Short intro will be short. It's pretty simple actually. I'm on a writing spree. So, because of that, you will get chapter 14 after this is posted. Right after. Alright. Cool.

See? Short intro. Enjoy this. I might make the intro a tad longer in the next chapter.

Sorry for the short chapter. Couldn't find a good way into editing this to make it longer. Officially probably one of my worst chapters.

Sorry.

Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock. I wish.

Sherlock's POV

The murder wasn't any different to the others at first glance. It was clearly another crime by the same murderer. That's what Lestrade relayed to me and I could feel my attention to the murder decrease a smidgen. How boring. I doubt they would need me any longer than half an hour, but knowing the company I will have to accomplish this with, it was bound to be longer. If only everyone thought like I did in these cases. Things would be done so much quicker and crimes would be solved before anybody has the time to become distressed and completely useless.

But they all can't be like me, or so Lestrade and John like to point out when given the chance.

I sighed and Lestrade peered at me. I refused to look at him since I didn't see the point in explaining myself. He knew me long enough to know when things were not in my best interests. As unmoral as it may seem to say, I wish that this was not by the same hand and actually drawn by a different one. Perhaps the criminal that I have been pondering and chasing blindly. Perhaps his associate who harmed John. I don't know. Anybody that wasn't this certain individual.

These opinions can wait till later. I have to be at my best state to idolize the most potent markings and settings of the victims. I didn't need biased explanations blocking my view. That would be unproductive and I was definitely not that. I was better than that. Or so I strive to be.

Closing my eyes, I immediately set myself in my mind palace and prepare my facts to place in a line. The simplest were the easiest to organize. Past murders. The criminals general mind set. The tools used. All elementary matters easily expressed and understood. Next came the moderate. Setting. Relationships to victims. Reasons.

A hard difficulty? Please, none of my facts are that problematic. Unless idiots were around to see the same things, it was as easy as learning how to read and write.

At least it was to myself.

Clearly, the same murderer did this, as concluded earlier, and it was even more obvious with the note attached to the couple's corpses. Lestrade was trying to fill me in with all that he took note in that was similar to the other murders though he really didn't have to. We were both going to the crime scene after all. Perhaps he didn't like the silence I was pursuing? That's possible. He wasn't the sort to find silence a comfortable volume.

Understandable when you take in where he worked quite often.

I sometimes wondered why he bothers to hang around the idiots he does. They are not nearly as deserving as himself and yet he deals with them expertly an without fail. He doesn't bit their heads, as people say, an he doesn't mock them for what they may have done or not. He seems to treat them like children in retrospect. He faintly monitors them, scolds them if needed, and then leaves them on their merry way.

I don't understand it and quite frankly don't want to try. Ordinary people are so... weird.

Ah, I'm going on a tangent. I've been tainted by being careless.

I sighed. When I get back to the flat, I'm going to have to go through my mind palace and delete the "spam" in my corridors. This is getting out of control. I needed to be in complete condition when viewing crime scenes and thinking of preposterous ideas in the most absurd of times is certainly not alright.

Swiftly rebooting my system, I go straight to what I have been told of the crime at hand.

Another art phenomenon, something I'd rather not memorize. Yes, the criminals purpose was to create a wonderful masterpiece to the viewers, but that was not the intention of Moriarty. He wanted something to impress me with. Something to drag me out of my flat, although he didn't have to try nearly as hard. He must have been in a artistic mood of sorts. It would be his criteria from what I have come to understand.

I personally could care less for the subject. It's completely pointless, though I suppose others would beg to differ as always. Bicker about the non pertinent objectives instead of focusing on the real details. Ah, details. That was my criteria, not the design. I was interested in what it told, not what it appeared to be at first glance. That would be seeing and not observing.

"We are here," I heard Lestrade say and didn't hesitate to jump out of the vehicle.

I was immediately met with the yellow tape that told me I was where I was supposed to be. How reassuring.

Then I saw Sally and Anderson and grimaced. Yes, I was definitely where I was supposed to be.

Why didn't I bring John?

The inspector ran ahead of me to get inside, nodding to Sally. She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless at her higher up. Then I saw her glare land on me and knew I wasn't going to be let off quite as easily. She would want to give her opinion. As always.

So I decided to linger a tad at the area around the scene. I didn't make a bee line to some other flat. I was just... viewing my options. I followed more leisurely and observed the ground and the few disruptions of mud and terrain. Interesting.

As I neared the tape, I saw the Sergeant and prepared a few phrases to get past her effectively. I didn't want to be here long.

But that didn't stop the Sergeant from speaking. Again, as always. I wonder if it is in her job description to make other individual's lives much difficult. If so, she was doing splendidly.

Sally greeted me immediately with her usual vicious motives. Empty threats as always. I really cannot understand why she couldn't be acceptable of my style in solving these murders. I solved them quicker than Lestrade's entire Yard. I was a quick observer. I made their lives so much easier and yet she still despised me with a passion.

I sighed. Why didn't I bring John? He's so much more agreeable to be around than these stupendous broads. At least he would be wondering what I thought or helping me past her. Without him, this was almost making me want to turn around and go a different route – and I have many – to get inside.

"Hello, freak," Donovan sneered in my direction after Lestrade was long gone.

"Hello, Sally," I replied expressionlessly, walking under the tape as the inspector did. Not saying anything, I continued to walk on. Before I got too far, Sally placed her hands in front of my form, stopping me briefly. Ah really. She wanted to talk no doubt. Probably as to why I didn't bring John.

I didn't want to surprise her by saying I was actually being considerate on my part. She would have a heart attack before believing such notions came from a "freak". God I hated that title.

Sociopath is a much better term than one so... simple.

After raising a brow, she appeared in front of me with her hands on her hips and her face in a smug smile, "So, where's your stray? Did you scare him away already or did you pick up a new one?"

Outwardly, I was giving a calm meaningless smile, but inside I was saying different. How dare she call John a stray? True, I suppose his standards and attire is nothing to brag about, but that does not give her, of all people, the right of acknowledging that. He was a better civilian than Sally herself and I really didn't appreciate the tone of voice she seemed to have on him as if he was trash that I had supposedly thrown out.

The small childish antics began to protrude and I fought them off as Sally watched my unresponsive mouth with a widening grin.

"So you did frighten him off? Oh how pathetic. I suppose you can't keep them long can you? Even the ones that seem to work best with you. Freaks have to stick with freaks I guess."

You have the same experience as well I thought silently.

"But that's why they call them strays, right? Because they tend to stray from the owner when given the chance?"

Before I could think of something to brush her off with, I just smirked.

"Ah, I don't think you have much room to speak when it comes to strays, Sally, considering who you like to associate yourself with. Oh, and I don't mean Lestrade."

Walking away from her stiff form, I blinked the curses I wanted to say to the back of my mind. Another time. Besides, I certainly didn't want to give her the assumption that she had gotten underneath my skin. That would be absurd. I would also be derived of my case. A big no. Not going to happen. I will not give her nor Anderson the luxury of that happening.

Sally got out of her stupor of shock rather quickly as she spoke into her radio, "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

I didn't realize how much of a mistake it was to not bring John until Anderson's face came into view. Cursing silently in my mind, I gently go over his form and pick out a few details. It didn't take me long when I could swiftly pick up the scent on his clothes and match it to the same scent on Donovan's. Oh, how lovely. I suppose the... oblivious sort should stick together.

How did she say it? Freaks have to stick with freaks I guess?

Although they must be more oblivious than I thought if they actually stuck together after their dispute two crime scenes ago. I would assume Anderson promised that he would leave his wife for her, yet I still see the ring on his finger. Donovan must realize this as well as she glared at him as she brought me up. Petty feuds.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," I greeted. This was bound to be interesting. Maybe it was a good thing I didn't bring John. No. The cons still outweigh the pros. Too many to count.

I sighed heavily, measuring the only pro in this scenario.

At least John isn't here otherwise he would scold me for my behavior... or enjoy it as I am.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Me? Contaminate a crime scene? If anybody has actually served in doing so, it would be the insufferable crew Lestrade seems to have with him. I can't obsess over how many times he has carried out blood or evidence that was a important asset to catching the convict. It's almost cringing how many times it has occurred.

I rolled my eyes at his jab and walked past him. Or attempted to at least. What was with everybody wanting to stop me from the ONLY thing I was good at. I wanted to recoil from the contact when he grabbed my cuff. My egotistical side was seething with the how dare's or the off with his head scenarios, but I remained composed, if not a little annoyed. I really hope his lack of IQ can be washed off. I wouldn't want to contaminate anybody else with that sort of stupidity.

"Are we clear?"

Looking back, I smiled. I would have let it go, but now I am irritated with him, "Quite clear. And is your wife away long?"

I saw him freeze and really wished that John would be here to treasure this moment. It was short lived though and he was immediately back on his feet with flustered features and angry notions. Donovan watched wearily and with slight annoyance. Wonderful! I hit two birds with one stone. Things couldn't be going any better.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

I scoffed, "Your deodorant told me that."

If his face could become even more obnoxious to look at, it did, "My deodorant?"

Quirking my lips a little, I replied with a little hop in my voice, "It's for men."

He looked annoyed and clearly didn't see where I was getting at with this. Oh, I sometimes wonder what it is like in his dull, little mind. Does he even have a hamster that runs it's wheels or does those wheels need to be oiled? Are they dusty or do they just move at an increasingly slow pace? Endless possibilities that I am sure if anybody were to pursue a career in his mindset, they would have something for the research given. At least, from myself they would.

But nobody sees the point. Ah, well, another time.

"Of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" he exclaimed.

"So is Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson's face dropped as he stared at Donovan in shock. I took an experimental sniff as he did so.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

Anderson met my innocent gaze with an accusatory one, "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything," I replied with an oblivious tone, sighting the state of Sally's knees quickly, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Oh the looks I suffered.

Smiling smugly at their identical looks of horror, I turn and walk in. Lestrade was right at the door and watched me with raised brows. I half expected him to berate my inability to actually get along with the two, but he didn't say anything. He actually looked amused, like he suspected the same.

"Is something bothering you?" he spoke with a little humor. I was right. Of course I was right. How could I not be. Clearly, he seemed to find the exchange humorous. John would have as well. I'm certain of that.

I shook my head, "You know me better, inspector. Nothing gets under my skin." I'm a machine. I cannot feel and my skin is made of cold metal. A material that cannot be penetrated. Feelings are not allowed to escape and influences are not allowed to enter.

Although my actions seemed to defy that fact when I said all those things. Normally I would have left them be, but the earlier jab at John seemed to have... set me off apparently.

I'll have to talk to John about this when I get home. If he's awake that is.

"Yes, but I also know that you don't speak to Donovan or Anderson longer than necessary because you don't find it important." He was right, but I didn't feel like explaining myself here when I have to concentrate on a case.

I was here to tell the confused what happened in the simplest of terms. I was the one to make their lives a tad easier. It was a gate to escape my boredom so I didn't mind, but mindless blabbering was not on my list of things to listen to in the progress of such deductions.

Deduce the dead. Give the details. With hold a few. Go to the flat and figure the rest out. Catch the person in question. And then let the yard have all the credit.

That's the way it was supposed to be.

And I didn't mind at all. Credit was just a way to get the press glued to your backs like leeches. I'll pass.

I shrugged to the detective, "I didn't get enough sleep."

Lestrade rose a brow, "Since when did you ever sleep?"

Since John came into my life, apparently. "That's not the point," I sighed, "Let's just see the victim. That is what I am here for, correct?"

With a roll of his dull eyes, Lestrade nodded and handed me a suit.

Ugh, horrendous thing.

Pulling on the ugly coverall, I followed Lestrade down the flat.

The smell was intense going by Lestrade's expressions, but I didn't mind it at all. It wasn't the first time I saw a dead body and it won't certainly be the last. Death is an aspect you would think the Yard would get used to. The smells. The looks. The lack of heart. It's going to be the same for every victim yet here I was, younger in the terms of crime than the inspector, and not flinching in the slightest. After all, there were bound to be more murders so the scent should be something to get used to.

I found myself faintly trailing to John. I wonder if he was used to it? I wonder if he recoiled at every scent?

Concentrate. Idiot.

Right. Machine.

"So where are the victims?" I questioned as we walked down the hallway of the flat. Everything was clean and a few things were still in boxes meaning the couple had just moved into here. Probably as a newly wed couple actually. Planning for a family judging the interior designing of one of the rooms. But all of that is for naught now. Now I had to concentrate on who did this.

Well, I suppose it was obvious who did it, but I meant the hand of the artistic sense, not the blood spill.

"They are in the reception area. I will warn you... it is a little different than the others."

"Oh please. It's still an artist who performed it. It's still going to be explicit in either gore or morality. I doubt there is any difference," I scoffed and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Why couldn't you bring John," he replied jokingly, "I get along much better with the mate than you sometimes."

Your not the only one I added.

Lestrade hesitated before opening the door. I walked in and quickly dissected the situation.

Ah, it was a tad different in the terms that it was two bodies and not one.

As well as the small, minuscule markings I could see peek out of the clothing the corpses were wearing. Abuse before the slaughter?

Right, the murder.

The entirety of the scene was to capture maybe cornering. Perhaps that is what the murderer felt like as she was doing this. Either they were going to die, get caught, or maybe even get punished after this act. They were afraid and yet accepting in a way.

The male signified death by the way his face was melted off entirely to see the skull. A robe was placed over his form with a hood to lay on top of his head. His fingers and other exposed skin was also melted to the bone. He had his left hand holding her waist and the other hand around her to keep her in place.

As for the female, this must represent the murderer's personal feelings. She still held her face though the scalp was partially burned by whatever substance they used to make her hair remain on end. Contortions were used to make her sad and forlorn. Her right arm was draped over the left arm of the male and her other hand was melted to the floor beside her.

It was a scene of cornering.

The events before the capture.

Of course, I didn't see it as that. I wasn't one to value art. I saw what most didn't see.

These two were happy couple. The female wasn't pregnant though they were probably aiming for such hopes. None were cheating and they were the couple everyone wanted to be. A boring family. Ordinary values and non significant traditions. Children. Grandchildren. Annoying crying things. Who really wants those? Messy little... beasts.

Getting closer, I pulled the sleeves back gently to see scarred tissue of cuts and bruises laid on the two victims. Ah, so they were tortured before placed in a frame.

Smiling, I noticed the note at the bottom of the two and wanted to give a triumphant laugh. I refrained by only remembering my pride.

So, Sherlock Holmes. I suppose this is boring for you by this point. Though, I do want to say... While you are here on your own, I wonder what is happening at your flat? Poor John. Poor poor John. Without you, he will be at a loss of what to do! I hope you enjoy the little gift I left for you Sherly~

-J.M.

I froze temporarily. This note must have been recently placed here if the murderer knew I came here without John. But then again, how could he have? The police have been here since the early hours.

Unless, he sent somebody to do it for him.

Cursing under my breath, I pulled a uncharacteristic Sherlock thing.

I left the crime scene before giving a single deduction.

Every step was heavy, but the mere thought of John possibly being caught again by that criminal was an objective I'd rather not have on my conscience. I didn't want to see John back in the hospital. Who would get me milk at the flat? Who would tell me to actually eat, even if I dismiss it?

I began to walk out of the crime scene. It killed me, but I didn't want to be held responsible if John got hurt. In order to not be held such, I needed to get there before anything went wrong.

I didn't understand this. Since when did I actually care about this doctor? When did my rare smirks and even more treasured smiles only appear around him? I am a machine. I can't care for such individuals other than myself. I am selfish and can't hold no emotion. Sincerity? Contempt? Hatred? A machine does not hold these. That's why it is a machine.

Because I am neutral. I do not pick sides, unless it is against my moral judgment. My cool metal exterior protects me from getting close. My deductions and sharp remarks are the bolts to hold those sheets in place. The jerky movements are my reactions and subtlety to human emotion.

And yet, despite all these faults, my mind still whirled on and on inside these metal caskets of mine. I thought ahead of those next to me. I actually thought. I knew the murderer. I could be in his steps. Deducing the past, figuring the future. That was me.

Not a human. Never a human.

I hardly noticed the inspector coming up.

Lestrade was next to me, "Hey Sherlock. Where are you going? We still haven't heard what you have to say on the murder!"

"I.. have something to attend," I spoke slowly before hopping into a cab and ordering the driver to 221B.

Poor John. Poor poor John. Without you, he will be at a loss of what to do!

John POV

My first instinct was to feel for a pulse in the corpse lying across from me, but notion would prove no point. There was no way she could be alive. None at all. She did, after all, pour a bucket of sodium hydroxide onto her skin. Skin melted off her as if it was icing on a cake. I saw the light fly from her eyes like a dying flame and yet I still couldn't believe it.

To top it off, this poor girl was driven by a man crazier than any dementia she showed. She was taken advantage of because of her condition.

And that wasn't okay in my book. Definitely not alright.

Moriarty. The name sparked two familiar beings in me. Fear and anger. The act of being terrified and the emotion of being furious. I feared this man for what he did to me gleefully. The cuts and bruises. The visible and invisible scars. The doubts in my mind. I feared him for all of these because I knew they were the beginning of what he could do.

With his tactics, he could effectively break me. He could blank out my memories, but not from technology. No, he could do it be the torture he is capable of. Because of this, I constantly wondered what I would be like if I got captured again and wasn't rescued in time. Would I even be John Watson anymore? Would I be me? Would I forget my memories? That's what I feared. Losing me.

But, that fear was swiftly rivaled with the fury of all the deaths he was causing in his little fun. He manipulated the deficient minds of others. His hands indirectly murdered every single soul in this case. Discreet and yet in plain sight. He was the cause of all of this. This woman murdering all those people. It was him. His fault. He needed to pay. Him and every bloody convict out there!

The young woman just got caught in a web...

No I didn't blame her. I didn't place the blame of all those murders and deaths on her palette because it wasn't her who delivered the final blow. It was her benefactor. It was Moriarty. She had a conscience. She used to be moral. She was a good person. But it changed. It did because of what he did to her. Changed her mind. Corrupted her pros and exploited the cons.

Yet we held no way to find him. Now that I know he seems to hold interest in Sherlock, I know we will hear of him again, but who knows how or when.

I just wanted to get rid of him.

I pulled out my cellular and was about to phone Sherlock when a text alerted me of its presence. It was an unknown number. Normally, I would have brushed it off as some sort of spam but the subject caught me.

"To John Watson."

Cursing under my breath and peering at the body in front of me, I click the message and read it.

"I suppose you are wondering who I am, but it's not important. What is, however, is the scene you just witnessed. Do not phone Sherlock Holmes, doctor Watson. If you know what's best for you, I advise you await until my men and I arrive. I will repeat myself if you didn't understand me the first time, do not phone Sherlock Holmes. That is all. -M.H."

M.H.? Who the bloody hell was M.H.?

Fighting the rebellious side of me that screamed to not listen to the text, I decided to play the risk and await the man who texted me.

I didn't have to wait long to here several stomps of feet coming up the stairs. To top it off, they didn't knock or hold any of the common decency I thought men of their stature would be. They just barged in like they owned the place and got to work cleaning the body and getting rid of the scene ever happening. They were covering the scene up.

"Hello again Doctor Watson."

I turned from the crew to face a man I recognized all to well as that goody two shoes snob of a man with that all knowing smirk (and ate too much of cake in my opinion) – also known as the hospital prat that clearly wasn't impressed by my state of mind at the time. So in other words, I despised the man instantly. His suit was the exact same as then as well as the expression on his face. God I wish I could knock that look off but that would probably get me in more trouble than I need considering his people.

"Hello," I replied wearily.

Why was he here anyways? And why the hell could I not tell Sherlock of this? It made no bloody sense! If Sherlock was here, he could scare off this git with his deductions or even showing him one of his experiments.

"I suppose you are wondering why I wouldn't let you tell this to your.. detective?" he smiled ruefully.

"Yes, actually. Please do enlighten me as to why I couldn't tell him," I snapped back. I ignored the few pointed glares I got from his men. Sod off. All of you.

"Ah, it's nothing personal, Doctor, none at all. Just some... leverage I suppose you could say," he mused.

"Leverage for what?" I replied.

He was about to respond when the door opened again. This time, a relieved smile crossed my face.

Sherlock.

I didn't know why I was so relieved from him returning, but for some reason, I felt like I was a lot safer with him around. Especially around this individual.

The detective didn't seem to share the same emotion.

Though, at the sight of the man in front of me, I could see the annoyance enter his face immediately. Moving to stand almost in front of me, I could barely make out the venomous glare he was sending to the powerful man.

"Sherlock-"

"John, how long has he been here?"

I paused, "Perhaps 5 minutes, but he did no harm. I met him once-"

"You spoke to him without consulting me?" he seethed, but it wasn't to me. This time his annoyance was directed to the man who appeared as done with this scenario as the detective himself.

"I hardly need your permission," he spoke nonchalantly, "I just wanted to see if he was useful in any way."

"Useful?" I repeated incredulously.

"Hush now Doctor Watson, the intellectual ones are speaking," he chided me before facing Sherlock again.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock threw out, "And I mean besides tampering with my case."

"As ever, I am concerned about you."

"Yes, I can see where your concern has led me," he snarled.

"Stop acting like such a child, Sherlock. Has it ever occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock exclaimed, clearly trying to get rid of the man quickly.

Peeking around Sherlock, I saw the powerful man's shoulders fall In a sigh. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he responded tiredly, "We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer …and you know how it always upsets Mummy."

I frowned, confused. Did I hear that correctly or was my mind playing tricks on me.

"I upset her? Me?"

The glowering battle became heated at the mere mentioning of this figure, "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

Standing abruptly, I placed a hand between the two children and broke in, "Wait a second. Just wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

Sherlock sighed a little, "Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." He looked like he hated giving the man that title. I couldn't really blame him.

But... that did make a whole lot of sense now that I think of it. They do hold that resemblance of being able to tell everything about you. And the faint appearance. I was surprised how I couldn't see it earlier. Maybe I was getting duller.

Deciding to question Sherlock later on the subject, I shake my head.

Sherlock rose a brow, "You accepted that fairly quickly, John. I'm impressed."

I smiled, "Not at all. I just know this isn't the time to be wanting explanations when your brother's men seem to be cleaning the finale on your case."

That seemed to bring everything into perspective as he peered at the men.

"Don't you dare touch that body with your unsanitary and ungloved hands," he seethed, "You have already ruined it by trying to remove it from my flooring. Do you have any idea how many pieces of evidence you have effectively destroyed?"

He set his glare on Mycroft, "And you. Can you possibly think of anything else to do than patronize me?"

"I would if you would take some of the propositions I have mentioned," he responded annoyed.

"As if you need any help. The country has you. Or are you taking back the point you made in my childhood how you are the smarter one."

"I am the smart one," he deadpanned.

"Then you don't need me!" Sherlock exclaimed as he shooed away the men messing with the female.

"Children! Please calm down," I interrupted, already getting a headache from the exchange, "You two are definitely related. God, I already can't deal with one of you. I don't need another."

"John!" Sherlock complained.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft watched me wearily.

"Drama queens," I muttered before effectively getting rid of the problem here.

I glared at Mycroft, "You. Out. Now. Clearly you presence has once again not helped in anything except making things worse. I really don't want you scrutinizing my mind set and past life, and quite frankly, I don't necessarily like you. Sherlock doesn't seem to either. So I would appreciate it if you would get out of our flat at this moment so we can finish a case he took on and you are not at all responsible for."

Mycroft blinked at me and nodded before ordering his men out and leaving as unceremoniously as he arrived.

Sherlock paused as he looked at me as well, "I... thank you."

I sighed, tired, "For what?"

He spoke slowly as if unsure on what to say, "Nobody has ever really stood up for me against my brother and the fact you decidedly put him in his place... thank you."

I smiled. He seemed awkward trying to thank somebody and decided not to point out he didn't have to respond so unsure. That I understood the basics of what he was meaning to express.

"No problem, mate. He didn't seem to be helping and with you and he bickering, I was about ready to punch him if he didn't leave. Putting him in his place was the only verbal way I had left."

I shrugged, "So onto the murder..."

"Ah yes," Sherlock didn't hesitate, "Did she do anything to you?"

"Do anything...?" I shook my head, "No... not at all. In fact, I spoke with her before she did it herself..."

"What did she say?" he asked as her checked her body.

"Besides saying she was dying of a terminal illness, she mentioned little else. She... thanked you. And her benefactor of course. She said because of you, she was given her few moments of fame. That's why she came here... not to hurt me. Not to manipulate me. But for me to listen to her."

A pause.

"And who was her benefactor?"

I rolled my eyes, "You should know."

"Moriarty."

I nodded, "Who else?"

A minute later, Sherlock moved away form the corpse and towards myself. I was a little surprised by the sudden change in direction and assumed he probably wanted to assess my intake on this.

What he said instead baffled me.

"I... need advice," he spoke slowly.

Now that was definitely a surprise. Advice? From me? For Sherlock Holmes? It must be the end of the world as we speak. Wait. No. No flames. No ice. No super typhoon or some meteor from the sky. Everything was intact. Shockingly.

I still expected something.

All I replied was: "For what?"

Another pause, "I have been in conflict with these emotions I have been feeling and unable to characterize. I'm... not good with human emotion."

He speaks it like he isn't one I muse.

"I can tell. Well, what is confusing you? Perhaps I can help."

He looked away for a moment and back at the body as he replied, like he couldn't look me in the eye, "It's about this individual I have met some time ago. I seem to be relieved when they are well and worried – is that the right word? – when they are upset or unwell. I accept praise from this individual and yet no other. For some reason, this person is also making me a little less unhappy than I was before. I... even tend to place themselves before me and my cases. I don't know what this all means but I assumed since you are more... human than I am, that you would be able to assist me."

Meanwhile, throughout the entire description, I wanted to laugh. I didn't of course because this clearly was conflicting him, but I was tempted.

"It sounds like you care for someone Sherlock. Is that so abnormal for you?" I joked and then realized it probably was, "It's not a bad thing. In fact, it proves that you actually are finding people who you can live with and not drive away so to speak." God, I didn't know how to say this without saying he was a lonely git before. I hoped he didn't see the negatives in my statement.

He seemed to be calculating something before giving a sigh, "Ah, I suppose that must be it. Thank you."

After that he just walked away like it never happened, observing the body again. I let it drop, but at the same time I wondered who this individual was.

Another topic for another time I promised. The corpse in front of me had to be attended to before I could consider what he meant.

I walked up beside the detective, "So, what do we do about her? We can't just... clean her up and dispose of her. She deserves a proper burial, no matter what she did."

Ignoring the brow he rose at me, I phoned Lestrade and told him of what happened. Sherlock didn't object so I guess I did the right thing.

The detective inspector didn't sound frustrated at all. One glance at Sherlock said that he probably did something and the inspector suspected as much. I'll have to have a talk with Sherlock later on priorities. His timing was bloody awful.

Within half an hour, the Yard came and took away the body. In another half an hour, I had cleaned up most of the mess on the floor from the encounter.

I was about to retire to my room when Sherlock called out, "John?"

"Yes?" I turned.

"Don't dwell on the past when you sleep. It tends to bring up unpleasant dreams. Think of something... euphoric."

I froze. So he had heard my nightmares.

Giving a slightly shaky smile, I thanked him and walked to my room. Shutting the door, I wiped away the worry with an effective "He doesn't know. He would have said something."

I went to the laptop and opened the blog. The intro still mocked me, but now I could finish it.

Extending my fingers, I prepared for what was going to be a long night.

I won't be getting much sleep, but for once it won't be because of nightmares.

God... I hope this doesn't become an addiction.

Look at that. Chapter stuff. Sherlock clearly has manifested feelings for John, but both he and John are in the wrong as to what they are.

Don't worry, it's developing.

John is going to be a stick in the mud, I fear. Keep in mind he will not move forward until his past has made amends. He relies on his past and the future is only a far away candle in a room of darkness. He still can't reach it yet.

But he will.

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Ciao~