Sorry about missing last week, guys. Real life is throwing me for a loop these days. Add that to the ongoing struggle that The Great Game is giving me, and I can only give you a chapter this week. I'm so so sorry. I promise you I haven't - and will not - forget this story. It's just coming a little slower than the others did.

John woke to a freezing cold version of 221B - the gas company had turned off all gas service in the area so the heating was out, and despite knowing it wasn't actually a gas leak, the police were working with the bomber's cover story and had banned using fireplaces in the neighbourhood. So upon waking John's first instinct was to burrow further into the sheets.

Unfortunately for John, Sherlock was more than comfortable making him uncomfortable. "John! Up!" she cried, letting herself into his room with a crash of the door.

John sat up, momentarily startled and scanning the area for threats before realizing there weren't any (no more than their usual, anyway) and flopping back into the mattress with a groan.

"No," he replied, "Shan't. Don't want to. Do it without me. Tell Greg hi."

Sherlock folded her arms and shook a curl out of her face. "John," she began, then stopped and looked confused. "Who's Greg?"

John pulled the covers over his head. "No."

This did nothing to deter Sherlock, who began to rummage through John's wardrobe, from the noises John was ignoring.

"John, you need new shirts," came from above the duvet, and John let his head peek out of the covers to protest only to get hit in the face with a pair of his red pants.

"My shirts," he insisted, spluttering and pulling the fabric off his face, "are fine."

Sherlock fixed him with a doubtful look. John groaned.

"I will get up and get dressed if you will promise not to let any 'accidents' happen to my clothes in an effort to make me replace them," he bargained, and Sherlock's face lit up, then fell in quick succession.

"Deal," she said after a moment, nodding, and John tossed his pants at her.

"Good. Get out," he ordered, and Sherlock screwed up her face at him as she shut the door behind herself.

When John emerged from his room he expected to get whirled into a case involving the next pip, and Sherlock did hustle him out the door and into a taxi. But he was surprised to find himself being ushered into a cafe.

"Right. Why are we here?" he asked, and Sherlock gave him her best "you're being obvious" expression.

"Breakfast, John!" she said impatiently, and the cashier's head snapped up at her voice.

"Sherlock! Oh, and you've brought a date! Lovely! Here, I'll grab you a table," she fluttered, and John felt his eyes widen before he glared at Sherlock.

"Thanks, Melissa," Sherlock responded easily, ignoring John. "We'll need a full English and two coffees."

"Not a problem!" Melissa smiled, and gestured at a table before scurrying off.

"You woke me for breakfast?" John asked pointedly as he shrugged off his jacket and sat down.

"You get grumpy when hungry, and I'll need you at your best," Sherlock said dismissively, pulling out her phone, leaving John to wonder when he'd gone from "That Tag-Along Doctor" to "Needed," and pondering if being fed made him feel like a pet.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked later, as John finished the last of his eggs and started on the sausage.

"Mmm," he nodded. Of course she would wait until his mouth was full to ask. He quickly swallowed and then looked up, pointing his fork at her. "You know we've barely had time to breathe since this all started?"

"Breathing's boring," Sherlock responded dryly as John took a bite of toast.

"You have realised," he started, then stopped to swallow, realising he was speaking with his mouth full.

"Yes," Sherlock responded before he could continue, and John glared at her before going on anyway.

"You have realised the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, 221C, Carl's shoes - it all centres 'round you."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and smiled. "I know."

"And that doesn't, I dunno, bother you at all," John said flatly. "Creep you out a bit? Who is it, anyway? You didn't seem surprised; you said you were expecting it."

"The skipper," Sherlock said slowly.

"The water cabbie? He's dead." John frowned, annoyed, but Sherlock shook her head.

"He mentioned a sponsor. You remember?" John gestured a 'no' and Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I'm certain I told you all this before."

"Well, you have a habit of talking to me when I'm not home," John pointed out. "Explain it again."

"He had a sponsor. Someone was paying him to kill people. Or, paying his children, anyway - he was diagnosed with a brain anurysm."

"Who pays someone to kill random people?" John asked in confusion.

"The skipper called him my 'fan'," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"And that's our bomber," John said slowly. "Did Hope tell you anything else?"

"Who?" Sherlock asked, eyes blank. John sighed.

"The water cabbie. His name was Jefferson Hope," John explained. Sherlock looked at him as though he'd grown a second head.

"Mycroft told me it wasn't normal to remember the names of serial killers."

"It isn't," John confirmed, "but I tend to remember the names of people I've shot for my mad flatmate."

Sherlock's grin was blinding, and John had to look away to wipe his mouth on his napkin before asking again, "So did Hope tell you anything else?"

"Just a name," Sherlock said lightly. "Moriarty."

"Right," John blinked at her. "You never thought to tell Lestrade you have a name?"

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "Please, John. I've looked it up - the name's not of much use from an investigative standpoint. He's hardly going to put his criminal alias in the phone book."

"But you think that's who this -" John jammed a finger toward Sherlock's coat pocket, which held the tablet, "- is? This is all your fan?"

Eyes glittering, Sherlock answered quietly, "Probably."

"Right," John answered back, mind whirring. A homicidal maniac fanboy - or girl - for his sociopathic maniac flatmate. Lovely. Of course.

And then the tablet buzzed.