Hello! Another chapter! I wanted to thanks everyone who clicked on favourite, reviewed and who started following the story. It totally made my day. After that, I would also like to thank go get it, who gave me the idea of searching Sherlock scripts to help writing this story correctly (how stupid of me, not remembering that before...).

Disclaimer: Guess who got Sherlock: The Casebook for Christmas: I did! I did! A part of Sherlock that's legally mine, 'cause the entire Sherlock will never belong to me.

Enjoy!

"I was trying to think what would happen if I suddenly put an end to the way I act and what would be the consequences."

"And?..."

Sherlock shot a small smile towards John. "I got nothing. That would never happen."


"Remind me… Why am I dragging a pink suitcase around London?"

John and Sherlock found themselves, once again, walking on the cold streets of London, now bursting with life. The sunny day, absent of clouds, in full November, made it possible for lots of families to leave their houses and enjoy themselves with a little bit of fresh air outside, but of course, more people on the streets, the greater the humiliation John felt. Men and women gave weird looks and, although difficult, John promptly ignored them. He tried not to show it to other people, even those who were close to him, but he cared a lot about what other people thought of him. Not about ridiculous things like if he was gay or not (however, he would get really cross whenever someone called him gay), but something really important, not that he could give an example at the moment. Everything seemed to have vanished from his mind the moment a child pointed at him and his friends started laughing at him.

"I want to see if there's something important for the case. I still didn't check it out."

"Why don't you check it when we get home?"

"That's where we are heading to." John didn't complain.


"John!"

"Hi, Mrs Hudson! How are you?" John got caught in a tight hug and suddenly, he was in front of table with plates full of biscuits, cakes and tarts and two tea cups with water just boiled. Right next to them was a small wooden box with teabags and tea leaves. Sherlock sat at John's left and looked at him expectantly. Not understanding what his friend meant, he asked silently what Sherlock wanted.

"What about my tea?"

"You serious?"After taking another batch from the oven, Mrs Hudson placed it on the table and walked around the table until she got to the chair where Sherlock was sat on. John, seeing Mrs Hudson grabbing the chair back, ready to pull it on her direction so she could sit, shouted. "No!"

The old lady jolted and turned her head on John's direction with a worried face. "Dear God, John! You scared me! What's wrong?"

John's eyes drifted from a very shocked Mrs Hudson to a very-but-rarely-wide-eyed Sherlock Holmes. John intensified his glare and the detective got up from his chair while rolling the eyes and sat in front of him with a loud huff, grabbing a cinnamon biscuit and throwing it in the air only to catch it with is mouth. With a loud 'tcharam!', Sherlock smiled and John started laughing. The doctor immediately stopped as he saw Mrs Hudson still on her feet, not shocked anymore but with a half-smile on her face. She tilted her head slightly on the chair's direction and John nodded, as if giving her permission to finally sit down.

After fifteen minutes of small chat and discussing the terms and conditions of the renting, Mrs Hudson left the kitchen in order to find out the keys of the flat above hers. John reclined on the chair and crossed his arms, observing the silent Sherlock on the other end of the table, playing with a teaspoon.

"What the hell was that?"

Without looking up from the spoon, Sherlock put the object down and also reclined on the chair. "What was what?"

"You. Throwing food in the air and catching it with your mouth as a normal person."

"Is it… Normal to throw food in the air?"

"Well… It's not the most correct thing to do. Actually, it reveals lack of manners - not that most people pay attention to those things these days.

"So, you're just picking on me because I showed lack of manners?" For the first time since Mrs Hudson left the kitchen, Sherlock looked up.

"No! I was not doing such thing! I was trying to say you…"

John paused and moved his hands in circles, clearly trying to rephrase what he had just said. Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "Breaking the ice. A new experiment of mine."

"Oh. Don't do it ever again. You get completely out of character."

"That's what I am now. A book character. Maybe, even a movie one."

"Shut it."

"John, dear, I found the keys. Coming?" John and Sherlock got up and followed Mrs Hudson, who was searching for the right key on the key ring, to the hall. "I really should do some cleaning here, but I'm so tired lately, you know? And my hip isn't helping either. You see, three days ago, Mrs Turner next door paid me a little visit. We gossiped a bit about her two married boys. They're not her children, they rent her a flat – just like you'll probably do – and they are so sweet and nice to me."

John gave a little smile to the old lady and she saw this as a good incentive to keep talking about things that they had previously talked about at the teatime. She climbed up the stairs and the echo of her voice got louder and louder. Sherlock also walked upstairs, John following right behind. "Don't you get insane with all of this gab?"

"I have Mrs Hudson on mute. I only see her moving lips, no sound coming out."

"That's just not possible!"

"I'm not real, have you forgotten that? I could have wings and fly."

"Not fair."

"World's not fair, John Watson. You, better than anyone, should know that."

Mrs Hudson opened the door and pushed John inside gently. The flat wasn't too big, nor too small. The living room had two armchairs, completely different from each other and a leather sofa on the other side of the room. In front of said couch was a wooden coffee table, piles and piles of magazines on top of it. Two large windows lightened the living room, making it possible to watch small dust particles wandering in the air. Sherlock moved closer to a table and leaned on it, observing the sitting room. The kitchen was way bigger than the kitchen on John's current flat and, although old, every single household appliance seemed to be working.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." Sherlock looks around the flat happily. "I'll go straight ahead and move in."

"Wait, what?"

"What do you think, then, John? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you need it."

"I don't think it'll be necessary."

"Of course it will! I need a bed."

"You don't sleep!" Mrs Hudson, obviously knowing what was going on, walked out of the room with the pretext of getting some more tea and biscuits.

"Another good reason to start to!"

"You are in a middle of a case! You don't sleep when you're on a case!"

"According to you, it is my first and last case, so I think I'll have plenty of time to sleep. In my bed!"

"Don't you think it'll be strange to have two bedrooms when I only need one?"

"Come on… Nothing's stranger than this situation right now."

As Sherlock shook his arms around, showing that Mrs Hudson had long left the flat and John was standing there, alone apart from his spectral friend, John got downstairs and grabbed the pink suitcase from Mrs Hudson's flat. Unable to see the old lady anywhere, John climbed the stairs and put the case on the top of the now magazines free coffee table. He joined Sherlock on the couch and opened the suitcase. A few items of clothing and underwear (all of them pink), a wash bag and a paperback novel by Paul Bunch entitled "Come to Bed Eyes". Nothing of relevance to the case. Sherlock snatched the luggage label from the handle and read it.

"There's no other way. We'll have to risk it. I want you to send a text."

"A text?"

"Text, yes. Here's the number." Sherlock held the paper out for John to take it. Looking suspiciously at his friend, John took the label and typed the number onto it. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Ye- Hang on!"

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.'" John started to type but looked briefly across to Sherlock, doubting his words. The dark-haired man was just about to continue his narration when John interrupted him.

"You are a kind of a… ghost. You don't black out, do you?"

"What? No. No! Don't interrupt me! Where was I?" A pause. "These words: 'Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.' Type it and send it. Quickly."

"What's the address?"

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" Impatiently, Sherlock pushed the suitcase until it was in front of John. As he finished typing the message, John gave a glimpse at the pink case again. "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there. You just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home."

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home." Sherlock looked at John expectantly.

"Hmm…" John looked down at his phone and suddenly, a question appeared on his mind. "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is: where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it." Receiving a glower from Sherlock, John slowly did another attempt to get it right. "The murderer ... You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?" As if on cue, John's phone began to ring. He picked it up and looked at the screen for the Caller I.D. It read "(withheld) calling". He looked across to Sherlock as the phone continued to ring.

"A day after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer ..." Sherlock paused in order to sound dramatic and the phone stopped ringing. "... would panic." He flipped the lid of the suitcase closed and stood up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. As John continued to stare down at his phone, Sherlock put his jacket on and walked towards the door. "I'm starving. Dinner?"

"We just had tea and biscuits."

"You had. I didn't. Angelo's?"

John got up from the couch and grabbed his coat. "Yeah, why not?"

Review please! I would love to know what do you think of the story so far!

Have a happy new year!