I'm evil. Sorry. Mwhahahaa… The plot indeed thickens!

I knew Sherlock had been up again all last night even though he promised he would try to get some sleep. Dark circles encased his usual bright green eyes and he was paler than normal. He had changed into a different suit to make the effort to look as if he had got a good night's rest. He even yawned when I entered the room; pretending to be refreshed. I didn't buy it of course. I sat opposite him handing him a cup of coffee.

He nodded in thanks, smiled but said nothing.

"Were you planning on going to bed at all last night?" I asked.

Sherlock looked up from his cup evidently shocked that I figured it out. He smiled slightly.

"There is no fooling you, John," He said. "Your skills are definitely sharpening."

I ignored the comment because one; it wasn't true and two; I was not completely bought into his comments. "It doesn't take a genius," I said taking a drink of my own coffee.

Sherlock smirked.

"Figured it out yet?" I asked.

He shook his head tiredly. "I need you-"

"To do something?" I finished. "Aside from going to work and earning the rent?"

Sherlock licked his lips and sighed. "Apart from that," He said. "I need you to visit my brother,"

"Why?"

"Just go to him and ask him if you can see the tapes from the nights everything was stolen," Sherlock said. "And you must ask which security guards were working those nights."

"Well, what are you going to do?" I asked.

"I'm going to see Lestrade and…" His voice trailed off. "I don't actually know." He shrugged. "I'll think of something."

"Good to know that you have a plan," I said. I saw a stack of paperwork by the coffee table. "What are those?" I asked nodding to the stack.

Sherlock turned quickly. "Those… Are the police reports from the officers who were first on the scene," He brightened up. "I can talk to them… Maybe they might know something!"

"Maybe," I muttered, taking another sip of my coffee. "Sherlock are you sure Phil didn't-"

Sherlock turned sharply with a furious look etched on his face. His lips contorted into an angry snarl. "Phil is one of my oldest companions; I have known him for years. He is not capable, let alone smart enough to commit murders,"

"He was your friend," I said. "For all we know, he might have gotten better at hiding things from you,"

Sherlock shook his head angrily. "No," He said. "I trust Phil with… Well not my life exactly…" He smirked.

"Do you trust me with your life?" I asked quietly.

Sherlock stared at me for a moment. He nodded slowly. "Yes,"

I smirked. "Good to know,"

"You asked,"

"I certainly did and now I'm thoroughly regretting it," I replied. Sherlock chuckled. His phone began to buzz. He pulled it out of his suit jacket and pressed it to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes," He said. "Lestrade? Yes. Of course… No… Maybe. Never mind. I'll be there in a few minutes," He ended the call and looked over at me. "I have to-"

"I know," I said. "I heard,"

Sherlock leapt up from his chair and pulled on his coat. "Will you do it for me?" He asked.

I sighed, nodding slowly. "Of course," I said. "Let me just-" He was out of the door before I finished my sentence. "Call the office," I muttered picking up the telephone and pushing speed-dial.

….

Keith was less distracted today. He managed to focus entirely on Sherlock and Lestrade who sat opposite him. He was worse in looks but very much mentally intact. His twitches had ceased so that was something.

Sherlock shifted slightly pulling at the cuffs of his shirt from underneath his suit jacket. "So Keith," He said smiling. "How are you today?"

"F-fine," Keith said, he began batting around his left ear muttering; "Go away, go away,"

"Mm," Sherlock said. "Let me ask you a question,"

Lestrade sighed. "Really?"

"Is that not what we do at police stations?" Sherlock asked. "Mm, I thought that was general procedure," He turned back to Keith. "Can I?"

"Can you what?" Keith asked.

"Ask you a question?"

"Wasn't that a question?"

"That's not an answer," Sherlock said.

"Oh," Keith said, slightly down-trodden. "Yes,"

"Alright," Sherlock leaned forward, his fingers locked and elbows resting on the table. "How did you kill them?"

"I killed them," Keith said. "I took their souls away."

"We know that," Sherlock said.

"No we don't!" Lestrade hissed. "How could you possibly know that? I thought we concluded the other day that it can't have been him or were you just yanking my chain?"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Did you find Anne yet?" He asked.

"No-"

"Then do not question me on my methods," Sherlock blazed. "The best way to understand the insane is to play along with their delusions; therein the truth lies!"

Lestrade leaned back annoyed, his arms crossed and his eyes glazing. Sherlock leaned forward again. "Well Keith?"

"I killed them-"

"We know that," Sherlock said soothingly. "I just want to know how,"

"I crept up with behind them and took a knife and I slit their throats… No! No! I didn't. I poisoned them… Made the mark on my – their- ankles… Did it with a craft knife I did… I hurt them and took their hair…" Keith said.

Sherlock leaned back satisfied. "That, Detective Lestrade is your answer," He said smugly.

Lestrade frowned looking at between the psychopath and the loony. Right now, he wasn't sure which was which. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes with a disappointed smile. "Oh goodness me, Lestrade," He stood up swiftly and left the room. Lestrade smiled nervously at the schizophrenic then followed Sherlock out of the room.

The young detective was trying to make himself a coffee from the machine in the corner of the office. Lestrade watched him struggle for a moment before hitting one of the buttons and letting the murky liquid drip from the nozzle.

"You don't know how to work a coffee machine?" He asked.

Sherlock straightened blowing steam from the mug. "It has gotten way too complicated to make a coffee. What ever happened to a good old fashioned kettle?"

Lestrade didn't answer. "Gonna explain?"

Sherlock put down his coffee. "Didn't you hear him? He changed his story half way through. He went from brutally slitting their throats to something as peaceful as swimming in a lake… It's a metaphor, Lestrade!"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I never said a thing,"

"No but you had that annoying look on your face," Sherlock snapped. "His thoughts are too scattered. They can't be because he's been given anti-psychotic meds to combat that." He said. "Too scattered to be his own; he was therefore told by someone to do it."

"Where did he get the idea to 'slit their throats'?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh he was probably involved in another murder," Sherlock said waving the thought away. "Not directly at least. Don't worry about it."

"O… K," Lestrade nodded. "That makes… No sense,"

"It's not supposed to, it's a schizophrenic,"

"He," Lestrade corrected.

"Whatever,"

"So…"

"Don't ask me any questions, I'm still working through it," Sherlock said. He sniffed his coffee screwing up his nose. "The coffee here is disgusting." He threw it into the bin and clapped his hands together. "Now, let's find out who this Anne is, seeing as you haven't even bothered,"

…

"Yeah, we get a lot of weirdo's trying to get in here," Alistair, or Alis as he liked to be called (!). He rolled lazily in the chair towards the twenty screens. He nosily chewed on his gum as he looked up the correct video tapes. "These are the tapes from the days that the stuff was stolen,"

He handed them to me. "So… Is you like personal friend's with Mr Holmes?"

"Mm?" I asked. "Yeah, we live together,"

Alis raised his eyebrows. "Really? Man that is well sick!"

"No, no, no, no!" I said. "Not like that! We're just flatmates,"

"Mr Holmes has a flat? I thought he lived in that manor place…"

"Manor place?" It took a moment to click. "Oh you mean Mycroft,"

Alis frowned. "Who else would I mean?"

"His brother," I said.

"He has a brother?"

"Obviously he's not very talkative about his social life," I muttered putting the tapes in the rucksack I nicked from Sherlock's room – believe it or not he owns a fair amount of camping equipment. "So um… Is there a schedule for this room?"

Alis twirled around in his chair. "Yeah," A few minutes passed.

"Well?"

"Oh you want to see it?" He asked. He pulled down a laminate copy and handed it to me. I could tell it had only been laminated after hundreds of coffee spills and snack crumbs being left over it. Obviously not Alis' idea judging by the state of his clothes.

"Sure you don't need this?" I asked.

"Nah," Alis said bits of food coming out of his mouth as he chewed at a cheese sandwich. "We know our rota like the back of our hands." He noticed a little bit of dirt on his wrist; an old ink stain. He began scratching at it with his dirty nails. His face screwed up in concentration; it would have been amusing if I could see it but his messy blond dreadlocks blocked the view.

"Okay," I pulled out a notebook. "Okay go through a basic night,"

"Meh," Alis shrugged. "Not much happens. Every night or so the police come in to check on things. They're great with that. One comes in here, talks to me or one of the others while the other walks through the halls making sure everything is right,"

"That's every night?" I asked.

"More or less," Alis shrugged.

"Okay," I made a note. "Names,"

"I don't know,"

I dropped my hands. "You don't know their names?" I asked.

"Not really,"

"Useful," I said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Alis leaned forward. "What's Mr Holmes really like?"

"I mean is there anything else you can tell me," I clarified.

"I thought it was answer a question ask a question," Alis said confused. "Were those like questions before?"

"Wow you catch on," I said. "Okay, I think I've got all I can from you,"

Alis shrugged. "Whatever man," He put his headphones on began to headbang. I sighed and pulled out my phone and dialled a number.

…

"Hello?" Sherlock answered. "John, how did it go?"

"The guy is an idiot,"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"No the security guy,"

"Alistair? Oh of course he's an idiot. What you find?"

"Not much, police come around and… Well like I said; not much, but I've found blocks of black in the tapes,"

Sherlock's gaze was caught. A young police officer; the girl that John distracted at the desk was talking to Lestrade. In her hand she held a small plastic bag.

"Sherlock?"

"I'll call you back," Sherlock said pressing end.

Lestrade noticed that Sherlock had seen them. He told the girl something and took the plastic bag from her then marched over to Sherlock.

"You were wrong," He said.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"He killed them all," Lestrade said. "PC Sievewright found this at Green's flat," He thrust it into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock gazed at the contents of the bag. Inside was a tangled mess of dyed, natural, curly and straight hair. "You said so yourself, hair missing from each of the victims,"

For the first time in a while, Sherlock was speechless. He stared at the hair completely dumbfounded. He blinked up at Lestrade.

"Face it," Lestrade said. "You were wrong. Green is the murderer."

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