Sherlock had been comatose for nearly 3 hours by this point and I was starting to get worried, He had been under longer than this of course but never to this extent. Also the nearly incoherent mumbling and slight flush on his cheeks gave me pause to be wary. I marveled at him just for a moment, allowing myself to absorb some the beauty and brilliance the man just seems radiate. He lay on the couch in his usual thinking stance, long legs stretched artfully on the couch, hands clasped in a mock prayer. The window leaked sunlight onto his face casting a yellowish haze that laid perfectly across the chiseled features of his face. Normally I would never let myself to be so publically enamored with these thoughts, after all living with a genius who can tell your birthday by what's under your finger nails, one learns to be extra cautious with their bi curious secrets. Snapping out of my temporary school girl flights of fancy I went into the living room clad with two cups of tea in hand. Throughout my time in two twenty one B I have learned many things: when examining a body always check the ring first, when storing a severed head in the fridge keep it on the lower shelve. A mess I'd rather not recall kept me from forgetting that particular lesson. But perhaps most importantly, never, ever try to wake Sherlock from his mind palace directly.

About a year ago I learned that lesson the hard way. Sherlock had poured acid on my chair for an experiment leaving either the sofa or the floor, and that wasn't going to happen. So naturally it hadn't hardly been a conscious decision on my part when I moved his legs to sit on the end of the sofa. He had been particularly stumped on a case that I've nick named to be the "rubber duck debacle" Sherlock hated the name but then again when did he not? So I pushed his legs gently to the floor. Laying in the same position for hours I had assumed that he wouldn't wake from his odd trance despite my best efforts, hence my surprise when he tackled me before his feet had even touched the floor. In a blind fury Sherlock had thrown me to the floor, bad shoulder first knocking the valuable air from my lungs and had a foot digging into my shoulder blades in a blink of an eye. "Sh-sherlock!" I stammered out still trying to regain some of the air into my lungs. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" I wiggled beneath his foot. For someone so thin he had a pretty good grip. After a moments hesitation the foot pressing into me loosened some before coming off completely. Flipping around till I was sitting on the flooring message the new pain coursing through my shoulder, I looked up to him. The expression on his face was one that back then, I had never seen on him before: dazed and confused. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind his grey eyes snapped to mine, quickly taking in the situation. He coughed trying to cover the rising flush in his cheeks. "I'm …uh… I'm sorry John, in the future please refrain from touching me while I am in my mind palace. My primary functions kick in to protect me while I am not fully aware of what's happening outside here" he gingerly pointed to his forehead. "Damn prat sounds like a robot" I thought to myself. He extended his long slender hand to pull me up, and with a grumble I took it with my good arm. Upon standing up I tried to repress the wince when the movement jostled my shoulder. Of course this action didn't go unnoticed by "he who sees all" as I sometimes called him in my head. Either too stubborn to keep up his Psychopath image or too embarrassed by his actions, he never speak of the incident again but could tell he tried making it up to me by removing all the body parts from the food side of the fridge and keeping the experiments out of the kitchen for about a week. After I had caught on I chuckled to myself sitting on the clean chemical free kitchen table drinking tea smiling into my cup.

So knowing not to touch him I waved the tea under his nose till he registered the spicy smell of home. With an owlish blink he seemed to have finally come out of his stupid palace. "Welcome back to earth" I smiled handing him the cup. He sat up slowly stretching out the muscles after staying stagnant for so long. The light seemed to cast a hazy golden shadow illuminating his more beautiful features. Pushing those more poetic thoughts to the back of my mind till a later date I quickly moved my gaze to the tea cup in my hand. Sherlock soon recovered and was on his feet pacing the floor in no time tapping away on his phone muttering things only half coherent enough for me to understand. Things like "364mj" "Harrison" "photos" "come find me" all left his lips at lighting speeds "Sherlock slow down!" I demanded "What have you figured out?" I knew the brilliant git was onto a speeding train of thought that I hadn't been able to buy train tokens for. "The pictures John!" he said as if that was enough to bring me up to speed. Huffing with annoyance I asked "What pictures Sherlock? What about them?" Turning quickly I could see the dangerous glint in his eye that meant he was near to the answer. That glint always sent chills down my spine. "Each of the five remaining victims had no family to speak of, no close friends outside of normal coworkers, no significant others. Yet in each picture in their flats were taken by the same person in different places. How did I miss this?" The last sentence was clearly not meant for me judging by the way he pulled his hair in his hands and repeated "stupid stupid stupid" like a mantra meant only for him to hear. "How do you know they were taken by the same person?" I asked feeling like the toddler I was compared to the massive intellect the man next to me possessed. He scoffed and I tried not to feel upset about it, this behavior was nothing new. "The angels John! The angels are all the same, short approximately 5'1' in height. Same camera company used as far as I can tell, I won't know more until I can get my hands on the photos. I texted Lestrade he should be here with the evidence box within the hour." He said still all the while pacing like a mad man while my mind tried to catch up. "so you think they all knew the killer?" I pondered. "Incomplete data. It could have been the killer had been asked by the victim but that's unlikely." He dismissed the idea immediately. Moments passed in much the same way they had been with Sherlock's mutterings and me sipping my tea quietly watching the man do what he does best. A police car pulled in front of the house twenty minutes later and Mrs. Hudson could be heard talking Greg's ear off in the door way. "Oh detective Sherlock's not giving you too much trouble again is he?" she tutted from the bottom of the steps. You could practically hear the smile in Greg's voice "No, well yes but he's manageable with John around to keep him contained" he said lightly "Such a good pair those two, too bad about all those domestics but you can't help those little lovers spats I suppose" she patted his arm and left with a kind "if you need anything just call, good to see you detective." A few moments later Lestrade came into the room carrying a large box labeled "evidence" filled with items sealed in plastic bags and files filled with paper. He set the box on the table careful not to touch any of the various beakers filled with multicolored liquids. "Got everything you asked for, not sure what you'll make of it you've been over those file at least a dozen times" he sighed and took a seat. I usually took this time to inquire how Greg was doing, we were mates who went out to pubs less than I'd like, but being the head detective of Scotland yard and the blogger of mad man didn't lead to much down time. "How have you been Greg?" I smiled. Sherlock took the box up to his