The next morning, John came downstairs and found Sherlock at the living room table typing away on a laptop. Of course, it was John's laptop. Sherlock's proprietary use of his stuff wasn't likely to change anytime soon, so John had finally given up feeling irritated about it. Instead, he'd started changing his computer password every few days. His latest one was 'Sherlockisatosser.' The fact that Sherlock had to have gone through a variety of insults before finding the right one was immensely satisfying.

Humming a cheerful tune, John shuffled around the kitchen and prepared his breakfast. The kettle came to a boil, and he poured the steaming water into their new teapot. He quite liked it. It was black and stout, with a zen vibe to it. Their previous teapot had vanished just after Christmas along with their old, chipped cups. Mrs. Hudson must have thought it was time for a new set. Securing his plate of marmalade toast in one hand and his tea in the other, John sauntered into the living room and settled into the chair across from Sherlock. Eyes busy scanning the computer screen, Sherlock didn't even appear to notice his presence.

John would need his laptop back sooner rather than later if he was going to continue his research for Vivian. Last night's test results had left him at a bit of loss. It was already mind-boggling how Vivian's head injury had stolen her ability to read and given her an audio eidetic memory. But now it had also increased her hearing sensitivity to ultrasonic levels. The woman was a medical marvel. If anyone within the medical community caught word of her condition, it would spread faster than head lice at a primary school. They'd descend upon Vivian en masse, and she wouldn't get a moment's peace. John understood her desire to keep her condition quiet, but her other injuries were another matter. He frowned as he recalled the massive bruises on her arms. She'd better be icing them like she promised.

He swallowed a mouthful of toast. "How did you-"

"Freckles," Sherlock said, still staring at the computer.

"Sorry, what?"

"Vivian has four distinct freckles on her left arm. If one were to connect the dots, they'd form a perfect trapezoid. Since they couldn't have possibly dissolved overnight, it was obvious she was using make-up. I noticed her favoring her left shoulder during our cotton ball competition. Between that and the missing freckles, the leap to why was simple."

John blinked, still hung up on Sherlock drawing geometric shapes with Vivian's freckles. The rather intimate image was clearly lost on Sherlock who'd relayed the information with his usual clinical detachment. "You noticed her freckles?"

"I notice everything."

"Yes, but-"

"You have a scar on your right elbow from a mole removal. Now, shut up and finish your tea. I'm working."

What could he possibly be working on? Sherlock would have told him if they'd received the results from the autopsy or if they had another case. As John polished off his toast, the wrinkles in Sherlock's suit shirt caught his eye. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

"Did you sleep at all?" John asked.

Silence.

Fine. Unlike Sherlock, John knew how to be patient. He sat back, savored his tea, and waited. A few minutes later, his mobile chimed.

I woke up to a bouquet of lilies, a fruit basket, and a box of biscuits at my door. And now someone just tied a "Thinking of You" balloon to the gate. Are you dead? - Harry

John pursed his lips. Was his sister drinking again?

Nope. Still breathing. - John

Are you sure? Maybe you should double-check.

He ignored the next chime. The gifts had probably been meant for Harriet's elderly neighbor, Mrs. Tait. Hadn't she been due for a hip replacement?

A few taps of the keyboard later, Sherlock looked over at him. "I do believe I've underestimated the value of social networking."

"Oh God. Please tell me you haven't joined Facebook."

A snort. "Of course not. I used your account. It was difficult initially to locate anyone with a brain, but eventually a friend of a friend of a friend led me to someone worthwhile. And believe it or not, your gregarious nature, people-pleasing tendencies, and pathetic desire to be everyone's friend finally proved useful for once."

Right. That didn't sound promising. "What are you on about?"

A low, pleased chuckle left Sherlock. "Oh John, the sympathy card, it opens so many doors and so quickly too. It's amazing how fast information can be obtained when it's a request from a noble army doctor wounded for Queen and Country and desperate to find a cure for his ailing sister."

Ailing sister? John set his teacup down with a clunk. "What did you do?"

Sherlock waved a careless hand at the laptop. "I've been making inquiries within the medical and military community regarding Vivian's hearing and vision issues. I substituted your sister, Harriet, for her, of course. While the majority of your contacts were complete rubbish, a few have been most helpful. A Matthew Abbot, he sends his regards by the way, referred me to Connor Padley, who passed me along to Marjorie Wilson. She put me into contact with Doctor Bennett Shaywitz, a world renown professor in dyslexia at Yale University. Within half an hour, he replied back with a diagnosis. If he'd been faster, he'd remind me of me."

The irritation and alarm rising in John over what Sherlock had done abruptly took a back seat. "Wait - he diagnosed Vivian? Without seeing her?"

"He's an expert in his field, John. He didn't need to see her. A list of her symptoms was all he required." Sherlock's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Vivian has pure alexia. It's a rare acquired reading disorder. It's usually caused by damage to the left visual cortex. Those with pure alexia can write, but they can't read - even what they've just written."

John couldn't believe the condition occurred often enough to have an actual name. "Is there any way to treat it?"

"No method has proven effective yet. The most promising involves trying to trick the brain into recognizing consonants and vowels by vocalizing them. It's a very slow and tedious process and not very successful."

"What about her high frequency hearing sensitivity? Did he think that was related?"

"No, he said that involved a different area of the brain and connected me with an audiologist in Monterey, California. Ms. Chambers recommended three methods of treatment. The first option is medication to minimize the stress following an episode, the second is a custom pair of noise cancellation headphones set to filter out the higher frequencies, and the last is desensitization through gradual exposure."

John slowly digested the information. "Sounds like you've been busy being me." It was difficult to be too upset with Sherlock's methods when it had gotten them the necessary information to help Vivian so quickly. His mobile chimed twice more. One text was from a platoon sniper from John's regiment and the other from an old mate from St. Bart's. They were both asking about Harriet's "condition." Right. He was going to have some explaining to do. Maybe he could say his Facebook account was hacked. Yeah, that could work. It wasn't even a lie, really.

"Indeed. Take a look." Sherlock spun the laptop around to face John.

An open folder displayed a list of thirty pdf files. They were all medical journal articles. John clicked on one. It compared the structural anatomy of hemianopic alexia, whatever that was, with pure alexia. Multiple pages long, it was full of tiny print and various charts. "Did you read all these?"

"No, I just selected them at random," Sherlock said acidly. "Of course I read them."

No wonder Sherlock hadn't gone to bed. It must have taken him considerable time and effort to wade through all the medical jargon, let alone comprehend the data charts.

"This file has all the relevant information on it. I've compressed it, so you should be able to email it to Vivian without a problem. She can use her audio software to review it."

"Hang on. You're not sending it to her yourself?"

"Why would I?"

"Sherlock, you just spent all night learning about her hearing and reading disabilities. Not me."

"So? You're her doctor. You're more than capable of reading the information and answering any questions she may have. My work here is done."

John sat back and eyed Sherlock for a moment.

"What?"

"Why did you do all this?"

"What do you mean why? The old woman's case is on hold until we acquire more information. I was bored." Sherlock retrieved the laptop and began typing again.

Bored - John's arse. Sherlock's words and actions weren't adding up. When Sherlock was bored, he shot the wall, exploded eyeballs in the microwave, or ransacked their flat in search of a secret stash of cigarettes that no longer existed. The cure for boredom never involved poring through dense medical journals. What was really going on here?

Like Sherlock had taught him, John mentally stepped back from the situation. Distance provided clarity. Next, he identified any anomalies. Anomalies led to patterns. And patterns sometimes painted pictures. Pictures told stories. This time, instead of implementing this exercise on a homicide victim, John used it on Sherlock.

Sherlock had interrupted the Christmas cracker game to prevent Vivian's reading disability from being discovered. He'd aided her during the fireworks show and helped her rebuild her Mind Palace holding room afterward. Next, he'd accompanied her to John's office to ensure she got her hearing checked. Even a blind man would have noticed the tension radiating from Sherlock when Vivian had revealed the bruises on her arms. And then there was the incident with the chair. Sherlock had brought Vivian a chair to sit on and warned her about the imminent pain of the dog whistle test. Courtesy and forethought were the furthest things from Sherlock's mind, and yet he'd shown evidence of both. Now the man had stayed up all night finding answers for Vivian's medical condition.

A slow smile spread across John's face. Sherlock was an idiot. He'd become friends, genuine friends, with Vivian Walker, and he didn't even know it.

"Stop smiling," Sherlock said, gaze still on the laptop. "It makes you look like you've dropped ten IQ points."

John's smile grew. It had taken years before Sherlock had caught on to the fact that John was his best friend. It shouldn't surprise him that Sherlock was oblivious about Vivian. At any rate, it was going to be entertaining to watch Sherlock blindly navigate this new friendship. A friendship with a woman, at that. It was all John could do not to chuckle. "Right. You'd best give me back my laptop so I can send Vivian the email, and then I'll need to get cracking on those journal articles."

His mobile chimed for the umpteenth time. Right. He also needed to announce the hacking of his Facebook account, else Harriet was going to be buried beneath a mountain of gifts. Before John could do either, Sherlock's mobile rang.

Sherlock set it on the table and put it on speaker. "Lestrade."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, sounding strangely hesitant. "I was, erm, wondering if you were still planning on continuing the investigation for the old woman in the alley."

Sherlock frowned. "Of course I am, but my homeless network has been silent so far. Did you find something new?"

"Molly didn't tell you? She finished the autopsy yesterday morning. She said she'd send you the results."

Irritation rippled across Sherlock's face. "She didn't."

"Well, that's odd," Lestrade said.

It was odd. John wondered if Sherlock had done something to piss her off.

"Why didn't you call me yesterday?" Sherlock demanded.

"I dunno. I thought you might have been busy or something." An odd, almost questioning note colored his tone.

Sherlock glared at the phone. "With what? My packed social life? Don't be daft. I'm never too busy for a case. Next time, contact me immediately."

"Alright, alright. Sorry for thinking you wanted a day off. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

John jumped in before the conversation derailed any further. "Did you find out the old woman's identity?"

"No, her skin was too wrinkled to provide a good print. But you'll both be interested to know what else was found, or rather, what wasn't." A pregnant pause. "Her kidneys and liver were missing."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curved. "Fascinating."

John set his napkin on the plate, equally intrigued. "Just her kidneys and liver, nothing else?"

"All her other organs were left intact."

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

"Liver and kidney failure, apparently." A muffled sound came through as if Lestrade had dropped his phone from his ear. "Anderson – stop. Don't touch anything."

"Why the hell not?" Came a familiar annoying voice.

"The photographers haven't finished yet."

"Well, they better hurry up. I haven't got all day."

"Leave it." Lestrade came back on the line. "Sorry."

Sherlock's gaze sharpened. "You found a body."

"What? Oh yeah, it looks like a drug overdose." A scratching noise, probably Lestrade rubbing at his chin. '''I don't know, but something about it seems a bit fishy. Wanna take a peek?"

"Where?"

"The abandoned Porsche showroom on High Street."

"We're on our way. Handcuff Anderson if you have to." Sherlock grabbed his coat, and John hurried after him.


The Porsche Center was a massive, sweeping building with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. They were intended to showcase Porsche's glittering vehicles from the road, but it was all empty now. According to an exterior sign, the company had relocated to East London near the airport. As they rounded two parked police cars, an officer walked past and grinned at Sherlock. "Someone's having a Happy New Year."

Sherlock, in high spirits over the upcoming corpse, actually smiled. "I suppose I am."

The officer chuckled and moved on.

That was a bit weird. John gave a mental shrug. They entered the building. Grey flooring stretched out before them, clean except for a few scuff marks here and there. Considering the lack of graffiti and trash, it hadn't been empty long. Without the cars taking up space, the interior was absolutely cavernous. A handful of officers and forensic staff milled about the far corner of the room near another doorway. Thankfully, Anderson was nowhere in sight. Sherlock headed toward the activity, and John followed.

"Mornin' Sherlock, you wanker," echoed a deep voice across the room. That might have been Constable Davies, but John wasn't sure. Good-natured laughter and a few cheers followed. Everyone seemed terribly friendly, which was more than a little strange considering who they were addressing.

"What the hell is going on?" John asked.

"I haven't the faintest," Sherlock said.

The weirdness deepened as they drew closer, and a grinning group of officers surrounded them, every last one focused on Sherlock.

"Good on you, mate!"

"I lost ten quid to Davies."

"I never thought I'd see the day."

"We honestly didn't think you had it in you."

"Congrats!"

A shrill whistle cut through the air, and the group parted, revealing a scowling Lestrade. "Oi, this isn't a party. There's a dead body here. Show some respect."

A few looked shame-faced, but Constable Billy Scott only beamed and clapped Sherlock on the back. "Aww, we're just proud of him is all, Lestrade."

"Yeah, I noticed. Now that you've all got that out of your system, it's time to get back to work." Lestrade made a shooing motion. "Go on. Shove off."

The cheerful group dispersed, leaving Sherlock, Lestrade, and John alone.

"Sorry 'bout that. I told them not to bother you, but they're all a bit giddy, you know?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock said nothing. He was likely reluctant to admit to anyone else that he was just as clueless as John for once.

"Giddy over what?" John asked.

Lestrade's eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead, and he rounded on Sherlock. "You didn't tell him? But you're best mates."

"Tell me what?" John asked, growing more flabbergasted by the second.

"Well, it's a bit awkward now," Lestrade said.

"Purely for my edification, what exactly was I supposed to have told John?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed.

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed for a moment, then he made a helpless noise. "I thought you would have told him about you and Vivian at the New Year's Eve party."

Sherlock's expression cleared. "Oh that. I told John about it yesterday."

"You did?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. I don't see why everyone's making such a fuss. I helped Vivian out on Christmas, then again at the New Year's Eve party, and later on at the morgue."

"The morgue?" Lestrade recoiled, and his mouth twisted in disgust. "That's just sick, Sherlock."

"What's wrong with the morgue?" Sherlock asked.

The conversation wasn't making sense. John raised a finger. "I don't think you're talking about the same thing."

"Yes, we are." Sherlock flicked an arrogant hand at Lestrade. "Spell it out for John, please."

An eye-roll. "We're talking about Sherlock shagging Vivian," Lestrade said.

Sherlock's head whipped around so fast, it was a miracle his neck didn't break. "What?"

The outraged exclamation resounded through the building.

"We're not?"

"No!"

They gaped at one another. John attempted to retract his own jaw, which he was sure had stretched to his navel. He'd thought there'd been a miscommunication going on, but never expected this.

Sherlock was the first to recover. He eyed Lestrade like he was seriously questioning the man's sanity. "I was helping Vivian with her Mind Palace, not shagging her. What on earth made you think that?"

"I have two eye-witnesses," Lestrade said, looking a bit defensive. "Constable Crothers and his wife said they interrupted you and Vivian mid-shag in the ladies' toilet."

Sherlock's lip curled. "Well, Crothers and his wife need to have their eyes examined. They were both inebriated and tearing at each other's clothing when they entered the loo. Vivian had a hearing episode from the fireworks, and I was helping her recover."

"Oh." Lestrade sounded a bit disappointed.

The absurdity of the situation hit John, and he laughed. "No wonder you're Mr. Popular all of a sudden."

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. "Why are they all so pleased?"

"Well, Vivian for one thing. She's a bit of a stunner, yeah? And well, it's you." Lestrade shrugged, as if that explained everything.

"They think you've come down to their level. It's made you more human," John added.

Sherlock appeared repelled by the very idea. "Then I'll need to correct their erroneous assumption immediately." He turned as if to go after the group, but Lestrade caught his arm.

"It's a bit late for that. If you try to deny it now, the rumor will only grow."

"For God's sake, this isn't grammar school," Sherlock snapped.

"No, it's worse. It's Scotland Yard. They love a good chin-wag."

"It'll be a pleasure to disappoint them then."

John blocked Sherlock's path. "Oh no you don't. This has done more for your reputation than any case you could have solved."

"How could this have possibly helped my reputation?" Sherlock asked, his tone scathing.

"Think, Sherlock. Even if they believe it's a one-off, you're one of the boys now. This is going to smooth your path like nothing else. They'll be more cooperative with you and your demands. If anything, you should play it up a bit," John said.

The irate disbelief on Sherlock's face slowly shifted to one of calculation. Well, well. Would wonders never cease? It appeared he was actually listening.

"He's right," Lestrade said, bobbing his head. "It's silly, but true."

John went in for the kill. "Sherlock, you know corpses. I know people. Trust me on this."

"Fine. It appears I haven't much of a choice anyway. Speaking of corpses, where's the body?"

"This way." Lestrade led them through the door into what had once been an office. A man dressed in business clothes sat slumped against a wall with a syringe near his hand. If not for his grey pallor, he'd have looked like he was having a kip.

"Who found him?" John asked.

"A trio of skater kids."

"Seems like an odd place to shoot-up to me," Lestrade said.

"I've seen stranger places," Sherlock said, slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

The dead man had a neatly trimmed beard, wore an expensive looking suit, and polished leather shoes. His coat was draped across his lap, and both of his suit shirt sleeves were rolled up. Sherlock knelt and examined the insides of his arms and wrists. He then slipped off the man's shoes and socks and checked his feet.

"He's not an addict. There are no track marks on his arms or feet. This was his first time using, if he was using at all."

"What? You think he committed suicide?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock picked up the syringe and held it up to the light. A single drop of clear liquid remained. "Maybe he didn't like his car."

A search through the man's pockets revealed a gold pocket watch. "Strange. His wallet is gone, but his watch and wedding band, both valuable, were left behind."

Sherlock lifted the man's eyelids and motioned John closer. "What do you make of this?"

A yellow hue discolored the white surrounding the iris. "That looks like jaundice. It's a common symptom of liver problems." John stopped and stared. "You don't think-"

Sherlock was already moving. He unbuttoned the front of the man's shirt and pulled back his clothing to reveal his lower abdomen. A small, laparoscopic scar, stitches barely healed, marked the man's skin.

Wide-eyed, John dropped down beside Sherlock and probed the man's lower back and abdomen. "It's too hard to tell because of the post-mortem swelling. We won't know for sure until the autopsy."

"Know what?" Lestrade asked.

"Don't you see? They're connected!" Sherlock jumped to his feet, eyes bright with delight. "The old woman and this man. This wasn't an accidental drug overdose or suicide. This was murder!"

"Will someone please explain?" Lestrade said, exasperated.

"The incision appears to be from the removal of his kidneys and liver," John said. "Molly probably found something similar when she completed the old woman's autopsy. Did you look at the autopsy photos?"

"I haven't received them yet, but I can check with her," Lestrade said, frowning. "Do you think someone is selling their organs?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock said. "And they're making a pretty penny. Right now, a kidney will sell for £200,000 and a liver for £120,000 on the Black Market."

John let out a low whistle. Between the man and the woman - that totaled over a million pounds.

"If they're just taking people for their organs, why the careful stitches?" Sherlock said. He paced around the empty office, then looped back and stared at the corpse as if he could somehow compel the dead man to speak. "Why stitch you up at all if you were going to die?"

John frowned. "I don't know. It doesn't make sense."

Sherlock picked up a plastic forensic bag and slipped the syringe into it. "Have Molly identify the drug and get back to me immediately." Just as Lestrade reached out to take it, he drew back. "Never mind, I'll do it myself. I'll get the results that way." Sherlock dropped it into his coat pocket.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about him?" Lestrade asked, nodding at the body.

Sherlock opened the man's mouth. His teeth were white and perfect.

"Late-thirties, physically fit, likes to run. Judging by the watch and his teeth, I'd say he's a dentist or an oral surgeon."

"That doesn't narrow it down much. There are a lot of dentists in London," Lestrade said.

"Fortunately, I can do you one better. This is a man with expensive taste in clothing. This suit is bespoke, custom-made especially for him, likely from a shop on Savile Row." Sherlock reached into the man's front coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. "It's monogrammed with his initials." He held up the corner of the fabric. The letters M.A.W. were embroidered on one corner in a flourishing script. "It's simple. We find the man's tailor, we find him."


Are you amused by Sherlock's obliviousness? What about his newfound reputation with Scotland Yard? Is this case suitably intriguing? Missing Vivian yet? Please let me know what you think!

Also, if you happen to be a Supernatural fan, I'd like to recommend a brilliant fan fiction series written by hoosiergirl81. It's called More Than A Feeling. Here's the link to the first book: s/12188921/1/More-Than-a-Feeling If you like my Vivian, you'll love her Ruthie. And she writes Dean and Sam like she knows them personally. Give it a try, I promise you won't regret it!