A/N: OH GOD IT'S A NEW CHAPTER. EVERYBODY BREAK OUT THE BEER.

Oh well the devil makes us sin. But we like it when we're spinning, in his grin.

-Paradise Circus, Massive Attack

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade arrived at the old building, parallel parking off the sidewalk. Stepping out the vehicle and heading forward, before them were caution tape, police cars, and investigators working the scene. One of them being Sally Donovan, observing. People were walking back and forth from the entryway, carrying small bags and different sorts of equipment.

Sherlock and John ducked beneath the caution tape and started for the door, until they were halted by Sally's presence. She lifted her head and stared down her nose at the two, Lestrade coming up behind them, and said, "Hello, Freak. Doctor." Sherlock glared at her, "Donovan." John only replied with a jerked nod.

John had many words he yearned to say to the woman, but he kept them behind pursed lips. He's getting sick of the Freak title.

"Okay, girls, that's enough," Lestrade broke them up before anything more could be uttered. Sally fidgeted, agitated. Sherlock turned himself to Lestrade, attempting to blow off an accumulating clash. "Sherlock, now I'm warning you. What you're about to see is unlike anything we've called you for. This case is bran-new to us…" Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, but Sherlock responded before he could start up again, "Lestrade, I comprehend what you are trying to explain to me. Cold corpse, gallons of blood. Don't be so nervous." Lestrade looked at him, and placed the hand on his neck into his pants pocket. Him, Sherlock, and John went to the door and entered the building, Sherlock in the lead.

The flats within were cheap, affordable for the working class. The walls were scarlet. Sherlock took off his glove and ran his hand against it… velvety, dusty. The wooden floor was old and stained with age. There were dents and dips and chipping in it, mostly around the doors on each side of the walls, along the edges of each stair. There wasn't an elevator in sight, portraying how old the place was. Every flight they climbed creaked, and every creak echoed ever so slightly in the empty halls. Oddly enough, not many people resided there. Two to three—rarely four—had a room on whatever level. There were only five levels in the building, and the third level contained the room where the corpse lied.

The final room at the end of the hall, just at the right.

Before heading through the corridor, Lestrade said, "A family came back from vacation tonight, who happen to live down this hall. We had to convince them to leave for a while." He held out some items in his hands and said, "Take these. Trust me, you'll need it," and handed them white protective masks he grabbed a little ways away. The three strapped on their masks and kept going.

The entrance to the victim's flat was slightly ajar, but the stench of the body was rancid, almost too strong for a person who's been dead for such a short time. But something within the stench puzzled Sherlock. Besides the putridness, it was… like a chemical odor. Sweet, yet pungent.

Sherlock stopped himself at the door, fingers grasping the handle. He turned to John and Lestrade, giving them a readying glance. Sherlock pulled the door open, and him and his partner froze dead in place.

The smell that traced the air before now blasted them in the face. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had to cover their faces with their sleeves. Even though they wore masks, it still wasn't enough to block the nauseating odor. Lestrade had to strain his throat to speak, "And this is why you needed the masks." Sherlock tied his scarf to where it covered his mask, and John held his jacket collar tight against his. Sherlock looked over the floor.

Spread every foot apart lied a dry blood droplet. He noticed the droplets were going out the door.

The three started farther into the flat, directing themselves to the bedroom. The door was wide open, exposing what was inside.

They paused. John gaped. Sherlock scanned the room, fascinated.

Red smeared the sheets and pooled at the foot of the bed. In that bed was a body, or what was left of one.

The corpse was distorted, torn, and dismantled. The wrists were shredded, the neck and collarbone thick flaps of meat and skin. The corpse was obviously a woman, wearing a shimmering silver dress and stilettoes. Her blue thong hanged off her ankle. Her face was partially gone, but the one glazed amber eye that was left showed the absolute revulsion that forced itself upon her.

"Found her purse scattered on the floor near the bed," Lestrade informed, "It was thrown to the side when she was attacked. Must have just came back home. Found out her name is Susie Bellamy, twenty-four. She's a dancer at the Platinum Lace Club a little ways away."

Jesus, Sherlock thought.

The consulting detective straightened his posture, lifted his chin, and circled the bed.

Bruised caramel skin, clean of any other flaw besides a Monroe piercing above her upper lip. Her fatal wounds were torn, like an animal ripped at her flesh.

An animal? Talons or claws?

These wounds definitely weren't from the claws of a domesticated animal. Either that, or this was a very speedy stabbing.

Between her legs was a pool of blood. Rape.

Within the dried blood were little blotches of black. Black se- no. Just a black sort of liquid. It was produced from the attacker, but that couldn't be his…

Suddenly, Sherlock's thoughts began to churn through the massive hordes of information that he had stored for years and years, and he went quiet.

While Sherlock did this, Lestrade offered John rubber gloves. He gazed as the two worked as a pair.

The army doctor began examining the victim's wounds. Deep lacerations in the face, neck and collarbone, making for a severely severed jugular. Her jaw was cracked in too many places, bits and pieces missing. Bruises appeared around the afflicted areas, but they were so overwhelmed with torn skin, he could barely figure their shape.

John also noticed she looked abnormally slim and too pale. He could see that her blood was smeared all around her, but her shade made him think of someone drained of their blood. Sucked out. Removed completely from their body.

He moved to her lower body, and cautiously lifted her pretty dress.

Everything was unrecognizable. Red mixed with… black… and chunks of meat and flesh was either missing or destroyed completely. He could hardly determine her sex.

This gives an entirely new meaning to brutal rape and murder….

"This isn't a blade's work," Sherlock interrupted the deep silence, "Though if it was, they did a damn well job at making her look like this. This may be—no matter how irrational it sounds—an animal's inflictions. But there's just no way. Don't look at me that way!" Lestrade's brow was perked up and his lips were fixed in a thin line. Sherlock continued, "The tears lead in different directions, and the claws must have been long and razor sharp. Very much violently raped, but you just have to look at her. I…" Sherlock huffed, "I honestly cannot explain how she became this way. It's legitimately… a pulp. Pulverized by a meat tenderizer and an icepick. I can't put it in simpler terms."

John looked at him with intensity. It's rare he doesn't know the full solution to something, unless he begins researching for days and nights. He realized that when they get back to 221b, Sherlock's going to be stating possible theories and ranting about how this bird was killed.

But right now, no one could figure how this would have happened, even with collected evidence.

Lestrade spoke, "But if she was raped, and the wounds are from an animal's… wait, that doesn't make sense. It sounds a bit disturbing said that way," He muffled the last sentence through his teeth, childish embarrassment pinching him, eyeing John. He hoped for some sort of response from him, but he was too lost in his thoughts for encouragement.

Sherlock said, "Yes, I know. That's exactly what's confusing me. And, like I said, there's just no possible way. Oh, and besides the wounds… this black. This black liquid here."

He pointed to the end of the bed, where the black mixed with red.

"That's what's giving off this foul stench. It's strongest there." John coughed, trying to breathe through his mask.

"Oh? Well, we attempted to take a sample from it already." Lestrade said.

"Attempted?" Sherlock said at once.

Lestrade bit his bottom lip then continued, "Yeah, we tried to pick it up with anything we could find with us: a Q-tip, tissue, cloth, anything! But when we did, it just… dissolved. It evaporated into a mist, more like it. Smoke."

All of them shared glances with each other. Evaporated?

"We're assuming the only way it's being kept together is by the blood. Look for yourself. It's eerily still," He added.

Sherlock became entranced with the black liquid, but didn't go near it—even though he had the greatest urge to. Something about the liquid didn't feel right to him, but he couldn't really explain the feeling. What he didn't know was that everyone else in the room felt the same.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his urge, forgot his emotions, and drifted toward it for closer inspection.

Lestrade continued, "Um… that's what we concluded."

"Grab a tube and cotton swab. I'll mix it with the blood and see if it keeps intact that way," Sherlock shot out his open hand in Lestrade's direction.

Lestrade left the room. After a moment, he came back with a little tube and cotton swab, just as Sherlock wanted. He placed them in his palm, and Sherlock leaned over the bloody pool. As quickly and carefully as he could, he dipped the swab into the black liquid and mixed it with blood. He stuck the swab into the tube and popped it closed. Not a drop was lost, nor any black missing.

Sherlock turned back to him, showed Lestrade the tube, and smiled. Lestrade squinted his eyes, irked a bit at the detective's confidence. Lestrade shook his head. He turned to the door, and he and Sherlock began to leave, but John held back, gawking at the victim's body.

What caused this? What could have possibly caused this much damage to a person's body? The torn flesh, the bruises, and all the gallons of blood… What is with that black muck?

Even with knowing how sick the world could be when it wanted, could an actual person really have done this?

"John, come on!"

Sherlock's voice rang out from down the hall. John turned and left.

Sherlock sat at his usual spot in St. Bart's with his chemistry equipment before him, closely examining the victim's blood beneath the microscope, watching the black swirl within it.

Like it has been for the past thirty-odd minutes.

"This black resin will not move. It's just… there," Sherlock said, mostly to himself, even though John across the room heard his little comment. John replied, "Still?"

Sherlock gestured him to come and see for himself.

John walked around the table to Sherlock's side, and Sherlock slipped to the edge of his seat so his partner could have room to see for himself. John focused the lenses, narrowing his eyes.

As Sherlock had said, nothing. Just the black with the blood, like oil and water.

"An oil-and-water effect… the blackness has a thicker consistency than the blood?" John looked up at Sherlock from the eyepiece. Sherlock inhaled and said, "Oh, yes. I also tried to test the viscosity of the blackness to take that fact further. I took a small drop from it with the dropper—as I did with the blood—and as quickly as I could before the blackness could evaporate, dripped it onto a tilted glass slide. The blood trickled so much faster than the blackness. Like you mentioned… oil. Ooze, should be the correct term."

John looked back into the eyepiece, his mind imagining the scene, and the detective lifted himself off the seat. John claimed it then, but Sherlock didn't notice.

Now that that was discussed, Sherlock looked passed it, so he could delve deeper as to why it was doing such a thing and nothing else.

Sherlock paced beside John, pinching the bridge of his nose in an irritated manner. John kept staring through the eyepiece, absorbed.

"She met a man," Sherlock began, "A man at the Platinum Lace. He must have been charismatic, smooth, charming enough for her to see pass his wickedness. Probably danced for him. She took him home afterwards to expect a one-night stand. She was single and lonely. Besides her lonesome, she brought in strays for flings. Unfortunately, this one brutally kills her. Rapes her. Violates her. But… this wasn't the first time it's happened." John licked his lips to dampen the dried skin there from breathing through his mouth, hanging slightly open with distaste from these facts. He said, "She was raped before?"

"I believe whenever she was younger. As a young girl. Either by a family member, or someone thought to be close," Sherlock leaned himself against the table, touching his fingers together beneath his chin in his traditional superior pose.

His cell chimed. A text.

Sherlock fished it from his pocket and saw it was from Lestrade.

The body is GONE

GL

But they just came back from the scene…

"What? What is it?" John stood up from his seat, noticing Sherlock freezing in place. Sherlock's eyes turned to him, and he spoke, "We need to go back to the investigation."

"Already? What happened?" John darted after Sherlock, who was already out the door and heading for the exit. "The body. It's gone," Sherlock pushed it open and jogged to the street, signaling for a cab. The nearest one caught their signal, and Sherlock and John jumped in.

Slimy blackness, blood, torn skin and muscle, broken bones… And now a missing body? So quickly?

Sherlock and John met Lestrade back in the victim's bedroom, and behind him was an empty stained bed… and blood and black smearing the floors, around the corner of the door, ending at the open kitchen window above the sink.

"Everyone left for a minute to get the damn gurney. No one else was in the room when we were gone, besides some in the lower floors!" Lestrade was almost in a panic trying to make everything seem as close to rational as he could get… which was beginning to be quite impossible. Sally was peaking over the bloody window seal, trying her hardest not to touch it, as though spying on the other investigators who were frantically searching for the corpse, even though there was no way it could have gone.

Sherlock bent over the smearing on the floor, examining its texture. Still damp, still rancid, but the stench was much less dense than it was the last time they were there. Sherlock, still hunched over, followed the red and black lines up and over the window sill. Sally lifted her arms and backed off when his shoulder brushed her elbow when he got up. There was some even painted on the windowpane… in the jagged shapes of a couple fingers and a thumb. He poked his head through to observe the ground below.

No blood or black whatsoever.

"What…" Sherlock breathed. Without any warning, he darted down the hall and down the stairs, every stomp cracking through the dreary building. Out the door and around the corner to the alley, John and Lestrade behind him panting, the investigators eyed his presence. One woman was about to open her mouth, but Sherlock walked past her like she was just another pebble on the ground. He touched the walls, smelled the air, examined every nook and cranny. But there was nothing but everyday grit and grind. Nothing.

Sherlock turned on Lestrade, "Approximately how long were you gone?" He rubbed the side of his face and exhaled, "A few minutes. Three or four."

"And there was no one in that room? No one but the corpse? But there were fingerprints on the window… but the corpse couldn't have… but the window opened… but it dropped, but it didn't… but it's a corpse… What the hell is going on?" Sherlock bit his bottom lip, his eyes searching, piercing into the cement like the answer to the problem would be hidden within.

Everyone turned their heads, curiosity and postulation crossing every face.

"It's… I…" Sherlock mumbled.

Lestrade coughed, breaking the thinning ice, and said, "Sherlock, we're going to keep searching for the body. I want you to find out more about the victim and report as much as you can back to me." Sherlock thought for a moment, chewing on his lip now, then replied, "Yeah. Yeah, right. Okay, John. We're going to the Platinum Lace tonight."

"Oh! And I almost forgot to mention," Lestrade took a photo out of his pocket, "We found a picture of a woman with her number written on the back in her purse. Centra Blithe's her name. It had 'BFF' and a heart above the number, too. They were close. She also works at the Platinum Lace. When you see her, if she's even there, she's going to know about her friend's death. We copied the number, and someone's going to call before tonight. Try not to push her friend's death on her, okay? Just ask questions about their friendship and what happened that night."

Sherlock took the picture and stuck it in his coat.

Lestrade mumbled to himself while walking around the corner of the building, "And everything I said for him not to do, he's going to do."

The day sped by with brooding anticipation.

John and Sherlock stood directly outside the Platinum Lace, whose doors of the entrance swung back and forth from all the customers entering and exiting, foaming at the mouth in heat. Tonight, the male sex dominated the place. Sherlock scowled.

"Ugh," He hissed. John twisted his mouth, trying his best not to snicker at Sherlock's resentment.

The pair strode in.

The place was close to a full house. Music booming, men drooling… the usual layout for a club reeking of the sex industry.

Sherlock scanned the contents of the wide room, purple splashing out from everything. John rubbed his eyes, adjusting them to the sudden change in color scheme from the dark blue hues outside. People began to sit down at their table, sipping their glasses and lowering their voices to murmurs, and the lights dimmed and focused to the stages at either side of the place. A host came up to them and directed them to an open table. They sat and waited for whatever was going to happen next.

Two women strutted onto each stage, dressed very loosely. One of the women was just the person they were looking for. A blonde bombshell, luscious red lips, and bright eyes… Centra Blithe.

Sherlock locked his probing eyes on her, studying her. John was whipping his head back and forth, getting a full look at Centra and the other woman. Once the music began, both women were twisting and twirling, graciously dancing on the silver poles. Very faintly you could hear the shrilling of skin sliding against metal.

The music trailed off, and the delicious women walked off stage, applause and calls of praise following them. "Let's go to the bar. Gives us a better view," Sherlock whispered aside to John. Up and around the small stairs they went, and found themselves a couple of empty seats near the bartender.

"Good evening, gentlemen! Would you like a drink?" The bartender offered politely. He was American, and his voice was a bit light for a muscular full-grown male. "Oh! I'd like a pint, please," John thought to might as well have a bit of fun while they were here. He turned to Sherlock, "Sherlock, would you want… any…" He was looking around the room, completely unaware of the current situation. John waved his hand at Sherlock and said, "Um, never mind him. I'll just… yeah." The bartender went off to make his pint.

"There, John," Sherlock spoke out of nowhere after a quiet moment between the two. "Who? The Centra girl?" John sips his fresh pint the bartender slapped on the table. Sherlock jabs his finger in the direction of the round tables. Standing in the midst of them was Centra herself. She was down, her mouth fixed in a frown, though when someone passed, she faked a smile. "She'll make her round here. Give her a moment," John said, lowering his voice just below the level of the giddy banter all around. Sherlock was quite aware of this, but acknowledged John's own awareness. Centra, in her shining red heels that matched her lips, glided to the bar. Even though she looked so sullen, she kept her grace.

She greeted a man at the end of the bar, engaging in small talk with him. Sherlock had his chance to probe her more thoroughly. John gazed intently at Sherlock, his friend's head turned the opposite way. His hair looks extra fluffy tonight, John thought, and his coat's a bit… pressed. John rubbed his hand over his face, God, this beer may be getting to me already. I'm trying to deduce like him. John took a gulp of his beer anyway. It tasted way too good this evening.

Sherlock turned away from Centra, towards John. He exhaled, and his usual scowling face lifted, lightening into a softer expression. Oh, god. John knew this little mask of his. "Hello," Centra appeared behind the doctor and detective. They looked up at her, John smiling like an idiot, and Sherlock grinning as politely as he could. "Hello, love," Sherlock replied, his voice seemingly suave. John continued to sip his half-empty glass, rolling his eyes out the sight of the girl. "How are you men tonight? Enjoying the show?" Centra traced a finger over her temple, pushing back a lock of blonde. Her eyes were glittering blue, but sunken and bloodshot. Sherlock immediately figured she got the call. The call that no one wants to hear.

"The show was beautiful. You, especially. Dazzling," Sherlock gazed at her dreamily, his head tilted onto his shoulder. John pondered whether he was trying to act drunk, or just really stupefied by her curves. Centra arched her brow, her cheeks tickled pink behind the makeup, "Oh, really? I mean… thank you. No one really… says that when I talk to them here." Susie's better, Sherlock assumed. He continued being slick, "You know, I would love to see more of that show, if you wouldn't mind…" John spat is beer into his glass. He slowly looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, flabbergasted as all hell. The mere thought of Sherlock getting a lap dance was laughable… and awkward.

Centra's mouth was stuck in a ditzy grin, her eyes swimming in Sherlock's gaze. Already this man is tall, dark, and gorgeous beyond compare. But the fact he actually wants her to give him a dance was difficult to process. She mentally shook herself out of her pooling questions and said, "Yes, of course," almost like a robot responding to a command. Sherlock lifted himself off his seat and took off his coat. "John, watch this for me," Sherlock threw his coat on John's lap, him jumping from the coat's sudden impact. Before he could retort, the detective offered his hand to Centra. She took hold of it, still gaping at him.

She lead the way to the back rooms.

"Okay, you just have a seat right there and relax. I'll do the work," Centra purred. Sherlock's grin slowly began to fall. It's time to start the interrogation.

Sherlock said, "Before we get to business, don't you want to talk? You are rushing this." Centra looked at the lounging man, her brow crinkled. "Well, this is usually how I roll. I take the person in, get them comfortable, then I dance," she told him. "Well, maybe talking gets me comfortable," Sherlock said. Her voice got stuck in her throat, but after a couple seconds she said, "O-Okay. I can do that. Anything to make the customer feel peaceful." She sat next to him, close enough to feel his body warmth, which meant she was sort of too close. Like said before, this man is gorgeous. She grew clumsy in front of people like this. "I guess I should properly greet myself first. I, um… I'm Centra. Centra Blithe," She fidgeted in her seat, but kept a decent smile. Sherlock said, "I'm a detective. Consulting detective."

"Wha-… Consulting?" Centra felt a sudden urge to run.

"Basically, I'm going to interrogate you. And I would stay here unless you want to get fired."

Centra heard her boss's voice trailing off outside. He was walking with someone, speaking to them just around the corner. Centra gaped at the detective, trying her best to blink the emerging tears out of her eyes.

"First, I know you are Susie's best friend. You know her secrets, her desires. I know she worked with you. I know she was better than you, though your anxiety and stance gives it away. You already know she's dead. Your eyes are bloodshot from crying, but for some reason you can't leave. Like I said, you'll be fired. Plus, you saw her murderer. You saw her run off with him, but you expected him to be another one of her strays…"

"Are you blaming me for her murder?" She choked through her sobs, her hands covering her face. Sherlock sighed, "I'm not blaming you. I'm only telling you what I've… learned. I want to learn more, that's why I'm here. Explain to me how you know Susie. What was she like? Who was she, exactly?"

Centra took a few shaky breaths, trying to steady herself, and began, "Before I tell you about her, I'll get fired because my boss is a prick. I got the call on my cell when I got here. I told him about her death, and he still won't let me go. I can't fight him back about it, so I just gave in," she wiped the back of her hand across her nose. "Susie was the only real friend I had. Both of us had similar lives. We lived poorly, in homes full of violence and hate. I didn't have it as bad as her though. Her father was… sick. She told me he would do these disgusting ritual-like things, she said like Sybil or something. He'd also touch her, if you know what I mean," she shivered, and continued, "Apparently he stopped when she was thirteen, only because he was finally taken into custody. Any who, we met when we were eighteen. We grew close immediately. It was wonderful. We always went out together. We would go clubbing, drinking, have a smoke afterward. I admit, we were bad. Though, all the boys went for her. I would just hang back. She enjoyed the attention from other people. It made up for the loneliness when she was young, and it kept her sane. It was like… therapy, or… treatment for her. Medicine, I guess?"

Centra bowed her head, two tear drops hitting her lap. Sherlock kept his posture straight, soaking everything in. So Susie was tortured as a child, raped and manhandled like a ragdoll, just as she was in the bedroom. But her abuse occurred years and years ago. There could be a strange possibility that they were connected… but how?

"You say you want the identity of the murderer," Centra said behind her hair. Sherlock glimpsed at her with interest.

"All I saw of him was a black suit, pale hands, soft jet black hair. Only Susie knows what he looks like from the front." Centra closed her eyes, thinking, then said, "I think I remember hearing his name. He was a VIP, very rich. The host mentioned it. It started with an M, but I don't remember it fully…"

"An M?" Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

"Yes, an M. That's all I know. You'll have to ask the host for the full name," Centra concluded.

Sherlock stood up, adrenaline pulsing though his veins, Centra following the action. This better not be who he thinks it is. Before running out, he almost forgot Centra. He said, "Er, thank you for your cooperation; I have all the information I need. Goodbye!" Sherlock ran out the room toward the host near the front doors. John from the bar saw him running to the front, and he quickly stuffed a tip beneath his empty glass for the bartender. He slid off his seat and jogged to his partner who was now next to the host, Sherlock's coat hanging off his arm.

Sherlock skidded to a halt, luckily to not collide with the host. He frantically started, "Who were the last VIPs to come here?" The host scrutinized Sherlock and said, "Sir, who are you?" Sherlock started to raise his voice, "Tell me now." People around him began to scrutinize him also. "Look, just tell me the VIPs, okay? I need to kn-"

"Hey, who the hell do you think you are?"

A bald, hefty man in a black tux interrupted them. Sherlock looked at Centra. This was her boss.

Sherlock glanced at the man, then back to the host. He erased him from his attention. "I need to know the last VIPs that were here," Sherlock struggled to control the eagerness swelling up in him. The host opened the schedule on his simple wooden podium before him, and ran his finger down a page. The host was about to give Sherlock his answer, but Centra's boss spoke first, angered, "Don't you answer, damn it, or you're…"

Sherlock broke him off, his voice louder and demanding, "Give me the name!"

"Moriarty!" The host was almost shaken.

Sherlock's eyes were unblinking, and his jaw clenched. John behind him stood as still as Sherlock, looking up at his friend.

The same name. The same one the cabbie screamed with his dying breath. His name sent small waves of coolness up Sherlock's spine.

"I want you out of this club right now, you hear me you twat? You're disturbing the customers and the employers," the large bald man growled. Sherlock turned on him at once and started, "You are the one disturbing everyone, sir. Your poor hygiene and sexism reeks off you. Your apparent history in the sex industry speaks loud and clear. Now, you will let Centra go. Her friend is dead and she needs privacy. And if you don't let her go, I'll make sure you're fired and you never get another job in your life."

Suddenly, the man's attempt at intimidation fell rapidly. He was taken aback by Sherlock's words, startled at how the hell he knew these things.

He turned to Centra, his eyes staring intently at her shoes and the floor. He grumbled, "You get the week off. Go."

Centra straightened up in surprise. She held in her yelp of happiness and relief, and mouthed to Sherlock thank you. She scampered to the back of the club.

Her boss glared up at Sherlock, him returning the look.

Without another word, John and Sherlock left the building without a glance.

"Moriarty? The same man that cabbie worked for?" John asked. He paced the living room of his and Sherlock's flat, memories of the incident coursing his mind.

"Yes, I'm sure of it," Sherlock replied, standing near the fireplace. He was twiddling with his cell phone, as in a way to sooth his stress. Beforehand, he called Lestrade and told him of his meeting with Centra. He even mentioned Moriarty. Lestrade promised information on the other cases first thing tomorrow.

"Wait. This Moriarty hires other people to do his dirty work. Wouldn't he be in hiding?" John said. Sherlock continued to twiddle and said, "Exactly. Instead, he blatantly slaps his name on the VIP list. John, I know this man is highly interested in me. Maybe he's finally directly leading me to him. But he's making it too damn easy."

"And if he is the murderer, him brutally killing that woman—along with the other two cases—he's basically screaming, 'Hey, I'm right here! I obviously killed all these people! Come at me!'" John flailed his hands to exaggerate his example of Moriarty's schemes. Sherlock threw his cell onto his chair and ruffled his hair.

Sherlock squinted his eyes and said, "Wait, the other two cases?"

John looked around the room. "You… didn't forget about the other two cases, did you? Lestrade just reminded-"

"Oh. Oh! God. The other cases. God, what is wrong with me today?" He slid his cellphone off the chair, it making a soft thump on the floor, and plopped himself into it. John joined him by sitting in his own. Sherlock said, "Um… okay, that man. He fell into the water, and then disappeared. He more than likely suffered a concussion first, and then drowned before ever disappearing—that being said because of the blood stain on the edge of that rock. So he's dead. The girl also disappeared, but... how could she have died? Did she die?"

John leaned into his chair, absorbing its cool material, and said, "It was never mentioned. You read that they were gone and that was about it. No bodies were found, so they're just assuming they're missing. Even the supposed drowned one."

Sherlock continued, "Hmm… maybe she was injured when she disappeared, or maybe she was injured whilst being captured. Meaning the captor incapacitated her so she wouldn't have a chance to escape." He inhaled sharply, bringing his fingers up to his lips and holding them in that notorious little pose. He said, "I think we should carry on this case tomorrow. The little girl is the most interesting, along with that eerie missing corpse. Tea?" Sherlock left his chair to the kitchen.

John, watching Sherlock waltz into the kitchen, said with a grimace, "Are you blowing off the missing corpse?"

"John, maybe if we find the little girl first, then we may just find the corpse. Because maybe if she's dead, she'll lead us closer to the other death. And if she's still alive, we'll be able to find Moriarty even faster. If it truly is Moriarty."

"But Sherlock, the cor-… Are you all right? You've been… strange." A strand of concern crossed his tone.

Sherlock walked back to John and stood awfully close to the arm of his chair, where John's arm was… where John's head was leaning. He slightly shifted back, but not enough to rid the scent of Sherlock around him. He looked up at him, and Sherlock's face was blank. Not an angry or upset sort of blank, just… blank. Sherlock finally said, "Define strange."

John tried his best to define this strangeness, "Okay. Firstly, you almost freaked out completely when that women's body disappeared, and I know even at something like that that you wouldn't be freaked out. Secondly, you terrified that host at the Platinum Lace by screaming in his face. And now, I just had to remind you of the other cases related to the recent one. You rarely forget things that important. And you just now find the situation with the girl so much more important than the missing corpse that just seemed to have dragged itself across the flat and flew out the window. Look, I'm sorry. I know they seem like tiny little things, it's just…"

Sherlock interrupted, "John, it's just the adrenaline rush I'm getting out of this. I'm sure. It's just everything is rushing awfully fast and tightly intertwining with each other lately. I believe figuring out the little things first will bring us to figuring out the bigger picture quicker than just jumping to these irrational conclusions. I haven't had a case like this for… no, I've never had a case like this. Don't be concerned of me."

John fidgeted with a loose string on a rivet on the arm of his chair and said, "Are you sure?"

"When am I ever not?" Sherlock ended his consolation with a smirk.

Sherlock went back to the kitchen to make tea for him and John. John still thought there was something up, because Sherlock was never really so… morally reasonable. He tried to believe it really just was an adrenaline rush. He then remembered Sherlock making tea.

"You're going to make the tea, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice cracking with a chuckle, "You remember what happened last time when you did? You destroyed the kettle and almost set the place on fire!"

Sherlock replied, "Ah, don't worry. I bought a new one," and he pulled out a shiny new kettle out the cabinet.

John found it difficult to control his cackling, even with his fist over his mouth.

A figure in a black suit and trench coat sat alone on the roof top of an empty business building, kicking his legs back and forth off the ledge like a child. The wind grew colder and the sky flooded with stars. He lifted his head, closed his pale eyes, and breathed in the night wind. His lungs were ragged. It was almost time to feed again. But he wanted to wait this time for the right person; for the perfect target at his most vulnerable. He plans for later. Right now, though, he just wanted to play.