Sherlock woke at 7:43AM the next morning, and realised something had changed. His brain started to go into overload with the effort of working out what was difference, but when he opened his eyes, he relaxed once he saw the blanket he had placed over John was now lying over him. Frowning, he glanced across at his flatmate to see him still on top of the duvet but he was now lying with one hand resting lightly on his stomach whilst his other arm was folded underneath his pillow. It was a position John often occupied whenever he was distressed and was trying to calm down, and so it became obvious that he had woken from a nightmare sometime during the night. Sherlock scolded himself for remaining asleep.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, when a loud pounding suddenly echoed around the flat. Noticing John stir out of the corner of his eye, he got up from the bed with a curse and hurried down the two flights of stairs and answered the door, ready to yell at whoever was disturbing the doctor from his sleep.

"What?" he hissed when he saw Lestrade stood on the doorstep in front of him. The detective inspector had a concerned and worried look on his face and he spoke in a low tone.

"Dimmock found a note."

"With our lawyer?" Sherlock asked, confused. "How? And what is Dimmock–?"

"No, not the murder victim; the note was found at Miss Watson's house."

A vague sense of surprise enshrouded him. He didn't think Harriet was guilty enough to leave a note to her brother. "And why are you telling me this? John's asleep, miraculously, so I'd be happy to–"

"It's addressed to you." Greg interjected.

"Me?"

"Yes, and it wasn't written by her."

He didn't like where this was going. "You'd better come inside." he said, walking away from Lestrade and heading up the stairs, knowing the DI was following when the door shut and footsteps sounded behind him.

Once inside the living room, he turned and waited for Lestrade to hand over the note, who did so without hesitation. He unfolded the piece of paper and read the note with growing dread.

Mr Holmes,

Are you impressed with my work? Or have you not figured it out yet? True, the car collision was particularly hard to arrange, but Miss Watson's suicide was a piece of cake. Is this news to you? I sincerely hope it is, for I can only imagine the look of surprise that is crossing your features at this minute. Well, you might as well have the full confession. Yes, I killed George and Harriet Watson, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I decided to spare Mrs Watson's life only because I was pressed for time. I'm very sure I could have thought up something imaginative for her, though. Maybe a house fire.

I digress. I'm certain I've got your attention by now, so I'm going to take this opportunity to tell you that you're making a big mistake regarding John Watson. He's ordinary, stupid. I can't understand why you've chosen to work with him, of all people. You should be working with someone who can improve you, someone like me. You're probably calling me insane as you read this, but that's alright. Nobody's perfect and perhaps I do have some... quirky personality traits. I'm sure you'll come to appreciate them in the near future.

And this is the part where I threaten you. Because I am not a man to be toyed with, Mr Holmes. Oh no. Either you join me, or a worse fate will befall the good doctor. That is, if he hasn't already been driven away by what you've done. Admit it; this is partly your fault. If you'd have let the little soldier carry on as he was and dismiss him, no harm would have come to his family. I doubt he's going to be very pleased when he figures it out – if he figures it out, that is.

You have three days, Sherlock, before I take serious action. I'm sure you can find your own way of contacting me, and I look forward to your call.

"He barking mad." Greg said vehemently when he saw Sherlock had finished. "Completely insane. And a bloody psychopath." The detective remained silent. "As if John hasn't got enough on his plate."

"John won't find out." Sherlock said quietly, placing the note on the table and sinking down into his chair.

"What are you talking about? He needs to know!"

"No, he doesn't. We can keep this quiet. I can find this man – well, I'm assuming it's a man, seems the most likely."

Greg frowned. "Sherlock, you're being ridiculous. We've just found out John's father and sister have been murdered. He's going to be furious if we don't say anything and he finds out. We can't keep him in the dark about this."

"We can and we will." he said defiantly, "Lestrade, I swear to you, this is for John's sake. This will tip him over the edge if he knew."

"He's stronger than you think. He's a soldier, for crying out loud. He deserves to know." Greg argued.

"Know what?"

John stood in the doorway, watching the pair with a confused expression. He still looked pale and generally saddened, but at least he wasn't talking in whispers anymore. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who stood up hastily and open and shut his mouth like a fish, looking for something, anything to say.

"Know that... Sherlock is dating Molly." Greg blurted out.

John's mouth fell open. "You – you're out with Molly?" he asked.

"I – ahem – yes, I am."

"Since when?"

"Since yesterday."

John frowned. "You didn't see her yesterday."

"I texted her."

"Why didn't you want to tell me?"

"Because... of everything that's happened. I didn't think it was important."

"Oh. Thanks... I guess." he moved through to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, preparing two cups of tea. "You staying, Greg?" he asked, his hand hovering above a third cup.

"No thanks, I've got to get back to work." he answered avoiding the glare Sherlock was shooting at him. He met the gaze and smiled. "See you two later." he said.

"Tell him." Greg went on to mouth at Sherlock.

"No. Leave." the detective shot back.

"Fine. It's your problem." With that, he turned and left the flat.

Sherlock sat back down in his chair. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

John smiled slightly as he came back into the living room, passing over a cuppa and settling into his own chair. "Better, thanks. And... sorry. About last night. I didn't mean to lose control like that."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine, John. You're not to blame."

"Mycroft texted me." the doctor continued. "The funeral's in three days, for both Dad and Harry. He's offered to pay for the service."

"Nice of him." Sherlock muttered into his cup.

"Will you be coming?" John asked.

"To the funeral? Do you really want me there?"

"If you wanted to, then you're welcome to come." John answered. "If you don't though, then that's also fine." he added as an afterthought.

Sherlock pursed his lips in consideration. "I doubt I'd enjoy myself." he said slowly.

"I don't think you're supposed to enjoy funerals." John said with a frown.

"No, that's not what I meant. It's just that I probably won't be the best person to have around. And besides, your mother is going to be there, so I'd guess you'll want to be with her."

John looked like he was going to disagree, but didn't say anything. "She probably will be clinging to me all afternoon." he muttered.

"All the more reason for me not to go." Sherlock clarified, rising from his chair and placing his cup in the sink, then moving to sit at the kitchen table and fiddle with the lab equipment. John didn't answer and instead got up to fetch his laptop which was residing on the coffee table. He paused when he noticed a piece of paper that hadn't been there before, and with a backward glance at Sherlock, who was immersed in his microscope, he absentmindedly put down his cup and picked up the paper. He began to frown when he saw it was a note to Sherlock, and contemplated putting it back as it probably wasn't his business, but curiosity got the better of him when he noticed his surname mentioned in the top paragraph.

Sherlock finished jotting down a quick sentence about the specimen underneath the microscope and got up from his chair, making his way into the living room to fire off a text to Lestrade. He froze in the doorway, however, when he saw John stood near the table reading the note left by his family's killer with a deep frown on his face. How the hell could he have been so stupid, leaving the piece of paper on the table? What the hell had he been thinking?

Nothing, apparently.

When he finished reading, John glanced up at Sherlock, confusion and anger glistening in his eyes. "What is this, Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

"A note from someone to me."

John looked down at the note, "And that someone has confessed to killing my sister and father." It wasn't a question, so Sherlock didn't grace it with an answer.

"When were you going to tell me?" the doctor continued.

Sherlock cleared his throat but said nothing, glancing down at the floor.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

"I wasn't." he answered finally. "I didn't think it was anything that concerned you."

"Of course it concerns me, Sherlock; this person is responsible for Harry's and Dad's death! How could you think you'd get away with keeping this quiet?" He waved the offending piece of paper in the air.

"If I apprehended them before you found out then it wouldn't have made any difference." Sherlock said calmly, but he was cut off.

"Wouldn't have– It would have made all the difference! I would have continued to think that Harry had killed herself for whatever reason, and I would never know!" John's voice had risen to a shout by now, but he couldn't care less. He couldn't understand why Sherlock had felt the need to not let John know about this.

"John, there's no need to shout–"

"There is every need to shout because you can't seem to get it into your thick skull the fact that I don't want you keeping me in the dark anymore! We've discussed this repeatedly, and yet you've still felt the need to do what you think needs to be done and not consult me on the matter. And this involves my family! Can't you understand that? The last time you shut me out you ended up–" The doctor stopped himself from finishing that sentence and instead took a long and shaky breath, closing his eyes as he tried to calm himself.

"I didn't tell you for your own good." Sherlock said slowly, a familiar sense of déjà vu washing over him.

John had dropped into Sherlock's armchair and had his head in his hands. "That's what you said last time, but it still doesn't explain things." he said.

"If you knew, I thought it would only go and make things worse." Sherlock said slowly.

"Things can't get any worse." the doctor murmured, rubbing at his eyes.

"...I'm sorry."

John sighed as a response but remained silent. "Who else knows?" he asked.

"Lestrade. That's it." Sherlock answered.

John nodded gradually, remaining silent.

"He told me that the note was found next to the bo–your sister. It was written by a man, rich, used to getting what he wants, and very naive." Sherlock's tone took on the one he used when stating facts about cases. "I would say an only child and was spoilt during early years. He's probably in his late thirties nowadays and unemployed – he has the money to remain comfortably without a job. It is likely he's received help committing the murders, as I doubt he's had much experience in this area." As he spoke he moved over to the doorway and started putting on his coat. "We'll go to Bart's and see what Molly has for us. There may be DNA samples, because it's likely our guy has made a mistake, but we'll have to see."

Sherlock began to trot down the stairs, but paused halfway when silence reigned throughout the flat. Hesitantly, he walked back up and stopped next to the door, looking sympathetically at the doctor before him.

John still had his head in his hands and was breathing slowly, clearly still trying to soothe himself.

"John?" he asked gently, stepping forwards until he was crouched in front of him. He tentatively placed his hands on his flatmate's knees and tried to peer into his eyes in order to gauge some sort of reaction.

"Three days," John murmured. "The note said he'd take action in three days."

"Yes." Sherlock answered.

"The funeral's in three days."

"I'm aware..." he said uncertainly.

"My mother is going to be there. What if he...?"

"Nothing's going to happen, John." Sherlock said firmly, squeezing his knees. "I'll do everything I can to stop him. We'll beat him, don't worry. He'll make a mistake, and then we'll have him, I promise you that. Everything's going to be fine."