"That bloody wanker isn't answering his damn phone," John begrudgingly admitted to his friend, his mouth carelessly gnawing on some sort of beef stir fry that smelled heavenly. John could barely taste the food at this point, he was inhaling the calories, knowing he'd need them.

House propped his hand under his chin and scowled, "Well, um, right before you got here he… called my cell phone."

John's face was instantaneously and comically affronted, his pout almost pitiful. The expression would have normally sent House into peels of laughter, but he thankfully refrained and remained on topic. "I told him you wouldn't like it."

"Give me your mobile," John ordered, dropping the chopsticks and holding out his hand expectantly.

House pointed absently at his iPhone situated on the desk between them. John swiped the screen and expertly punched in Sherlock's number, waiting for a long minute. The three fellows in the meantime ate very, very quietly.

"That fuckin' bastard," John snarled when Sherlock's voicemail echoed, flinging the device away in a very similar manner as House just minutes before.

Dr. Watson suddenly struck Thirteen as all kinds of exhausted. The British doctor looked utterly defeated as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger a tense brow, lips pursed as if he'd just swallowed something foul.

"So, what did he say?"

House grimaced, the poor guy already knew, didn't he.

"He's going to the Pellisier Estate, then." John deduced. That was the first thing Sherlock would do.

John brought his fingers into his short slightly-greasy hair. He felt like he hadn't showered in months. He could hear his own pulse thrumming, palms beginning to sweat with nervous anxiety. Sherlock's antics often frightened him thrice a week, but at least John was constantly beside the idiot to make sure he was safe. Even if the genius detective wasn't watching his surroundings, the veteran was with trained precision. John understood best of all how easily Sherlock Holmes disappeared into convoluted and downright maudlin cases. His safety took a very noticeable back-burner.

Chasing the high of his deductions was an addiction for Sherlock. And sadly, one that John also shared. Yet when Sherlock got distracted and reckless in dangerous situations, John became calm and steady. It was one of the reasons they seamlessly fit together. Like two jagged puzzle pieces inexplicably slotting into place. Dear God, John thought to himself, if Sherlock got himself killed before their wedding… he wasn't certain he'd survive it. He'd lived through Sherlock's death once before.

The mere thought of Sherlock crouched down at a crime scene over evidence, sharpened eyes studying details no other bloke would notice, not hearing anyone sneak up on him; it scared him senseless. It made John want to either burst into a fitful rage and start screaming, or sob until he couldn't any longer. John very nearly whimpered into his arm, not sure what he ought to do.

"Er," House forced a bit of cheeriness into his tone, "He did say that Lestrade and some of Mycroft's secret service are coming with him. So, there's that.

The former soldiers dropped his forehead to the desk with an audible thunk, "Bloody hell. I knew I shouldn't have left London."

Greg reached over the takeout to gracelessly pat John's good shoulder a few times. The fellows remained wholly silent. It was astonishingly easy to pretend that they weren't in the room, intently listening. They hadn't even met this Sherlock Holmes yet, and even if they'd been excited before, it kinda sounded like this guy was a train wreck.

House sighed and glanced out the window, "Maybe you should go back to my apartment and crash for a few hours? You can take my bike 'cause I know you hate that rental."

John raised his head and shook it in weary negation. His voice was enervated when he responded, "I'll be fine. I just need a shower and a kip on your Eames."

House motioned to the food, "Finish eating first. Then Chase can show you were the locker room is."

The man ate like a zombie, Masters noticed, uncertain if they should keep discussing the case at hand. She exchanged a quick glance with Thirteen, obviously very much wanting to say something. Thirteen bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. Masters remained silent.

After a couple minutes, without prompting, Chase stood and gestured Dr. Watson to follow him. John shouldered his backpack and barely looked conscious. Twenty minutes later, House scooped a blanket around his friends shoulders as the small doctor reclined and got comfortable in the confined space.

"I'm gonna call Molly," House told him softly. "Catch up on the next victim and all that. I'll wake you in five hours?"

"Unless Sherlock calls," John demanded, voice slightly slurred with sleep. "If he calls you better wake me up, no matter what."

House sighed, he wasn't a freakin' maid, yet, "Understood, Captain."

The diagnostician limped around his office, quietly closing curtains and shutting off the desk lamp.

When he return to the conference room, Thirteen and Masters were still sitting at the table, finishing off the remnants of their meal and looking much more awake. Chase stood in the corner, making coffee.

Masters finally cleared her throat, "Poor guy. He must be exhausted."

House snorted sarcastically, returning to John's laptop and accessing his Skype. He typed in Molly's number at Bart's, knowing that even if it was almost three am her time, she was ever the dedicated mortician. This case was thrilling, of course, and House knew Molly prided herself on being one of the few people Sherlock Holmes called a friend. When he'd lived in London, he'd seen the small girl throw away luxuries like sunlight and proper meals to satisfy Sherlock's curiosity. Capturing dangerous criminals, Greg's mind added, thinking of John passed out on his chair.

It wasn't morbid curiosity that motivated Sherlock. House knew it could never be just that.

As many others before him had pointed out, it would have been much easier for Sherlock to be a criminal than work alongside the police. Back before the fall, when paparazzi across the UK were smearing his name, John had a lone press conference with the BBC. House would never forget it. Captain Watson's righteous fury defended Sherlock's honor against Scotland Yard's instance that he was Moriatry. All without knowing the detective was not dead. House had, incidentally known. Mycroft was a bastard like that.

Back then, John thought Sherlock committed suicide. It had torn John's heart out not knowing why the detective did it; thinking that there might have been something he could do to prevent it. If only he hadn't argued with Sherlock the last time he'd seen him… House quietly let out a deep breathe of air, remembering the words from Sherlock's funeral.

"You told me once, that you weren't a hero. There were times when I didn't even think you were human. But, let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human… human being that I've ever known. And nobody will convince me he told me a lie. No, sir."

House realized belatedly that he'd been standing stationary. His fellows were staring at him with open concern. He scowled, quickly tapping the enter key. The computer chimed nosily within the quiet office.

Molly's face was pale and gaunt when she appeared on screen.

"Oh, 'ello, Dr. House." She greeted in a far-away tone. She glanced at the other people in the room. "Where's John?"

"Sleeping." House grunted. "He needs it."

Molly winced in commiseration, "I'm sure John resents the fact he's so far away when Sherlock is-"

"Being Sherlock?" House replied. "So, he wasn't lying about Lestrade and Mycroft's men?"

"No," Molly tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Besides, the murderer would have to be an utter imbecile to hide the body in such an obvious location before the experiment is completed."

"What have you learned about the next victim?" House prompted.

Molly reached away from the screen, bringing a glowing tablet near her face. It made her ivory skin appear translucent.

"Fran Eisner, 18. Honors student from the same college…" Molly hummed, tapping her lip with an index finger absently as her eyes deftly scanned her tablet. "Her basal ganglia was taken, though this time some surrounding tissue was extracted. Same exact proficiency as the others, same injection site, no signs of abuse or assault to the victim. No signs of struggle, in fact. He's getting practiced, rehearsed at this."

Masters took a shaky breath in, capturing Molly's attention. She smiled at them warmly, "Oh, pardon. A bit rubbish at introductions, but, I'm Molly Hooper. I work as a specialist registrar at St. Bart's."

The fellows rambled off their names in steady and quick succession, knowing House might interrupt at any moment. Tedious social niceties irked him like nothing else.

"Anyway-" House barked. "Back to more important matters,"

"Sherlock should be finishing up at the Estate in about an hour." Molly murmured, not at all offended by House's caustic behavior. "But I warn you that he's… a little intense right now."

"I know," House scowled. "He called."

Molly's demeanor turned disapproving, "And he didn't talk to John, I suspect?"

"Of course not."

Molly huffed in clear agitation, "Ooooh! I'd swear, if he wasn't already bloody engaged to the best thing that's ever happened to him, I'd smack him on his beautiful cheekbones for being such a downright berk!"

"Sherlock Holmes is engaged?" Thirteen interrupted.

Both House and Molly stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. Then House seemed to shake himself out of it, pointing his index finger at Molly and wagging it.

"Not. A. Word."

Molly's head tilted to the side, a shy smile blooming across her face. "Well, Dr. House, you're acting particularly accommodating-"

"So," House snapped, "Nothing else you can report?"

Her dark bangs covered her eyes for a moment, she was obviously debating something internally.

"Unfortunately no. But." She hedged, finally admitting. "I've never seen such a professional kill."

Something in this strange British woman's voice made Chase's stomach tighten, the mood in the room shifted palpably.

"I mean to say, after all these years I've seen some pretty imaginative murder-methods, but it was never this… Not even Moriarty. Or Moran. Dr. House, those guys were professional killers but they were never this neat and tidy."

"You seem to have a theory," Chase finally voiced the suspicion that had been caught in his throat.

Molly nodded, her expression glum. "The Forest Hill cult. In 2013, I did the autopsies on those victims as well."

She paused, bringing her fingers up to her lips in a clearly unconscious but tellingly nervous gesture. "Sherlock's doing his best right now to prevent the next two unnamed girls from dying,"

"You think the murderer won't get caught in time?" House guessed.

"House." Molly's eyes met his, surprised, "I'm certain he won't."

House nodded, throat tight as he quipped, "Call if you have any news. We'll be up."

She waved unenthusiastically, dropping the call. The eldest doctor pursed his lips in agitation, glancing absently towards his office where he knew John was coma-sleeping.

"Okay," House muttered, "We aren't going at this the right way."

He limped over to the white board and erased the symptoms of the previous patient with his shirt-sleeve.

Picking up the dry erase marker, he began writing in his messy scrawl:

1. (age: 20) Sophia Emerson (hostie with the mostie) (spinal chord & brainstem) AB +

2. (age: 17) Dafiya Quadeer (frontal lobe) O-

3. (age: 23) Una Illingsworth (parietal lobe) A+

4. (age: 24) Madhu Emani (temporal lobe) O+

5. (age: 21) Dana Edelstein (occipital lobe) B+

6. (age: 18) Fran Eisner (basal ganglia) A-

7. & 8. ?

"Alright, let's compile the other stats into a comprehensive list."

Masters nodded, standing in unison with Thirteen. Chase opened the first file, rattling off details. They began by building personal medical profiles of relevant information. They added ethnicity, religion, medical disorders, sexual activity. After a good hour their list was cramped and disorderly.

John's Skype was still open. His computer rang shrilly, Molly was on the other line.

"The next victim has been located." Once she saw John wasn't in the room she quickly rattled, "This time the body was found by Sherlock at the Estate, in a barn near the original site of the massacre. It looks like someone took up residency there, only vacated it recently. Lestrade is bringing the body in now. Sherlock's heading here, also, but he sounded…"

House tensed, "He sounded what, Molly?"

"Petrified." Molly whispered, schooling her countenance into an unreadable mask. "You'd better wake John up."

TBC.