A/N: Just a continuation of the game! As always, please review! Makes my day. And no worries, this story will be worth its M rating in a few chapters yet.

The morning seemed to drag on for eternity. Sherlock was up to four patches in an attempt to distract his mind. He had attempted watching crap telly, experimenting on the effects of hydrochloric acid on mucosal tissue, and thought once about causing himself to pass out to make the time pass by. The day was simply too long.

John was equally going in insane by his flatmate's behavior. The incessant complaining made him forgive every woman he ever thought to be annoying. He almost moaned from delight when he heard Sherlock shout, "Going out!" at eleven. He wasn't about to ask where he was going, and he didn't have the slightest desire to tag along. Dr. Watson leaned back into his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed from relief when he heard the building door slam closed.

Sherlock was early. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't miss a single thing. When he arrived at the café, business was as usual. He bought a cup of tea he had no intention on drinking. Nearly an hour went by as he sat at the same window he had before. He had deduced every worker and person who walked through the door. Dull, every one of them. The only one who perked the slightest interest was a retired American cop who obviously didn't know the gun policy in this country. Sherlock watched him for several minutes. He didn't display anything else peculiar. Sat in the corner with his cup of black coffee and feigned reading a newspaper while he got an eyeful of two scantily clad young women chatting amiably. Sherlock deemed him a harmless pervert of an old man.

Noon was well on its way. Ice blue eyes scanned each person who entered the small café and the street before it. The day was a bit dreary. Clouds hovering in the sky and a chilly wind for a spring day. He was beginning to become impatient. He knew it was of his own doing, but he couldn't help tapping his long fingers on the table before him.

He began to imagine Moriarty was watching him, which of course was quite possible. He could almost feel those black liquid eyes staring at him, watching his impatience. The madman would know that Sherlock would be anxious for the next body; his restlessness would give it away. These thoughts led Sherlock to feel an exhibitionist's high. How inappropriate it was, but he couldn't help the fervent yearning.

Then it happened.

Everyone but Sherlock was stunned into silence when the gunshot rang into the air. When they were falling to the ground or covering their heads, Sherlock was springing out of his chair. His long legs had him to the crime scene within seconds. With one glance he knew the victim was in his late twenties, native Londoner, shot through the forehead with expertise –sniper, the clothes he was wearing were not his usual attire. Did he have a job interview? He was obviously unemployed, but his clothes were expensive. They were given to him for the special occasion. Something was wrong. His face. It wasn't displaying any fear or shock. No, what was it? Happiness? Nearing on ecstasy.

Ah. Sherlock nodded. Martyr. He wanted to be shot. But for what purpose? Sherlock could only think of one reason, if the man hadn't been lied to. He was to be a piece of their game. Mental instability, then. They did seem to flock to like-minded. The sleuth stepped back from the corpse, hands folded behind his back as the medics came rushing in. Sherlock didn't think there would be anything else on this body. He would check on him in the morgue later this evening just in case. But this man's death was the clue itself. He just wasn't sure how.

His phone buzzed. Lithe fingers brought it into his field of vision in seconds, thinking it to be a message from the killer, or the man who ordered the kill. No, John. Calling.

"Yes, John?"

"Where the hell are you? Why didn't you answer any of my messages?"

Sherlock glanced down to his phone. No messages. Moriarty must have intercepted them.

"Didn't get any. Bit busy. What is it?"

He heard John sigh audibly on the line. "There's been another murder-"

"-yes, I know, I'm already there."

"What?" a pause, John must have looked around himself. "I don't see you, where are you?"

Sherlock himself scanned the area. He can't imagine John arriving so quickly. Easy deduction -two murders. How enticing. "Near St. Bart's. Never mind. Where are you?"

"St. Bart's? A flat down on Fleet Street. I'll text you the details. Sherlock, there was a clue, like he said. It was addressed to me."

This had Sherlock hesitating for a second. Addressed to John? He had thought this was just a game between the two of them. Why was he involving John now? "What is it?"

"A card. It's been burned. Just get here, will you?"

"On my way."

Several minutes later, Sherlock was standing in a low-income flat. The tenant was hanging from the ceiling with a chair lying on the floor just below him. The reek of the decaying body had a few officers vomiting their lunch out front. Obvious drug addict –cocaine. Even Sherlock smirked at the irony. Homosexual, out of a job for months now, sister was his dealer, suicide was due to losing a lover, body had been hanging for a few days at least. Sherlock rattled this all off to Lestrade and the rest, then he paused. "Lestrade…what are you doing here?"

A look of confusion passed over him. "Well, John said-" Sherlock then cast his attention towards his friend, waiting for the explanation to come from him.

John looked just as confused as Lestrade. "I got a text from you, Sherlock. You told me to get here as soon as I could. When I got here and you were nowhere to be seen, and then there was this body, and then you weren't answering my messages…I called Lestrade." The doctor looked almost guilty as he told his story, but remained confident in his decision.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched with annoyance, but he didn't say anything about it. He turned back to the DI. "You may be on your way. Call the people who normally deal with this kind of situation."

"But wait a minute, why are you here? What was that business about a clue?" Lestrade retorted, not making the slightest movement towards the door.

Sherlock locked onto him with those eyes in what could be considered a glare, "Never you mind. If we require your services, I assure you Detective Inspector, I will come to you. Now, if you will be on your way." Sherlock made a sweeping motion with his arm towards the exit. Lestrade looked indignant. He glanced over to John and took his leave at the doctor's nod of assent.

Once the group exited the room, Sherlock spun on Dr. Watson demanding more than asking, "Clue?"

The shorter man drew an envelope from his breast pocket. Sherlock had to steady himself to keep from snatching it from his hand. He nodded and gracefully took it from him. It had "John" written across the front in a styled handwriting. A man's script, but lofty. Sherlock peered into its opening and withdrew the plastic card. It was black with overlapping white diamonds in design. The inscription on the front had been burned, but it was still smooth to keep it functioning.

John swayed slightly as he waited for Sherlock's deductions. It was only a few seconds before he slid it into his pocket saying, "Could be a membership card – gym, club, hotel, cinema." John wanted to protest Sherlock taking it. It did have his name on it, but he refrained.

"Right. And why was it addressed to me? If this is your game?" his voice held a little venom as he said 'your'.

Sherlock smirked. "Because you're the one that holds everything."