The dreams had come back. The flashbacks of the danger and the thrill that war had imprinted upon John Watson's brain. It had been a while since he had to deal with them, ever since learning that his wife was trained assassin and that he willingly went to bed with her every night, brought a tad of excitement to his life, but it seemed like it was no longer enough.

Becoming a parent, had so far been quite an experience for both him and Mary Morstan nee Watson although some could say that they had enough training taking care of one of the biggest babies they knew, a certain Consulting Detective. It was the unpredictability, the lack of a established schedule, and the immense love he felt for little Isabelle Watson that had substituted the need of adventure for the last 6 months.

Shame things had finally started to settle, with little Izzy now beginning to follow a somewhat normal sleeping and eating schedule, which made Mary most grateful, but John was suffering, and because of his previous track record, he had been forbidden to go storming in on crack dens, even if it meant being neighborly.

He had been in contact with Sherlock, in the hopes that a case would come up that would require them to get into some sort of action, or even some danger, only receiving a text message back telling him to stop being annoying, which would mean that Sherlock was equally as bored, and was also struggling to find ways to end his boredom.

Thankfully, John had the solace of his blog. When at first his psychiatrist had suggested for him to start writing, he dismissed the idea as a rather lame substitute to his experience in the war. But ever since his ridiculous adventures with Sherlock had begun, and his blog obtained a big notoriety, he found the thrill of writing as a good way of coping, plus, the idea that people had things to say about what he wrote was one of is guilty pleasures.

John had sneaked out of bed, the early rays of the sun already threatening to come through the window, and in attempt to leave both baby and mother to sleep peacefully, left the room as quietly as possible, heading towards the sitting room along with his laptop, so he could check on any new messages or comments on his blog.

This particular morning everything seemed quite normal, the usual messages saying how much they had loved the photo presentation on the last entry, or how well written the entry for the "Aluminum Crutch" was. The same came for the comments, which mostly were the same couple of people replying or arguing over some trivial thing, including several comments from Sherlock himself, which never failed to bring a smile to his face.

Since there were no indications of any new significant comments on the most recent entry, he decided to go back and look at the old entries, reminiscing about the tiny details he didn't include for the public, like the sight of Sherlock in full clown costume, with the big shoes and the red nose, trying to entertain a group of 8 year-olds just so they could interrogate one of the mothers attending the party, who turned out to be the President of a South American country and the key to solving the case.

John had been deep in his thoughts, that he didn't notice when Mary and Izzy joined him in the sitting room.

"Love, did you notice those weird comments on that entry up there? They kinda look like a code..." Mary pointed to the screen, while gently patting Izzy's back, in the hopes the baby would fall asleep again and would give her the opportunity for another nap.

"Mary, I still find it quite frightening the speed in which you recognize codes and patterns, but it is a bit sexy... But these make no sense at all, they are just random words strung together, probably a spammer. I don't really think that a comment like A Screech Folklores Mosh, A Checker Helms For Solos, Cheddar Tin Ritzy Knoll or Danced Thorny Krill Zit have any meaning. "

"I don't think that's true, John. See the comments? From what I'm getting from here, is that they all have the same exact letters, just rearranged in a different order. They are anagrams."

In less than an hour, the couple had decoded the 2 messages that had been repeated in the avalanche of comments, Mary obtained further information while John got ready to go storming into Baker Street, no point in texting or calling Sherlock, since he knew it was more likely that his message or call would go ignored, and this was rather the answer to their needs, he needed to tell him in person.

Thankfully, John still had a key to his old flat, always conveniently forgetting to return it to Mrs. Hudson, and the one time he did, after he had a nasty domestic with Sherlock, the key had somehow returned to his keyring, either the work of his former flatmate, or maybe even Mary. He opened the door, and started his way up the stairs, ignoring his usual habit of a quick hello and bite to eat with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock needed to see the message.

He found Sherlock in the usual position, lying on the sofa, his hands in a prayer position, resting underneath his chin, eyes closed. John's mobile was ready, displaying the decoded messages on the screen, just getting closer to him, mobile extended towards him. "Sherlock, mate, have I got a case for you!"

"This better be good, John, I'm not bothering for anything less than a 7 right now."

"Trust me, this more than a 7, Sherlock", said John, thrusting his mobile phone into Sherlock's hands, urging him to read the messages. He had a small sample of the original comments, as well as the final decoded messages: Case for Sherlock Holmes and Not crazy, I didn't kill her.

"So, anyone with a bit of a brain could have done this. Goodbye John, give my regards to baby Isabelle for me. " Said Sherlock, handing the phone back and turning his back to John, curling up in a ball on the sofa.

"Just hear me, mate. Mary checked where all these messages had come from. Turns out that they came from a cell tower near Hanwell Asylum. Also, some comments had the added letter STR, which are the initials of the famous author Sofia T. Rogers, who was sent to that Asylum after she killed the president of her fanclub. She kept insisting that the ghost of the girl was haunting her."

Sherlock had sat up and was trying to process the information given. He wasn't familiar with the author, popular culture had never been of any use for him, but he remembered the news of the killing. "Still, someone could be in the vicinity, using a cellphone, not an indication that the messages came from inside."

"That was my first impression too, but it turns out that her son also received several text messages with the same phrases, as well as a phone call. Mary found his contact information, since he is away in college in America. We reached out to him, and verified that he had gotten a call from his mother, that she kept saying that the ghost had dropped the mobile, for him to help her out, before the call was cut."

"Ghost don't have mobile phones, John. Either this ghost is not what it seems, or we really have something rather interesting in our hands. We need to pay a visit to our new client. The game is on!"