Hello there! This is the brainchild of raffinit and geelato and basically is borne from our curiousity of what would happen if Sherlock ever met the CriMi team. The Sherlock POV is written by geelato whereas the Criminal Minds POV is written by raffinit. We hope you enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it! :D

John walked into the apartment that they shared to see Sherlock meticulously taking his phone apart with a tiny screwdriver in the kitchen.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked, though he almost immediately regrets his decision. He should have learned a long time ago never to ask Sherlock what he was doing unless he wanted an unnecessarily complicated explanation about something he would realize he had no interest in. He almost braced himself for the lengthy explanation. Instead he was – dare he say it? – pleasantly surprised when Sherlock merely said, "He wouldn't stop calling me."

Cautious, but curious, John asked again, "Who, exactly, are we talking about here?"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing, put down the screwdriver and turned to look at John exasperatedly, "Mycroft, John! Who else would I be talking about?"

"Ah. Of course," John agreed quickly. There was no point in getting angry with Sherlock's seemingly rude responses. John would rather not waste the time or effort. He went into the living room where he sat down on his couch and started reading the newspapers. He had barely read the first two sentences of the front page when he heard Sherlock's voice from the kitchen again. "Aren't you going to ask me why Mycroft's been calling me?"

John paused, but folded the newspaper and put it down anyway. "No, but I get a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

"He wants me to solve a crime he can solve perfectly himself. Something about the theft of some sensitive government papers, done over a long period of time, only recently discovered. Obviously an inside job but Mycroft's too lazy to go through all of his staff."

"So you…took your phone apart?" John asked in disbelief. Honestly, the two brothers just needed Mummy to come and break up their fighting, and they would get along so much better, John was sure of it.

Sherlock glared at John, then turned back towards his half-exposed phone and started reassembling it. John smirked, "Come to your senses then?" The taller man just muttered angrily, "Lestrade might call with another case." Just as he said that, John's phone started ringing. He began to reach for it, but Sherlock said crisply, "It's Mycroft. Don't answer it." He glanced at the screen; Sherlock was right, it was Mycroft. "Don't," Sherlock warned again.

John shook his head, ignored his phone and went back to reading the newspaper.

About fifteen minutes, two missed phone calls from Mycroft and a lot of pacing in the kitchen later, Sherlock announced loudly to the whole apartment – that is, John – "We're going to America." John spluttered and nearly knocked over his cup of tea. "What? Wait…we?"

Again, the glare. "Yes, John. We. I couldn't very well do without my attending doctor."

"Why America?"

"Because Mycroft can't call me there. Or at the very least, his reluctance to deal with another government just to get to me should deter him for a bit."

There was no arguing with Sherlock when he set his mind on something so John just sighed, "America, was it?"

"We believe the person we're looking for is a white male in his late-30's, of average build with an almost pristine record. He may seem harmless and friendly, but we strongly advise against anyone attempting to approach this man as he is believed to be of unsound mind..."

Reid watched from the sidelines as JJ stood before the mass of cameras and voice recorders; flashes flickered bright and left them starry eyed as she gave the press their preliminary profile of their UnSub. It was standard procedure, but this time around, Spencer Reid wasn't sure they had their profile as accurate as they wanted it. This was a case that was sensitive and trying – as were most of their cases – but this case pushed their time limit dangerously.

Four women were found in different parts of the county, brutally tortured and killed, and then hung upside down on lampposts in heavy traffic areas. Each of the locations was meticulously selected; each victim abducted in broad daylight and tortured for days before reappearing ad mortem. It was a confusing profile – this UnSub was organized, yet compulsive; sexually gratified yet abhorred by his victims. They had discussed long and hard, almost longer than they're used to, and he knew that the rest of his teammates were equally dubious at the validity of their profile.

But he couldn't call them out in front of the press. He may as well have taken his revolver from his holster and put it to his mouth.

His dark brown eyes glanced over to where Hotch and Emily stood; mirrored figures in their dark slacks and blazers as they shared a glance before staring out at the crowd of journalists and photographers before them. Reid noticed the way they seemed to watch the press with an even closer eye than usual – they were always suspicious of the media; rarely had it been their friend, but something about the uneasy shift in his Unit Chief's stance told Reid that something was off about this moment.

It was then he knew why.

In startling synchrony, every single cellular phone in the room began to chirp noisily. His own phone vibrated against his thigh, alerting him of a text message, and Reid frowned as he pulled the phone from his pocket and read the message.

'Try again.'

They settled into their respective hotel rooms – John had made sure to clarify; two rooms – but the rooms were still adjoined. Sherlock wandered into John's room while he was putting away his clothes. Without any preamble, Sherlock sat himself down on the bed and turned on the television. He started flipping through channels at a furious rate, stopping abruptly at what seemed to be a press conference of some sort.

"You've got a telly back in your room, Sherlock," John reminded him. Sherlock waved him off with a curt, "Better signal reception here." The dark-haired man seemed to be wholly engrossed with the press conference. John turned to watch too. A pretty blonde woman was speaking, "…may seem harmless and friendly, but we strongly advise against anyone attempting to approach this man as he is believed to be of unsound mind..."

The dark-haired man was already typing away on his phone, lightning fast, as only someone with plenty of practice can. He hit send and smiled triumphantly at the television. A split second later, the press conference was filled with the sound of phones beeping. Immediately John knew what he'd done. It's an old trick that Sherlock's relatively proud of.

"Sherlock-" John started to ask, but the man just showed John the screen of his phone over his shoulder. It was one sent message and all it said was just:

'Try again.'

"Sherlock, we came here for a holiday? Not to get involved in cases in another country," John reminded him. For the love of God, this was the first time Sherlock had even suggested anything akin to a holiday. And John was very ready for a holiday. London was getting a lot smaller… or maybe they were getting a bit too famous. Perhaps it was time to let the London press have a day off from the Sherlock-mania.

"I'm bored," Sherlock enunciated simply, as if that explained everything.

"We've only just got here!" John very nearly bellowed.

The dark-haired man stood up so quickly that John involuntarily took a step back. "Yes, and I haven't had anything to do for ten hours," he said tightly.

"Right, and what will you do now? Pop over and help them solve their case? We're not in London, Sherlock," John tried to pound some sense into him. Bad enough that they have so much publicity in London, do they really have to go and make a ruckus here in America too?

Sherlock began to adjust his coat, pulling up its collars. "And hopefully their people are not as incompetent as Anderson."

"I really don't think the…" John glanced at the telly, "FBI will appreciate us butting our way in." He did a double take the moment he realized what he just said. "The bloody FBI! We definitely cannot butt into their investigations."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why? Afraid of a little authority, John?" he asked archly.

The shorter man almost laughed hysterically then sobered up and said rather seriously, "No, not really." Sherlock cracked a smile at that. John said contemplatively, "So…the FBI now, eh? How do we…go about this?"

"We don't have to do anything. They will come to us," Sherlock said with absolute certainty. After living with Sherlock for so long, John knew better than to doubt the man. After all, there was a reason why he's the world's only consulting detective.

John nodded slowly, "Okay, so we go about our business, yeah, and wait for the FBI to turn up at our door." That sounded even more ludicrous out loud than in his head. The laughter bubbled up from him slowly, but when he started it felt like he couldn't stop. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed too, still laughing. Before long, even Sherlock was chuckling along a little. "God, of all things, the FBI!" John exclaimed in between his laughs. "We've been in the Buckingham Palace, why is this so hard to believe?" Sherlock asked, still smiling.

That stopped John mid-laugh. He thought about it for a second before replying, "We didn't meet the Queen, did we? And I am British, at least."

"You nicked an ashtray."

"Nope, that was you."

"Which I gave to you, hence making you an accomplice."

"Right, I'm not sitting here and arguing about an ashtray with you," John said, standing up. He looked at his wristwatch. It was still set to British time. He didn't think it was worth the bother to set it to American time now, only to have to reset it when they went back to London. He counted six hours backwards, and looked up to see Sherlock coming back into his room, with his violin in tow. "Why'd you bring that along?" the fair-haired man asked in dismay. One of the reasons he'd agreed to this trip was because he thought he might finally go through a week without Sherlock mimicking an injured cat on the violin. Sure, the man played well, but he was always so…aggressive with it.

"I thought I might get bored, and I am."

John didn't even bother to reply that. He closed his baggage and set it against the wall. With a towel and his bathrobe in hand, he walked towards the bathroom. Just as he closed the door behind him, Sherlock's violin-playing began. He palmed his face. This holiday was not going the way he'd thought it would be. But then again, when does it ever with Sherlock?

Aaron Hotchner was livid. His temper flared hot, vein throbbing on his forehead as he turned to the rest of his team with his jaw locked tight. One look at their faces told him everything he needed to know – they'd gotten the same message.

Everyone in the room had gotten the same message.

His first thought was their UnSub. There would be no other person with motive to taunt the press and his team so – they'd profiled him as being unafraid of authority and daring. The number was unknown and foreign; had they missed the fact that he was not a local? There was nothing pointing to the fact. He seemed to know the locations intimately; more intimately than any person not originating from the state would. These were his parts of the woods, and he was letting them know it.

So who was it that dared mock them so?

"Get Garcia on the stream," he growled, clear and dangerous as Emily moved off immediately to oblige him. She knew telltale emotions on his face well, and the man was not pleased in the slightest. There were little things that could sway the man, especially when in the public eye, but this UnSub was trying all of them. One dark glare in her direction, and Emily was dialing Garcia's number on her phone.

"Oh my God, I saw everything."

Emily pursed her lips grimly. "Then you'll probably want to know that Hotch is about a minute away from shooting every single press member out here."

"Oooh, dangerous," the blonde gasped, and Emily could hear her fingers clacking away through the phone. "I'm tracing as we speak – I'm hacking into your cell right now…." Emily motioned to the others; Reid, Morgan and Rossi moved towards her while JJ spoke discreetly to the press. Pressing her phone against her jaw, she regarded them seriously.

"This is going to blow this whole mess up even further," Morgan growled. "The press is already getting at JJ like they want to get her in their mouths and shake her till she's dead."

Emily frowned at this, glancing at Hotch as the man met her gaze. One more nod from the man, and she turned back to Reid. "Garcia's trying to trace the call now; we'll need to do crowd control until she gets a hit." She cast a speaking glance at Morgan and Rossi, and both the men nodded before moving off to where the blonde was being cornered by a flurry of bodies shoving cameras in her face.

"He's not going to be so reckless," Reid countered insistently. "If he wanted to get caught, he would've called instead. He taunting us; he wants us to know that we've missed a part of his profile -."

"I got it!" Garcia cried, loud enough for Hotch and Reid to hear. "I take no offense about my technological prowess there, Reid, but you're buying me chocolate when you come home. Apparently your man isn't as smart as he thinks he is. He left his cellphone on and open to Penelope Garcia's magical finger skills to probe. He's here, and he's in a hotel room two blocks away."

Emily shared a look with Hotch. "This could be a trap," she warned him.

The man's brow furrowed and his face hardened. "If he wants attention, he's getting it."

They rounded the press up and informed the media of their new find; JJ and Rossi stayed behind to clean up the hectic mess, and the others donned their Kevlar. They made haste towards the hotel, with Garcia guiding them through their earpieces. Along the way though, Reid continued to profess his uncertainties with this man being their killer. It didn't sit right with him; a man who was the youngest member of the BAU with eidetic memory and an IQ of 185.

There wasn't many a time where Reid doubted their profile, but this time around, he couldn't ignore his gut for much longer.

But he said nothing as they met with the local force outside the hotel, but cast one last dubious look in Hotch's direction before grasping his revolver in his hands. Morgan moved seamlessly beside him, and the older agent gave Reid a nod that seemed to soothe his fears somewhat. If this wasn't their UnSub, then Reid prayed that it was someone who would be able to lead them closer to the man they hunted.

They approached the door carefully; Hotch led by default, and Emily was to his immediate right. It was a split second of a signal before he watched Hotch's foot rise up and kick the door, jumping as the door bounced against the wall behind it. Reid didn't have time to recover, and he was suddenly amidst the rush of officers flooding the hotel room.

"FBI!"

There was a man sitting in the middle of the hotel room, perched in the only couch within the space; completely unfazed by the number of guns trained on his chest and face. Reid tilted his head and narrowed his eyes curiously at the blatant boredom that was on the man's face. He had dark, curling hair and a pale complexion to his skin; he wasn't a man of physical exertion or sunlight. This man had eyes of piercing blue that seemed to sear through even Hotch's dark hazel glower, and his fingers that caressed the smooth planes of the violin in his hand were tapered and long.

This wasn't their UnSub.

A/N: Hopefully we'll update it at a somewhat regular basis, like maybe a chapter every one or two weeks. Reviews and favourites are always welcome! :D