Sherlock sat at a table by the window in a small Italian restaurant. The manager came out, greeted him friendly, and offered him some food. He declined, but felt compelled to get something that justified his use of the table. He asked for some water.

It wasn't long and he noticed a cab pull up outside the address he'd texted the murder. Leaping from the table, Sherlock darted out the door and bounded towards the cab. It subsequently took off, and Sherlock calculated the taxi's route and an intercept course. Wasting no time, he dashed off across the streets and buildings of London.

Exhausted, Sherlock caught the car and pulled open the door to find … an American, fresh from the airport. There was no way this was the culprit… it must have just been coincidence that the taxi stopped at that specific place. Grumbling to himself, he slammed the door in the baffled stranger's face, and headed back to Baker Street. He had been so close and yet got nowhere. No more leads to follow. Sherlock kicked a can that lay on the street in frustration. He was so sure the murderer would come to the address. He walked home, deflated. That was until he noticed a light on in his flat.

John got out of the taxi in the same place he'd gotten into one the other day. He knew it was dark, but he didn't care. Enjoying the scenery wasn't the point. He walked through the park, eyeing the trees and the shadows that danced about in the dim light. It felt strangely liberating. He didn't realise how much stress he'd held because of his decision. But it honestly felt like a weight off his chest. John smiled to himself, but deep down knew it wasn't because he was happy or relieved. It was because he was free. He could end his life now without any pressing regrets. He'd done good things in his life. He was a doctor and a soldier. He'd seen things most people would never dream of seeing, he'd saved lives many didn't think mattered. He'd lost friends at the hand of an enemy, and he'd shot down some of those enemy soldiers that he knew would have also had friends just like he did, friends that would have felt the hurt of their loss as well.

John sighed, now on the other side of the park. He'd seen too much. Enough for a lifetime. He didn't need to experience any more. He stood up straight, in typical soldier fashion, and hailed a taxi. As a black car pulled up before him, he thought to himself 'I will face the end like I lived my life: head on and with courage'.

John sat in the back seat, not paying much attention to the scenery that flashed before him. He felt empty, but comfortable. He then noticed that he wasn't going the right direction. Not interested in paying for extra, he spoke up.
"Excuse me mate, but this isn't the right way."

"Oh I'm taking you to where you need to go, don't worry about that."

"No, I live here and I know how to get to my flat. We're going the wrong way."

John crossed his arms. He didn't know if it was worth getting a different taxi.
"I think just here will do, thanks." John ended up saying.

The Cabbie pulled over, and John took out his wallet. He looked up and froze, suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun pointed towards his face.

"So… you're going to kill me now?" John spoke in monotone.

"I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to talk to you. And then, you're going to kill yourself."

John remained motionless, but scoffed inwardly. He didn't need a conversation to decide to kill himself. The old Cabbie took off, and continued driving until pulling up at a school. It was dark, so John couldn't tell if the school was abandoned or just empty. He guessed it didn't matter. He would have preferred to die somewhere aesthetically pleasing, like outdoors, but that didn't matter either.

Sherlock sat in his chair, mulling over things. He was not impressed with Anderson being in his flat, but there was little he could do about it. Greg stood, talking to him, but Sherlock had stopped listening after he'd said "It stops being pretend if they find anything."

There was something he was missing.

"Sherlock?"
Sherlock flicked his eyes up at the inspector.

"Sherlock, please, you have to let us in on things."

Before Sherlock could answer, Anderson piped up. "You said the murderer has the suitcase. And here you are, with the suitcase. I think it's pretty clear."

"Use your brain, Anderson. I'm not the murderer. I'd certainly know enough to keep evidence away from you at least." Sherlock turned to Greg. "There was one item missing, though. Her phone… she'd have been careful about it, so it doesn't make sense she'd just leave it anywhere, but she left it with him and then…oh."

"What?" Greg asked, still not used to Sherlock cutting him out of the conversation.

"Oh, that's good."
"Sherlock."

"Rachel!"

"What?"

"Don't you see, Lestrade? Rachel!"

Greg shook his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering insults to them, as he flipped open his computer. He brought up a website as Greg peered over his shoulder.

"It wasn't an accident. She planted that phone on the murderer, and gave us the password! Rachel!"
"Alright, but why?"
"Really? You still don't get it? It was a smartphone, Lestrade. It has GPS, and the ability of tracing the phone's location online in case it got lost. She's dead and she's still smarter than you lot… she's lead us right to him."

Sherlock brought up the GPS tracker website and entered "Rachel" as the password. After a few moments, the map flashed to indicate the phone's location. He eyed it, committing it to memory. Sherlock then shut the laptop, swirled in the chair, and darted out the door. Greg rolled his eyes and chased after him.