A/N: Sorry the update is a day late; I was ill yesterday and totally spaced it. Here it is, hope you all enjoy!

The night air was crisp and once again biting. I could not believe I wasn't asleep yet, but my body and mind were both wide awake. It took effort to slow down for my brother to keep up as we hastened after Sherlock. I could see his head of curly hair just ahead. He had incredibly long legs, so I guessed he knew full well we were trailing after him and was keeping his pace slower than normal to allow us to catch up.

What a polite sociopath.

When we finally reached him, John curtly asked, "Where are we going?"

Sherlock, not surprised at all to see us, replied, "Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John scoffed.

"No, I think he's brilliant enough," Sherlock said. "I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"For the renown?" I guessed.

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed. "Appreciation, applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Watsons: it needs an audience."

"Yeah," John said while pointedly looking at him.

I grinned a little with amusement. "They certainly do," I murmured, taking a glance at the detective myself.

Clearly oblivious to our little jab, Sherlock spun and gestured to the street around us as we continued on. "This is his hunting ground," he explained, "right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

Sherlock gripped his head with his fingertips as if to pull the solution from the deepest reaches of his mind.

"Think!" he breathed. "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

I felt my own brow wrinkle as I tried to come up with an answer. The only ones I trusted without knowing them were dogs, and that probably wasn't entirely wise.

"Dunno," John admitted. "Who?"

Sherlock dropped his hands and shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

The detective led us into a small restaurant that faced toward an T-shaped intersection. It allowed a view of Northumberland Street straight on. The moment we entered the door, a waiter smiled at us and gestured to a table directly to our left. It had a small reserves tag on it. The delectable scent of cooking food wrapped around me with the soothing warmth of the diner. It was a quant place, with booths toward the middle and along the windows lining the front. It seemed they served all kinds of dishes here, given the various smells and from what I could see of the other patrons' plates.

"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock said as he took off his coat and went over to the table. He sat on the far side and turned sideways so that he could look out the window.

I shed my coat as I slid into the plush red bench across from Sherlock and John plopped down on the other side of me. The waiter came over and plucked up the reserved sign off the clean white table. The tinker of silverware against plates along with the low hum of conversation droned on in the background. As Billy left us, Sherlock nodded to a building across the road.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street," he said. "Keep your eye on it."

I leaned over to see out the window to what seemed to be a flat. I wondered if Sherlock knew who lived there or if it was empty. I had to hope for the latter. If we just invited a murderer over to someone's flat- regardless if Sherlock knew them or not- it might cause trouble.

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, it he?" John asked. "He'd need to be mad."

"He has killed four people," Sherlock gently reminded him.

"...Okay," John amended with a slight shrug.

I shook my head. "He might not knock, but he's sure to come around."

"Exactly, Max." Sherlock shot me a small grin.

"Sherlock!"

We turned to see that the manager had come over. He was a burly man with dark hair and full beard. He beamed as he reached over to roughly shake Sherlock's hand.

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free," the man said as he released him. He glanced from me to John. "On the house, for you and your company- is this leading up to a double date?" He winked slyly at me.

"Uh—" I began.

"Do you know what you want to eat?" Sherlock interjected, looking from me to John.

"It's not a date," John insisted.

"Why does this keep happening?" I wondered aloud.

"This man got me off a murder charge," the man said, seemingly oblivious to my brother and me as he gestured to Sherlock.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduced half-heartedly.

Angelo offered his hand to John and my brother shook it. The man then offered his hand to me. I took it in mine, preparing to firmly grip his hand to keep it from being crushed in his, but Angelo was surprisingly gentle. He smiled warmly.

"Nice to meet you?" It came out of my mouth sounding more like a question than I intended, but no one seemed to notice.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking," Sherlock explained.

I almost snorted. Well, breaking and entering was certainly better than a murder charge.

"He cleared my name," Angelo said, still smiling ear-to-ear.

"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock corrected. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," Angelo replied. He glanced between John and me again. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'll get a candle for the table," Angelo said to me. "It'll be more romantic."

"She's not his date!" John called after him.

Angelo paused a moment and looked back, aghast. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I should've known better- people typically do like to sit across from their date, right? Don't worry, we serve all kinds here! I'll be right back with that candle!"

I couldn't help but smirk a little at John which he returned with an irritated glare.

"You might as well eat," Sherlock told my brother as he put his menu down. "We might have a long wait."

Angelo came back at that moment with a tiny glass bowl holding a tea light. He set it gently on the table before giving John a thumbs up and scurrying away again.

"Thanks!" John said after him, his tone still a bit clipped.

About fifteen minutes went by. John and I ordered some food while Sherlock kept his attention on the building across the street. I plopped some chicken in my mouth and leaned back as I chewed. Decent food, to be honest. I glanced at Sherlock and gestured to my food. I figured he'd see the movement out of the corner of his eye and sure enough, he waved me off.

John drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. He'd barely touched his food and was staring at it with a tight frown. Quite suddenly, his head snapped up and he said, "People don't have arch-enemies."

At first, I thought Sherlock was going to ignore him. He kept staring out the window, his green eyes darting between the various cars and pedestrians along the street. Finally, he turned to face my brother.

"I'm sorry?" The detective raised his brows.

"In real life," John clarified. "There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock murmured listlessly as he looked out the window again. "Sounds a bit dull."

"It does," I agreed with a sigh. "It is."

"Stop encouraging him." John elbowed me before looking back to Sherlock. "So who did we meet?"

"What do real people have, then, in their real lives?" Sherlock asked, still not looking back at us.

"Friends; people they know, people they like, people they don't like..." John listed them each with a deeper furrow of his brow. He then shrugged and offered, "Girlfriends, boyfriends..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying- dull." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he continued to stare across the street.

"You don't have a girlfriend?" John asked.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area," Sherlock replied carelessly.

"Mm." John looked back at his plate.

I remembered the man in the warehouse and what he had said about Sherlock and romance; how he wasn't the romantic type, but he certainly knew what it was. Of course, I didn't expect Sherlock to keep a significant other, but it was clear that John had a hard time imagining anyone who didn't want that sort of thing. It was why he still didn't get why I hadn't ever dated.

A moment passed and then my brother looked back up sharply, as if just realizing something. He eyed the Sherlock carefully. For a brief second, I thought the concept of a content single person had finally dawned on him, but then he asked, "D'you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock's head snapped around, gaze piercing into each of us in turn.

"Which is fine, by the way," John added hastily.

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" John prompted.

"No." Sherlock's response was deadpan.

John kept smiling for a moment too long. I elbowed him and he cleared his throat. "Right, okay. You're unattached. Like me—like us." He gave me a small glance. "Good." He started to awkwardly eat again.

I supposed my brother and I did hold an additional similarity when it came to fumbling with social interaction. I carved out another slice of chicken and stuffed it into my mouth as I waited for the detective's response to John's awkward comment.

"John, um..." Sherlock began, slowly placing his hands on the table. "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work—" his words began to tumble out of him faster and faster: a dead giveaway of his nerves, "—and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any—"

"No," John interrupted him sharply. He shook his head and cleared his throat once again- a nervous habit he seemed to be developing. "No, I'm not asking. No." He then fixated his gaze onto Sherlock, clearly trying to show that he was telling the truth. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

I was still chewing my chicken and put a hand over my mouth to try and hide the smile that was breaking across my face. One thing was for certain: chasing bad guys wasn't going to be my only source of entertainment if I lived with my brother and Sherlock.

"Good," Sherlock said after a brief moment and a nod. "Thank you. And Max, I know you're smirking."

I snorted awkwardly and nearly choked on my food. When I managed to swallow, I shrugged at Sherlock innocently. "Can you blame me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his attention back out the window. His expression was still bewildered and a touch annoyed. Suddenly, he perked up and nodded out the window.

"Look across the street. Taxi," he said, his voice growing breathless.

John and I twisted in our seats to peer out the window. Sure enough, there was a black cab parked at the side of the road. It's back end was facing us and I could make out a male passenger staring outside the side windows. It almost appeared as if he were searching for someone.

The amusement from Sherlock and John's little dating escapade died in the wake of a pounding heart.

"Could that be him?" I whispered.

"Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out," Sherlock murmured. "Perhaps..." His eyes squinted as if in concentration. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" John prompted my query again.

"Don't stare," Sherlock ordered.

We both immediately stopped and looked at him instead.

"You're staring," John pointed out.

"We can't all stare," Sherlock countered.

The detective suddenly pulled away from the window and got to his feet to grab his scarf and coat. Without another word to us, he went straight for the door.

"Apparently we're going," I said with my brows raised.

John sighed and snagged his own jacket while slipping off his seat and pursuing Sherlock. As I followed them, I pulled on my coat and tied my scarf about my neck securely before stepping out of the restaurant. The air around me transformed from the warm, delicious-scented air of the diner to the bitter cold and exhaust-filled breeze of London. Sherlock was already marching across the street without bothering to check to see if he was clear to go.

"Sherlock!" I called when a car neared him without proper time to stop.

The detective ignored me and despite the blaring car horn or rude gesture from the driver, he hopped up and slid over the hood of the vehicle and kept on across the street at a swift pace. John followed after him, putting one hand on the hood of the car to hop over it, since there wasn't enough room between it and the car in front.

"Sorry," he said to the driver without stopping.

"Double sorry!" I added as I ran forward and gently jumped over the hood and after the two men.

I saw a cab driving off down the street, and where the one we were watching was earlier was a mere empty spot. It was our mark, and he was getting away. John and I came to a halt beside Sherlock and my brother patted the detective's sleeve with the back of his hand.

"I've got the cab number," John said.

"Good for you," was Sherlock's dry reply.

He brought his hands up on either side of his face and closed his eyes. I could see his eyes darting about behind his lids and his head twitched back and forth, as if he were watching a tennis match gone mad.

"Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane," Sherlock said, his voice swift and purposeful, as if each phrase was a bullet out of a gun, "pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights..."

Sherlock suddenly lifted his head and his eyes locked on something to our right. I followed his gaze to see he was staring a man unlocking a nearby building. I didn't have time to figure out what the building could house before Sherlock abruptly took off running toward it. When the detective reached the door, he snatched the man by the back of his coat and shoved him out of the way before barging through the door.

"Oi!" the man bellowed after him as John and I sprinted ahead to follow suit.

"Sorry," John said to the man and raised a hand apologetically before flinging the door open again to duck inside.

"Double sorry!" I added with a sheepish grin as I pelted after my brother.

The building opened up into a stairwell that wrapped around the edge of the walls. Sherlock was already one flight of stairs above us; the sound of his pounding footsteps echoed downward like thunder. Without pausing to think, John and I raced up the stares after him, taking them two at a time. My breath started to grow heavy and my legs were starting to burn as we went up more and more stairs, but my pounding heart in my ears made me forget about it all.

At one point, I got ahead of my brother. When Sherlock finally stopped going up the stairs and instead burst through a door that led out onto a fire escape, I was relieved at the prospect of going down stairs instead of up.

Then the detective began to climb.

I groaned and held the door open for John before tearing after him. Once we made it to the roof, we spotted Sherlock sprinting across it full speed; his coat flowing out behind him and his feet kicking up scores of pebbles that littered the roof's surface.

"Come on, Watsons!" he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock reached the edge of the roof, and paused, peering over it. This finally gave us time to reach his side, but the second he got to him, he was moving again. He led us to a short, metal spiral staircase and loped down the stairs with both speed and ease. My brother and I were less graceful with our descent, but at least we didn't topple and fall. Once at the bottom, he climbed onto the railing before leaping across a gap to the next building. He made the act seem effortless.

Regardless, John and I scramble onto the railing and pelt after him. A smile cracked my face as I braced myself for the leap. It was a wide gap and a six story drop- needless to say, that would hurt like a bitch. However, the prospect of the danger did nothing to stop me. If anything, it was urging me on. In one, powerful bound, I leapt from the edge and into the open air.

Sherlock had been kind enough to pause and wait for us on the other roof. He reached out and embraced me the moment I hit the surface of the building- and good thing too; my jump had been a bit overzealous and I ended up having too much momentum. If the detective hadn't been there, I'd be face-planting the roof right now. Miyako would have been so disappointed in my sloppy landing.

"Thanks!" I breathed.

Sherlock released me as quickly as he'd caught me and instead of acknowledging me, he looked across the gap to where John was hesitating. "Come on John," he urged. "We're losing him!"

John backed up a few steps, then sprinted forward. He leapt the gap easily, though I still gripped him to steady his landing. With all of us safe and sound, we took off ahead. Sherlock led us to the edge of this new building where we found yet another fire escape. The three of us descended down all the way it would go and hopped the last fleet instead of attempting to drop the ladder. After we landed safely in the alleyway, we followed after Sherlock at a hard sprint.

My heart was racing, but I felt light as air as my legs pumped beneath me. The alley around us was a gray blur; all my eyes could fixate on was the back of Sherlock's head. We rounded the corner to the last section of the alleyway that led out to the street- the sight of it was a blast of color compared to the dull walls around us.

Then a black shape came into view: the cab. It was heading left, and as soon as it appeared in our line of sight, it was gone.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock shouted. However, despite his obvious frustration, he kept on going without breaking stride. The second he left the alley, the detective darted to the right.

John dashed to the left after the taxi. I paused just outside the alley, blinking in bewilderment as I tried to figure out who to follow.

"No, this way!" Sherlock ordered over his shoulder.

"Sorry!" John called as he turned around.

I couldn't help but laugh a little before took off after Sherlock, my brother just behind.

We ran on for what both seemed like hours and mere seconds. Sherlock kept to the streets this time, sparing us bursting into any more buildings or leaping anymore rooftops. We cut through some more alleys; the stench of expired food and other carrion assaulting us as we dashed by dumpsters. Finally, we emerged from one last alley and Sherlock flung himself into the street, holding his arms at the ready.

I gasped as there was the screeching of tires and the very cab we'd been pursuing came to a abrupt stop- but not in time to avoid crashing into Sherlock. The detective braced himself against the hood of the car and wasn't pushed even a foot. John and I went forward, both of us heaving in lost breath and staring in shock. Sherlock, clearly either uninjured or very skilled at not showing pain, dug into his coat and pulled out what appeared to be an I.D. badge of some kind. He flashed it at the driver as he ran around the right hand side of the cab.

"Police!" he barked. "Open up!"

Sherlock tugged at the passenger door open while he panted heavily. He gazed into the window at the passenger intently, and as John and I came up behind him, I saw that the man appeared to be of asian decent and was gaping back at Sherlock. He didn't appear panicked or frightened, no caught-red-handed type stare. No, he seemed nothing more than anxious and confused.

"No," Sherlock breathed, straightening up. He stared up at the overcast sky for a moment before he leaned back down to address the man. "Teeth, tan- what- Californian?" He glanced down at the floor near the passenger's feet.

The man blinked rapidly, like some confused puppy. "L.A., Santa Monica," he replied warily in an American accent. "Just arrived."

Sherlock slowly straightened again, his lips pursed into a grimace.

"How can you possibly know that?" John demanded the detective.

"The luggage." Sherlock looked pointedly at the floor of the cab where, sure enough, the luggage label proclaimed LAX to LHR. Los Angeles International Airport of London Heathrow Airport.

"Oh, well, at least that was simple enough," I mumbled.

"It's probably your first trip to London, right- going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

I took a moment to glance at the cabbie. He was an older man with white hair poking out from beneath his cap. A bit heavyset and shorter than average- of course not like my brother. His careful blue eyes were watching us in his rearview mirror. So far, he hadn't said a word. I felt myself wandering up toward his door, intent on apologizing and keeping Sherlock's cover.

"Sorry—are you guys the police?" the passenger asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock assured. I glanced back to see him flash the I.D. again. It was indeed a police badge. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah," the passenger replied weakly, but he still smiled.

I reached the door by the cabbie and offered him a smile. He met my gaze, but kept his window up. I waved, both as a greeting and an apology. He smiled tightly and waved back, as if to say, "No trouble, you're just getting in the way of me doing my job, is all."

"Welcome to London," Sherlock said to the passenger with a smile of his own, then turned and began walking briskly away.

"Er..." John was clearly at a loss. He blinked a few times, then stepped closer to the door and said, "Any problems, just let us know."

I waved once more at the cabbie, who waved back again, this time with a gentler smile, and I leaned over to say, "Enjoy your stay!" awkwardly at the passenger before politely closing his door.

With that, my bother and I followed after Sherlock, who had paused a few meters away.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," John said.

"Basically," Sherlock agreed.

"Not the murderer," I murmured.

"Not the murderer, no," Sherlock sighed.

"Wrong country, good alibi," John noted.

"As they go." Sherlock stared at the back of the cab as it began to drive again. He gently tossed his I.D. from one hand to the other.

"Hey, where- where did you get this?" John asked. "Here." He reached for the badge and Sherlock wordlessly relinquished it.

I peered over my brother's shoulder at the I.D.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" I read and my eyes snapped up to Sherlock's as an amused and astonished smile formed on my lips.

"Yeah," Sherlock admitted freely. "I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

John nodded, then lifted his head back and started to giggle. His laughter brought mine back.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, though he too was starting to smile.

"Nothing, just: Welcome to London," John echoed Sherlock's words from before with a big grin.

Sherlock chuckled and glanced back toward the cab down the road. Looking over my shoulder, I saw an actual police officer had gone to investigate why the cab stopped so abruptly. The passenger was out of his seat and pointed toward us.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked us.

"Ready when you are," John answered while I gave the detective a wide grin.

With that, the three of us turned and began to jog briskly down the road.