John

I lay in bed, feeling the dull ache of pain through my arm, for hours before I fell asleep, thinking of Sherlock's lips and hands on my face. I was woken at half past three in the morning by aggressive tuneless violin playing and suddenly felt less fond of Sherlock. I couldn't stop an involuntary hiss of pain escaping my lips as I rolled painstakingly slowly out of bed, lost my balance and landed on the floor. With a flourish, the violin playing ceased. I seized hold of the duvet and tried to pull myself up onto my feet with the one hand that wasn't in the sling. The door opened.

"John, I heard a noise and deduced you'd fallen. Are you alright?" Sherlock said, hurrying into the room and seizing me under the armpits.

"Yeah, great deduction." I said through gritted teeth as Sherlock swung me easily into the bed and tucked the bedspread in under the mattress on all sides.

"Erm, I can't breathe now." That was a slight overstatement but I did feel constricted.

"Oh," Sherlock looked crestfallen and began to un-tuck the duvet, "It's what Mycroft used to do when I was ill… on second thoughts I didn't like it very much either… anyway I told you to rest. You should be resting!"

"Yes," I sighed, "Well I was but then I was woken by some lovely Mozart."

"What? Oh, the violin! That was one of mine actually-"

"Whatever. I was trying to get out of bed to see you anyway. It doesn't feel right sleeping."

Sherlock grabbed my hand and pulled me out of bed.

"Wow. You have been working." Sherlock had plastered one of the living room walls with photos of things important to the case; Harry alive, Harry's body, The German brothel man's body, The hoodies, the piercings, Lestrade's wounds, my wounds, Sherlock's wounds, a computer-generated images of a splintered pole of wood-

"What's that?" I asked, pointing at it.

"What they think the weapon might look like after studying the body-" He waved away my unasked question, "Lestrade got the boys in blue to collect the brothel owner's body and any other evidence from the warehouse. I was right in thinking the Moonblood Cult would've scarpered with as much alcohol as they could after they realised we were onto them. Lestrade just emailed this picture to me an hour or so ago so it turns out he's not completely useless."

"Great! So have you made any progress?"

"Well, Lestrade's obviously got a rough idea of what the weapon is although I can see two flaws from the pictures of the body Lestrade's emailed to me but, then again, Anderson probably had something to with the construction of it so what can you expect? They're working on the piercings with Donovan… I've acquired the address of the brothel and a vast amount of information on the deceased owner from one of my Baker Street irregulars… I was planning to pay them a visit tomorrow but as you're awake now… anything we learn about the Moonblood Cult is key to finding the killer. I'm certain they're involved. I know we've got enough to arrest them for the alcohol but we need solid evidence to ensure to the culprit has no chance of escaping, besides which they appear to have disappeared anyway. My homeless network are keeping their eyes and ears open and I'm sure I could trace them if I put my mind to it- there are eleven possible locations they could have run to but the more we can glean about them before we meet them again the better. It's all about wrong footing these people; letting them know you know about them, that you're clever than them. I know I can find out anything about their individual members just by looking. If needs be I can rely entirely on that; I'm sure there's something I can use to bribe one of them but I'd rather not to be honest, I already have a criminal record. The long and short of it is; we should learn as much as we can about their history, who they deal with, whether it's just alcohol, who's involved… this way there'll be no way they won't let us keep them in custody at least- if we get all the Moonblood Cult people in the same place I'll be able to spot the murderer or murderers in three and a half minutes."

Sherlock

We took a taxi to Soho Square and walked the rest of the way to a relatively seedy establishment called 'Heavenly Bodies' apart from the pink neon lights said 'Heavenly Bodys'.

"Hmm…" John sniffed as a middle aged man stumbled past us into the brightly lit interior of the brothel, already undoing his flies, "This is… classy."

I snorted involuntarily through my nose and led John into the surprisingly clean room which smelt of weed and cheap perfume and was lit with a subtle red light. I turned to look at John, who raised his eyebrows. The area we were in was deserted; a few glossy brochures about STDs were pinned to an otherwise empty cork board. A fake wood desk stood in one corner with a garish red and yellow push bell taken from a 1980s board game in its centre. Behind the desk there was a doorway obscured by a beaded curtain and surrounded by A4 pieces of paper which stated in loud word art, size 72, 'If your rude you go', and 'no wash, no lady' and 'we have two men also who are loving fun.'

"The grammar here is terrible" John breathed in my ear, nodding at the notices.

"I know." I walked to the desk and planted my palm on the bell.

In thirty six seconds a woman emerged from behind the beaded curtain. She was in her mid-forties had bleached blond hair which was showing brown at the roots; she was wearing a tight red corset which her voluptuous breasts nearly spilled out of.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting I was just-"

"-Feeding your baby, or someone else's but I assume it was yours, I know." I said.

Her mouth hung open in that gormless way I see so often on the faces of people I'm talking to, I assume it means they're awestruck and is normally followed by a slow 'how did you do that?' sort of question. Before this woman's mouth could catch up with her mind I told her.

"Your clothing is crumpled from where you've been carrying a baby on your hip, there's a wet patch consistent with milk leakage on you corset under your left breast, your eyes darted back to that curtain three times in that short sentence you spoke to us- you're worried about the child- that may be because you're being paid and don't want any harm to come to the baby so you won't lose your money but unless you have a baby around the same age which is about eighteen months- a little old to still be feeding from you, don't you think? – it's unlikely you would be producing breast milk and, let's face it, who leaves their baby in the company of a woman who is going to be spending the night in a brothel? Unless, of course, they don't know or they're a prostitute who could find no one else but both of those scenarios are unlikely so the most probable solution is that it's your baby you have just been breast feeding."

The woman looked surprised and affronted; I felt a natural smile of satisfaction pull at the corners of my mouth. For seven seconds I stood there, smiling, with nobody saying anything. This obviously too long a period of silence because John stepped past me and leaned on the desk, "Is this the, uh, establishment of um… um…"

I realised I'd never divulged the name of the dead man to John so finished his sentence for him, "Gunthe Keller?"

The woman immediately assumed a defensive position, crossing her arms across her chest, pressing her legs together, flicking her eyes from side to side and going rigid. She sniffed, "Who wants to know?"

"Don't worry," John smiled at the woman, stepping backwards so she didn't feel threatened, "You're not in trouble… is there anywhere we can go that's a bit more private?"

The woman looked indecisive for four seconds and then nodded us into the back room.