Blind Man's Bluff

Summary: "We are gods among mortals. But even gods must be tested." Sherlock loses his sight temporarily and must rely on his other senses and John in order to solve the case at hand. But as the killer draws closer, could the pair be in more danger than they first thought?

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I wish I did but I'm just not that lucky. I am, however, lucky enough to be able to write about them.

Story notes/warnings: Timeline wise I'd say this could be set either just before episode 1.03 (The Great Game) or after it so basically – spoilers for season 1.

A/N: Thank you for reading! This chapter was originally longer than this but rather than split the scene that was originally at the end over two chapters, I decided just to give it a chapter of it's own because of it's length.

Chapter 2

Sherlock, being Sherlock, had memorised the symbol the killer had left behind. John, being John, had copied it down into his notebook.

Two snakes, they both agreed on that, entwined with one another inside of a rectangle. Both snakes curved in such a way that they took the form of the letter 'S'. Again, both flatmates agreed. They disagreed, however, over the importance of this.

"Maybe his name is Steven or Simon," John suggested inside of the cab.

"Oh God, I hope not," Sherlock replied, retracing the details of the symbol in his mind's eye.

"Excuse me?" John asked, incredulous. "You hope not?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "It lacks imagination. A five year old could come up with something more exciting than that and I highly doubt our killer is a five year old." He shook his head, going deeper into thought. "There's something below the surface – something beyond just what the symbol looks like. It represents something."

Ignoring Sherlock's unintentional jab at his intelligence – or lack of, so it often seemed in Sherlock's opinion – John settled further in his seat and stared down at his notepad. The passing streetlights lit it up enough for him to make out the outlines. "And you want to know what it represents."

"Very good, John. You are learning." But Sherlock was only half paying attention to his colleague. The rest of his attention was focused on his internal collection of images and snippets of information he had gathered through the years. "Our killer chose this symbol for a reason. These snakes, they mean something to him. They're important somehow. If we can figure out what they mean then we'll learn a little more about our killer – hopefully about what makes him tick."

John looked to the dark-haired man beside him once more. "You keep saying 'him' and 'he'. How do you know it's a man?"

"Two reasons, John. The first being statistics."

"What about them?"

"Statistics state that most serial killers are white males."

"Right… of course they do. Why didn't I know that?"

Sherlock's brow burrowed and he frowned at his flatmate. "Why would you know that?"

Unable to think of a suitable response, John rerouted the conversation back on track – or at least slightly more on track. "What's the second reason then?"

That distracted Sherlock. He went back to staring out of the window, his eyes searching the streets for nothing in particular. "Look at the victim. She's an escort. Her clientele would have consisted mainly of wealthy men. No doubt her diary will reveal that it was a man she was meant to be meeting earlier."

He paused in his speech and movements, a spark of a thought passing through him. Only when it was fully formed did he restart in both speech and movement once more. "Of course, the killer – he must have posed as a client which means it wasn't just a random killing. He had been watching her. He knew her work."

The cab stopped outside of 221b Baker Street and Sherlock was out of the door in an instant, too lost in thought as he clambered toward the flat in his hurry for more research facilities. That left John to pay the driver with the last note in his wallet.

"Keep the change," he added as he pulled himself from the car, resigned in the knowledge that the few shiny coins that would be left over would barely be enough to buy a good cup of tea let alone anything else.

He caught Sherlock up at the entrance to the living room, the detective shrugging out of his jacket as he still puzzled over the case – completely unaware of John's brief absence. "So what does it all mean? Why this symbol? Why her? Why take the necklace?"

"That's a lot of questions," John remarked with an air of flippancy, pulling free of his own jacket.

Sherlock ignored him, heading straight for the laptop lying closed on the table – John's laptop. But that was all semantics, it was a laptop and it was there, ready and waiting to be used. "The biggest question of all is where do we start?"

John glanced toward the clock and rubbed at his eyes with his left palm, vaguely aware of an unsettled rumble in his stomach that reminded him of how he hadn't eaten. "When you say we, I really hope you're not including me in that statement. It's two in the morning and unlike you, I actually require sleep… and food – which I have yet to have, by the way."

"Who could sleep at a time like this?" Sherlock asked, his fingers already tapping away at the keyboard, eyes trained on the screen.

"I could actually."

Grey-blue eyes rolled. "Don't be a spoil sport, John. We both know what you would rather be doing."

There was a pause where John refused to answer and Sherlock considered what else to say, the tip-tapping of the keys stilling for a moment.

"I need your help, John."

Smiling tightly, John shook his head. "You really don't."

"Quite true," Sherlock said after a moment's consideration, "but I would like it all the same." And here he began to sulk a little. "It's just not the same talking to the skull anymore – I've grown quite accustomed to listening to your idle chatter as I think."

"If that was meant to be a compliment, it was rubbish one." And yet John took a seat on the couch all the same, observing Sherlock in his work.

"It was merely a statement of fact. How you take it is entirely up to you." Here he swung the laptop around and pointed to the image on the screen, his eyes locking with John's expectantly. "Ouroboros."

"I'm sorry… Ouro-what?" John asked, looking over the image. It was a circle. Although, no, upon closer inspection, it was a snake – gripping its tail at the very end.

"Ouroboros," Sherlock repeated, turning the laptop back around so he could tip-tap at the keys once more. "It symbolises infinity, in a sense anyway. A serpent attempting to devour its own tail."

"And just what has that got to do with our symbol?" Unlike Sherlock, who thrived on simple snippets of information and had long since mastered the art of putting all those snippets together, John felt like he was staring at a 'connect the dots' picture – only without any numbers to help. The lack of sleep wasn't helping much either.

"Look at your notes again, John."

John did so.

"What do you see?"

And there it was. How had he missed that? "The snakes are eating each other's tails?" He frowned. "Why?"

"Precisely. Why indeed?" The dark-haired man leaned forward, nose nearly pressed to the screen as he let go of a growl of frustration. "What are you trying to say?" he murmured under his breath.

"Maybe he just likes snakes," John mumbled in reply, voice drifting. He fought to keep his eyes open, unable to stop a yawn from slipping past his lips. "Or maybe he's just twisted."

"Twisted…" Sherlock repeated, the word hanging on the air. He raised his eyes once more, about to say something further but his flatmate was fast out of it – a light snore already escaping his sleeping form – and the detective's words fell dead before they even hit the air. It could wait until morning.

"Get up, John – we're going out."

One foot still in the dream, John pulled himself up, vaguely aware of a blanket falling away from his torso. He blinked his eyes several times, attempting to figure out what had happened to the horde of zombie-aliens he had been fighting off moments before. And the fish… where were the fish?

"John," Sherlock called from the doorway, looping his scarf around his neck. He raised his eyebrows, awaiting his flatmate's reply.

"Sherlock?" was all that came. Puzzled eyes searched the living room before landing on the detective. It took a further few moments before John figured out what had happened. The realisation came like a splash of cold water to the face and he sprung to his feet – wavering slightly from the sudden movement. "What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty," Sherlock answered, now preoccupied with slipping his hands into his gloves. "I called ahead – Lestrade is expecting us. If we leave right this moment we should have just enough time to grab a quick lunch after meeting Lestrade."

"Hold on." John held both his hands up for emphasis, eyes closed in an attempt to catch his breath better.

Had someone, and in this case there was really only Mike Stamford to blame, told John prior to his sharing a flat with Sherlock that the detective had a habit of planning your day for you – without consulting you – he may have changed his mind about meeting said detective. But then, both flatmates knew he would have still stuck around – though neither was quite sure why.

"Just… just hang on a moment," John continued, satisfied that Sherlock had fallen into silence. He opened his eyes once more and lowered his hands. "At least give me a chance to get ready before you start dragging me out the door and all over London. I haven't even brushed my teeth."

Sherlock considered this in an almost clinical manner before giving a curt nod. "You have ten minutes – the cab will leave in twelve." With that, he swept from the room leaving John wondering whether or not he truly would leave without him.

As it stood, John didn't risk it.

He hurried about, stubbing his toe in the process and dripping toothpaste onto the very bottom of a clean shirt in his rush to make it out of the flat before the taxi left. He had thought of hanging back for an extra minute or so to see if Sherlock would still be there but his throbbing toe told him that it wasn't worth it. Sherlock would have agreed with the throbbing toe.

It wasn't long before they were pulling up outside of Scotland Yard and Sherlock was paying the driver – which was a good thing as, in his rush, John had left his wallet at home.

"The girl's diary – did you find it?" Sherlock questioned when Lestrade approached them inside.

"Good morning to you too," Lestrade replied, his voice a low and gritty rumble. His eyes flashed to John, sympathetic as they considered the man. "I see he's dragged you along too."

John shared a weary smile with the inspector that said it was still far too early in the day for Sherlock's energy and antics but both knew they really had no choice. They went where Sherlock instructed them too. And no matter how many yawns John had to force back or how much caffeine Lestrade had needed in preparation after Sherlock's phone call, Sherlock remained oblivious – completely focused on the task at hand.

"Did you find it?" he repeated.

"We did and don't think for one moment that I'm letting you take a look. I do have officers working the case as well, you know." Lestrade grumbled, turning on his heel and leading the way to his office.

"Your officers are idiots."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

Sherlock shot him a pointed look. "You asked me for help."

"And you're enjoying every minute of it. But I'm not having you run off on your own – that's not how this works."

"Isn't it?"

Lestrade held the door to his office open for the pair then closed it behind them before rounding on Sherlock. "No, it isn't. There are boundaries, Sherlock, and rules. You can't go around doing as you please all the time."

Sherlock merely glanced around the room, bored as he played with the fabric of his gloves. He smiled tightly. "And criminals, they care about such rules and boundaries?"

"Sherlock…" The inspector drew out the name in such a way that said he knew he couldn't just hand the diary over without a fight but at the same time, he knew exactly how the meeting would end and it would end with Sherlock getting what he wanted – just like a child.

"He'll be on his best behaviour," John put in, half wondering if Sherlock even had a best behaviour setting in that computerised brain of his. "Won't you, Sherlock?"

There was a moment of drawn out silence where Sherlock considered arguing and the others waited for him to do exactly that. So when he spoke again, it surprised both John and Lestrade to hear what he said. "Of course I will." The reply was short and tight but would have to do and it was enough for Lestrade.

"On the desk," the inspector said, relenting.

He hitched a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his desk and the box that sat there. Sherlock moved forward immediately and withdrew the diary from inside the box. He rifled through the pages until his eyes locked on the entry for the previous day.

After several moments and with an all too dangerous smile, he closed the small book with a quiet 'clap' and looked up to John. "How do you feel about Mediterranean food?"

Thank you again for reading - I should have the third chapter up by the end of the week if all goes well.