Trigger Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of a violent murder, and a criminal dog fighting ring. Please be safe and do not read if this may trigger you.

Welcome back! I know the prologue was short and cryptic, but we're about to really get into it now. I hope you enjoy the story! ^_^

Chapter One: Dissolution

It was the husband, Sherlock was sure of it. Then again, that deduction hardly required the mind of a consulting detective; when one spouse was missing it was almost always the other spouse. It was so common that it might as well be included in the marriage vows, but naturally people preferred fantasy to reality.

Lestrade and John were with him; they were currently walking up to a non-descript house in the suburbs of London. Lestrade had been called in because of suspected kidnapping, which widened the usual range of search. Sherlock scanned the front of the house with disgust. Everything was tediously typical and boring. The front gardens were neatly kept, the house was in good repair, and well within the means of a middle class family.

Sherlock had skimmed the initial police report, so he knew that Margret Werner had been a house wife, but her garden would have told him that. Not only was it immaculately tended, but it was full of tiny details such as rocks painted and carved to look like animals, fairies, or gnomes. Sticks and old grape vines stretched and arranged to look like little doorways or houses. These touches were subtle, often under or to the side of a plant, which both made the scenes look more natural, and easier to hide.

Margret Werner had been a house wife who wanted an escape, but hadn't seen a way out, so she'd made little worlds in her garden and spent what time she could there. This was the smaller front garden, facing the street, which meant the house and the back garden were inhospitable territory.

The husband, Anthony Werner, opened the front door before they reached it, and ushered them inside. He was a tall man, approximately thirty pounds overweight, with broad shoulders, hair that was noticeably thinning and receding, and a scruffy beard. Overall he looked average enough. He was tall, but not remarkably so, with average coloring and features. The extra weight might make him seem more friendly, but the movement of his hands indicated they had been broken before, most likely in a fight, and his muscular strength, while not matching Sherlock's, was significant.

Sherlock scanned and rolled his eyes at the wrestling trophies displayed on the mantle. They were decades old, the most recent dating back to Mr. Werner's university days. The sitting room was comfortable with little of the intricate touches Mrs. Werner had bestowed upon the garden, indicating she had little say in household decoration. A strong man of forgettable appearance, who took great pride in his physical accomplishments, combined with a desire for control which quashed the creative impulses of hard working spouse painted a very clear picture: abusive husband.

There was also a slight curl of the lips indicating a sneer when he asked about Donovan's credentials, which gave a strong indication of his dislike of women in general. He was subtle about it, though. He tone was nothing but friendly, and if he focused on Lestrade, Sherlock, and John more than Donovan, well, they were leading the investigation, weren't they? Perfectly excusable. To idiots.

No, Mr. Werner's general mediocrity would not protect him, not this time. Sherlock brushed past him without any attempt to take his offered hand. Introductions were tedious and pointless. Lestrade cried out in predictable indignation, and began making apologies. He knew it wouldn't stop Sherlock, social niceties never had.

Sherlock felt John's gaze on his back as he walked away and it rankled. John had added a reprimanding shout of his name to Lestrade's objection, but it had no real fire to it. Unlike Lestrade's weary resignation, John was actually amused by most of Sherlock's oddities. That had been fine at first, it was what had helped them build their unexpected partnership. They worked on cases, John's obliviousness was mildly amusing, and his blog attracted more and more interesting cases. It had been a good arrangement, until John had done the unthinkable.

John Watson had fallen in love with him.

Not just infatuation and curiosity sparked by the incessant insinuations of others, but a deep, unyielding affection and loyalty.

Despite the promising case in front of him, Sherlock found his mind pulled back to one afternoon, several months ago, just after they'd closed a case. They'd both slept, for once, and when Sherlock had stumbled into the kitchen John had hot tea waiting for him. John had handed the mug to him with a small smile, his face flushing slightly with pleasure when Sherlock entered the room.

Sherlock had stopped and stared, his hand already partially extended to reach for the tea, but John was used to all manner of odd behavior, and had simply leaned forward to place the warm mug in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had reflexively lifted the mug and drank from it. It was exactly as he liked it. John, meanwhile, had returned to contentedly perusing the morning paper and nibbling on his toast. There was a plate for Sherlock as well, but John hadn't commented on it. Even Sherlock was hungry after a case, and would usually eat with no nagging required. Sherlock sat, but he hadn't been able to make himself eat.

Sherlock had been almost beside himself. How had he not noticed that John was in love with him. It was obvious! Granted, many of the world's idiots had been insinuating their feelings for each other since they first became flatmates, but it wasn't true in the beginning, so Sherlock had ignored it. He'd never imagined it was a possibility, John knew Sherlock was married to his work, so why…?

Sherlock had assumed his thinking pose, hands pressed together in front of his face, and considered. Their partnership had slowly become more fluid and routine, but that was natural for any flatmates. John had always been attached to him, you didn't shoot cabbies for people you barely knew if you weren't attached, but it had been the thrill of the game, the chase, and the danger that had first attracted John. If anything, Sherlock's general disposition had been a drawback to being flatmates and associates.

John had become his friend though, Sherlock had seen that happen, and was surprisingly grateful for it. He didn't really have friends because few people could tolerate him just as he was. John, meanwhile had been his staunchest defender when Moriarty's trap had closed in around him, his trust never once wavering.

That had made the fall and his time away more difficult than Sherlock had anticipated, but he still did it. It was what had to be done. Granted, John hadn't exactly welcomed Sherlock back with open arms. He'd remained stoically silent and stubbornly away from 221 B until Sherlock apologized. John had deserved an apology, of course, but many people Sherlock interacted with did, and that fact had never made Sherlock want to apologize before...

"Your food is getting cold, eat."

Sherlock had blinked and refocused on John, who was still sitting beside him, and gestured at the breakfast he had undoubtedly prepared. Sherlock glanced down at the food, picked up his fork, and began to eat. If he didn't it would only start a row and waste time that could be better spent thinking. He felt the smile John sent his way before he looked up to confirm it.

"I'm going to go make some notes for the write up," John had said, standing and beginning to clear away his dishes. "Don't forget, Greg wanted us to drop by the station in two hours to give our statements."

Sherlock had made a non-committal noise and John moved to walk past him to the sink. As he did, John's hand had deliberately brushed Sherlock's shoulder. There was no purpose for it other than to express affection. Sherlock had turned and caught John sending another of those infuriatingly affectionate smiles his way. Sherlock had known from that moment that John's...sentiment was definitely going to be a problem.

For several months now Sherlock had done his best to ignore John's feelings. He certainly hadn't been obvious about it, by normal standards John had been the picture of discretion. Sherlock doubted John even wanted him to know, but there was little anyone could keep from Sherlock for long.

Still, the affection, the love felt suffocating. How was he supposed to concentrate on cases?! John was always there! With other people Sherlock would make a game of observing their emotions and how he could manipulate them. He would hold his stare for five more seconds and this person would look away, put the right amount genuine sounding concern in his voice, and Lestrade would relent on Sherlock's plans when normal common sense would preclude such an action. But it wasn't a game with John, it was distracting!

Sherlock was still able to deduce things such as, eight more seconds of eye contact and John might try to kiss him, or if Sherlock flopped onto the sofa, regardless of John already sitting there, John would only take Sherlock's head into his lap and start to run his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls. He'd deleted so many useless details, but they were relentless, taking up valuable space in his mind palace.

John had become such an integral part of Sherlock's cases that Lestrade had begun to contact him instead of Sherlock when they needed to give statements, or when there was some tedious press conference or other such event that Sherlock would rather not waste his time attending. Even now, John was probably trying to run interference for him, sooth the temper of the affronted Mr. Werner. As if Sherlock need the help! He'd been solving cases perfectly well since primary school!

Sherlock bit back the urge to growl in frustration. His own thoughts had made his point for him. He'd spent the last thirty seconds absorbed in thoughts not related to this current case, because of John! This was intolerable. No, it couldn't be ignored or deleted, so it had to addressed. But not now, now the game was afoot.

Sherlock strode through the back door of the house and out into the garden. It was a barren, sandy wasteland compared to the front garden. Nothing grew here except for short, well trodden grass. It was a practical setup, considering the yard was ringed with a dozen kennels. Each was of barely adequate size, with the barest minimum of food and water visible. It would meet all legal regulations without any superfluous touches, Sherlock was sure. Then again, this was Mr. Werner's home was much more likely to be subject to observation.

According to the case file Mr. Werner was both the landlord of a low-income apartment complex that was currently under renovations for modernization, and the owner of a small dog shelter that operated out of his home. On paper, Mr. Werner was a veritable saint, but appearances were always deceiving.

Sherlock scanned the kennels that ringed the yard. There were nine Staffordshire Bull Terrier's, two German Shepherd dogs, and one Chow Chow. Typical, tedious, and beyond moronic.

A flurry of footsteps behind him announced the arrival of Mr. Werner, Lestrade, and John.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Mr. Werner shouted, bursting into the back garden, followed closely by Lestrade and John. "I agreed to an interview, not to have my house ransacked! My wife is missing, and I sure as hell didn't lose her in the back garden!"

It was an impressive display of temper, but Sherlock could tell Mr. Werner was holding back. Then again, it would hardly help his argument that he was deserving of better treatment if he assaulted Sherlock, as he very much wanted to do at this moment.

Normally Sherlock droned out such noise and let someone else deal with the fallout, but Mr. Werner was a typical thick-headed alpha male and he had just issued a challenge. If Sherlock ignored him, which was more than tempting, he likely would be assaulted. While it would be mildly satisfying to break Mr. Werner's jaw, it wasn't necessary. Lestrade would ensure he received the most severe punishment allowable both for the murder of his wife, and his…other activities.

No, it wasn't necessary and it would only prolong this case, which wasn't even a four. Sherlock wouldn't have come at all normally, but it had been a slow week.

"No, but there may be indications of what happened to her here, or elsewhere in the house," Sherlock responded, turning to face Mr. Werner, who was attempting to loom menacingly in Sherlock's personal space. "The purpose of every investigation is to gather evidence, and to do so as thoroughly as possible. If you, as you seem to be insinuating, have nothing to hide, then there should be no difficulty in allowing the Yard and myself to look around. Ransacking will hardly be necessary."

Mr. Werner huffed angrily and turned to scowl at Lestrade. "This is how you allow your men to behave?!"

Lestrade had both hands slightly raised in a pacifying gesture. "Mr. Werner, Sherlock is the most observant man I've ever met. He doesn't miss anything. That's important for a missing persons case, because our best chance of finding your wife alive is in the first forty-eight hours."

Mr. Werner crossed his arms over his chest and continued to glare. "I will be filing a complaint about this!" he insisted.

Sherlock, meanwhile had stepped away from Mr. Werner, and begun to circle the back garden, strolling casually in front of each cage. The Chow growled at him, and many of the others eyed him warily. When he reached the fifth Staffordshire Bull Terrier, a gray one with white patches on his toes and chest, Sherlock paused. The dog lay almost motionless, its hind legs tucked up in a sphinx position, and its head resting on its paws. It looked up at him through squinted eyes, then screwed it's eyes shut.

Sherlock leaned over the cage, and braced his hands on either side, but still the dog did not react. "Up, get up!" Sherlock bellowed, rattling the cage loudly, but the dog did not respond, except to urinate where it lay. Sherlock's frowned deepened as his last suspicion was confirmed.

"Hey, you shouldn't do that!" Mr. Werner called loudly, jogging over to where Sherlock stood. "You'll frighten the beasts." His tone was reprimanding, but his stance and inflection was a good deal less angry than he had been. It was a protest only for show.

"I'm sure you're much better at it," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Well, I have been working with the beasts since I was a child. My father got me into the business," Mr. Werner explained, having the audacity to look pleased. He didn't even have the common sense to see the insult.

Sherlock turned and made his way back to Lestrade and John, both of whom were frowning. "Well?" Lestrade asked wearily, his expression broadcasting his growing headache to the world.

Sherlock leaned down and scooped up some lose earth from the nearly barren ground, rolling it around in his hand and letting it fall through his fingers as he stood. "You'll need your best forensic team on this one, and your best canine unit. One that doesn't spook easily and can distinguish between different blood scents easily."

Lestrade arched an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

"Because the ground where Mrs. Werner is buried has been soaked in blood many times," Sherlock replied grimly, almost whispering. "But not always human blood."

"What's going on here, mate?" came the gruff voice of Mr. Werner as he approached them.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, when John stepped in-between Mr. Werner and Sherlock.

"They're just reviewing the details of the case, Mr. Werner," John soother, his voice calm and approachable.

"I can't see what they have to review already," Mr. Werner snapped, "You lot just arrived."

John nodded patiently, not appearing at all frazzled. "The protocols the Yard has to follow can be very time consuming, but only because they never want to miss anything on an investigation. I know you want your wife back safely, that's what we all want. Right now this investigation is just in the beginning stages, and we need to make sure we're well organized. Sherlock can get a little excitable sometimes, that's probably why he rushed out here to the back garden so quickly. While they get their plan together, why don't you tell me more about your shelter? I hear it's been a fixture in the community for years."

John slowly maneuvered himself so that he and Mr. Werner ended up walking back towards the kennels at the edge of the garden. Sherlock was grateful for the intervention. John had seemly endless patience for the nonsense of others, which left Sherlock free to focus on more important things. John turned then, and sent Sherlock a small smile over his shoulder. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to ruffle Sherlock's feathers and strengthen his earlier resolve. He did not need a keeper.

"He runs a dog fighting ring? Here?!" Lestrade asked quietly, though his face hardened menacingly.

"At least try to use your brain!" Sherlock hissed. "It's in the apartment complex that's 'under renovations.' Those renovations will never be finished because it's the perfect cover. Far enough away from home for Mr. Werner to feel safe, but close enough to make his home a decent place for storing any overflow dogs."

"This is going to be a hard sell as a search warrant, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, his voice low and angry. "Those were legitimately rented apartments for a long time."

"Of course they were!" Sherlock pressed. "And he'll eventually fix these one's up and rent them out to finance his next purchase of land. If he keeps moving around and keeps up appearances of running a legitimate business it makes him harder to catch!"

Lestrade ran his thumb over his lips, thinking. "I could ask judge Smith, but it would take at least a day to get approval."

"You can't wait a day!" Sherlock insisted. "He's been doing this for years, this is a family business. He knows how to make evidence disappear quickly if he needs to. If you wait for the proper paperwork and traces of Mrs. Werner and the dog fighting ring will be long gone."

"My hands are tied, Sherlock," Lestrade said, lifting his arms in a partial shrug. "I'll go out on a limb for you if I can, I've done so before, but I will not break the law for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock growled in frustration, breaking away from Lestrade and storming back towards the house.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him, but Sherlock refused to turn around, only lifting his hand in parting.

"You do your job, Lestrade, and I will do mine!"

Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reminding himself he was too old to throw things, especially not at work. A hand squeezed his shoulder gently, and he turned to face John, who had returned to his side. "I'll go with him," John said.

Greg nodded. "Thank you, John. Someone needs to be Sherlock's voice of reason."

John smiled. "I don't know about reason, but I'll do my best to keep him from blowing anything up."

"Please do," Greg replied, waiving John after Sherlock, who had already disappeared into the house by now.

"Where are they running off to?" Mr. Werner asked, walking up to Lestrade.

Lestrade put on the calmest, most believable smile he could muster. "They were called away to another job," he explained. "Mr. Holmes is a very popular consultant."

"Hm. Well I think we'll get on just fine without him," Mr. Werner muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully."

"Why don't we go back inside, Mr. Werner, and I can go over your statement with you, to make sure we're not missing anything."

Mr. Werner's eyes shifted to focus on Lestrade's face and he nodded. "Let make it quick, eh? I've got a busy schedule."

"A shelter?" John asked when the cab pulled up to "Forever Homes Shelter." It must have something to do with the case, John had known Sherlock too long to assume otherwise, but as usual he was in the dark about how this animal shelter related to the case.

Sherlock nodded. "I was serious about a search dog. Lestrade won't act in time, so we have too."

"We're adopting a dog?" John asked slowly, suspecting he was off the mark.

"No, we're barrowing a dog," Sherlock clarified, stepping out of the cab, and walking towards the front door. "Toby's the best at what he does. It's a pity he was never bred, Lestrade's canine unit may hope to come up to par if they had his genetics."

The bell on the door tinkled as they entered a small, clean lobby. There were eight chairs around the outside of the lobby, various pet paraphernalia for sale in displays, and one large black cat with a pink collar lounging on the counter who peeked open a green eye as they entered, then stretched.

"Just a moment!" came a cheery, welcoming voice from the back.

John stepped up to the counter and offered his hand to the cat, who sniffed it, then butted her head against it, demanding affection. John smiled and scratched behind her ears. The cat had just started to purr when the door to the back opened, emitting a short, thin woman with close cropped brown hair and eyes as green as her cat. A small sparrow was perched in her hair, nestled down as though it never intended to leave. Her name tag declared her to be Lauren Henick.

Lauren met John's gaze and smiled warmly. Her eyes shifted to Sherlock next, and her smile faded. "No," she said sharply, already turning to leave. She paused at the door and turned around, reaching out her arms for the cat, who didn't look inclined to move. Lauren had just pulled the cat into her arms when Sherlock darted around the counter and blocked her exit into the back rooms.

"Just hear me out," Sherlock began.

"I don't have to hear you out," Lauren insisted. Her volume was moderate, but her tone was steely. "I told you last time Toby was off limits to you. You don't care about him or the dangers you put him through. You deceived me into letting you barrow him in the first place. Never again. Especially not now. He's eleven, and even if you were a decent person, he's too old. If you're here to beg for Toby it means the police aren't cooperating. I'll be happy to watch them cart you away." Lauren shifted the cat to one arm and reached into her pocket for her phone.

"It's about a dog fighting ring." Sherlock said calmly.

Lauren stilled, then her eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's before narrowing ominously.

"Well, in all honestly, it's about a murder, but the husband did it, and he runs a dog fighting ring. That's where the body's hidden and I need an unparalleled search dog to help me find it. I find the body, I shut down the ring. Lestrade's a soft touch just like you, all the dogs will be well cared for."

Lauren's sharp gaze shifted to John, who started to nod and added, "As far as I can tell it's all true. Sherlock's almost never wrong. There were a dozen dogs at the house, he claims to run his own, small shelter."

Lauren let out a long sigh that sounded more like a growl, then looked back to Sherlock. There was a lengthy pause before she said, "If anything happens to Toby, I. Will. Be. Out. For. Blood."

Sherlock nodded. "Nothing will happen to Toby. His health will be my highest priority."

Lauren continued to stare Sherlock down for a long moment before moving forward once more. He stepped aside to allow her to pass. When she returned the cat and the bird were gone. Instead she held the leash to an elderly looking beagle, whom John assumed must be 'Toby.'

Toby perked up when he entered the room, his tail wagging furiously when he saw Sherlock. Sherlock reached a hand out to accept the leash and Toby yipped in greeting, jumping up to press his forepaws into Sherlock's legs. Sherlock leaned down to pet his head, and the Toby seemed to sigh contentedly.

Lauren, meanwhile, looked highly displeased. "For the life of me I will never figure out why he likes you."

Sherlock straightened to meet Lauren's gaze. "You're the one who always says dogs are the best judge of character. Perhaps your judgment is off, and not his."

"I want him back by evening," Lauren insisted, her gaze narrowing even further. "If not, I will report him stolen."

Sherlock nodded and turned to go.

"I'll watch out for Toby," John assured Lauren before he left.

She nodded and ground out something that sounded like, "Thank you" or "You'd better."

The apartment complex was a plain gray structure with very little decoration. It was surrounded by a chain link fence that was secured with a padlock and several "under construction" and "no trespassing" signs were posted at regular intervals along the fence. Even under the gray overcast typical of London weather, the place looked foreboding.

Sherlock, John, and Toby stood together near the entrance, looking up at the structure in silence. At length, Sherlock spoke. "I think I hear a baby crying in there." He was already pulling on blue medical gloves.

John sighed softly, pulled on his own gloves, and replied. "I suppose I do too."

Pretense out of the way, Sherlock removed some delicate instruments from his pockets, and opened the lock. He would have preferred to climb the fence, but it was thoroughly surrounded with barbed wire on the top, Mr. Werner's vicious nature making itself known again.

Once they were all inside the fence, Sherlock reached through and fastened the lock again. This would give the appearance, to the casual observer, that nothing was amiss and hopefully give them more time. Mr. Werner was so antsy; they had little enough time as it was.

Getting into the building itself was easier, the locks were hardly worth picking they were so simple. It was dark inside, so they turned on their torches and used the maintenance stairwell to gain access to the basement. When they neared the bottom, the smell hit them.

Decay is composed of many smells: rot, mold, animal filth, and blood. All elements were strongly present in the basement of Mr. Werner's apartment complex. John turned away for a moment and covered his face with his palm. Being a doctor, John was used to all manner of unpleasantness, but this was an enclosed space with little ventilation, making the effect more powerful than normal. Sherlock's scarf was in his outstretched hand before he could properly think about it, and John took it gratefully, wrapping it around his nose and mouth.

Sherlock pushed away his irritation that he had reached for his scarf so automatically when he noticed John struggling. The only things that should be that reflexive should be case related; there wasn't room for anything else! Refocusing his attention, Sherlock opened the door to the basement and walked inside.

It was a dimly lit room with a solid concrete floor that was barren except for a fine coating of sand. The sand, Sherlock deduced was probably tracked from the fighting ring, which should be closer to the center of the large space. Sherlock could easily hear the shifting and snarling of the dogs in their cages as they entered. The barking that followed echoed around the large space menacingly.

Toby never flinched, too seasoned and well trained to be distracted. When they paused just inside the door he sat and looked to Sherlock, waiting for his cue. Sherlock knelt and produced Mrs. Werner's hairbrush. Toby dutifully sniffed, then pressed his nose to the ground. He started to move in circles, each circle growing wider as he searched. Sherlock, mindful of his promise to Lauren, stayed with him. John followed as well, but slower as his eyes took longer to adjust.

At length Toby veered left following a trail that wound close to many of the cages. Each time he passed a cage Toby inched close to it, only to be viciously snarled and snapped at. Toby never started or pointed, merely seeming to consider for a moment, before moving on. The rows of cages went on, and on, and on. Sherlock counted nearly three dozen dogs, and frowned. For an operation this large, Mr. Werner would need help, which meant more than one person held the key, and could be by at any time to 'care' for the animals being held here. Time was working against them in more ways than one…

Toby pulled at his leash, finally moving away from the cages and towards the ring. It was close to the center of the large space, as Sherlock had suspected, furthest away from the ventilation, and the air felt thicker, stiller, and more ominous. The sand at the center was rust colored and ill kempt, with paw prints disturbing the rake patterns underneath. Toby sneezed as they approached, as if the smell offended him, but pressed on into the enclosure around the ring.

Sherlock let the leash go for the moment as Toby circled the ring. They were a decent distance from the kennels and Sherlock wanted to have what he came for quickly. The moment Toby reached the center of the ring his sat and howled softly, his declaration of success. John praised the dog , and pet him, while Sherlock nudged him over and began to dig. When he didn't find anything in the first few inches, he dug more forcefully.

Toby began to dig beside him, encouraged by Sherlock's energy. John reached out a hand to discourage the dog, but Sherlock slapped it away. "Let him help, he's got the right tools for the job."

"He's going to contaminate the evidence, Sherlock," John insisted reasonably.

"If we don't get evidence in the next sixty seconds, we might not get it at all," Sherlock clarified. Even if Mr. Werner's lackeys didn't stumble across them, Mr. Werner definitely would, he was just intelligent enough to be concerned.

John's mouth formed a grim line, and he bent to help the other two, flinging sand out to the side in an effort to prevent it from spilling back in on itself more than it already did. Toby gave another short yip just as Sherlock's fingers closed around what was most likely a clump of hair. Sherlock tugged to test the strength of the fibers he could feel, but not yet see in the dim light, and paused when he felt a greater sifting in the sand than he expected. He extended both his hands to encircle the head, and lifted. It came without much resistance, nothing else attached.

"That poor woman," John murmured as Sherlock brushed sand away from the face, frowning.

"They eyelids have been ripped off," Sherlock noted, peering closely at Mrs. Werner's severed head. "I'm guessing she didn't like the dog fights, and Mr. Werner wanted her front and center, unable to look away, so to speak."

John looked away. He'd seen many gruesome and terrible things, and had long reconciled himself to his own need for danger, but he never lost sympathy for the victims.

The dog in the crate nearest to him shifted, catching John's eye. It was chewing on something between its paws and eyeing him warily, as if expecting John to snatch it from him. It was a bone, and a rather large one, even for a dog of that size. An uneasy feeling grew inside his chest until John leaned closer, trying to get a better look at the bone. The dog dropped its treat and skittered back, snarling.

John paled and nudged Sherlock hard in the ribs, so that he would turn and look. "Sherlock… that's a human femur…"

Sherlock leaned close over John's shoulder to see for himself, and then nodded. "Well, that's one way to get rid of evidence."

"Sherlock!" John hissed, elbowing his friend in the ribs a bit harder.

Sherlock's attention, however, was focused on the door to the basement. "Take the dog," he whispered, moving to crouch in front of John, and passing Toby's leash to him.

John stayed low, pounding footfalls on the stairs finally reaching his ears moments before the door was flung open. The room was poorly lit, but not dim enough to conceal Sherlock and himself. An enraged Mr. Werner spotted them almost immediately and leapt towards them with an angry shout.

There was no other exit to the basement except for the one behind Mr. Werner, so Sherlock ran forward to meet him. Just before they collided, Sherlock skittered to the right, causing Mr. Werner to stumble before he could turn around. His bulk was working against him.

Mr. Werner glowered and lunged again for Sherlock, who darted around a dog crate. Sherlock made sure to stay close enough to keep Mr. Werner's attention on him, grateful that John was staying back with Toby; Lauren's threat had been absolutely serious.

John was also probably calling Lestrade, whom Sherlock had texted just after they found the kennels. Sherlock could have overpowered Mr. Werner and been done with it, but given that Lestrade and backup were likely to arrive in the next thirty seconds, it would probably be best not to be spotted throttling the suspect.

Sherlock ducked around a supporting pillar, ready to dart out into the maze of cages once more when a large PVC pipe struck him across the face. Sherlock reeled, cursing himself for not anticipating a weapon.

Mr. Werner's hands closed around Sherlock's neck from behind, John shouted, and Sherlock was just maneuvering to break the hold when Lestrade barreled into the room with his team behind him.

"Do not move!" Lestrade bellowed.

Mr. Werner, however, was not inclined to listen, and his fingers began to tighten at Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock grunted and jerked his arm around and down sharply onto Mr. Werner's outstretched arms. The grip waivered but didn't break; Mr. Werner was stronger than Sherlock had originally surmised. Sherlock jerked his arm straight, driving his fist backwards into Mr. Werner's nose. There was a satisfying cracking sound, and Mr. Werner's grip relaxed enough for Sherlock to stumble out of it, directly into John's waiting arms.

"I told you to wait by the ring," Sherlock wheezed as John's hands and fingers swept over his face and neck, assessing the damage.

"You never listen to my warnings," John countered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, wincing at the sudden pain the movement caused. "Stay still!" John admonished, staring directly into Sherlock's eyes. Slowly, John raised his torch and shined the light into Sherlock's face, then pulled it away again. At length, John nodded. "I don't think you have a concussion, or a broken nose, but you're going to have one hell of a black eye tomorrow.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable with John's hands still on him, so he stepped away. "Professional liability, I'm afraid."

"You have a lot of those," John remarked with an unabashed grin. Sherlock, despite himself grinned back.

"You two!" Lestrade called out, storming over to Sherlock and John while several members of his team wrangled Mr. Werner into handcuffs. "This is not funny! Do you have any idea the amount of work you just made for me?!"

"But we confirmed that there is a dog fighting ring, and we saved you the work of finding he body," Sherlock insisted, still grinning. "I left a severed head for you in the fighting ring,"

"And there's at least one femur in the cage closest to it on the left," John added helpfully.

Lestrade look stone faced, first at John, then at Sherlock, then he took a long, slow breath. "I will deal with you two, tomorrow," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Just leave."

John and Sherlock shared a glance, then moved as one towards the exit, barely stifling a round of giggles. Lestrade glared after them but refrained from commenting. Sadly, it would only encourage them…

Toby was returned to Lauren without incident. Well, there was a great deal of mutual glaring and silent threats before John intervened, shaking Lauren's hand and thanking her for her kind help. Laruen, while still visibly perturbed, was at least mollified enough to let them leave.

John sighed contentedly when he finally stepped through the door of his long-familiar flat. It hadn't been a long case by any standards, but it was always nice to come home again. He slid his jacket off and hung it on the stand by the door before rolling up his sleeves and turning to Sherlock.

"Come on, let me look you over, now that I'll actually be able to see you properly."

Sherlock stepped back as John stepped forward. He hadn't even taken his coat off yet. John frowned and asked, "What's wrong?"

"You're in love with me, John," Sherlock replied softly, his face impassive.

Johns started. He hadn't expected Sherlock to comment on it after all these months… Of course he knew, Sherlock always knew what other people tried to hide. But John had thought… He'd never acted on his feelings. Sherlock had made it very clear from the beginning that he was not interested in love. John hadn't been either, at least at first. He'd seen plenty of women, but they'd all come to the same conclusion.

Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man...

It's heartwarming. You'll do anything for him!

Eventually John had realized that they were all right, and he'd stopped fighting the inevitable. It might have been different if he'd always been dragged away from the women he tried to connect with, but he'd left voluntarily plenty of times. The longer he stayed with Sherlock the more John's protests about being dragged away were from a sense of obligation than any real desire to stay.

John knew he could never have Sherlock's heart, not the way Sherlock had his. He had fantasized about being with Sherlock, coming together in a more intimate way, but he knew it was all in his head. Any miracle or compromise he thought of wasn't the reality that was before him. He couldn't have Sherlock's heart as a lover, but he hoped to have it as a friend. That was probably when it all started: the moment John realized that Sherlock and inexplicably become his closest friend.

John realized that he still hadn't spoken. He licked his lips, an old nervous habit, and straightened. Yes, he was in love with Sherlock, desperately in love with him, but all he was asking for was his friendship. He'd made no demands of Sherlock, asked for nothing that Sherlock couldn't give. "What does that have to do with me checking your injuries?"

"It's distracting. I thought I could ignore it, but it's always in my way."

In my way.

The words seemed to hit John square in the chest. After Sherlock's fall from Bart's, the way John had waited for him, after everything, John never expected to be treated so dismissively, not about something so important.

"I haven't done anything differently," John protested, "I've made a point of that."

Sherlock snorted and turned away, peering out the windows of their sitting room. "Everything is different, John. It's in the way you act, speak, look at me, the way you make my tea."

"You don't want me to make your tea?" John asked warily. It felt like the ground was starting to slip away from underneath his feet.

"I don't want you here anymore!" Sherlock clarified, turning from the windows to face John once more.

John took a step back, stricken. Not live at 221 B anymore? No cases, no crazy hours, no Sherlock….?

"You want me to move out?" John said haltingly.

"Yes." Sherlock's reply was adamant.

"Because I love you?"

"Yes."

"And there's no compromise you might be willing to come to?" If Sherlock really wanted him gone…well John would have to find a way to deal with that, but not before putting up a fight for a partnership that meant so much to him.

"None at all." Sherlock hadn't yelled, but his word seemed to ring around the apartment with the depth of their finality.

Part of John wanted to turn an leave immediately, get to a safe place before he could even begin to examine the damage, part of him wanted to hit Sherlock for being so cold... the rest of him… John looked around 221 B wondering if this would really be the last time he saw it. His throat constricted for a moment, cutting off his air, and his eyes burned. 221 B and Sherlock had been his home for so many years…

John blinked and turned back to Sherlock. "Are you sure, Sherlock?" His voice wasn't pleading, but it was heavy with emotion.

"Very." Sherlock affirmed.

"I won't come back," John insisted, his own voice hardening with absolutely finality. He was willing to put himself out there, to lay himself open, knowing that rejection was a possibility, but he wouldn't do this again. Not with Sherlock. Not after such an abrupt and thoughtless dismissal after all the years they'd spent together.

"I know," Sherlock affirmed, his voice and face unchanging.

John nodded, swallowed, and made to turn for the stairs that would lead him up to his room, when he paused and turned back again. "I hope you never regret it." Heartbreak was the last thing he wanted for Sherlock, even now.

He turned back around and made his way upstairs to his room. As he packed John focused intensely on the details. What should he take with him, and what should he leave? How should he best fold the fabric of his shirt to maximize the space he did have. Where in his luggage should he hide his gun?

John had never been a materialistic person, and in the end, everything he felt he needed fit in one large duffle, which he slung over his shoulder, and two other large bags he could carry in his hands. Traveling light had helped him move easily from place to place in the army; he never thought he'd need to use those skills to leave Sherlock... He shifted from foot to foot, testing the balance, and nodded to himself.

It was time.

The steps creaked under the extra weight as John made his way down them, but he stayed focused on the task in front of him. One foot in front of the other, find a decent but not too expensive hotel, and then...no. He had to think one step at a time, or John knew he might not make it out of the flat tonight, and he most definitely could not stay..

John paused at the foot of the stairs. Sherlock was still brooding by the windows, shrouded in his long dark Belstaff, wearing it like some sort of personal armor. John took a deep, slow breath, in and out, forcing control over muscles that quivered in pain and uncertainty. One step at a time.

He looked to Sherlock's face, but his long time flatmate wouldn't turn to face him. Sherlock was either too deep in thought to hear or see John, or he didn't want to be bothered with John's emotions... Still, Sherlock had said his piece, and John would say his. He'd already said most of it, really, just one thing left.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." Again John's voice was thick with emotion, but he didn't try to hide it. Sherlock knew where he stood, and John wasn't ashamed of how he felt.

There was no response.

John blinked rapidly and turned to face the door. He had to keep moving, get to a hotel, to safer ground. His heart thundered in his chest, and his hands shook as he made his way down the steps of 221 B for the last time.

The last time...

Deep breath. In. Out. Focus. John's eyes were already searching for a cab before he reached back to pull the front door closed. He had to get to a hotel, secure a room, find a safe place to land... someplace far away from here...