John didn't know what he had expected when he took up this position. Mostly assisting with some basic tasks. Some cleaning probably. Maybe some laundry. Not being dragged to a crime scene. Definitely not rooting through a skip with a madman, looking for a pink suitcase.

He was exhausted. They had searched through over two dozen skips, wheelie bins, back alleys and abandoned buildings near to the crime scene and found nothing. He was coated in cobwebs and dust and felt absolutely disgusting.

He was about ready to throw in the towel and tell Sherlock that he must have made a mistake - that they would never find the case – when he noticed a bright flash of pink underneath a garbage bag. "Hey Sherlock!" he called out, pulling it out. "I think I've found it."

"Is it the same color as her coat?" asked Sherlock, while John did his best to clamber out the skip without falling on his way. Setting the case down on the floor, John squinted it, struggling to see in the dim light. It looked like it was the right color.

"Pretty sure, yeah," he said. Sherlock smirked, took out his cane and made his way out the alley. Following him, John leaned on his walking stick, dragging the case behind him. They hailed a cab.

"Check the case for a phone," said Sherlock as they entered the car and he told the cabbie their address.

John set the case down on the seat between them, undoing the zip. He shuffled through the woman's suitcase but didn't find a phone. He told Sherlock this, prompting an annoyed reaction from the man. "The killer must still have her phone. Damn it."

"Maybe she didn't bring it with her to London?" suggested John.

"And risk her husband finding out about her affairs? Seems unlikely." Sherlock paused for a moment, considering the situation. "Is there a luggage tag on the case with a number on it?"

John checked and did indeed find a pink tag attached to the suitcase. He flipped it over and on the other side was an email address, as well as a regular address and a phone number.

"There is, yes."

"I want you to send a message to that number for me using your phone," he states, his voice clear and sharp.

"Can't you just use yours?" asked John.

"My messenger isn't voice enabled yet and there's always a chance my number will be recognized. Just do it," said Sherlock. He paused for a second. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes. Give me a bloody minute," said John, typing the number into his phone.

"Have you done it?"

"Hang on a sec." John typed in the last three digits. "Okay I'm done,"

"Type these words exactly. "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland street. Please come." Be quick about it, we don't have all day,"

John fumbled with the text for a moment before hitting send. Then the realization of what had just happened came crashing down on him like a bucket of ice water. "Wait … You said that the killer had her phone and I just texted her number."

"Yes,"

"You just had me text a serial killer."

"I did,"

"But why?"

Suddenly, the phone started ringing. John snatched up his phone and stared at the screen. The number was the same as the one he had just messaged. "It's been a few hours since his last victim - and now he's got a text which can only be from her," said Sherlock. "Someone who'd just found the phone would ignore a text like that. But the murderer…"

Abruptly the ringing stopped.

"Would panic!"

The taxi came to a stop outside their flat. Sherlock snapped off his seatbelt, snatching the suitcase in his hands, leaving John again to pay the cabbie and follow after him. It was strange how they seemed to follow the same patterns.

"Wait here a second," said Sherlock, bolting into the apartment. John was left outside for a few minutes, when Sherlock came back, this time without the case.

It was like Sherlock could feel John raise his eyebrow and responded without prompt. "A case that colour would just draw attention to us and we need to be inconspicuous. Besides, the killer might recognise it."

That actually made a lot of sense. Curse Sherlock's logical nature. "So what's the plan?" asked John, as they walked down the street in step. The sun had set while they were searching for the case and a quiet dusk had settled over the city. The streets were lit with warm yellow light emitting from the tall streetlamps. The stars were scattered across the sky, each a shining beacon of light. It would have been romantic had they not been hot on the trail of a serial killer.

Why was he thinking about romance at a time like this? Surely not… He couldn't be thinking about Sherlock in that way. Sherlock was a man. A very attractive man, but a man nonetheless. And John was straight.

The entire idea was completely, absolutely ridiculous.

He had been so deep in thought that he didn't even realise that Sherlock was speaking to him. "Sorry but what did you just say? I zoned out for a second."

Sherlock scowled but repeated himself. "We'll wait for the killer to arrive at 22nd Northumberland Street. There's a nice Italian restaurant across the street. The owner owes me a favour so he'll let us wait there."

"So we're banking on him just showing up."

"Yes."

"There's a lot of ways that could go wrong," John said. "How do you know it will work?"

"I don't. But it's the only plan we've got, so it will have to do," announced Sherlock, suddenly stopping in his tracks. "We're here."

John turned to see a small Italian restaurant. The windows could do with a good scrub, but the place was otherwise clean and relatively neat. "Let me get the door for you," offered John. Sherlock didn't say anything, but allowed John to open the door for him.

A small, skinny teenage boy greeted the two of them and directed them to small table, covered with a white tablecloth with neat black menu's in front of each seat.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed a short greasy man, setting his hands on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's been so long since I last saw you."

"It's good to see you too Angelo. I haven't been out for a while, not since the accident…"

Accident? John had assumed that Sherlock was born blind. Could this accident have been when he was blinded? Sherlock didn't seem to want to talk about though, so he wouldn't push.

Angelo gave a sympathetic smile. "I'm glad you found someone Sherlock. Anything on the menu, whatever you want, all completely free! On the house. For you and your date."

"I'm not his date," insisted John. Angelo ignored him completely.

"You picked a good one here Amico mio. This man is brilliant! He got me off homicide charges," declared Angelo, while shaking John's hand gleefully.

"John, this is Angelo," Sherlock said, introducing the two men. "Three years ago I successfully cleared him of three murder charges by proving he was house breaking on the other side of town. He still went to prison though."

"You cleared my name. Proclaimed my innocence."

"I cleared it a bit," said Sherlock with a wave of his hand. "Any interesting activity opposite?"

Angelo considered a second. "There was this suspicious looking guy hanging around but when we went to talk to him, it turned out that he was just a drunk who got lost on his way back from the bar. We called his wife for him and he ended up getting a cab home."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. "Keep an eye out for me. Tell me if anything changes. And get me some coffee too if you will."

"Absolutely. I'll also get a candle for your table. Make it more romantic,"

"Still not his date," repeated John.

Angelo smirked. "Sure thing," he said, wandering off. John looked to see Sherlock's reaction. The man's expression was stony and unmoving - clearly unbothered - as he pulled out his chair and sat down. He placed his folded up cane on the table. John followed his lead, sitting across from him.

Why did this feel so much like a date? God was this a weird feeling.

Angelo came back a moment later with a candle, that he set on the table, with a smile. He pulled a matchstick out, lighting the candle with a flourish before handing Sherlock his coffee. A candle lit dinner… Still not a date, John reminded himself. Then another thought came to him.

"Donovan said that you don't have any friends," he started carefully. "Is that true?"

"Yes," responded Sherlock, sipping his coffee. "I never saw the point. Friends just get in the way."

"I'm assuming you don't have a girlfriend either then."

Sherlock laughed. "Think about it John. I would be a terrible boyfriend by most people's standards. I work strange hours, keep body parts in the fridge –"

"You keep what in the fridge?" exclaimed John in shock.

"Body parts. They're for my experiments. I sometimes ignore people for days on end, so I wouldn't exactly be an attentive lover," explained Sherlock. "Besides, women aren't exactly my area, if you know what I mean,"

"So… no girlfriend. A boyfriend then?" Sherlock gave him a curious look. "Which is fine by the way," added John quickly.

"I know that it's fine," snapped Sherlock. "And no. I don't have a boyfriend."

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. That's fine. Good actually," stammered John. What was it about Sherlock that made him so speechless? And why did Sherlock being single please him so much?

Sherlock gave him another cold stare. "John, I consider myself married to my work," he said sharply.

Wait, what?

"And while I am very flattered," he continued. "I am not looking for a relationship currently."

"NO! No, no. I wasn't asking you out. I'm just saying, it's all fine. Besides, I'm straight. Women, totally my thing. Dating women. Kissing women. All that stuff." He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. He had definitely made this weird.

Sherlock seemed a little confused by the whole conversation, but didn't say anything else, taking another sip of his coffee. "Any movement opposite?"

John snuck a glance at the dark street outside. A discreet black taxi had pulled up outside 22nd Northumberland Street. "Just a taxi cab," replied John.

The cab was unremarkable really. The same type of cab that were driving all over London at that exact moment. He didn't expect Sherlock to care. He expected him to sigh and sit back in his chair, furrowing his eyebrows. Instead, Sherlocks face twisted into an inquisitive expression as he sat up ramrod straight.

"A taxi…" he muttered. "That's actually very clever. Is it clever? I can't tell."

"A taxi, really?" quizzed John. "You think a murderer is going around in a cab, killing people? With pills… That he makes them take themselves." It seemed a bit of a strange concept. He tried to get a good luck at the shadowy figure sitting in the back of the taxi but had no luck at picking out any defining features.

"Don't stare. We want to surprise him," said Sherlock. How did he know that John was staring? Sherlock nonchalantly stood out of his chair and threw on his coat. Unfurling his cane, he walking quickly went onto the street. John followed after him.

Just as they were about to cross the street to investigate further, the car started speed off in the other direction. John was immediately on the case, running after it. This wasn't going to work. What on earth had possessed him to think that he could catch up to a car on foot? Instead, he did his best to memorise the car's number plate as he slowed back down

He was startled when Sherlock came up behind him. He moved surprisingly quickly, stopping next to John. "I got the number plate," he offered breathlessly.

"Good for you," snapped Sherlock. He paused for a second, before rushing off across the crowded road. A symphony of car horns start up. Sherlock was almost hit by a bus that screeched to a halt just a few millimetres from him. The bus driver cursed wildly, making many violent and inappropriate hand gestures. John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and dragged him safely to the other side of the road.

"What the hell were you thinking? You idiot!"

"I know London. I can catch up with them. Just let me do this," screamed Sherlock. People were staring at them. They probably believed this some kind of weird, nonsensical lovers spat.

"Sherlock, you just ran into traffic. You could have died!"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not some helpless child. I can handle this on my own."

"If you insist on doing this, I'm coming with you. You don't have to do this alone," insisted John. Sherlock seemed slightly stunned, but nodded slowly. "So, which way are we going?"

Sherlock paused, stumbling to the wall of the nearest building. He leant against it for a couple seconds, information flashing through his mind. He corrected and readjusted the route with the information he could remember.

"This way!" he announced, running off in pursuit of the taxi. John could do nothing but run after him.

Next couple chapters will be up slower than usual because I'm going back to school.