Not so subtle poke at Neverwhere somewhere in this chapter. Hurrhurrhurr. Thanks for the reviews, I know some people (OK, maybe everyone) aren't wholly happy with the way the storyline is going, but stick around, it'll make sense eventually. If it doesn't, you are henceforth given the permission to Caps Lock me.

Trust Sherlock to know every single café that opened in the small hours before dawn. It really, John thought, pretty much summed up what his life consisted wholly of: in fact, it was the first time Sherlock seemed to fit his surroundings; sat there in the window, nursing his strong coffee between his skeletal fingers; rather than sticking out like he did so often everywhere else, with his height and fashion sense and unearthly expressions.

John watched him, heart fluttering a bit, wondering if he would do this often. No one stared at them like they usually did- there were about four other patrons scattered about the other tables- even though Sherlock's legs were stretched out underneath the table, him and his coat slouched, slightly ruffled, in the cheap wooden chair. There was a packaged sandwich in front of him, but he'd yet to touch it.

John toyed lightly with his outstretched feet under the table. Very lightly, so Sherlock didn't notice for a moment, just continuing to stare at the deep, prussian blue sky lightening outside of the window, with that faraway look on his face; until he suddenly diverted his gaze to John, who broke the ice with a small, but genuine, smile. One which Sherlock returned, with the edge of his lips curving up mischievously in that way they did.

John still wasn't sure where he stood- and not just on the relationship. Well, it sounded terrible that he was thinking about him and Sherlock and him and Richard in a period of crisis like this, but really, once he'd managed the Macbethian task of washing the blood off his hands, which had dried on his fingers since testing Phillimore's pulse, all that he was left with was a rage pertaining exclusively to Mycroft, and the resolute uneasiness that he, much unlike who he thought he was, had two seperate relationships on the go. Murder, at least for him, in the dreary light of the café, seemed like an urban myth; despite him having paid witness to similar acts before. It just seemed unreal that there had been a dead man on their doorstep less than a few hours ago. He'd buried it in the back of his mind, so that it became that it felt like something he'd seen on television, like the woman they had found at Laureston Gardens, whose name now escaped him.

"A penny for your thoughts?" He disturbed his own thoughts to ask Sherlock.

"What?"

"A penny for your thoughts. It's... It's a turn of phrase. Means what are you thinking 'bout," he hiccuped, tasting the sickly version of the shockingly milky tea he'd just downed his second cup of.

"Oh... Lots of things."

"Murderer?"

"Maybe." John couldn't help but feel that Sherlock was being purposefully ambiguous.

"Are you upset?"

"Upset?"

"About your client, I mean," John sighed, which did actually prompt a reaction, as his flatmate moved his hands up to rest underneath his chin, wearing a devious look.

"Upset that that it was him... no, not really," Sherlock said heavily, "He was... demanding. A rich city boy in need of a plaything," he enunciated the final word slowly, as if to put emphasis on it. "But I had a few clients turn me away after Jennifer Wilson- just imagine now..." In a fashion spectacularly unlike Sherlock Holmes, he trailed of, a hint of... fear?... creeping in at the edge of his wavering voice.

Initially, John felt strange at seeing a man he couldn't help feeling strongly for in distress, wanting, in some way or another, to comfort him; but Sherlock just wasn't the type. Then, he felt a wave of nausea come over him, quelling whatever it was he was going to do, as he thought about the way Sherlock exploited himself like that. He'd seen how he'd worked with Jennifer, so this James boy would have been the same? Sherlock had so much with all these different people, and yet John had nothing.

Since when was he such a lovesick schoolgirl anyway, he asked himself angrily, clenching his fists.

"This isn't the time," Sherlock snapped under his breath, and saw John had looked up in alarm. He exhaled, and looked out of the window.

"I... I'm sure it'll be OK, Sherlock. It's not as if people are really going to believe you're killing these people..."

"It's not that people think I'm going to slit their throat. It's that when they look for a prostitute- especially over an escort, like Irene's lot- it's because they want sex, their way, no strings attached. They are aware that it's in detriment to Lestrade and I if we were to get caught, so they're seldom worried about getting prosecuted for paying for sex," he spoke fast, and in a matter-of-fact manner, "However, a prostitute who has assasins of some sort hanging around him or her is too much of a risk, regardless of how good they might be."

There was a pause, in which Sherlock began to tap his foot.

"How was your date, then?"

"Just... Drop it, yeah?" John said irately. Sherlock looked a bit taken aback, and ever so slightly hurt, as he raised his eyebrows and tapped his foot faster under John's chair.

"So, you don't...?"

"Now isn't the time," John snapped, and instantly regretted it. He sighed. "Sorry. Look, I don't want to talk about the date." He thought for a moment, and decided he may as well be open with Sherlock if he wanted to trust him. "I talked to your brother."

"What?"

"By talked, I mean listening to him talk and trying not to punch him."

Sherlock giggled. John, however, straightened his face into seriousness.

"He told me about you. About... About how you got... here."

That wiped the amusement off Sherlock's face rather quickly. "And?" he muttered, leaning forward over the table, with a cautious sideway glance and the other customers.

"Nothing," John gulped. "I just thought you should know that I was aware of the circumstance."

"I don't want your pity."

"I know that. I just... well, it sounds stupid to say I understand, because I'm sure it would be naïve of me to say that. But, I guess, I can... empathise," he finished lamely, shuffling uncomfortably. Sherlock regarded him for a few seconds, then leant back again, touching his palms together and steepling his hands underneath his chin, like John realised he habitually did.

"'Mmkay. Do you trust me?"

"Of course. Well, when I know that you're not going to do something stupid like earlier." Sherlock grimaced. "But you're my flatmate. Flatmates should know the worst about each other," he grinned. Sherlock nodded in approval, and John noticed his pupils dilating.

"Mr Holmes?" came a voice from behind it, and the pair in the window looked up to see a man looking at Sherlock. At first, John had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, but upon closer inspection, he deemed it impossible that he could have somehow met this man before. He was dressed scruffily, with dreary olive-coloured skin and messy black hair tamed underneath a navy woollen hat. His nose was an unsightly salmon colour, too, so John figured he'd been outside for a while. Why? And why did he want to talk to Sherlock?

"Good morning Antonio. I pray you got what I asked for? That's for you, by the way," he nodded at the sandwich that John had forgotten was still lay on the table, as the man extracted a slip of lined A5 paper from the inside pocket of his duffel coat. The man picked up the sandwich, took the folded five pound note Sherlock held out for him, and scuttled out of the café just as quickly as he's appeared.

John waited until Sherlock had read the piece of paper, which took him about fifty seconds- though John could have sworn he read it twice, flashing John a cautious look between readings.

"Where did he come from?" John asked.

"London." John rolled his eyes. "London below."

"London Below?"

"As in, normally Oxford Circus station."

"You mean... Homeless?"

"The Baker Street Irregulars. Or Homeless Network. Sometimes also sex workers."

"And... Wha-"

"What do they do? Help. They have information."

"What, about James and Jennifer?"

"You could say so." He stowed the paper in his pocket.

"What did it say?"

"Nothing we didn't already know." John couldn't help but suspect he was lying.

"Are you sure?"

"Flatmates should know the worst about each other," Sherlock reflected, and John scowled. However, he wasn't given much time to pursue it further, as the dark-haired man sprung from his seat like a cat, downing most of his coffee and setting it on the table with deliberation.

"What time is it?" he asked solemnly. John consulted his watch.

"Nearly quarter to six," he said with despair. "Where are you going?"

"I need to pay Lestrade. I daresay you're welcome to come."

John's phone buzzed.

"Do you think the police will have gone from the flat?" he muttered, but Sherlock didn't answer; either because he didn't hear or he didn't know the answer. Possibly because he'd ignored it, though- this was Sherlock. "I'll probably go back and sleep. I think I have an interview later."

"Where?"

"There's a little surgery round the corner. I just want something to do during the day, that's all. You're OK with that...?"

"Fine. Fine." He paused. "Good luck."

And with that, he raised his eyebrows, and disappeared out of the café and into the dark street. Gone, like he'd never been there in the first place.

John stared at the two empty cups on the table, feeling empty. After being awake all night, too, he was knackered- yet somehow, he found himself heaving his body off the chair, and shrugged his jacket on.

Outside, the air was crisp. It was still pitch black, as it would be until at least half eight. There were only a few lights, spilling from a few shop windows, but no street lights, so as John picked his way down the pavement towards the tube station, he watched the ground carefully, looking up every now and again. He didn't see anyone as he went, except a woman running with headphones in, who ignored him as he stepped off the pavement to let her through.

There was a figure up ahead, which John only recognised as Sherlock when he darted into the light momentarily, tucked in his scarf and looking ever elegant in his long coat. The thing was, though, that if he wanted to see Lestrade, he would have taken a right to Euston station; and yet, he was carrying on past their, down in the shadows to the opposite end of the street. John's heartrate increased, and he began to speed his walking pace to catch up a bit more- not at all thinking through what he was doing.

As he followed, keeping a good distance behind, despite the almost pitch-black, his phone buzzed again. Sighing quietly, he took it out of his pocket and read the screen in short bursts, between watching his flatmate, before suddenly, he stopped. The texts were from Richard.

Hey, I heard something happened at Baker St. Everything OK? RB

John? I'm worried. Please just let me know you're OK. RB

John's initial thought was in regards to how Richard knew his address, but he ignored himself, telling himself that he must have mentioned it in passing and forgotten. Or, indeed, how the news had spread so quickly. Perhaps that was just the way the sex business worked- everyone was, as Sherlock had once explained, in it for themselves, so sabotaging business in the most insidious of ways, including drugs and often cold-blooded murder, wasn't exactly rare. At any rate, it was nice that Richard cared; and it brought John back to his senses about what he was involved in. He wasn't being entirely honest with Sherlock, so Sherlock, in return, would be permitted his privacy on whatever detour it was that he was taking.

John ran his hand through his hair as the screen backlight switched off, plunging him back into darkness. He knew that he should probably tell Richard that he wasn't interested, but that would be a lie. The same went for Sherlock. Each man one part of their own dark world: sex, drugs, money, slavery. Yet, in their own brilliant ways, they drew John in, irrisistable with their charm and vigour in a way that put them at opposite ends of the spectrum.

He should probably stay away from both of them, he told himself, turning away from Sherlock's pinprick of a figure down the opposite street and beginning to wander off towards the Tube station. Yet, no sooner had he thought it, he knew he couldn't leave. Nothing this interesting had happened in his life for a good while now: and he couldn't go back to living off an army pension, feeling sorry for himself.

Still though... Was there such thing as too much "interesting"?

"Get a fucking grip," he told himself, breath swirling hypnotically in white wisps in front of his face. He pressed a key on the phone so the backlight came back on, considered his reply, then tapped in his message with stiff fingers.

I'm fine, and everything's sorted now. Tired. Will ring later. Thanks for last night. JW

He hit send, not able to help but give a little grimace as Sherlock's smile popped into his mind's eye. Come to think of it, Sherlock never had kissed him again.

He began trudging his way back to Baker Street; deciding against taking the Tube, instead to be with his thoughts, wondering where it was that either of his love interests were, and what they were doing. God only knew what was coming for him...