I neglected writing my health essay to write this part because it was in my head and I needed to get it down before I lost it all. This probably means no update for a few days though because my essay is due on monday and I have two other projects on top of that. But thank you all so much for your support and nice reviews! Please feel free to give me any ideas/critiques all are appreciated!

Sherlock mind was going almost too fast for him to keep up with. He couldn't sleep, but he could barely ever sleep, that wasn't anything new. Or was it? He didn't know anymore.

What made it worse was he surely had no one to tell him if it was or wasn't. He knew he wasn't a very… likeable man. He didn't usually tolerate others stupidity well. He'd never had a relationship, not like he'd ever felt one necessary. Greg was the closest thing he had to a proper friend, and he was almost sure that he knew nothing remotely personal about him besides his drug problem. Sherlock didn't even know if he still had a drug problem. He didn't feel the pang of withdrawal so he must have quit.

He got up, giving up on sleep. After jotting a quick note to Lestrade and creating another note, wrapping it around a 50-pound note, he took to the streets. He hoped that his network would still be up and running but he had absolutely no clue. Discreetly as possible he searched for someone in his homeless network.

"Change suh?" A young woman, sitting besides the opening of an alley, held out a cup to him. Perfect. Sherlock dropped the note into the cup and continued down the street. Hopefully he would have the information he needed by the next afternoon, and then he would still have time to investigate further himself.

He went back to the flat. Nothing was open anyway. He crumpled the note that he'd left for Greg, not needing it anymore. He lay down in his bed not expecting any sleep to come. But soon he found his breathing slowed, his eyelids grew heavy and with his mind able to calm down a little after having dropped off the note, he fell asleep.

He sat in the back of an ambulance; an obnoxiously orange blanket was wrapped around him. Lights from police cars and ambulances streaked across the dark sky. He recognizes Lestrade he starts talking to him. He can't make out what either of them are saying (something about a shooter?), but Lestrade is writing down what he's say. Then Sherlock sees the man, the man that never seems to be in focus, out of the corner of his eye. He freezes and Lestrade tucks his notebook, filled with unfinished notes, back into his pocket. Sherlock gets up and approaches the man. They walk away together.

Sherlock woke with a start. Remembering his late night activity he quickly dressed and writing another note for Greg, it was 10 am, Sherlock would probably still be out when he got home from the Yard. He then took off in search for the woman he'd encountered last night.

It didn't take long to find her. The sidewalk was busy and he'd almost missed her hidden by a corpulent man who passed her by slowly. But she'd stood up as he approached and handed off the information that she'd collected for him. He walked a good distance from the woman before he stopped to read the note, leaning against the wall of a giant brick faced building.

The paper was the same one he'd given to her the previous night. His notes large and demanding handwriting stood out far from the woman's eloquent and swooping letters. His request had been to find out as much as he could on the man he'd encountered the previous afternoon. He'd given her a description and where he'd seen him. But the detail of his weeping would be the one that would get him the facts he needed. One person would have had to notice a man crying to himself in a restaurant, and if they hadn't then Sherlock feared for the lives of the people in Angelo's because they were all stupendous idiots.

Her note was brief but gave Sherlock the start he needed.

John Watson, 221b Baker Street.

John Watson? Doctor Watson? The man the Mycroft had been worried about. John Watson the one that was working with Lestrade at the Yard?

He didn't know how it all fit together. But he sure as hell was going to find out. He decided to start with Baker Street. He could search for a John Watson on the Internet later, but now was probably the best time to break into someone's flat. It was 10:30 and the man would probably be at work.

He stood out side of 221 Baker Street. Something inside of him twisted. He'd walked by the building countless times. He'd never noticed it before, was it the thrill of the case, or had he been here before? It was time to find out.

He slipped the credit card (which was again new from Mycroft) in the space between the door and the frame. He held the card flush against the doorframe and pushed it until it hit the latch. He bent the card away from the doorknob. It only took a second for the latch to slide back.

He cautiously entered the dark foyer. No one seemed to be home. He looked to his right, 221c. Sneakers sat in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace. The room was empty otherwise. The wallpaper was peeling and the room smelled of mold. He heard the warning "He's a bomber remember?"

God how Sherlock wished these episodes made sense! But at least it was something. He had been here before, for a case? It surely seemed like it.

He spotted 221a and from there he deduced that 221b was up the stairs that started to his left. He made his way up the stairs as silently as possible. He encountered a squeaky step half way up and winced. He continued up and opened the door at the top of the stairs that had no lock that he could see.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. It smelled slightly of smoke masked with a hint of formaldehyde and other various chemicals all wrapped up in the scent of freshly boiled tea. It smelled like him.

Or his jacket and scarf anyway. He tiptoed quietly into the kitchen. A table sat in the middle of the room. It was covered in scratched and divots. Beakers and bottles of chemicals sat on the same table as a high-powered microscope. Definitely not for recreational use.

But there were newspapers too. A thick stack sat on the corner of the table. He picked up the first paper. The headline read "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS". And under it was a picture of him. The rest of the stack had similar headlines, all picturing him.

He'd been so pre-occupied examining the table and finding the paper that he hadn't heard the squeak of the middle stair. He only realized he wasn't alone when John Watson spoke his name. Was that the only word the poor man knew? Sherlock thought.

"What is this? Why does this paper say I killed myself? And what does all of this have to do with you?" John moved closer, he touched the hand that held out the newspaper. He gasped when he came in contact with Sherlock's skin.

"You're real?"