Chapter 10: A Rationalised Habit.

John Watson watched as hundreds of officials crawled over the damp grass like ants. Bag after bag was heaved from the soil, and with each new face John could feel his senses intensify; the lights became brighter, the siren calls more blaring, the cold wind more biting. It reminded him inescapably of his time in Afghanistan - such death, such insurmountable death – and he felt the familiar blend of disgust and excitement. It was somewhat grounding to hear Sherlock muttering about the "idiots"on scene, and John allowed the deep voice to lead him through the sea of people. They arrived at a corner of the field and, beneath the shelter of a towering oak tree, he allowed himself to be drawn back into conversation.

"-and what's Anderson doing here! Isn't there a petty theft he could deal with?"

"Don't be a prat," retorted Lestrade, "we need all hands on deck for this one."

Sherlock snorted, then withdrew his mobile and began flicking through the photos he had been accumulating over the past hour. As usual, he had ordered John to provide a medical analysis of the bodies despite the many physicians on scene. And, as usual, John was struck each time by how wonderful it felt to be useful.

He turned to the Inspector. "How many?"

"So far, 32. Crime of the decade is an understatement." Lestrade ran his fingers through his silvering hair. "The press are going to have a field day."

"Sir!"

Both John and Lestrade looked up, and traced the voice back to Sally Donovan. She was standing about 50 feet away amid a group of florescent figures, a walkie talkie in her hand.

"Superintendent is five minutes away!"

"Okay!" Lestrade called. He let out a heavy sigh. "This is not going to be fun. Wish me luck!" He stalked away, shoulders drooping.

John turned to Sherlock, who was still surveying the digital images as if the reality did not lay obscenely before him.

"Anything?"

"Will need their post mortems to know for sure..." mumbled Sherlock.

"But your guess?"

"I never guess. It is a shocking habit. Destructive –"

"- to the logical faculty," John finished. "I know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Then why the poor choice of words?"

John gave an exasperated sigh, and allowed his body to lean against the tree for support. "I'm tired okay, quit being a twat and just say what you know," he moaned.

Amazingly, Sherlock obliged without comment. "My theory," he enunciated, "depends on the premise that the murders are exactly the same on all counts – and I strongly suspect they are."

John whistled. "Twenty years of the same routine. Not very usual, is it?"

Sherlock tucked his phone inside his coat pocket, and turned his whole body to face John. "No, not usual at all. Hardly the movements of your average serial killer..." Then Sherlock's eyes darkened, and his features, though very still, seemed to become more alive all of a sudden. John knew exactly what that look meant.

"What is it?"

"Cause of death, positioning, burial, exactly the same over two decades..." Sherlock gripped both of John's elbows hard. "John, if someone indulges an urge it progresses, evolves. But what if it isn't an urge? What if it is something far less common?"

"Like what?"

"Logic John! Oh!" He removed his hands and was lifting them up to his head. "Oh this is my kind of killer."

Of course he has a type of killer.

"Keeping it the same, controlling the variables, don't you see John! It's an experiment!" His voice softened slightly. "The question is... what for?"

John turned back to the blur of police, forensics and bodies, his thoughts tracing a conclusion familiar from his army days.

Nothing could be worth all of this.

Greg Lestrade leaned back on his chair and gazed out of the window behind his desk. The department's buzz of shifting paper and hurried commands seemed to hum louder as he closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.

What a nightmare.

In the three weeks since they had uncovered the bodies, 3256 calls had been made to the Yard. Of those 3256, 2116 had claimed to have crucial knowledge of the murders, whilst the rest had confessed to being the perpetrators themselves. With the eye of the British public trained unblinking on their every movement, and with the chief superintendent breathing down their necks, Greg and the other DIs had had to follow up every single one.

Every single fucking one.

If Greg had to file the statement of another bored housewife or attention-seeking teenager – extra resources or not - he might just punch someone. And, whilst spending half his evenings in the company of Molly had been a wonderful diversion from the endless paperwork and dead-end meetings, that too held its own form of aggravation.

He appreciated that she wanted to take it slow, he really did. But he would be a liar if he said it didn't frustrate him when he wondered up to that grey building with its grey doors and wonky numbers, mentally tried and physically seeking, to wind up curled up in front of a movie or listening to bloody Beethoven.

"Sir?"

He wheeled around on his chair to find Sally Donovan standing in front of him, phone pressed to her ear. He noted, with a confusing mixture of satisfaction and pity, the dark circles under her eyes. He hoped to God a certain consulting detective was on the other end of the line.

"It's MI6."

Sherlock leaned against the wall and checked the time on his phone.

14:22pm.

Another three minutes and Molly should be rounding that corner. He knew she would take one of her longer lunch breaks today, her cereal bowl having been tucked neatly away in the cupboard and the milk having sat on the furthest side of the fridge door when he checked her flat a few hours ago.

It had been the last visit, of course, and as justifiable as all of them had been. The first, he had reasoned, was for the sake of his sanity. Those inexcusable blanks had been too much of a torment to resist, and Sherlock had found himself picking the lock of Molly Hooper's flat within a day of the incident. The second visit had been out of curiosity. The funny little objects, from the 56 year old gramophone (used approximately once a week) to the Italian glass ornaments (depth of scratches indicate fake antiquity), had posed more questions than they answered, and Sherlock needed to understand. Molly was his pathologist after all, and one needed to know their pathologist. Particularly if said pathologist was in danger of jeopardising access to the morgue or cases with Lestrade.

And so the second had grown into a third, a fourth, a fifth and, as of this morning, a sixth visit. Sherlock knew the flat, every detail of it. He had made a game of distinguishing what of the furnishing was truly hers – for very little was. Most, he had concluded, had belonged to her deceased father. The sentimentality made his stomach turn.

Sherlock heard the pitter patter of shuffling feet, and knew immediately that it was Molly approaching. He glanced at his watch, and frowned; she was two minutes later than usual.

"Oh! Hi Sherlock." She withdrew her keys and began unlocking the lab door, and Sherlock focused in on her slightly flushed cheeks, recently applied eye make-up, and the scattered blueberry muffin crums on the collar of her shirt.

So, Molly had swapped her hospital canteen meal for a coffee with the Inspector.

"I'm afraid there's nothing new in since last night."

"I'm here for my slides."

"Oh - okay." They walked inside, and she sat down at the desk in the corner and began pulling at papers.

Sherlock moved to the microscope and was instantly reassured – what of he was not sure – by the cool feel of the metal beneath his skin. He began examining the rat kidney cells he had prepared earlier.

Midway through an inspection of the nephron, his phone buzzed; it was John. Sherlock hit ignore and turned to Molly, who was still sifting through documents.

"How are things progressing with the Inspector?"

"Sherlock, let's not do this now," she sighed. "I've got a mountain of paperwork to do."

Sherlock surveyed the documents she was examining. Office paper, formal layout, 4-5 subheadings.

Boring.

He stood up, turning off the light of his microscope as he did so. "I need to examine the 230 pound addict again."

Molly did not look up from her papers. "I'm busy Sherlock, maybe later."

"No you're not. This is important, I need to see that body."

"Not now."

Not now?

Then he was back. Back in the empty room with its blank walls and blank floors, the blue sofa in a repulsive state of movement, the entwined figures blurred.

Sherlock grabbed his jacket and left the lab without a word. Maybe one more inspection of Molly Hooper's flat was necessary.

John tossed his phone onto the sofa, frustrated.

Fine, ignore me. I'm only a concerned friend. But why the hell should that matter? The great Sherlock Holmes has no need for concerned friends.

The unreciprocated conversation did not, sadly, ease John's irritation. He picked up a cardboard box labelled, in his wife's fluid handwriting, "study collection", and moved towards the door. The box split, and one of Lucy's many hardbacks fell heavily on his foot. John swore loudly.

Lucy's head poked out from their bedroom. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, just hurt my toe," he replied, sitting down on the leather sofa and rubbing the damaged area through gritted teeth.

She came over to join him, bubble wrap trailing behind her. "Maybe we should take a little break."

"Agreed," said John, as Lucy folded herself into him, cheek resting on his chest.

"What's wrong honey?"

John looked down at her, eyebrows furrowed. "I just told you, I injur-"

"I don't mean that. You've been on edge for the last couple of days...is it the move?"

John looked around the nearly empty apartment, and sighed. "I'll miss this place. But no, it's not that."

"What is it then? Is it Sherlock?"

John didn't answer.

"I thought so," she murmured.

"It's this obsession!" John blurted out, before he could stop himself.

Lucy opened her eyes and looked up at him, a quizzical expression on her face. "And that's something new? For as long as I've known you you've said that's how he operates, how he works his cases."

"Yeah but that's the thing, it's not just about the case anymore, there's something else." He paused, wanting to hear what Lucy thought of that, but she remained silent. "Do you remember Greg Lestrade?"

"The inspector? Yes, we were introduced at the wedding. The British George Clooney."

John almost laughed. "The what!"

"I don't know, he's sort of got that look hasn't he."

"Should I be worried?" John joked, raising his eyebrows in mock concern.

Lucy grinned, snuggling herself into his arms. "Don't worry darling, I prefer my men cute and cuddly."

He laughed. "Thanks Luce."

"Oh you know what I mean. So what about Mr. Clooney?"

"Well he's started dating Molly Hooper, the pathologist – or I don't know, whatever Hollywood actress you associate her with."

"Drew Barrymore. She's got that adorable, wide-eyed look."

John chuckled. "Right. Well the two of them have sort of become an item, and, well, Sherlock's been fixating on it, rattling on about the relationship's 'ultimate demise'. And - blimey I never thought I'd say this - but it's shifting his focus. I mean you know what he's like, tunnel vision and all that, and I'm worried his obsession is misplaced this time. I mean what about the case? He hasn't come up with anything for three solid weeks! And since when does Sherlock Holmes fixate on feelings and relationships over crime and gore? It's all wrong, and, well, I'm worried about him." John paused. It felt so good to finally voice what had been bugging him. "What do you think?"

Lucy did not speak for a few moments, and John worried she might have fallen asleep. Then, all of a sudden, he heard her cautious reply. "I've actually started writing a character like Sherlock."

"Oh?" He had not been expecting that.

"He's, well, he's a seven year old boy."

"Right."

"John, Sherlock's a bit like a child. He has a certain order, and plays a game with certain rules. If people don't work in the game then fine, they don't have to be a part of it. Hence the insensitivity. It's his game, so why should he care how others feel about it? But I think he's become rather...attached isn't really the right word, fond maybe, to the players involved. And trying to meander his way through keeping them around is probably quite testing for him. And I guess he's just scared that Molly and Greg wont, well, fit on the chessboard anymore."

John stared at her. "And I thought I knew him well."

Lucy blushed. "Oh I don't know him well at all! I'm just fascinated I guess. It's different for you, you don't study him at arm's length. You live and breathe the game. I'm more like a spectator."

"So what do you think I should do?"

"Reassure him."

John really did laugh this time. "Reassure Sherlock Holmes? He's the most self-assured man I've ever met!"

"Confidence is often the spawn of insecurity."

"Who said that?"

"Professor L. Edgar."

"Who?"

"He's just this academic who writes about child psychologies. Quite interesting stuff really."

"And you're reading that why?"

Lucy's eyes shot open, colour creeping up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. "I – I just saw it in a shop and –"

John leant down and kissed her deeply, overcome with a surge of passion for this wonderful, beautiful, intelligent women he had been lucky enough to find. When he withdrew, he whispered softly in her ear.

"I want to start trying too."

Author's note: Thanks so much for all the reviews so far, never believed I'd get as many as this! Hope you enjoy this chapter - getting really nervous everytime I post an update now because I'm so sure I'm going to disappoint in some way. If I have with this chapter I really am sorry! And I promise to do better with the next one :)