Suddenly, Rachel's mouth went dry and she found it difficult to swallow.

"Um," her timid voice said.

Remembering the note, she moved her right hand so as to reach inside her coat pocket.

Immediately, the muzzle of the gun was thrusted forward, silently but subtly telling her of his disapproval of her action.

"If you'll just let me, I have a note in my coat pocket," she told him.

After a moment of silence, the low voice said, "Go ahead."

She reached into her pocket, pulled out the note, and switched it from between her thumb and pointer finger to her pointer and middle finger. She raised her hand up into the air above her head and waited for him to take it.

Without warning, he snatched it from her fingers, and she could feel the muzzle of the pistol as it was pulled away from her head. Then, he stepped into her peripheral vision and walked around her until he stopped right in front of her, facing her. Though only a couple feet away, his presence made her feel insignificant, and she could tell that he was used to acting as if he wore a shiny, gold crown atop his loft of curly, dark brown hair.

Nonetheless, she was stunned and taken away. Quite the handsome figure, he wore a long, sweeping, dark gray over coat with a black suit and gloves, and she could also definitely see his white shirt behind his scarf. And his scarf, how could she miss that. A faded, dark steel blue, it loosely wrapped around his neck like some sort of collar.

Rachel's mind swooned the longer she stared at the man. With his chiseled features and his hollowed cheekbones, regardless of his pretentious stature, she knew any woman would love to be even acknowledged by him. Plus, there weren't that many good looking men anywhere on this hell of a planet. To her, he was one of a kind.

"How was home?" he asked without looking up from the note.

Rachel blinked in surprise, pulled from her thoughts.

"What?" she asked, confused.

He finally looked up at her, his steel blue eyes staring into her bewildered hazel ones.

"Home," he said again. When she still held a puzzled look, he said, "Vegas."

That lit a spark.

"Um, fine. How-" she replied.

"Nevermind," he cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Stunned and even more puzzled than before, she watched as he laid down his pistol and the note on a table nearby.

"It's about twelve hours, isn't it?" he asked her as he took off his gloves, looking back up to meet her eyes, "Rather tortuous, if you ask me."

After shoving his gloves into his right coat pocket, he smiled and then he kindly said with an out stretched arm and hand, "Please, sit down. You must be exhausted." Immediately, he ushered her to the small, light green couch to her right. A short chortle escaped his lips before he said, "Horrible thing, jet lag." Another short chortle. To be honest, he seemed to be debating something within his mind.

He took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair that was nearby.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked with a smile as he sat down next to her.

Rachel opened her mouth to answer, but he cut her off once again.

"John, why don't make some tea," he directed at the man standing near the open doorway. "That should soothe you," he said as he looked at her once again, a smile on his face and his left hand on her right arm.

The man near the doorway deeply sighed and shook his head, though still walked in a small arc to where she assumed the kitchen was. The man, John, seemed to be much shorter than the one who sat next to her. With his olive green sweater and khaki pants, along with his short cropped grayed hair, he seemed very much different in comparison to the one to her right.

Rachel turned her head back to look at him.

Suddenly, his left hand was holding her chin, and he moved his head forward and then back, right and then left. With a sigh, he let go and then muttered, no longer smiling, (Thank goodness... It seemed almost as if forced, and made her feel a bit uneasy.) "Interesting."

He stood up without warning and then told her, "You need to sleep. I'll go get you a pillow and a blanket." Rachel opened her mouth only to have him cut her off. "Just stay put. No need to strain yourself, especially when you're this worn out." Once again he smiled (though this time a little more genuinely), and then barked out behind him, "John, make her some chamomile tea."

John appeared out from the corner, and then said, "Sherlock, why don't you just-"

"Are you comfortable? On the couch, I mean," the man in front of her said.

Rachel then realized that the man, Sherlock, had been talking to her rapidly the whole time.

"Sherlock. Just tell her what's-" John tried telling Sherlock again.

"Oh, of course not. What was I thinking?" Sherlock said aloud. The seemingly forced smile was on his face again, and, quite frankly, it was beginning to disturb her. "It's completely uncomfortable," he continued.

Rachel stared at Sherlock, confused. What was he talking about? Uncomfortable?

John sighed in aggravation and then said in an irritated voice, "Sherlock. Just tell her."

"I know!" Sherlock abruptly declared, "Why don't you just use my bed?"

Oh... He meant for to sleep on.

"Sherlock!" John shouted.

Sherlock partially turned to face John.

"Yes, John?" he asked in response. John only gave him an irritated look that she couldn't read. But then, as the two men were locked in their nonverbal conversation, something caught her eye. It was a picture of a friend and classmate of hers.

"Jessica?" she said aloud without thinking.

The two men suddenly looked at her, carefully watching her like vultures of their prey. Rachel now realized just the size of her situation. From the mysterious note... Yes, S for Sherlock. It fit perfectly. And the wall opposite filled with pictures of Jessica and a few students from the university, as well as a couple of other people she didn't know. And then pictures of crime scenes...

Oh.

Panic began to well up in her. They were the same people. And...

Jessica... No, there wasn't a picture of her dead yet. That was good. Very good. Or at least she hoped.

But Rachel also saw papers, letters, one near each person's photo (where they remained alive forever, stuck in the moment for all of eternity or at least until the picture was destroyed). And notes, to come here, they were near each person's photo as well.

At once, it all came together. The two weren't trying to harm her or anything like that. She had taken a forensic class in high school, and kept everything she learned from it to heart. Taking a step back, she realized this was a serial murder case.

Wait. Then the note, the S... Did it still stand for Sherlock or was it someone else?

She looked back at the two men dumbfounded with still a bit of panic for an explanation.

"It's- It's not what you think..." John began, obviously stumbling for how to tell her what was actually going on. He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak and then-

"Consulting detective," Sherlock's deep voice said. It was the one from before the eerie smile and act, and Rachel quickly assumed that it was his normal voice. She looked at Sherlock, who was now standing by the table, and saw that he appeared quite disinterested, apparently more intrigued by her note.

"How did you get this?" he asked, looking up at her.

This time he stared at her with icily cold, detached eyes that reminded her of a harsh, unforgiving ocean. With a quick look at John, Rachel looked back at Sherlock and said, "A homeless woman ran up to me and slipped it into my hand."

"And the key?" Sherlock asked again.

The steel-gray of his eyes smoothly blended with the crystal blue, causing him to look like a porcelain doll - mystery swirled and waiting in its depths.

"I don't know. I suppose she slipped it into my coat pocket as she gave me the note," she replied, only stopping afterwards as she realized she never actually showed him the key.

Sherlock seemed to snort in disbelief.

"And this woman- Did she have black hair? Green eyes? Lipstick as 'red as the morn'n's roses'?"

Rachel stared at him for only a second after hearing him speak in an Irish accent, and then cracked up with laughter. She couldn't help herself. It was absolutely perfect, yet for some reason it was completely hilarious. Most likely, because it came out of nowhere.

He rolled his eyes and sighed.

As soon as she caught her breath, Rachel said, "No. She had dark brown hair. Hazel eyes. And I don't think she was wearing any lipstick..."

At this, Sherlock's face scrunched up in confusion.

"Was she wearing a green, wool beret?" he asked.

Now it was her turn to look confused.

"Uh... No," she replied.

A loud squeal of a whistling noise came from the kitchen, and John instantly ran to the kitchen to take the tea kettle off the stove. Sherlock suddenly turned to face the nearest window, his right hand in a fist, clenched tight. His other hand still held the note. But it was slowly slipping out of his hand, beginning to fall...

Without thinking, she swiftly moved to grab the note. Suddenly, at the last moment, she noticed Sherlock's frame begin to fall.

"Sherlock!" she heard John's voice cry out from behind her. But he didn't have to worry, Sherlock was safe in her arms. She caught him just in the nick of time, thank God. Rachel looked down at his face that laid on top of her lap. His peaceful look only made her heart rate quicken, and her infatuation only worse.

"I'll help you put him on the couch," John said as he took Sherlock's legs. After holding up Sherlock's back so she could get up, Rachel grabbed his upper shoulders and helped John carry Sherlock to the light green couch that they had been sitting on earlier.

They carefully laid him on the couch, and as they did so, Rachel instantly moved her hands to Sherlock's head, lightly placing it down as well. Her eyes lingered on Sherlock's face for a few seconds too long, and then looked at John who only deeply sighed and shook his head.

John then collapsed on the seemingly old, faded red recliner that was closer to the kitchen, leaving her the black, modern-styled armchair.

Once she sat down, John began.

"This is the fifth time." He shook his head and sighed again, "I keep telling him to slow down, to take care of himself..."

"But he's stubborn," she finished for him.

John looked up at her and smiled.

"Yes. God yes."

She smiled back, along with a small chortle, and then turned her attention back to the wall of pictures, written notes, and typed letters. Though now she could see they weren't exactly letters, per say. Each one held a paragraph and was personally signed- But the body, the paragraph didn't make any sense. It was just a jumble of letters... Though she could see somewhat of a pattern. A random number of letters, then normally two (with the rare exception of just one) letters, then either one or two, then one, and then one again.

Hm... That's weird.

"Besides exactly how they've died, they've all been the same. They get a note saying to come here immediately, that Sherlock has something of great value of theirs. Then we get to know them, try and figure the case out together..."

John suddenly paused, eyes on the floor. Just as abruptly though, he continued.

"And then they mysteriously disappear. They go missing."

He looked up at the nearby wall, and Rachel followed his lead.

"A couple days later we find them. Apparent suicide."

John then pointed at one of the typed "letters" and said, "We always find one of these coded messages." He dropped his hand. "After Gabrielle- She was the one before Jessica- Sherlock finally cracked the code." John gave a nod to the wall again. "They used Hamlet."

Automatically, she nodded her head as well.

"Do you think- Jessica-" she cut herself off.

John's face instantly dropped. A long sigh.

"She disappeared a few days ago..." his voice trailed off, obviously not wanting to even think of that possibility - though just as obviously knowing it would happen.

Her face mirrored John's, maybe a bit too much, but this was Jessica they were talking about. Jessica, and her love of writing, and her good-heartedness, her empathic and sympathetic understanding. Oh, how many times Rachel would rant, on and on and on. And yet, Jessica never once did protest. She did have a right to, or rather a good number of rights to. But she let Rachel's rage amplify itself, let the intensity build so much until it all exploded. At that point, Rachel would collapse on the bed next to Jessica. First, they would just stare blankly at each other, but then quickly after came the smiles and the laughter.

Oh, how much she missed that cozy, light baby blue, cotton blanket of Jessica's. It had mysteriously disappeared a few weeks ago along with Jessica and her other numerous belongings. Something about moving in a flat with two men: an army doctor and "the most brilliant man" she "had ever met", and he was "incredibly handsome" she recalled Jessica saying in a frenzy as she was packing her things, Rachel once again sitting on Jessica's bed, the knitted blanket she loved so much still on the bed, right underneath her and her hands.

"Oh, I swear! One look and you'd been drooling all over the floor!" Jessica told her in her usual teasing way. Rachel opened her mouth in amazed shock. "I swear I don't mean to!" she quickly replied, "And I rarely ever do it anyways!" Jessica began to laugh. "Once in bloody rare blue moon!" Rachel retorted. Jessica only began to laugh harder, to which, despite Rachel's attempt to stay serious, she joined in.

After a few moments, Jessica fell back on the bed.

"Ah..." Jessica breathed out, "I wish you could meet him."

Jessica turned her head to look up at Rachel.

They didn't have to say it aloud. They both already knew. Rachel was leaving for Vegas later that night. She didn't have time to meet anyone or go anywhere. She still had to finish packing.

"But I'll be back in a week," Rachel tried comforting Jessica, putting a small pathetic bandage on a large, open wound.

Jessica sighed.

"A week does not not equal ten days," corrected Jessica, her tongue a bit sharp.

"I'll be back in time for Christmas eve," Rachel added as a reminder, "Maybe you could bring your new friends. We'll sit around your parent's Christmas tree, drink scalding hot chocolate, maybe some egg nog, and laugh at ridiculous stories. Ya know, have a good time. Have fun."

Jessica laid and stared up at her. Rachel could tell that she was seriously considering it. Their classes had cracked down and hardened the whip on work. The two of them really did need a good break. And definitely good fun.

Finally, Jessica smiled.

"Okay. Just don't stand me up, alright?" she said.

Rachel chortled.

"And where else would I go for Christmas?" Rachel retorted.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her right shoulder. She looked up to see...

Oh... John...

"Would you like some tea?" he asked.

A small grin made its way on her face.

"Yes, please. That would be nice," she replied.

He mirrored her small grin and then walked away into the kitchen, which she could see now from where she was sitting.

It seemed rather roomy, even with the cluttered dining room table in the middle. Rachel silently chuckled to herself. The kitchen had all sorts of scientific equipment in it. Beakers and test tubes of all sizes sat close together on the table, just like the buildings on this street. She could also see a microscope on the right side counter and other numerous things (that obviously shouldn't be in a kitchen as well) that were scattered around on the counter. In the back of the kitchen, right next to the refrigerator on the left side was a small, round table, also cluttered with beakers and etc.

She glanced around the room in which she sat. It was obviously a living room by the light green couch and the fireplace alone. Though it was hard to explain, the room was both messy and clean at the same time. There was plenty of space, yes, but books were everywhere. Mainly, lying in a huge disarray in front of the fireplace. Some had been scattered around the living room. A book here, a few there. In fact, before the heap of books near the fireplace, was a stack of about five or six books right next to where she sat in the modern-style armchair. And on the other side of her was another stack of books, about three or four.

She shook her head in disbelief. They must really be involved with the case then.

John suddenly appeared in front of her, and she immediately took the cup of tea he handed her.

"It took you guys these many books to find out it was Hamlet?" she said aloud, disbelief still swirling around in her head.

He chuckled and sat down across from her again, this time with tea in hand.

"You should see our rooms," he told her, a smile on his face again. His was a kind, genuine smile. Completely different from Sherlock's. And she was definitely okay with that.

She looked over at him. Sure enough, he still laid on the couch, head turned away, facing the back of the couch, but nonetheless, same as how they had left him.

Curiously, she turned back to John and asked, "What's he really like?"

This earned her another chuckle and shake of his head.

"A lazy, arrogant bastard," he replied.

They both silently laughed, seeing as how there was no surprise there.

Sorry for the long wait. I swear, I'm becoming no better than Moffat and Gatiss.

For those of you who would like to get sniplets of what's coming next in the story, you lot are always welcome to visit my writing blog/tumblr rabbitdownthehole.

Other than that... Well, yeah. Sorry for the next long wait. ; )

Oh, and don't forget to review!