sherlock work with equal parts fear and fascination (a common combination John has seen associated with Sherlock.)

John watches him work for a second and then asks him, "So what do you think?"

Sherlock picks up a cigar crushed into the sidewalk, holding it up with gloved fingers. He smiles triumphantly, "Arturo Fuente Anejo." He places the cigar inside an evidence bag and puts it in his pocket.

"That is all the help I shall be needing, thank you John, you may return home now."

John narrows his eyes, "But we didn't solve the case."

"I'm sure it won't take long to get a match off of this." Sherlock pats his pockets. "I'll hail you a cab."

Sherlock walks briskly to the road, holding his arm up and instantly getting a cab to pull over. "But-" John interjects, giving Sherlock a confused if not slightly hurt look which he ignores as he opens the door for him.

"Bye John, I will be sure to stop by to give you an update once the case is solved. You're assistant has been invaluable." Before John can argue that the case is not at all solved, Sherlock slams the door shut and the driver pulls away from the curb.

"1312 Crawford Street, Apartment 36," John mumbles to the driver, his eyes still stuck on the rapidly receding figure of the detective, standing by the curb.

Sherlock waits until John's cab recedes into the distance before hailing his own. He hops in, "172 Mallard Drive."

It's five minutes into the cab ride when John realizes that he's missing something. He pats his pockets frantically, his mind frantic at the thought he had lost it in some place. He remembers him and Sherlock retrieving the gun from Alice, so what had happened after that…Sherlock.

Even though John can't make deductions even a fraction as effortlessly as Sherlock Holmes does, it is not hard to jump to the conclusion that he is going after the killer himself. John doesn't hesitate to dial Lestrade's number, noticing a slight trembling in his trigger hand as he holds up Lestrade's card to read it.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking."

"It's Sherlock…"

Sherlock makes the cab drop him off a few apartments down from his destination. He feels the reassuring weight of gun in his pocket. It's only a matter of time before John figures out it's missing and calls in back up- Sherlock just wants to have a little chat with the murderer first.

He approaches flat 172- cracked bricks and dirty windows concealed with heavy shades. Quite obviously an addict's house- the signs are everywhere as they are on many of the ramshackle buildings around him. Sherlock is very familiar with the signs of an addict.

Sherlock rings the doorbell and hears no sound on the inside- broken. He knocks firmly on the door, he is definitely inside. Sherlock waits a minute or two until he is just about ready to burst down the door when it suddenly swings open.

A familiar, dirt-stained, wiry face meets him. His pupils are so dilated that there is only a small rim of pale blue surrounding them. "Hello Peter, may I come in?"

"Where is he?" John shouts into the phone, fear rapidly growing inside of him.

"I'm making the search now!" Lestrade growls back into the phone, shouting filling the background of his phone call.

The cab driver is currently pulled off to the side of the road, watching John with barely concealed amusement. "You do realize I charge by the minute when parked," the driver starts.

John just waves his hand at him and continues throwing orders at Lestrade through the phone (the soldier in him is making this a frankly terrifying experience for Lestrade).

"I've got it! His cell phone says he's at…"

John shouts the address at the driver who immediately pulls of the curb, taking John's orders to drive fast to heart. This is the most excitement he's ever had in his lousy job.

"I'm five minutes out," John tells Lestrade.

"We'll have a squad car there in ten, but do not enter under any circumstance until back up arrives. John, do you hear me?"

John hangs up, a grim look of determination settling on his features.

Back at the Yard, Lestrade swears at the dead line. A few of his officers stop in their tracks to stare at him. "Go, what are you waiting for, move!" he shouts at them, and then hurries behind them. He does not need a dead Sherlock and a dead civilian on his watch tonight.

Out of all the things Sherlock expected Peter to do, punching him was not one of those things. He stumbles back, pressing a hand in surprise to his nose where a small stream of blood is already dribbling out.

Sherlock recovers quickly, nimbly dodging out of the way of his next punch as he regains his bearings. Peter is high, he should be easy to incapacitate. But before Sherlock knocks Peter out he wants to have answers. Most importantly- why? What is his game?

Sherlock speaks rapidly, dodging kicks and punches from the greatly disorientated Peter easily as he goes, "So you find random strangers on the street, just anyone who happens to be walking alone. You stab them, and let them bleed out on the pavement. You wait until someone comes and sees the body, steering away groups of people by standing in the alley and smoking, not the most comforting site at night. Then when someone approaches solitary, you hide nearby and watch them find the body. You turn on your cell phone scrambler, in case they have a cell phone on them, and then when they run off to the nearest phone booth you remove the evidence. You do this on rainy nights, so you can avoid suspicion when you wash the blood away. You hide the body nearby and then you return. You watch the police, you like to see them work, see you outsmart them. But the game was getting boring, wasn't it? You overestimated the police, they were even duller then you anticipated. But your father, he told you about me, you looked for the challenge. You were going to turn yourself in, lay out the details right in front of me, and wait for me to bite."

Peter has ceased his attack on Sherlock and is standing a few feet away from him listening with a manic glint in his eye. "Took you longer than I thought," he mocks, "I was right in front of you, this whole time, while you were running around crying about cigar smoke."

"I was right," Sherlock says coldly, admittedly a little disappointed that the violence is over.

Peter laughs, sending chills through Sherlock- it's not possible that he made a mistake, is it? Everything fit. "I've never smoked a cigar in my life. Maybe you are more dull then he thought."

Peter suddenly lunges at Sherlock, pulling a knife out of his pocket, catching him off guard once again (this time he is mostly preoccupied with trying to reevaluate his mistake). Sherlock pulls John's gun out but before he can aim it at Peter he strikes a blow to his hand knocking the gun away. It clatters on the pavement and slides a few feet away, out of Sherlock's reach.

Sherlock doesn't watch the gun's path; instead his mind is busy planning ahead the attacks to disarm Peter (who is still very high- easy, really). He punches him hard in the jaw, and then kicks the hand with the knife. Peter's wimpy form is stronger than it looks because even though he stumbles back a few feet the knife stays in his grasp.

Sherlock's adrenaline filled mind finally catches up to what Peter's had just said. "Who's he?"

Peter launches himself at Sherlock again and he leaps out of the way, kicking him hard in the back and sending him flying.

Peter is sprawled on the pavement, his back trembling. It takes Sherlock a second to realize he is laughing, his small frame shaking from the effort of it. "Looks like you missed something Sherlock."

Sherlock approaches Peter, pressing the heel is his foot into the hand holding the knife. Peter doesn't even flinch. "Who is he?" Sherlock forces out through gritted teeth.

It all happens in a flash. All of a sudden Peter brings his legs up to hit Sherlock's knees. They buckle and before Sherlock even hits the pavement Peter is up. He pins Sherlock down, pressing the knife to his neck. Sherlock has a flash of déjà vu to his meeting with John.

Sherlock scarcely dares to breathe as Peter holds the knife against his throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. His empty black pupils bear into Sherlock, a twisted smile contorting his features.

"He always raves about you, the great Sherlock Holmes, cleverer than the whole bunch. He said you weren't boring." Peter laughs dryly, "But you are, Sherlock. You're ordinary, perfectly ordinary." He spits the word out in disgust. "Isn't it awful to be so ordinary?"

Peter is staring so intently at Sherlock that he doesn't notice the shadow growing behind him. His voice muffles the sound of a gun being picked up from the pavement, then being cocked.

"He will be terribly disappointed when I tell him how ordinary you were."

Sherlock eyes widen and he prepares himself for the cut, prepares himself for death. Instead a bang resonates through the air and Peter pauses, his mouth hanging open in shock. His eyes glaze over and he stares down at the rapidly growing patch of red staining through his shirt.

Sherlock shoves him off, groping at his own neck only to feel blood coating it. His breathing accelerates before he realizes how small the cut is and he drops his hand. He leans down next to Peter, "Who is he?" he hisses at the man.

Peter doesn't look at him, his eyes clouded from pain as he drifts into unconsciousness. "Focus!" Sherlock shouts at him, wrenching his head to face him, "Who is he?"

A smile breaks over Peter's face that sends chills down Sherlock's back. "Master," he whispers. The life fades from his eyes.

"Who!? Who is he?" Sherlock shouts at him, shaking him violently.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, "He's gone," John says quietly.

Sherlock looks up at him and it hits him- John had just shot someone for him. For Sherlock, who he had only known for a day after Sherlock had held a knife to his throat.

Sherlock clears his throat, the word "thanks" forming in his mind but instead he says, "Nice shot."

John grunts noncommitidely and then notices Sherlock's neck (and bloodied nose). "Sherlock you're bleeding!" He looks alarmed by the news.

"It's just a scratch," Sherlock replies, a little confused by the sound of concern in John's voice (why would he care?)

"That is not a little cut," John tells him sternly, his doctor skills kicking in. He prods Sherlock's nose and he flinches away. "Not broken," John mumbles out loud. He takes of his jacket, "Here hold this to your nose, this should suffice until Lestrade gets here."

Sherlock growls at that news, "Why did you call Lestrade? I was fine."

John lets out a sharp laugh, "Fine? You didn't look fine when I got here. And I called Lestrade because you were stupid enough to go gallivanting off after a psychopath by yourself."

"I had it all under control," Sherlock mumbles, a scowl darkening his features. John just rolls his eyes at this. Sherlock remembers the Parkings' case, "John give me the gun," he orders.

John rests his hand on his pocket, giving Sherlock a skeptical look, "Why?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "So I can shoot you with it, what do you think John? I think Lestrade finding you with a gun would be a very bad way to kick of your relationship with him."

Sherlock takes the gun just as 5 police cars with blaring sirens come flying into the street followed closely by 3 ambulances.

"Then he ran at me with a knife, so I shot him. How many times do I have to tell you this Lestrade?"

Lestrade scribbles some things down on his report. "Well then how did you-"

"I don't have time for this," Sherlock snaps, cutting him off and gesturing wildly to his neck, "I'm bleeding out George, I really must be getting medical attention."

Sherlock walks away, a small smile playing on his lips when he hears Lestrade mumble under his breath, "It's Greg, it has always been Greg Lestrade."

John is leaning against a police car giving his account to an over-eager police officer (gay, just got over a recent break up, clearly more than interested in John). When his eye's catch Sherlock he pulls off from the car and strolls toward him.

"You okay?" Sherlock asks quietly, watching John carefully.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You just killed a man."

"Well he wasn't a particularly nice man." They share a smile at that and John remembers Sherlock's injuries. "Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Sherlock follows him to the ambulance, deciding not to argue. Doctor's orders, after all.

After a few bandages and Sherlock's multiple protests that he is not in shock, they are released. They walk to the edge of the street in silence. Sherlock hands John back his gun and they pause for a moment, an awkward silence stretching out.

"I should be getting home," John says just as Sherlock says, "I know a diner a few blocks away…"

They both pause and John laughs, "I'm up for dinner, I haven't eaten all day." He looks at Sherlock's bandaged neck, "But you look like you've just escaped from the local hospital."

Sherlock considers that for a moment, "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will have made something."

"Maybe you should wear a scarf next time you go gallivanting after knife- wielding psychopaths," John suggests as they step into a cab. Sherlock makes a mental note of that.