A/N: Here is the nexy chapter just like I promised! Its not quite as long, but I think you'll be pleased with it. :) Dont forget to leave me a review. . . the more I get the faster I'll update! ENJOY!

- Chels

Chapter Two

John waited patiently outside the morgue with the plastic tub of organs at his feet, while Sherlock placed the body he'd stolen back in its rightful place.

Molly was inside hunched over another poor lifeless form when Sherlock barged in, dragging the trunk behind him.

"Oh," Molly chirped seeing the tall detective. "Hello." She did her best to hide both her smile and her blush, but it was rather difficult to fool someone as sharp-eyed as Sherlock Holmes.

"Evening." He said, bending down to open the trunk.

"Wha- Oh my- uh"

"Don't act surprised Molly. You deal with corpses on a daily basis. . ." Sherlock stated callously.

"Yes, well, um. Who is he?" She asked timidly, fiddling with her fingers.

"I believe you already know that answer," Sherlock remarked, "I was just bringing him back." He placed the half mutilated body on an available slab and covered it with a sheet.

"Bringing him back?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, restraining from saying anything that could potentially hurt Molly's feelings, and went to fetch the organs John was looking after.

"Ar-Are those his…?" Molly asked when she saw the plastic container he had brought in.

"Yes obviously. Where should I leave them?"

Molly hesitated momentarily, her mouth hanging a gape. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, Sherlock always made her nervous. Every time the curly haired detective stepped into the morgue, her heart skipped a beat and all her senses ceased to function. She made a proper idiot out of herself, even if Sherlock didn't.

Outside the morgue entrance John waited idly while his friend placed the body in its rightful place. He teetered back and forth from his heels to his toes, glancing up and down the empty, bleak hall. Sherlock was certainly taking his good, sweet time to put a dead man back on a slab; he started to worry that maybe his friend was unintentionally-intentionally dressing-down Molly like usual. For her sake, he decided to investigate.

"What's taking so long?" John asked sauntering through the set of double doors.

"Just finishing up." Sherlock shot the doctor one of his infamous quick smiles that was his way of attempting to lighten the mood. Since Molly hadn't yet informed him of a proper place to set the man's dissected organs, Sherlock left them at her feet.

"Good Evening, Molly. I'll trust you with his innards," The tall dark haired detective muttered, flipping up the collar of his white coat and making his way for the exit.

"Come along John."

Doctor Watson and Molly exchanged a final glance before he turned on his heel and exited the morgue.

"What eh, what did you say to her this time?" John asked as they walked down the hall.

"What do you mean?"

"Molly. What did you do this time?"

Sherlock eyed his shorter friend. "I simply answered her questions."

Johns brows furrowed. "Then why did she look like you just ran over her dog?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't know."

John sighed, rolling his eyes, and as he did he caught a whiff of the odor radiating from Sherlock frame.

"Maybe it's just because you smell bloody vile."

Sherlock frowned, said nothing, and continued out of the hospital. The crisp, night air kissed his face as a subtle breeze blew his dark curls in a mess of tangled spirals. Even at the lateness of the hour, normal people hurried down the walkways, going on with their dull lives like they did every day. Sherlock pursed his lips and pulled the doctor's coat around his small torso to shield himself form the cold while John took the liberty of hailing a cab to take them back to Baker Street.

The next morning, 221B was much less exciting. There were no body parts of any sort strewn across the kitchen table or hanging from the cabinets- that John knew of anyway- and there was no vicious maniac assassin waiting to destroy them both. Things were a little too mundane, and Sherlock did not function well with mundane.

At the moment, John was enjoying the undisturbed quiet, sitting in his usual chair with his laptop and a hot cup of coffee, documenting the adventure he'd taken part in the night before to his blog. Sherlock on the other hand was still in his pajamas, laying upside down on the couch mumbling angrily to himself.

John gazed at his friend across the way with a concerned look on his face. Sherlock seemed to be having an argument with himself, which was never a good sign. He'd done it one time before, and it had resulted in a broken window, a stove fire, and the unfortunate death of three very unlucky pigeons. The doctor knew that any second Sherlock would snap and start shouting like a mad man, not to mention his senseless whining.

With a sigh, John sipped his coffee and returned to the task of updating his blog while watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. Every minute, right down to the second, the detective checked his phone for a missed call, a text, anything that would make him less bored. Certainly he was checking to see if Lestrade needed him, and from the angry cursing and child-like pouting it was evident that he wasn't needed at the moment. Finally he furiously chucked the mobile phone across the room, making a land right in front of the fire place.

"John. . ." Sherlock spoke suddenly, still hanging off the couch. His dark brown curls bounced just inches off the floor and his bare feet tapped on the wall irritably. His pale face was beginning to turn to a rather alarming shade of red due to all of his blood rushing to it, and John wondered why he hadn't passed out yet. Sherlock undoubtedly was the most childlike adult John had ever met.

"Johnnnn!" He drug out the name, hopping to gain his flat mate's attention by doing so.

John rolled his eyes and stopped typing. "What?"

"Must you insist on typing up everything I do?"

The doctor frowned and narrowed his gaze. "You realize when you attempt small talk you just end up insulting everyone in the room." John could name more than one conversation that had resulted in tears, punches and name calling. Sherlock may have been a genius, but his brilliance lacked in the area of proper people skills.

"I was simply asking a question." Sherlock specified.

"No you weren't." John shook his head. "You're just bored."

Sherlock maneuvered himself to an upright position on the sofa and drummed his fingers feverishly on his knees. "I suppose you wouldn't want me to shoot the wall again."

"Uh, no!"

Sherlock sneered. "I though not."

"Watch tele, or update your website!" John suggested, looking back to his computer screen.

Sherlock uttered a noise, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, grabbing his head and squeezing his eyes shut. "My mind is far too pensive for such mediocre things to cater to my mentality. Only a case will suit my ravenous mind, John."

The doctor watched with pursed lips and a raised brow as his friend pulled both of his legs onto the sofa cushion and hugged them, rocking back and forth slightly.

"All of my thoughts, everything I've ever put away in my mind, is racing around inside my head like angry beasts; clawing and fighting each other for dominance." He continued manically "I need a distraction, a case. Something not ordinary or dull to occupy my thoughts, before I go completely mad. . ." His voice trailed off, matching the dreamlike gloss overlaying his crystal eyes, as he spoke the last part of his rant.

For about sixty seconds, John just watched Sherlock rock back and forth on the sofa, biting his lip and staring off into the distance. The doctor was actually beginning to worry his friend needed some actual professional help this time around. John had dealt with a lot and seen him at his worst while living with Sherlock on Baker Street, but this was starting to get a little scary.

"Sherlock. . ."

No response.

". . Sherlock!"

The blue eyed detective snapped out of his trance and looked at the doctor.

"You okay?"

"Fine. . ." Sherlock muttered eyeing his phone on the floor angrily.

With a long sigh, he gave up. Sherlock was just going to have to find something to occupy himself with until a case turned up.

Then his phone rang. . .

A/N: okay now for the next chapter I could do one of two things. I could either start it off as I had origanlly planed, or I can wite a chapter about Holmes and Watson realizing they are no longer in 19th century London, then pick up with my origanl plan. . . let me know! (And don't forget to review!)