"Oh my god." Another wave of nausea lurched at John's stomach. He stumbled forward and braced his elbows on the edge of the counter, hanging his head over the sink. The sight of his blood encrusted hands sickened him, and he turned on the tap. Scarlet bubbles ran down the drain as he scrubbed at his hands. Though they washed clean, the stain of his guilt remained.

Doctor Reed injured. Vivian taken.

It was all his fault.

Innocent people, not soldiers, hurt by his actions. It didn't matter that he couldn't have anticipated the consequences of placing the battery back in the car. He'd vowed to do no harm. And now his oath lay broken like Doctor Reed's blood-stained body.

John took in a trembling breath and let it out.

He looked up and found Sherlock watching him, the man's reflection marred by the bloody inscription across the mirror. Sherlock's eyes were cold, but his words were colder still. "This is no time to fall apart. Save your remorse for later. We have work to do."

John's control, as brittle as the scaphoid bone in the wrist, fractured. He wrenched around to face him.

"Don't you care that she's been abducted?" he shouted. "Or was Vivian just some pet project of yours for your own twisted entertainment?"

Sherlock's face remained stoic. "You foolishly continue to allow your heart to rule your head." His disdainful gaze raked over him. "Look at you. Your heart rate is accelerated, your blood pressure high. Your constant swallowing and gray pallor indicate nausea. Pupils dilated. You're under stress and not the adrenaline-boosting kind you prefer. This is emotional distress, stemming from guilt. Tell me. Where has your caring gotten you?"

In that moment, John wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into Sherlock's expressionless face. "You're pleased, aren't you? Another puzzle to solve. A life hanging in the balance. Does it feel like Christmas?"

"And what if it does? Despite our differing motivations, our end goals are the same. Save a life. Solve a death. If you truly cared for Miss Walker, you wouldn't be wasting my valuable time. Time that could be spent solving this case."

"Caring makes us human." John slammed his palm against the counter. "You should try it sometime."

"In case you haven't noticed, those we hunt aren't human. They're monsters, glutted on the hearts of the caring, the stupid, and the innocent. Preying upon the predator requires a similar mindset. My clarity of thought is dependent on cold logic, unfettered by sentiment. Surely this doesn't come as a surprise to you. You know my methods."

He shook his head. "You can't just excise caring like a cancerous tumor."

"I can. And I will." Sherlock stalked forward, pale blue eyes flashing. "And if you wish for us to be successful in safely retrieving Miss Walker, then you'll cease this foolish talk. We both know I'm her best chance. I can't afford to be distracted. Do you understand?"

The anger and frustration bled out of him so fast, it left his knees weak. "Yes."

He did understand. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't have the capacity for caring. He did. It showed in the way he included John in all his cases, a shared laugh with Lestrade, a violin song for Mrs. Hudson, and how he'd asked his trusted childhood physician to watch over Vivian Walker.

Sherlock's words echoed in his mind.

I can't afford to be distracted.

He doubted the man even realized what he'd revealed in those six simple words.

As requested, he wouldn't push Sherlock any further, but he wasn't about to concede defeat. This was just the first battle in a long anticipated war. The head versus the heart. He'd consider it a victory indeed if even a small piece of the latter worked its way free.

It wouldn't do for the slayer of monsters to become that which he hunted.

"I'm sorry for putting the battery back in the Maxima." John exhaled the words out, his chest aching.

"You couldn't have known. Though I'm sure an apology to Miss Walker wouldn't be out of order."

A pained chuckled escaped his throat. "I'll be sure to tell her if I see her again."

Sherlock's expression tightened. "I'll make sure of it."

Lestrade came into the bathroom. "There's no sign of anyone else in the manor, though every drawer and book has been tossed about."

"He was looking for the notebook. When he couldn't find it, he devised an alternate plan and left," Sherlock said.

The inspector eyed the message on the mirror. "I can see that. Can you give me a description of the missing woman?"

"She has a name," John said. Irritation made his tone sharp. "Vivian Walker."

"Right." Lestrade flipped open a fresh page on his notepad.

"Shoulder length red hair, green eyes, 5'11", 11 stone, wearing a blue camisole. She was wrapped up in cling film as well. I imagine our killer will have a difficult time getting her out of it, should he decide to do so," Sherlock said.

John staggered back against the counter as a truly repugnant thought entered his mind. Vivian was half-naked, vulnerable, and unconscious. What if the killer decided to entertain himself? He ground his teeth together and shoved the horrifying image out of his mind. Sherlock was right. He needed to get a hold of himself. Borrowing worry wouldn't help her.

Lestrade's scratching pen paused. "Wrapped in cling film?" His eyes shifted to the tub and the medical equipment on the floor. "What in the bloody hell was going on in here?"

"It's complicated," John said, hesitating as an officer entered the bathroom with a camera. "Can we discuss it later, in private?"

Lestrade's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "I'll put an APW out for her."

"You won't find her," Sherlock said, as they headed back into the guest room. "He'll be sure to keep her hidden until he's ready for the exchange."

"Perhaps he'll make a mistake."

"He already has." Sherlock nodded at the bloody mess on the ground. "If we don't track him down, Mycroft certainly will. He might even be willing to do legwork after he sees what's been done to his carpet."

John sucked in a breath. "Have you spoken to him? Can he allow us access to the security camera footage?"

Sherlock shook his head. "All calls are going directly to voice mail. There's no doubt we'll hear from him once he checks the cameras though."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "In the meantime, would you mind walking us through what happened?"

Sherlock nodded, and they followed him to the front of the house, carefully skirting around the streaks of blood.

"There's no sign of forced entry. That means our killer knocked on the door. When Doctor Reed answered, shots were fired. The first bullet missed." Sherlock pointed at a dark spot in the wall. "It lodged there. Judging by the size of the hole, it's .40 caliber."

"How could he miss from such a short distance?" John asked. It was a piss poor shot.

Sherlock moved to stand in the doorway and slowly raised his arm. He shook his head. "There are too many variables. His gun could have caught in his pocket. He could have been surprised to find an old man answering the door. Doctor Reed could have lunged forward, startling him. Regardless, the second bullet made contact. It hit Doctor Reed in the leg, near the femoral artery."

Sherlock stood before a dark pool of blood on the carpet. "He fell to the ground and the shock kept him there while the killer searched the house. I doubt our shooter was expecting Doctor Reed's tenacity though."

Sherlock sidestepped over to a decorative table with a mirror above it. Bloody hand prints covered the wood surface. "The old man dragged himself up, and he went after his attacker."

They continued into the bedroom.

"The killer was in the midst of dragging Miss Walker out of the bathroom when Doctor Reed tackled him. They slammed into the wall." There was a dent, a splash of blood, and black scuff marks along the floor boards.

"He overpowered Doctor Reed and pistol whipped him, knocking him out. He then walked back into the bathroom to finish retrieving Miss Walker, but he stopped here and looked back."

Bloody footprints returned to where the doctor had been.

"He wiped blood off Doctor Reed's face, then returned to the bathroom to leave his message."

Sherlock paused, eyeing the broken lamp still on the floor. The medics had cut the cord, instead of taking the time to unwrap it from the old man's leg. "Doctor Reed regained consciousness long enough to reach for the cable. If he hadn't managed to slow the bleeding, he would be dead."

John swallowed. It appeared their reluctant killer was reluctant no longer. Then again, he'd already tried to run over Vivian. It wasn't much of a leap to shooting innocent people after that. Once a boundary like that was crossed, it became easier and easier to step across the next.

They reentered the bathroom, and Sherlock examined the bloody words scrawled across the mirror. "You won't find any fingerprints. He wore nitrile gloves with pebbled fingertips. If his hands had been bare, there would have only been a single variegation on the down stroke. Instead, the blood beaded up unevenly across the surface of the rubber."

"What'd he do next?" Lestrade looked up from his notepad.

Sherlock shook his head, his normal snide remarks absent. "He dragged Miss Walker out of the bathroom. That's why there's so much water on the carpet here and red streaks of blood, moving towards the door."

"Why not just carry her?" John asked.

"The wet cling film would have made it difficult to grasp hold of her. Though it's likely he didn't have the strength. His shoe size is a 9, small for a man."

John frowned down at his own shoes. Shoe size didn't necessarily indicate strength.

Sherlock left the room, and they followed him out to the front of the house. Rain had come through before they'd arrived in Lestrade's car. Four police cars fanned out around the perimeter, and their blinding headlights cut across the gleaming wet ground. "There isn't enough evidence remaining to determine what type of car he drove. If there was any, it's now been muddied by all the vehicles."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the perpetrator?"

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "He's right-handed. Not a very good shot. I expect we'll hear from him in the next day or two, hopefully sooner."

"How will he contact you?" Lestrade asked.

"My mobile number and email address are on my website, not to mention on John's blog. I'm certain he'll find a way. He wants the notebook, after all."

The sun crept up the horizon, golden light filtering through the low level clouds and into the windows of the living room. It was the least damaged portion of the manor. Faint red footprints tracked the carpet, and only the few books inside the Chinese chest had been knocked about. The library had been a disaster, every book torn from its shelf, shredded bits of pages littering the ground. Even Sherlock had been unable to suppress a wince at the sight.

The forensic team had taken all night to comb through the rest of the house. As Sherlock predicted, they hadn't found any additional evidence.

Sherlock tapped away at his laptop, his mouth twisted into a scowl. A long cable connected the computer to the nearest security camera, but so far his friend hadn't been able to access any of the data. The cup of tea next to him had long since gone cold. John gave up replacing it after the third time it had gone untouched.

Lestrade walked inside and let out a sigh as he took a seat in Vivian's chair. It was odd to see someone else sitting there. "Well, the team's nearly finished. Any word from Mycroft?"

"No." Sherlock didn't look up. "Since he hasn't responded to my attempts to hack into his security system, it's likely he's off the grid doing government work."

"I see." Lestrade leaned forward. "Well, it's time we had a chat about what exactly was going on here. Please tell me it wasn't some kind of experiment of yours."

Sherlock sighed. "Explain, John."

The inspector turned his attention to John, eyebrows raised.

"This is strictly off the record, understand," John said.

Lestrade frowned. "I can't make any promises. You know that."

"It's for her sake, not ours. We were trying to save her life." He shifted in his seat. It took him a moment to assemble the last week into a coherent string of events.

"We followed her to a club to question her about the case," John said. He related a rather abridged version of what had happened, skipping over Vivian's withdrawals, the barn chase, her suicide attempt, and the brawl in the pond. Instead, he focused on the consequences of her head trauma and how they'd both been trying to help her.

Lestrade listened, brown eyes wide by the end of it. "Let me get this straight. You put her on ice, like a fish at the market?"

"More or less," Sherlock muttered, gaze still intent on the monitor.

"Blimey. Will she be alright after being dragged out of the tub like that?"

The tapping on the keyboard paused, and Sherlock's eyes flicked up from the computer screen.

Both men watched him, waiting on an answer he didn't want to give. John's throat constricted. "I don't know. Vivian didn't receive the full treatment we'd intended, and the drastic change in temperature may have caused her harm." Not to mention being dragged to who knew where. "Rapid rewarming can result in shock, cardiac arrhythmias, and a severe drop in blood pressure."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "So, that's a no."

"What do we do then?"

Sherlock closed his laptop. "We gather as much information as we can before our killer contacts us for the trade."

"Why was he so sure the notebook was here?" Lestrade asked.

"He was operating under the impression that Miss Walker was trying to blackmail him. Tracking the book down meant tracking her down. He's most certainly now aware of my and John's involvement, and as he was unable to find the notebook in the short time he was here, he chose to abduct Miss Walker, guessing correctly that we would be inclined to make the swap."

"Should we head back to the station?"

"Not yet. We need to visit Henley & Finch Veterinary Clinic on York Street first. I believe the anesthesia bottle used on Ms. Frost was taken from there. I'd like to question the staff."

"Right." Lestrade pulled out his car keys. "That's as good a place

to start as any."

The scent of wet dog assailed John's nose as they walked inside the veterinary clinic. A long-haired golden retriever and her equally long-haired owner stood waiting at the front counter. Great drops of water slid off clothing and drenched hair to puddle onto the brushed concrete floor. The sudden downpour had clearly caught the two off guard. Fortunately for the three of them, the walk from the car had been short due to Lestrade's ability to park wherever he wanted.

The receptionist handed the woman a prescription bottle. "This refill should last another month. Ring Doctor Finch if the inflammation doesn't go down."

The woman and her dog moved to the side as they approached the desk.

"Can I help you?"

Lestrade flipped open his badge. "We need to speak with Doctor Finch immediately."

The brown-eyed woman stood, hands all aflutter. "I'm afraid he's spaying a litter of Corgis at the moment. Would you mind waiting in his office?"

The detective inspector nodded, and the flustered young woman led them down the hall. A warbling howl from a lonely dog competed with the piercing caterwaul of a highly offended moggie, the sounds penetrating through the doors of the examination rooms. She waved them into the veterinarian's office.

"Arnie- I mean, Doctor Finch, will be right with you," she said before hurrying out, cheeks pink.

Sherlock wandered behind the desk, eying the crooked stack of books and files piled to one side. A number of certifications decorated the walls.

John and Lestrade made to sit down.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Sherlock leaned his face close to the top of the executive desk. He gave an audible sniff and his lip curled. "The receptionist and Arnie are sleeping together. No surface has gone untouched."

John lurched away from the chair so quickly he smacked into Lestrade who was doing the same.

"How do you know?" Lestrade vigorously wiped his hand against the side of his coat.

"She used his first name. Her floral perfume is practically embedded into the desk's surface. The stacks of documents are moved off to the side, and the picture frames on the walls are slightly askew. It wasn't caused by an earthquake. Also, there are lines of dried sweat and-"

"That's enough. We get it." John grimaced. He moved to stand in the middle of the office, hands tucked safely into his pockets.

A slender man in his forties stepped into the room, the deep scowl on his face visible despite his sizable walrus mustache. Doctor Finch, John presumed. The vet gave a shrill whistle and a truly enormous Great Dane bounded through the still open door, claws tapping across the floor.

Doctor Finch pointed to the corner. "Atlas, sit."

The gigantic glossy black dog obeyed, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

The man strode behind his desk before acknowledging them. "I hope you have a good reason for interrupting me during surgery."

"One homicide, two attempted murders, and a kidnapping. Are those good enough reasons for you, or should we add obstruction of justice to the list as well?" Sherlock asked.

The vet sat down hard. "Murder?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions." Lestrade flipped open his badge once again.

"I-I, alright," Doctor Finch stuttered, "Won't you sit down?"

Lestrade coughed. "We'd rather stand, if you don't mind."

"Have any items gone missing from your inventory lately?" Sherlock asked.

Doctor Finch nudged his spectacles up his nose, the thick lenses magnifying his watery blue eyes. "You just mentioned murder and kidnapping and now you're asking about my inventory?"

"Yes. Do keep up. You track your medical supplies, correct?"

"We do, yes. But I don't understand what that has to do with-"

Lestrade cut in. "Just answer the question, Doctor Finch."

"I don't know. I'll need to take a look." The vet opened up a drawer and removed a three ring binder stuffed full of papers. He began to sort through it, mumbling under his breath.

John glanced over at the monstrous dog. The Great Dane stood the moment his master's attention strayed. Floppy triangular ears perked up in interest. Atlas padded over to greet him, nudging his big wet nose against his hand. John laughed softly and scratched at the dog's head. His tail swished back and forth, alternately smacking against Lestrade and Sherlock's legs.

The inspector smiled down at the animal while Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh.

John gave the dog a final pat on the head, then refocused his attention on Doctor Finch, who still searched through his numerous documents.

The Great Dane gave a small whine and looked up at John with big mournful eyes. Unable to help himself, he petted the dog a few more times.

"Ah, here it is," Doctor Finch said, running a finger down a handwritten list. "Let's see. A bulk order of diabetic dog food never arrived. Oh. A box of castration bands are back-ordered."

John winced. He missed the next part of the conversation as something large and heavy shoved itself between his legs. He was propelled back into the bookcase. His breath left his chest with a whoosh.

Atlas lifted his giant head, and John's feet left the ground, all his weight agonizingly centered on his groin. A strangled cry burst from his mouth. He scrambled to grab hold of a bookshelf behind him to reduce some of the pressure, but his hands couldn't find purchase.

Bloody hell. He was never going to be able to have sex again.

"Atlas! Corner, now."

The dog dropped his head, and John slumped to the ground, hands falling forward to protect himself against further abuse.

Atlas slunk back into the corner.

John coughed, surprised to discover his testicles didn't shoot out of his mouth.

The vet peered at him over the top of his spectacles. "You should never pet a dog without consulting its owner first. Once given attention, Atlas requires at least ten minutes of petting, else he gets very upset."

"Noted," John croaked out.

He heard muffled laughter and glared up at Lestrade and Sherlock, who were both grinning down at him.

Doctor Finch resumed his perusal of the list. "Ah, yes. And a bottle of anesthesia went missing. There's a note here indicating the disposal service recycled the wrong one by mistake. A new one was delivered."

Sherlock's amused smile fled. "Was it desflurane?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Do you know Neil Henley?"

"Yes, of course. He's my business partner's son."

"Has he been acting strange at all lately?"

The vet shrugged. "That boy is highly strung. Works a lot. He came in here last week to do the accounts, even though they weren't due until the end of the month."

"Have you met his girlfriend?"

An incredulous laugh bubbled up out of the man, his mustache quivering. He removed his spectacles and polished them with a corner of his lab coat. "Neil has a girlfriend?"

"We're done here," Sherlock said.

There was a knock and the door opened, revealing a lab technician. "Doctor Finch, I asked you to order more ketamine-"

She froze in the doorway as she caught sight of them. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone else was in here."

The vet waved a hand. "It's alright, Elizabeth. The ketamine came in yesterday. I put it in the storage room. Third shelf."

Her lips pursed. "It's not there. I just looked. We can't finish the scheduled surgeries without it."

"You're obviously not looking in the correct spot." Doctor Finch stomped around his desk and down the hall.

John got up with a groan.

"What's ketamine?" Lestrade asked as they followed the veterinarian to the storage room in the back.

"It's a drug used for starting and maintaining anesthesia," John said. "It's used on animals and humans."

"Our killer likely picked some up after taking Miss Walker," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Lovely," Lestrade muttered.

A series of metal shelves laden with various medical supplies and equipment filled the storage room. The vet paused in front of one shelf and frowned. "I don't understand. It was here last night when I left."

"When was that?" John asked.

"Half past eight."

They'd been at Scotland Yard with Neil then.

"Do you have a security system here?" Lestrade asked. "We'd like to take a look at the video footage."

"Yes, of course. Davis has got the system on his computer." Doctor Finch stalked down a different corridor and they trailed behind. Perhaps this was what dogs felt like all the time. At least the man hadn't whistled for them.

Doctor Finch opened a door. A young man in a lab coat blinked up from a computer, a piece of red licorice hanging from his mouth. "Hullo."

"Answer their questions, Davis."

Lestrade filled the man in on what they were looking for.

Davis tapped away at the keyboard, then shook his head. "The video only turns on if the alarm goes off. There's no footage."

"Do you have an event log showing access to the building?"

The young man nodded, and they crowded behind him to peer over his shoulder. "Hmmm. It says here that the office was accessed last night at 10:30pm."

"Is the security code different for everyone?" Sherlock asked.

"No, there's just the one."

Sherlock wove around them, then headed for the door.

Doctor Finch caught Sherlock's arm. "You were just talking about murder and now I discover someone has been stealing my supplies! Aren't you going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

Sherlock shrugged out of the man's grasp. "No, I'm not. Go back to your spaying."

With that, his friend swept out of the room.

Lestrade handed the vet a card. "Call this number and an officer will come out to take a report from you regarding your missing items. Thank you for your cooperation."

The inspector then headed down the corridor after Sherlock.

Doctor Finch stood staring after them, red in the face and sputtering.

John tapped him on the shoulder.

The man whirled to face him, mustache bristling. "What?"

John shot him a pained smile. "Do you have any ice?"

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