A/N: There's a bit of London geography in this one, as well as some forensics science regarding guns and ballistics. Both of these aspects were researched to the best of my abilities, but if anyone spots anything completely out of left field, do please let me know.

It had been nearly three months since John's last nightmare. He had almost managed to forget the feeling of sick horror they left in his stomach, or the sticky sheen of sweat that coated his back and face. At least this time he had woken on his own, and in his bed, rather than shouting himself awake or being shaken back to reality by his half-irritated, half-concerned flatmate.

It was only six o'clock, and he didn't have to be at the surgery until one. He had hoped to sleep in, after being out so late the night before. But the thought of going back to sleep now, after a dream like that—no thank you. The thing he hated worst about the nightmares was the complete lack of control. Awake, he could protect himself, he could understand the situation. Awake, he was alright.

He was making coffee when Sherlock came in.

"Out already?" John asked, dropping two sugar cubes into a mug and passing it to his flatmate. Sherlock took the drink with a nod and plopped down in his armchair.

"I spoke with a few of my 'homeless network,' as you have dubbed them," he said, as John popped a lid onto his thermos. "I wanted to see if any of them knew Helen Nash or Wilson Adams."

"And?"

"Mm. No luck." Sherlock sipped the coffee and set it down with a slightly-irritated thunk. "A few of them knew who they were, but not why they would be dead under a bridge."

"Anything else to go on?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock had posted pictures from the two crime scenes in a sort of collage around the edges of the mirror that hung over the fireplace—it was his usual method of keeping all his notes in one place until he had a chance to file them away in the binders he kept in his room. Once, John had made the mistake of taking down some of the notes after a case had been closed, thinking he was helping his flatmate out a bit. Two lectures and a day of sulking later, he knew better.

Now, he stepped closer to the collection of photos and hastily-scribbled notes, examining them without touching. He paused at the picture of Helen Nash. "There was this woman in my unit," he mused aloud. "Private Lily Williams. She cornered me into a game of checkers one day and beat me thirteen games out of twenty."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "And you're telling me this…why?"

John blinked. "Uh…no reason, I guess. Something reminded me, that's all." Shaking his head, he stepped away from the wall and dropped into his chair, flicking on the television. Talk show, morning news, kids' cartoon, more talk shows…

"Nightmares?"

John's thumb paused over the channel changer and looked over at his friend. "Is it obvious?" he sighed.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Only to someone who knows what to look for."

John rolled his eyes. "Great." But it was comforting, somehow, that someone knew—knew, and didn't judge him for it, or think him weak.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock staring up at his notes and John watching the morning news report. There was a bit about the murder of Jeremy Ovington, but nothing about the two homeless victims. It irritated John—after all, Nash and Adams had been people too, probably with friends and family left to mourn.

There was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," John offered, standing. He crossed the room and opened the door to find Greg Lestrade standing on the other side.

"Sorry to bother," the DI said, glancing over John's shoulder at Sherlock, who stood. "I'm on my way to a scene. Want to come with?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Is it connected?"

"It is."

"I wouldn't miss it." He scooped up his coat and began to put it on.

John glanced at the clock. "How far?"

"Kensington Gardens," the DI replied. "West side."

"Well, I don't have to be at work until after noon," John said. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Please do." Sherlock brushed past both John and Lestrade, calling back, "I'll get a cab, Lestrade. We'll meet you there."

As John grabbed his jacket, Lestrade muttered, "One of these days I will get him in a squad car—just so I can say I did."

"There's bad news, and there's good news. And then there's more good news—what do you want first?"

Sherlock was crouched over the body of 28-year-old Thomas Shore, looking rather like a vulture in a coat and scarf, to John's imagination. The dark-haired detective spared a glance for Lestrade. "Does it make a difference?"

"Probably not. Bad news first then." He bent over and pointed at the right hand of the blonde-haired victim—John thought the boy hardly old enough to be out of school, let alone dead. "Thomas Shore. Age: 28, occupation: waiter at a nightclub. Same injection wound—my people are checking every stiff they find for these now. I think there's some kind of betting pool on it."

Sherlock smirked, and slipped a hand into the victim's pocket, withdrawing a scrap of paper and squinting at it. "And the good news?"

"Hold on—I'm not finished with the bad, yet." Lestrade stood up, speaking to John. "No family, no close friends—this guy could had vanished for weeks and no one would have noticed."

John shook his head. "Just like Ovington and the two homeless victims," he said. "Except…they were found."

"Yeah. It's like the killer is picking people no one will really care about, but putting them places we'll be sure to find. Parking garage, a public park…even under that bridge—kids go down there all the time. Someone would have found them."

"Alright, well…" John peered over Sherlock's shoulder at the body. "Give us some good news?"

"There was a bullet this time."

Sherlock stood. "A bullet?"

"Yeah." Lestrade smiled proudly. "My boys in the crime lab ID-d the gun used. It's a SIG-Sauer. Standard issue all over the States, and several of our own military branches use it."

John felt his heart skip a beat. Sherlock stepped over the body and grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders; the look in his eye might have frightened a lesser man. "A SIG-Sauer?" he demanded. "You're certain."

"Well…yeah." Lestrade took a step back. "That's what they determined in the lab. I don't understand all the specifics—that's what we've got them for, but Sherlock—"

Detective Inspector Lestrade had worked with Sherlock Holmes for a long time—long enough to know when something had clicked in that fantastical mind. But even now—even after having worked with Sherlock for years—he couldn't have understood the meaning-laden look that the lanky detective shot John Watson.

The doctor did, though, and nodded sharply. "Right, yeah—" he said, and swallowed.

"Listen, John, are you alright?" Lestrade asked, concern in his voice. He looked from Sherlock to John and back. "What's going on?"

"I'm fine—fine." John managed. He waved a hand vaguely. "I'll…I'll just be going then. Have to be at work in…four hours. Better, uh…better get back." Turning swiftly, he walked away, over the green and toward the road.

He had to get back to the flat.

Sherlock watched his friend go, his brow furrowed in thought, and then shook his head. He turned back to Lestrade. "And the other good news?"

"What?" Lestrade was highly confused, but he shook his head sharply and brought his mind back to the case. "Oh—right. Good news. Well, other than one bullet, we still don't have fingerprints, DNA, or anything else to link anyone to the crimes. Except this."

He pulled out his cell phone and thumbed open his picture file. "See? We missed it on Ovington—had to go back and look. But it was there—scratched onto the wall. And Nash and Adams had it scribbled onto the concrete above them."

It was list of eight numbers: 97683415. It seemed random, but Sherlock knew better. He held out the slip of paper he had retrieved from the body. It held the same series of numbers. "This was in his pocket."

"Those numbers mean anything to you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, and a series of images passed in front of his imagination. No…no…perhaps—no, never mind…no…ridiculous…no…highly unlikely…never…no… "Not yet."

"Well, if you get anything, let me know."

"Always." Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets. "Is that all?"

"No. One more thing." The DI closed out the pictures and pulled up a sound file. "Came in at about five this morning—from a pay phone."

"I just saw something weird," a male voice said. Sherlock frowned. That voice…it sounded familiar… "There was this guy in Kensington Park. He was acting all weird, like he didn't want anyone, you know, seeing him. And he was hiding something in his pocket. Um…he was blonde and kind of short and, uh…he was wearing a black coat—it had leather patches on it. I remember thinking it was kind of a cool coat, but that the guy was weird."

"What do you mean by weird?" the officer on the line asked.

"Like, he was sneaking along, trying to stay out of the light, and he kept looking over his shoulder. Like one of those guys you see on the news—like the soldiers going into terrorist's houses and stuff."

Lestrade clicked the file off. "The officer tried to get his name, but he hung up. What do you think?"

Sherlock was staring into space. That voice…not the speaking pattern, not the pitch…but something about the voice itself nagged at his memory. And what the voice said, combined with the model of the gun…

"I think," he said slowly, "I need a little family time."

John's hands were firm as he unlocked the door to 221B, but he felt as if they ought to be shaking. Up the stairs and past the living room, up another flight and into his bedroom. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and stared down at the object hidden inside.

His gun. It was there, and it hadn't been moved—he ought to know, he checked it often enough, out of fear that Sherlock might have borrowed it for who-knew-what. He breathed a sigh of relief and shut the drawer.

His gun. His illegally owned gun. His illegally owned gun that Mycroft had pulled some strings to allow him to keep—under the radar, of course. The idea that some serial killer was out there, running around with the same model of gun as the one that hid in John's desk drawer was not one he wanted to dwell on—but at least it was only the same model, not the actual gun. For a second, there at the crime scene, he had been sure…

He pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock a quick text: It's still here. -JW

Something rattled downstairs.

John tensed, and cocked his head to listen. Someone was in the kitchen—he could hear them clattering around with dishes. Sherlock? No—Sherlock had sent him back to check on the gun. He would know that John would be on high alert, and would have shouted when he came in.

Someone was in the flat.

Creeping as quietly as he could, avoiding the squeaky third step down and keeping close to the wall, John slipped down the stairs, his pistol palmed and at the ready. Adrenaline pulsed in his head, and he breathed slowly, trying to ignore the faint scent of dust and sweat that his mind told him he could smell but which he knew wasn't really there.

The door to the living room was open, but the one that led into the kitchen was shut. John slipped through the doorway into the living room, keeping his back against the wall and craning his neck to catch a glimpse into the kitchen in the reflections of the framed pictures on the shelf beside the window. He could see something moving...but not enough to tell who or what it was.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped around the corner, bringing up the gun in one smooth motion.

Jim Moriarty looked up from the cup of tea he was stirring. "Hi," he warbled with a toothy grin. "Sugar?"

Secondary A/N: The serial number I gave John came from a quick Google search, which turned up some fan-made dog tags. If you Google the number, that's all that turns up. Didn't want to accidentally involve some innocent soldier... :)