(A/N: After a filler of EPIC proportions, you are finally getting something meaty (although apparently it wasn't really a filler, according to my FANTASTIC AND HONESTLY PERFECT REVIEWERS! I LOVE YOU ALL!). :D First the cab-ride and then the crime scene arrival ALL IN ONE CHAPTER! AND THIS, AND MORE, CAN BE YOURS IF YOU JUST FREAKING READ ALREADY! And review. That's always nice too. :3

Oh, and I am currently working on a monster of a one-shot titled "When a Good Man Goes to War." I know, sounds Doctor-y but it's a Sherlock one-shot. Trust me. Here's a little tidbit. Let me know what you think:

So hot tea was just what he needed. John was awakened by the pain. Not John Watson, ever loyal friend of Sherlock, or Doctor Watson, the wonderful practitioner with the steady hands and kind words, but Caption John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, the loyal killer with the steady hands and hard eyes.
There you go. Let me know. In the review box below. [And yeah. That just happened. :D])

They had been riding in silence for a while now. Sherlock estimated that they were about halfway to the crime scene, but still a good twenty to thirty minutes out based upon traffic flow and the route the cab was taking them. Sherlock had kept his gaze pointedly on his phone, but he could see John's gaze wander from him to his phone to their surroundings to him again. Sherlock sighed.

"Okay, you've got questions?" It was more of a statement.

The spell of silence was broken. "Yeah, where are we going?" John asked immediately.

"Crime scene." (Obvious, John, really.)"Next."

"Who are you?" John's focus was on his hands and the cane that rested between his knees. "What do you do?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock didn't miss a beat. (Think, John. I know you can.)

"I'd say private detective," John began. (Good. Almost…) Sherlock glanced out the window, hiding a smile.

"But," Sherlock prompted knowing John was a bit more observant then that.

"But the police don't go to private detectives," John finished instantly, and Sherlock's small smile grew, if only for a moment.

"I'm a consulting detective, only one in the world," Sherlock clarified proudly. "I invented the job."

"And what does that mean?" John asked, his eyes still on the Sherlock.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," Sherlock explained, his own gaze on their surroundings.

"The police don't consult amateurs," John chuckled in disbelief. The cab fell silent for a moment and Sherlock turned his burning gaze to the doctor almost hungrily before tilting his head and smirking. Challenge accepted.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday," Sherlock began, "I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you looked surprised." (Not scared or horrified or offended, but surprised and intrigued.)

"Yes, how did you know?" John asked eagerly. He'd been waiting for this answer for the last two days and he didn't think Sherlock was going to deflect this time.

"I didn't know, I saw," Sherlock smirked. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so army doctor, obvious." Sherlock saw John sigh, tilting his head back. At least it is now… "Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. It means you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp is really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then." Sherlock turned his head and looked out the window. "Wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq."

The cab grew silent again.

Then John said quietly, and a bit brokenly, "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp," Sherlock left no room for pity. "Of course you've got a therapist." Silence for a beat or two. "Then there's your brother." John turned, confusion flashing in his eyes. "Your phone," Sherlock said, looking down at it in John's hand. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this; it's a gift, then." He turned the phone in his hand, allowing the light to catch multiple surfaces. "Scratches – not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat a luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner," Sherlock explained, his gaze dancing from John to outside to the phone and back. John looked at Sherlock, something between confusion and offended plastered on his face. "The next bit is easy. You know it already." Sherlock flipped the phone over.

"The engraving," John said softly. Harry Watson, From Clara, xxx was etched into the back.

"Harry Watson – clearly a family member who's given you his old phone," Sherlock picked up again, John watching with his mouth agape and slight amusement dancing in his eyes. "Not your father; this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is." (War hero? Why say that. There are no heroes…) "Now Clara… who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment, but the expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend." John's mouth was closed and his eyes were following the phone as Sherlock waved it around.

"She must have given it to him recently. This model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do, sentiment." Sherlock hated that word. "No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That means he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help?" John was looking a bit more bothered than shocked at the moment. "That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked breathily, fiddling with his cane again.

Sherlock gave a flat smile. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuffmarks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." Sherlock handed the device back to the silent doctor. "There you go, you see, you were right." Too easy, too easy. Must impress, don't reject, Sherlock's thoughts were spinning a mile a minute.

"I was right?" John said sharply. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock said, releasing a breath of air. Here it comes, he braced himself for the inevitable.

"That," John began (not too harsh, don't get burned), "was amazing." Sherlock's mind froze for a millisecond and then sped up exponentially. "That… was amazing," echoed in his mind, dancing behind his eyes, and filling his veins. He turned to John, who was looking out the window grudgingly.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked. Have to check, cannot be a mistake. Must be accurate.

"Yes, of course." John almost seemed reluctant to admit it. "Extraordinary, it was quite… extraordinary." Sherlock processed this compliment much quicker.

"That's not what people normally say," he said a bit breathlessly.

"What do people normally say?" John instantly countered.

Sherlock turned. "Piss off," he answered with a smile. John chuckled, facing the window almost as if to hide it, but Sherlock saw it and smiled wider.


John was still in a daze when they arrived at the crime scene. The way that man had taken the smallest of details and unraveled every piece of John's life, leaving him feeling bare and exposed. Down to Harry's drinking problem… John thought solemnly and then smiled. At least he got one thing wrong. John took so much pleasure in that fact.

Shaking his head, John lurched forward and got out of the cab, slowly making his way behind Sherlock. Staring at the man's back, John thought back to how he'd gone from intrigue to anger to surprise to complete amazement to shock in the span of those few minutes, to how Sherlock seemed pleased at his own inferences and completely taken aback at his honest reaction. John shook his head slowly. It seemed wrong that a man with such an amazing ability would be so openly and frequently ridiculed for it. And the way Sherlock's eyes had lit up when he began rattling off his deductions…

John was pulled back into reality by Sherlock's voice. "Hm?" John asked.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock reiterated, a sour look on his face.

John smiled. Here was his chance. "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce." John paused, both catching his breath and enjoying the growing pride on Sherlock's face. "And Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock smiled wide, turning to walk facing forward again. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." John smiled at his feet, before tilting his head up again. I'm really going to enjoy this.

"Harry is short for Harriet." There it was, out in the air. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. John grinned and kept walking.

"Harry's your sister," he whispered, eyes glazed.

John glanced around, his mind half on their surroundings and half on Sherlock's reaction (which definitely exceeded expectations and was completely satisfactory). "What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John glanced back behind him where Sherlock was still frozen, lost in thoughts.

"Sister," he hissed before moving forward again. John held up a hand, trying to grab Sherlock's attention.

"No, seriously. What am I doing here?" he asked again.

Sherlock ignored him, snapping his fingers as he muttered, "There's always something." John fought hard not to roll his eyes. Yes, he took deep satisfaction in proving the man wrong in one aspect, but this was getting a tad ridiculous.

They slowed to a stop by the police tape where a, frankly, attractive woman was standing, arms crossed. She had long, curly hair that framed an oval face. Her eyes were a deep brown and she had nice full lips, but the way they curled turned her entire visage unappealing.

"Hello freak," she sneered. John stiffened. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

"I'm here to see Inspector Lestrade," he said blandly. John's hands clenched beside him at hearing the careful monotone.

"Why?" The woman didn't move but to lift an eyebrow.

"I was invited," Sherlock responded. How often is he 'invited'? John wondered.

"Why?" she asked again.

"I think he wants me to take a look," he said sarcastically. Does he have to deal with this every time? John thought, shifting his weight off his right leg. Sherlock glanced back at John and caught him moving.

The woman tensed before saying, "Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," Sherlock said with a smirk before leaning forward slightly and sniffing. "I even know you didn't make it home last night," he muttered and brushed past the stunned woman.

"I don't-" she stopped herself and turned to face John for the first time. "Er, who's this?" Sally asked with an echo of the sneer she gave Sherlock minutes ago. John let out a breath through his teeth and let his hand relax.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," Sherlock supplied, ducking under the yellow tape. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." He turned to her with a smirk and said, "Old friend."

Donovan gives Sherlock a look of disbelief. "Colleague? How do you get a colleague?" John shuddered at the coldness this Sergeant Donovan was displaying towards Sherlock. Sure he isn't the most polite, John thought, but he wasn't outright rude until you opened your twisted mouth. Donovan faced John who quickly schooled his expression, smoothing out the agitation and letting it settle in the hand clutching the cane. "Did he follow you home?" she quipped with false concern.

John shifted, tilting his head and looking at Sherlock, completely disregarding Donovan. "Would it be better if I just waited and…" he asked, pointing back towards the road.

"No," Sherlock interrupted, lifting the tape for John and turning to glance back at the crime scene. Pointedly avoiding my eye, John noted. When Donovan made no move to stop him, John limped forward, barely tilting his head down to avoid the tape.

The sergeant pulled out a radio and says sharply, "Freak's here, bringing him in." John didn't send the ugly bitch a second glance as he and Sherlock head towards a building where people were milling about. As they neared the door, a man came to meet them. He was skinny, but not very tall, and wore the disposable suit of the forensics team. His hair was dark, thick, and slicked back, his nose was hooked, and his nostrils were flared as if some horrible stench permanently permeated the air in front of him.

The weasel looking man marched right up to Sherlock and opened his mouth to scold or scorn, but Sherlock jumped in and said, with a grim smirk, "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Anderson narrowed his beady eyes.

"It's a crime scene," the man bit out. "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Sherlock pinned his cutting gaze on the man and inhaled sharply. "Quite clear," he snapped. Sherlock made to move forward, but stopped. "Is your wife away for long?"

Anderson's face twisted. "Oh don't pretend you worked that out," he sneered. "Somebody told you."

Sherlock smirked, glancing around, before saying, "Your deodorant told me that."

That threw Anderson. "My deodorant?"

"It's for men," Sherlock said lightly, with a quick smile. John tilted his head in slight confusion, not quite following Sherlock's deductions himself.

"Well, of course it's for men," Anderson scoffed. "I'm wearing it!" John shook his head knowingly. He may have only known Sherlock a day, but he already knew he wouldn't go for such an easy insult. He was far more intelligent than that.

"So's Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock deadpanned and John had to smother a giggle. There was the punch. Anderson blanched and Sherlock leaned forward and sniffed pointedly. "Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?" And without waiting for a response, Sherlock pushed passed the sputtering man.

"Now, look. W-whatever you're trying to imply-" he stuttered, pointing and accusatory finger at Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped and turned. "I'm not implying anything," he interrupted brusquely before continuing his way towards the door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice chat and just happened to stay over." Upon reaching the door, he paused and spun on his foot. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Sherlock smiled smugly at the look of pure horror on Donovan and Anderson's faces. With a flare of his coat, he turned and went inside.

John hid his smile under a grimace as he moved forward towards the door himself. John studiously kept his eyes on the ground before him as he passed Anderson, but he couldn't help glancing at Donovan's knees as he passed her. John had to swallow another smile. He gave her a quick nod before following Sherlock through the open door.

(A/N: Another chapter finished. On a roll, I am. New chapter there will be. Post it soon I will. Like Yoda I am speaking. Review you will.)