Sherlock entered the main sitting room to find a chaotic scene. Carter and David were slinging bags of gear over their shoulders and bumping into each other as they barreled out the door.

Trisha and John stood out of the way in the kitchen watching the furious scurry of the two firefighters. When they left, there was thunderous silence for a moment.

"That happen often?" John asked with a chuckle.

"Yep," Trisha said. She still had a dart in her hand and absently twirled it in her fingers. John looked at her slack-jawed face and gently plucked it out of her hand. Trisha's happy high seemed to be wearing off, and she had grown languid and slow.

"I think we're done with these," John said and laid the dart with the rest. "You seem very tired."

Trisha moved over to the sofa and sank onto it. "They'll be at it all night," she said with a heavy sigh. "Dave said it was a quite a rager. They've called in at least two other departments."

"Trisha," John said moving to stand over her. He had his concerned doctor face on as he stood over her. "You okay?"

"John, I think I should tell you I observed that she seemed under the influence of something earlier," Sherlock said. He had the idea he might have spoken up sooner had his attention not been on other things.

"What did you take?" John asked.

"Nothing, Dr. John," she said rolling her eyes at him. I just had a couple of beers…" she said slurring her words as she drifted off.

John gently slapped her face, "Trisha, you need to tell me."

"I didn't take anything," she said sounded put out now.

Sherlock picked up an empty beer bottle she'd been drinking from and took a sniff. Without testing the contents, I can't be sure, but this one has some powdery residue in the bottom. I noticed earlier that she'd been displaying signs of some narcotic. Do you think she needs to go to A&E?"

"How many beers did you have, Trisha?" John asked raising his voice slightly.

She opened her eyes, and her head seemed to clear a bit. "Just two. I'll be fine. Just let me sleep," she said waving John away and curling over on her side.

"This doesn't seem right," John said. "She seems convinced she hasn't taken anything."

"We can stay a bit to make sure," Sherlock suggested.

"Yeah," John said. "Let's lay her out on the sofa."

As the two of them got her comfortably arranged, she opened her eyes and began to speak.

"Cart's new cutie," she said looking up at Sherlock, who stood next to John. "He's been after you a long time, Mr. Detective."

"What do you mean a long time? We only met a few days ago," Sherlock said crouching down to be at eye level with her.

"He's got a book," Trisha said smiling up through half-lidded eyes. "Up there," she said pointing to the top of a bookshelf near the window. "He hides it up there, but I've seen it. It's a souvenir from him."

Did the "him" she was referring to mean Carter's old boyfriend, Frank? Sherlock rose and went to the bookshelf. He reached up and pulled down what appeared to be an old-fashioned scrapbook. No dust. He turned it over in his hands and carefully looked at the cover. Made from expensive materials, it felt heavy in his hands.

"Sherlock don't," John said moving over to stand next to him. "That's private."

"You're in it, Sh'lock, and you," Trisha said pointing at John, "sort of." She finished speaking and lay her head back down on the sofa and closed her eyes. John returned to her side and double checked her pulse and other vitals.

"I don't think she's in danger. She'll be fine in the morning," John said after reassuring himself.

"Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?" Sherlock asked not taking his eyes off the book in his hands.

"Yes, Put that back, Sherlock," John hissed in agitation looking back at Trisha. But, he needn't have worried. Trisha snored gently.

Sherlock stared for a long moment at the blank cover embossed with gold filigree. There was nothing on the front to suggest what the book contained, but an uneasy buzzing began in his mind.

"I can't do that, John, and you know it," he said flipping quickly through the pages and discovering it contained a number of newspaper clippings, pictures copied out of magazines and small paper objects. He opened it to the first page and found an article under the clear, plastic sheeting from several years ago. The yellowed newsprint contained a story about a little-known serial killer named Agostino Pagni, who'd immigrated from Italy in 1970's and had killed over 15 young women in London. As Sherlock turned each page, he saw other obscure stories about various killers who'd been caught in places like London, Ireland, Scotland and Paris over the last forty years.

Carter had said his ex-boyfriend had been interested in serial killers.

But, when he got to second half of the book, the stories changed. Now, the content of each story had one thing in common, himself. They went back over the past five years, all the way back to when he'd first started solving crimes with Lestrade. During those years, he'd begun making regular appearances in journalistic outlets both large and small. His work had occasionally made the papers, but it wasn't until he'd begun working with John that his career had picked up. His media profile had certainly increased since then.

The first few stories showed him on his own standing next to Lestrade at New Scotland Yard. But as the stories progressed forward in time, he noticed something odd. In one such story, he'd just solved a high-profile case, and the camera had caught him looking out over a crowd of reporters. Something seemed off about the picture, so Sherlock lifted the plastic cover, and unfolded the picture. He was sure John had stood next to him, but it had been folded in a way that the doctor wouldn't show.

John moved over to stand next to him and stared down at the folded article. "Well someone's had a very keen interest in you," John said pointing at the date. "That one is about a year old."

Sherlock turned the page and found another article that had been written a month later. Again, John's image had been folded out of the picture, and Sherlock's own face stared back at him from the newsprint. He flipped through the rest of the book only to see image after image of himself. Trisha had been correct; this was a memorial of his cases, a personal shrine of sorts. But, what connection could there be between the killers and himself in the mind of whoever had created the book? Sherlock wondered.

Before they could look at the book further, they heard a click at the front the door, and it began to open.

Sherlock had the presence of mind to put the scrapbook behind his back before the door opened fully.

"Pizza's here," said a man in his late thirties as he pushed his way into the sitting room.

"You must be Ian," said Sherlock taking a step closer to John. "I'm Sherlock, and this is John," he said as the man took stock of the room. His eyes rested on Trisha laid out on the couch.

"She okay?" he asked setting his pizza box down on the kitchen counter.

He smoothed the hair back from her forehead and shook his head.

John looked up at Sherlock and nodded toward the top of the bookshelf. It was a silent signal that he'd try to distract Ian so they could replace the book.

"Do you have any idea what she might have taken earlier?" John asked.

"No, she must have shown up just after I left to get the food," he said shaking his head. "She gonna be okay?"

While John and Ian discussed Trisha's condition, Sherlock moved toward the book case and slipped the book back up on top. Fortunately, his height worked to his advantage, and he was able to return the book easily. But, more than anything, he wanted to take it home and pour over it. Why would Carter have such a thing?

"Why aren't you with the rest of them at the fire?" Sherlock interrupted moving over to stand next to John.

"Yeah, aren't you were a full-time fireman at their station?" John said stepping away from Ian.

"I've officially got the night off," Ian said and grinned. They'd only call me if the fire goes on too long. I might still get called in tonight. I'll let the young ones rush off to be the first one to the fires. They've still got the energy to burn," Ian said moving over to the counter. He casually lifted out a piece of pizza and took a bite.

While Ian busied himself getting a plate, Sherlock saw John pick up Trisha's beer bottle and slip it into his pocket. Clever, he thought. That way they could test the contents back at the flat.

"Since everyone has left, we'd better get going for tonight," Sherlock said giving John a poke in the back. We can give Trisha a lift home, though. The idea of leaving an incapacitated woman alone with Ian in the flat worried him.

"Stay. Have some pizza," Ian insisted. "It's still hot. I was supposed to get to know you, Sherlock. Give my seal of approval and all. We're protective of our Carter."

"No, we really must be going," Sherlock said tugging on the back of John's shirt as he began moving toward the door.

"You think Trisha's okay, then?" Ian asked taking another bite of pizza.

"As long as she doesn't drink any more tonight. She really shouldn't mix whatever she took with alcohol," John admonished. "Come on, love," John said giving Trisha a gentle push. "Let us give you a ride home."

Something twisted a little in Sherlock at John's use of the word, love. British men and woman for centuries had used the endearment, and it had never even registered with him before, but tonight he'd heard it twice. It had affected him very differently each time. When John said it to Trisha, Sherlock wanted. He wanted something he'd never wanted before.

"Help me get her up, Sherlock," John said and together they got Trisha to her feet. She began to wake up a bit more and asked, "Time to go home?"

"Yes," John said again, "We'll be sure to get her home safe, Ian."

They ushered her downstairs and into a cab. Fortunately, she lived only a few streets away, and they got her into her flat. She stumbled over the threshold and told them she'd be fine. She'd get herself to bed.

Sherlock climbed back into the waiting cab and looked at John sitting next to him. He had no idea how to feel about Carter's scrapbook, but he knew John would help him figure it out.

"You okay?" John asked after a long moment.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "I've got a lot to think about, John." He still felt the phantom tingle of kisses on his lips, and grip of hands on his hips. He wanted that too. The interruption lay heavy on him. Now that he'd gotten a taste of it, he wanted more. But, when he thought about hands on his skin and lips and throat, he didn't picture Carter. He saw another face, one he was sure would never want him the same way, and he shook the vision away.

His eyes slid to the side, and he watched the ex-soldier carefully. John was worried about him. The contents of the scrapbook had rattled him more than he wanted to show. The pictures and stories of his best cases had shared space alongside those of serial killers. What did it mean? None of what he'd seen in the book made sense. But, the thing that bothered him the most had been the pictures where John had simply been folded out.

He turned his head and looked at the doctor. John returned his gaze the way he had hundreds of times before and said, "That book."

"Yes, John."

"Sherlock, that was not good," John said. "I don't want to say anything negative about Carter or his friends but…"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said again. "I've got a lot to think about," and he turned his head back to look at the tips of his fingers. "221 Baker Street please," he told the cab driver, and they eased out into traffic and headed toward home.