Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?

~William Blake

"What the hell..."

Lestrade had seen many murder scenes, but none like this. When he got the call there had been a fourth in this series of assumed killings, he had hoped this would be a chance at some lead. A chance at finding some evidence. But as the three scenes before it, this scene was no different.

He had seen the photographs and he knew the murderer's trademark, but it was different in person. The image was unsettling. The floor was always streaked with blood, as though the murderer had purposely spread it about the room. In the middle of the room, lay a piece of the body. The past body parts had been a foot, an elbow, and a head. Now, what appeared to be the bone of a shoulder blade lay in the middle of the floor. Lestrade forced himself to look away. It was like someone was he was in the middle of a horror film. Lestrade turned to Sally Donavon.

"Got the credentials?"

Sally held up a blood-covered wallet in a plastic bag. "Got em."

This was sick. The murderer left the credentials every time, like he was playing with them. Lestrade began to feel angry. Angry that people were dying, and there was nothing he or his team could do.

Signed, yours, John

John smiled down at the paper. Ever since Sarah and he had made up, things had never been better. Sherlock had no cases to steal his attention away, and they began investing more and more into each other. John licked the envelopes and sealed it with a stamp. Now they began writing love letters, a new idea he rather liked. It made his passion for her grow even more, if that was possible.

"Stop."

John turned and saw Sherlock still lying on his back on that old couch. Sherlock couldn't stand John being so happy while he was stuck here being miserable. With him focusing on Sarah all the time, he had no one else to talk with, and Mrs. Hudson had promised to return his skull when he repaired the wall.

John snatched up his envelope and left, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat, alone with his thoughts. Sherlock finally got up, deciding he would fix the wall, hoping Mrs. Hudson would return his skull quite promptly. He grabbed the caulking and paint and slipped on a pair of jeans, not bothering to put a shirt on. There was no one there to oppose his slight lack of modesty.

There are murders about and I'm fixing a bloody wall...

Sherlock tried not to think about it, but his mind was restless. He groaned, wanting to slam his fists into the wall he was attempting to fix. In an attempt to release his anger, he looked at the nearest stack of books and kicked it hard. The stack toppled over with a crash. Sherlock sighed, satisfied. He turned to continue the wall and immediately realized he wasn't alone.

Irene stood in the kitchen, giving him a look like one would give a child throwing a tantrum. She must have just returned from work, judging from her business clothing. Sherlock glanced away quickly, trying to ignore her.

Irene wouldn't give up though. "So this is how its always going to be Sherlock? Neighbors who don't speak a word to each other?"

"You took away my work."

"You ruined my chance at an education!"

"But you were guilty weren't you?" Sherlock strode towards her. "All the facts pointed to you. How could you possibly think you wouldn't get caught?" He was only inches from her now, her cold eyes boring into him.

Irene, to his surprise, smiled. "But you missed something didn't you?"

Sherlock backed up slightly. "What? What did I miss?"

Irene laughed cynically. "Clubs." Her eyes darted around, then met his again. "The Psychology club met everyday at 1:00, and didn't end till 2:00."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "But the shoes..."

Irene's smile began to fade. "We wore the same size. Marissa and I. I never thought..."

Sherlock pulled her into an embrace. It was rather uncharacteristic of him, but in this instance, what else could he do? He had nothing he could say or do to fix what he had done. Irene held him close, his sweaty body against her blazer.

He was sorry.

She felt wounds that had cut deep for years finally beginning to heal. Maybe one day, they could be friends once again...

Your reviews still make me ridiculously happy, thank you! I probably won't post a chapter tomorrow but Friday I'll definitely put one up. Thanks again!