The next morning John moved in his stuff from the motel where he was staying and put them away. It didn't take very long as he didn't have very many possessions. Just the clothes he wore when off duty in Afghanistan, an old battered phone, and a cheap laptop that he bought off the internet about a week ago for a hundred and fifty bucks. He had bought it with the main intention of doing some blogging at the recommendation of his therapist.

John wasn't sure that blogging would be terribly helpful but he was willing to give it a try. Some brief googling gave him the necessary information to make his own website. It was easier than he thought it would be. He had always thought of computers as a young man's thing.

Then he got to the blog itself, which was more tricky. He hadn't written anything in a while and was quickly reminded why. It was ridiculously difficult. Each word was a struggle. It was like pulling teeth. And that was only the About Me section.

There was a space to add a picture of himself. He almost did but stopped. He didn't really want strangers to know what he looked like. Deciding against it, he went to attempt his first blog post. He stared at the screen blankly. A lot had happened over the last few days but he just couldn't get it down. Why was this so hard?

He was startled when Sherlock slammed open his bedroom door. "Get ready. We're going out," he said sharply.

"What are you talking about?" asked John.

"I got a call from Scotland Yard. They told me that they'll only let me onto the crime scene if I have someone else there with me. You're the only person I can think of, so you'll have to do. Get your shoes on. We need to go as soon as we can so hurry the fuck up," explained Sherlock, leaving the room as quickly as he came.

John couldn't see any reason not to. It was his job to help the man after all.

He turned off his laptop and went to fetch his boots from the cupboard. They were old and scuffed but he preferred them over any of the other shoes that he had owned. They had served him well in the five years he had owned them. Pulling them on, he went to check on how Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock had successfully put on his coat and buttoned it up. He was knelt on the floor, fiddling with his shoelaces and cursing under his breath. It seemed like he was having some trouble.

"I can help you with that," offered John. "If you want,"

"Fine, hurry up," gritted Sherlock, standing up and crossing his arms defensively.

John crouched down and tied the laces and quickly as he could. "Are you done yet?" demanded Sherlock.

"Yep!" beamed John, rising to his feet. He threw on a coat and Sherlock fetched his cane from the coffee table. He left the building and unraveled his cane. John watched him use it to find the edge of the sidewalk. Standing there, Sherlock hailed a taxi and got in, where he folded up the cane. John trailed after him. He noticed that Sherlock was shaking with joy and grinning extatically.

"You seem pretty excited," John remarked. "Is this interesting an case?"

"Of course I am! Four serial suicides over the course of a month. All identical."

"Is there something different this time?" asked John.

"Yes. This time there's a suicide note. It's practically Christmas!" exclaimed Sherlock. John found his attitude slightly creepy. There was an awkward silence in the cab that didn't end until they pulled up to the crime scene.

Sherlock went to pay the cab fare but struggled to tell the coins and notes apart. Irritated, he shoved his wallet at John, demanding that he pay. He got out the car, leaving John to count out the money and pay the driver.

John left the car soon afterward. The crime scene was crawling with cops and forensic officers. There was bright yellow police tape around the perimeter. He noticed that Sherlock was talking to a woman with dark coiled hair just beyond the crime scene boundary. She was wearing a grey woolen peacoat over a black pencil skirt. She seemed a little startled when she saw John's scars but didn't say anything.

"Hey freakshow," said a woman. There was a faint smirk on her lips. John could see it was a term of endearment.

"Sally Donovan. It's been a while," said Sherlock in response.

"Lestrade wants to brief you. He's just over there." She pointed out a man standing a handful of metres away. Sherlock stared at her – or where he thought she was - for half a second with an incredulous expression. "Sorry. Didn't think. Just follow the police tape a few paces. You'll get there eventually," she continued. Using the plastic tape as a guide, Sherlock went to talk to the man.

John was about to follow him, when Sally spoke. "So… you and the freak show. What's going on there? I'm assuming that you two aren't friends,"

"We're not. I barely know the man. We just met yesterday. To be honest, I'm basically his assistant," he admitted.

"Thought so. Sherlock doesn't do friends. Did his brother hire you?" she asked.

"He did,"

"Thought so. Sherlock can be a pretty stubborn guy. He's been refusing our help for weeks. I guess he wants to stay independent and not rely on others, which is admirable, but sooner or later he needs to learn that needing assistance doesn't make you weak. His brother is the only person he accepts any help from," she explained.

"You seem pretty worried about him. Are you two close?" John asked.

"No. I don't even like him actually. He's an asshole and a cocky bastard at the best of times. But I'm still concerned about him and his safety. I mean, I'm not a monster. I don't want him to get hurt or anything. You know?" She shrugged her shoulders in exacerbation.

"That's understandable,"

"I do want to give you a warning though. I wouldn't get too tangled up with Sherlock if I were you. Assist him when needed an accept the payment but don't get too close. He loves this sort of thing too much to be normal. One day, we're going to go to a murder scene and he'll have been the one to put the body there."

"That sounds pretty farfetched to me" interjected John.

"I'm just warning you. Do with the information what you will," responded Sally with a shrug. Someone called her name from across the crowded car park. "I've got to go. I'll see you sometime," She left and John went to join Sherlock and the man he was talking to.

The man gave John a skeptical look and raised an eyebrow. "This is your assistant?"

"Yeah. Got a problem with that?" gritted Sherlock.

"No. Just not who I was expecting," admitted Lestrade. "I'm not sure if I'm totally comfortable with having you here Sherlock. Are you sure you'll be able to look after yourself properly?" he asked, leading them to toward the building.

"I have my cane and my assistant. I'll be fine,"

"Can't argue with that," said Lestrade, opening the door to the building. Standing in the doorway, blocking their path, was a tall, skinny man in scrubs. He scowled at Sherlock. "I did know you'd be here," he grumbled. Looking at Lestrade, he spoke again.

"Is he really gonna be that much help? He's blind for heaven's sakes. Can't exactly deduce much anymore, can he?" he growled, his tone cruel.

"Anderson!" snapped Lestrade. "That's hardly appropriate,"

"No. No. It's quite alright. Mr Anderson is probably just in a bad mood because his wife is out of town," said Sherlock in response with a pointed stare. "He probably misses her. Poor thing."

"There's no way you figured that out! Someone told you."

"Your deodorant. It for men," pattronised Sherlock, as if he was talking to a child.

"Of course it's for men. I'm wearing it," Anderson snapped.

Sherlock gave him a cold look. "So, it seems, is Mrs Donovan,"

"I don't know what you're insinuating but –"

"I'm not insinuating anything. Merely stating facts," announced Sherlock, turning to Lestrade. " The body is upstairs isn't it?"

Anderson grumbled something about Sherlock being a wanker under his breath and stormed off somewhere else in the building. Lestrade looked at Sherlock with a shocked expression, speechless. "Yes," he finally said. "It's just upstairs. I'll take you there,"

True to his word, he took the two of them upstairs and into a room. Set on the table where several sets of blue scrubs. "Please scrub in," said Lestrade, handing a set to Sherlock. Sherlock considered it a moment before setting it back onto the table wordlessly. Lestrade didn't press any further, though he did hand a set to John, who put it on without objection.

Taking them up the stairs, Lestrade let them into the room. And there she was. The victim. A woman in a pink coat, lying dead on the floor. John was speechless. It wasn't that he hadn't expected it; this was a crime scene after all. He just hadn't seen a dead body since he got home from Afghanistan, where it had been a relatively common occurrence. There was something strangely disturbing about it, seeing it in such a normal place instead of the heat of battle or the stress of the medical room.

He tried to shake the though out of his head. Made himself speak. Say something. Anything.

"That's certainly very pink," was all he could muster.