Disclaimer: Same as chapter 1.

Chapter 3: A Study In Companionship

-In London, ten years later-

Sherlock threw an orange across the room as he looked around his flat – tiny and cramped, it was all he could afford at the moment with Mycroft capping his withdrawals from his trust fund. Well, between his consultancy work at Scotland Yard and the occasional extra interesting case, he should have enough to live comfortably, but experimenting was a vice that he didn't plan on giving up.

Mycroft, I need a flat, get me one. - SH

Get a flatmate. Your trust fund only goes so far. - MH

Sherlock scowled as he read Mycroft's text. Mycroft knew perfectly well that he didn't mix well with ordinary people – what was the point in forcing him to get a flatmate? After all he had been through – the Second Titan and Giant Wars came to mind – the banality of humdrum, normal life, especially the asinine, boring people seemed to have lost its appeal to him. He chuckled quietly – years ago, all he had wanted was to be an ordinary boy – now, he couldn't ever imagine himself being one.

Have you found a flatmate?- MH

Sherlock groaned. He hated interacting with people if he could avoid it, they were so dull and boring and petty. So normal. He suspected that one of the primary reasons Mycroft wanted him to find a flatmate was for his own amusement.

Alright, I'll look for a flatmate. Now shut up. – SH

A trip to St Bart's might be in order, he decided, absent-mindedly pulling out his riding crop lying on the table. I can get more body parts from Molly.

-St Bart's Morgue-

Sherlock stood back, having finished whipping the cadaver. Molly raised an eyebrow at him. 'Bad day?' she called out to him congenially.

'Boring' he shot back in reply, before tilting his head and adding apologetically, 'It was just the usual, Molly'. Ever since they had first met in university the two of them had become rivals, always competing with each other playfully for the best grades. Although Molly's initial crush on him had been rather…off-putting, she had quickly gotten over it after he'd made it clear that he just wasn't interested in her. That hadn't gotten in the way of their blossoming friendship though – if anything, he had appreciated her honesty, and at least things hadn't been awkward between them afterwards. But he had only truly realised what a good friend she was after Redbeard had died; spiralling into depression at losing one of the dearest companions he had ever had, he had disappeared into a syringe. She had talked him through it, and forced him to get clean, something that he would be eternally grateful for. He had even shared the fact that he was a demigod with her. It felt…good being able to talk to someone about that part of his life, especially since he had cut off all contact with the US apart from his mother.

'I need to know the pattern of the bruises that form in the next twenty minutes, a man's alibi depends on it – text me' he fired off.

'Do you need a coffee?' she asked him seriously. 'You look…stressed' she added tentatively.

'Black, two sugars please, you know where to find me, and thank you' he nodded at her in gratitude.

-St Bart's Hospital Laboratory-

Sherlock squeezed some acid onto the Petri dish. He was testing to see whether magically grown bacterial cultures were any different from ordinary cell cultures. So far, they seemed to be identical in every way, which stymied him – surely they must differ in some way? The door opened and Sherlock glanced up even as he continued writing down his observations into a little notebook. Stamford and a man with a metal, heavy duty walking stick walked in. He frowned imperceptibly – something about that man was oddly familiar, like a long-lost friend.

Height approximately 1.7 metres, military haircut and bearing-

'Bit different from my day,' the man with the walking stick commented as he glanced around.

- army doctor then, trained at Bart's, tanned skin –

Sherlock shook himself out of his deductive reverie and focused on Stamford. 'Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine.'

'And what's wrong with the landline?' Stamford asked with a raised eyebrow.

'I prefer to text' Sherlock shrugged.

'…sorry, it's in my coat upstairs' Stamford replied after patting down his pockets.

'Er, here, use mine' the army doctor offered, fishing in his back pocket.

'Oh. Thank you, um…'

'This is an old friend of mine, John Watson' Stamford interjected.

'Thank you, John' Sherlock offered, and accepted the phone.

Limp is really bad from what I can see, but he doesn't seem to want a chair, limp must be partly psychosomatic then – origin of the injury must have been traumatic – trauma plus army doctor –

'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Sherlock vocalised.

'Sorry?' John asked, features flash-frozen in surprise.

'Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?' Sherlock elaborated.

'Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…'

John was interrupted as Molly walked in with a mug of coffee and passed it to Sherlock before dashing out.

'How do you feel about the violin John?' Sherlock suddenly asked.

'I'm sorry, what?' the doctor responded, flabbergasted at the non sequitur.

'I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, no?' Sherlock answered as he turned back to the doctor.

John stood and blinked for several seconds before turning to Stamford. 'When…when did you tell him about me?'

'I didn't,' Stamford said smugly. 'Not a word.'

'Then who said anything about being flatmates?' the doctor challenged.

'I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap,' Sherlock shrugged.

'How did you know about Afghanistan?'

Sherlock shrugged and ignored the question, opting instead to don his coat and scarf. 'I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London; together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the morgue.'

As Sherlock moved toward the door, John called out to him, 'Is that it? We've only just met and now we're going to go and look at a flat together?'

'Problem?'

'We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name' the doctor pointed out.

Sherlock paused and tilted his head to the side, peering at John for a few seconds. 'I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's…enough to be going on with, don't you think?' Sherlock fired off smugly, relishing the sight of the army doctor's stunned face.

As he made his way to the door Sherlock paused and turned back, almost as an afterthought. 'The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!'

Watson turned back to his friend, utterly confused by this turn of events. 'Is..'

'Yeah. He's always like that' Stamford confirmed.

-Outside 221B Baker St-

'Ah, Doctor Watson' Sherlock called out cheerfully.

'Mr Holmes,' Watson greeted cordially.

'Sherlock, please' he replied, offering his hand to the good doctor. They shook.

'Well, this looks like a prime spot' John commented as he leaned back to inspect the outside of the building; it seemed in fairly good condition at least. 'Must be expensive.'

'Oh, don't worry' the tall man assured him. 'Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out.'

'You helped him cut a deal to stop his execution?'

'Oh no, I ensured it' Sherlock smiled. 'Now then, shall we?'

As he reached out to knock on the door it opened, revealing a matronly middle-aged woman. 'Sherlock!' she greeted, clearly pleased to see the younger man. John noticed that Sherlock's mouth twitched in what might have been pleasure at seeing her as he walked forward and hugged her briefly.

'Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson' Sherlock introduced.

'Hello' the doctor smiled, briefly shaking the landlady's hand.

'Pleasure to meet you' the woman replied, smiling at him a little awkwardly. 'Come in.'

As John limped up the steps to the first floor, he noticed that Sherlock was waiting for him at the door. Once he reached the landing, the other man opened the door and revealed the living room. It looked fairly nice, he thought, quite large with an excellent view of the street. A slight frown crossed his brow as he saw the clutter: several large, half-filled boxes, several books and files scattered over the desks and chairs, some of them overspilling to the floor. Probably from the previous occupant, he thought. He turned back to Sherlock, who seemed to be anxiously awaiting his verdict.

'Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed' he said non-committedly as he continued inspecting the flat. He grimaced slightly at the strong scent of chemicals wafting in from the kitchen – all that equipment has to go, the doctor decided. He turned back to Sherlock. 'I'll be your flatmate-'

'Yes, I thought so, so I went straight ahead and moved in- '

'- as soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out…Oh. So this is all…'

'Well, obviously I can, um, straighten everything up a bit' Sherlock said, realising the cause of his new flatmate's hesitation. He grabbed a couple of folders half-heartedly and began throwing them into a box. John looked around awkwardly and pointed at the mantelpiece. 'That's a skull.'

'Friend of mine,' Sherlock replied as he continued throwing files into his boxes. 'Well. I say friend…'

The two of them were spared any further awkward discourse when Mrs Hudson bustled in and looked around disapprovingly. 'Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made!' she cried out. 'What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms.'

John blinked in surprise. 'Of course we'll be needing two!'

'Oh, don't worry, I don't judge; there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones' Mrs Hudson assured him.

John's mouth was open in surprise again. 'F-for the record, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock is not my boyfriend – I am not gay!' he stammered out, before looking at Sherlock pleadingly. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock was completely oblivious, busy checking something on his laptop.

'I looked you up on the Internet last night' John said idly, trying valiantly to break the awkward silence that had descended after his small outburst.

'Anything interesting?'

'Your website, the Science of Deduction.'

'What did you think?' Sherlock asked in a disinterested tone. Inside though, he was genuinely curious as to what the doctor's opinion might be. His brow furrowed slightly as he realised this – why did the good doctor's opinion matter so much to him?

You have got to be kidding, the doctor's face screamed at him. 'You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb' John said, slightly incredulous.

'Yes; and I read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone' Sherlock pointed out.

'How?' John asked, still perplexed by how the man in front of him had managed to derive so much from such meagre information. Sherlock glanced away and swept towards the window overlooking Baker St, apparently still a little miffed.

'What about those suicides, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same.'

'Four' the tall man whispered. He raised his voice, 'There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time.'

John spun around as he heard someone pounding up the staircase. A tall man burst into the room; despite only seeming to be in his thirties, his hair was already greying prematurely.

'Where?' Sherlock asked, directing his gaze toward the newcomer.

'Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?'

'Who's on forensics?'

'Anderson.'

'Anderson won't work with me' Sherlock grimaced.

'Well, he won't be your assistant then.'

'I need an assistant' Sherlock ground out.

'Will you come?'

'Not in a police car. I'll be right behind.'

'Thank you.'

As suddenly as he had entered, the grey-haired man left, with only a quick apologetic nod to Mrs Hudson and John.

'Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!' Sherlock exclaimed, manically dashing over to the scarf and coat he had thrown off just minutes before. 'Mrs Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food.'

'I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper' she gently reminded him.

'Something cold will do' Sherlock overrode. 'John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!' he called out as he ran straight through the door.

John blinked, completely bewildered by the tempest that was Sherlock Holmes.

'Look at him, dashing about all the time!' Mrs Hudson reproved. 'My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting down type I can tell. I'll get you that cup of tea. You rest your leg.'

'Damn my leg!' John shouted out before rubbing his head sheepishly. He tapped his leg with his cane. 'Sorry, I'm so, so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing…'

'I understand, dear; I've got a hip' Mrs Hudson waved off before moving towards the door. As John reached out for a newspaper lying on the coffee table, his senses suddenly screamed at him that he was being watched. Casually tilting his head to the side as adrenaline begun surging forth in his veins, John prepared to grab his cane and stab whoever was watching him with it before relaxing slightly.

'I thought you left' he commented.

'You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor' Sherlock said, staring at him in a scrutinising way that made him feel like a slide under a microscope.

'Yes' John answered, getting to his feet.

'Any good?'

'Very good' the doctor asserted.

'You would have seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths. Trouble too, I imagine?' Sherlock queried.

'Yes, of course. Enough for a lifetime.' John paused. 'Far too much.'

'Want to see some more?'

'Oh God, yes.'

Sherlock smirked and led John down the stairs eagerly. Even though he was clearly chomping at the bit to be off as soon as possible, he kept himself to an average walking pace, something that the doctor was grateful for. As they reached the bottom of the stairs the pair neatly wove around Mrs Hudson.

'Sorry Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. I'm going out' John called, body still flushed with adrenaline, with excitement at the unknown.

'Both of you?' their landlady asked in surprise.

Sherlock spun around and kissed her on the cheek. 'Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!'

'Look at you, all happy. It's not decent' she admonished, although she was smiling slightly John noticed.

'Who cares about decent?' Sherlock scoffed. 'The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!'

-In a taxi to Brixton-

John kept sneaking glances at his companion, overwhelmed by curiosity about the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was apparently completely oblivious, tapping away onto his smartphone. Eventually, though, he relented and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. 'OK, you've got questions' he stated. It wasn't a question.

'Yeah, first off, where are we going?' the doctor shot out.

'Crime scene. Next.'

'Who are you? What do you do?'

'What do you think?'

'I'd say private detective…' John hedged.

'But?'

'…but the police don't go to private detectives' the doctor concluded.

'I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job' the man beside him replied, with something that John realised was approaching pride.

'OK, but what do you do?' John insisted.

'It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me' Sherlock declared.

'The police don't consult amateurs' John fished out, intent on pressing the detective for more information. He felt a sense of trepidation creep over him as Sherlock's relaxed gaze sharped and flashed.

'When we met for the very first time yesterday, I said "Afghanistan or Iraq?", and you looked surprised' the detective threw out.

'Yes, how did you know?'

'From what I see,' said Sherlock, 'I deduce everything. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.'

'You- you said I had a therapist?' John deflected, determined to not be impressed.

'You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist' the detective shrugged. 'Then there's your brother. Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already. Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He-'

'- gave the phone to me, indicating that he wants to stay in touch,' John broke in, deciding to humour Sherlock's assumption that Harry was his brother, 'I was looking for someone to share a flat with but wasn't going to Harry for help – that says I've got problems with him. Yes?'

'Precisely' Sherlock admitted, pleasantly surprised. This doctor was rather interesting. Shaking away his idle thoughts, he picked up his chain of deductions, 'Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking.'

'How can you possibly know about the drinking?' John challenged.

'Shot in the dark,' Sherlock admitted, 'Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see – you were right.'

'I was right? Right about what?'

'The police don't consult amateurs' the consulting detective reminded him before looking out the side window nervously. Maybe I was a bit over the top, he probably thinks I'm a show-off now, he thought, biting his lip.

'That…was amazing' John praised, a statement that had his companion doing a double take and glancing at his face again.

'You really think so?'

'Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was…quite extraordinary' the doctor reiterated.

'Well, that's not what people normally say' Sherlock commented, oddly pleased at John's casual acceptance and praise. ' "Piss off", that's what they normally say' he added for the doctor's benefit, sending him into chuckles of dry amusement.

Sherlock broke the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of them as they got out of the cab, 'Did I get anything wrong?'

'Harry's short for Harriet' John confessed. Sherlock stopped so abruptly that John nearly stumbled into him.

'You played along with my assumption that Harry had to be a male,' he said admiringly, 'You could make a fine detective, John.'

And you will be if I have anything to say about it, Sherlock continued to himself inwardly. Your deductive skills are not unworthy of further development, if what I saw in the cab was any indication. But I'll need more data…ah, perfect, he chuckled to himself quietly. He glanced around- a large house- three storeys – was currently cordoned off and surrounded by police vehicles, so he started moving towards there.

'Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?' John asked him, surprised both by the seemingly random compliment and the sudden smugness that overcame his companion's features.

'Helping me inspect a crime scene' Sherlock replied amiably, in stark contrast to the immediate frostiness that overcame his expression as he saw who was manning the cordon- a certain Sergeant Sally Donovan.

'Hello, Freak' the woman barked out.

'I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade' the consulting detective rejoindered coolly, eager to head off to the crime scene as soon as possible. And, he admitted to himself, he didn't want the good Doctor to see his darker side. A slight frown crossed his face. Just why did the doctor's opinion seem to mean so much to him? That Perseus Jackson died a long time ago he reminded himself viciously.

Well, you know what I think, don't you Donovan thought to herself silently, holding back her distaste for the man that seemed to make a living out of showing up her and her fellow policemen.

'Always, Sally' he called out. 'Oh, don't look so surprised, you were thinking so loud they could probably hear you from across the street' he pronounced snidely. He sniffed the air delicately – men's deodorant, he filed away in his brain. 'I even know that you didn't make it home last night.'

Donovan flushed in embarrassment as she realised what he was alluding to and, rather wisely, dropped it. 'Wait, who's this?' she called out, gesturing towards John, who she had only just noticed.

'Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson,' Sherlock introduced, 'Doctor Watson, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. Let's go.'

As they continued forward towards the house, Sherlock scowled again. They're all popping out of the woodwork these days, he grumbled to himself.

'Ah, Anderson, here we are again' the detective greeted disinterestedly.

'It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?' Anderson spat out.

'Quite. And is your wife away for long?' Sherlock fired back, determined on giving as good as he got. He inhaled delicately – there it was, the same deodorant as Donovan's!

'Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that' Anderson glowered.

'Your deodorant told me that' he said pointedly.

'My- my deodorant?' Anderson asked disbelievingly.

'Well, it's for men.'

'Of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!'

'So is Sergeant Donovan' Sherlock sneered at him smugly. 'I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.'

'Dr Watson, you'll need to wear one of these' he gestured at a coverall and a pair of latex gloves, before snapping on his own pair. 'So Lestrade, where is the body?'

'Upstairs' the detective inspector rumbled, already making his way up the staircase. 'I can give you two minutes on the crime scene, no more' he added as they reached the top of the stairs. 'She's in there' he pointed.

'Might need longer' Sherlock said absentmindedly, mind already racing ahead as he gazed at the body from the doorway. 'What information can you give me?'

'Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her.'

Sherlock nodded and strode in confidently before coming to a complete stop. There was a woman's body face down on the floor, garbed, apparently, entirely in a revolting shade of pink. No signs of a struggle he noted to himself clinically before glancing at Lestrade. 'Shut up' he told the Detective Inspector.

'I didn't say anything' he protested.

'You were thinking too loud. It's annoying' Holmes shot back as he moved closer to examine the body. As he approached the corpse, he noticed something scratched into the floorboards – Rache? German for revenge, he remembered, before dismissing the notion – nothing about her indicated anything to do with links to Germany.

Links to other victims – so far, nothing to suggest that the four people who died had anything to do with each other – the only link between them is the poison; so, there must be an intermediary that knew, or dealt with each of the four, someone that they must have trusted implicitly since in every case there were no signs of a struggle at all, Sherlock theorised.

Fingernails, chipped, with a bit of blood – she scratched it in herself, more and more likely that it's not meant to mean revenge, but then what, what, what?

Sherlock ran through a list of words in his head before blinking and smiling. Rachel. It's short for Rachel.

Clothes are wet he noted as he gently touched her clothes with his gloved hands. Umbrella in coat pocket, but its dry…she's definitely not from London because we haven't had any rain in the past few days…will need to check where rain has fallen in Britain in the past….few hours or so; if her clothes are still wet she must had lived within, what, two, three hours journey away from London. Sherlock paused and pulled out a small magnifying glass and peered closely at her jewellery. Bracelet … clean … earring … clean … wedding and engagement rings….dirty?

He reached out and gently eased the two rings off her finger and inspected them closely. The outside of the ring was rather dull, smudged with flecks of dirt, but the inside of the ring was gleaming as if it had just been freshly polished. Married, but rather unhappily clearly if she doesn't even bother to clean her wedding and engagement bands…ring must be regularly removed then, but why? She must not have wanted people to know she was married … ah, serial adulterer, he concluded.

'Got anything?' Lestrade prodded.

'Not much' Sherlock shot back as he pulled out his phone and navigated his way through to a UK weather app.

'She's German,' Anderson offered from the doorway, ' 'Rache'- German for revenge; she could be trying to-'

'Yes, thank you for your input' Sherlock interrupted as he closed the door in the man's face. As he turned back to Lestrade and John he slipped his phone back into his pocket and started firing off his deductions, 'She's not German, out of town though, intended to stay in London for the night before returning home to Cardiff; so far so obvious.'

'Sorry – what?' John blurted out.

'The message?' Lestrade urged.

Sherlock opted to ignore the Detective Inspector, much to his ire, instead turning to John – Dr Watson, he reminded himself. 'Doctor Watson, what do you think?,' he nodded at the body , 'You're a medical man are you not?'

'H-hang on, we've got a whole team right outside' Lestrade protested, reluctant at the idea of bringing in yet another outsider.

'They won't work with me, and Doctor Watson is, I can assure you, overqualified for this' Sherlock overrode his objections. As Lestrade made to protest again, Sherlock simply stepped a little closer to him and added, 'You need me.'

The DI dropped his gaze, unable to meet the consulting detective's burning green pits. 'Yes, I do,' he sighed, running a hand through his grey hair, 'God help me. Help yourself, Doctor Watson. Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.'

'Well?' said consulting detective prodded. 'What do you think?'

The doctor gently pulled Holmes to the side started whispering harshly into his ear, 'What, exactly, am I meant to be doing here?'

'Examining the body, helping me investigate the crime scene- I thought that that was rather obvious' Sherlock frowned.

'I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent' the doctor protested.

'Yeah, well, this is more fun.'

'Fun? There's a woman lying dead' Watson scowled.

'Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you would go deeper' Sherlock acknowledged, his gaze piercing the doctor's stern blue eyes. He smiled inwardly as the doctor resigned dropped his gaze towards the body and started examining it. He quirked an eyebrow at Watson as he nodded to himself and looked at his companion. Well?

'Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs' Dr Watson said clinically.

'Sherlock, I don't mean to be a pain, but I need anything you've got' Lestrade chimed in.

'Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married' Sherlock rattled off.

'Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up ...' the DI started.

'Wedding ring,' the consulting detective interrupted, pointing at the offending article of jewellery, 'Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.'

'OK, but Cardiff?' Lestrade asked, scribbling down the bare bones of Sherlock's rant.

'Coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? A quick check online says Cardiff' Holmes continued. 'Elementary.'

'That's fantastic!' John exclaimed. At a look from Sherlock, he sheepishly added, 'Sorry, I'll, ah, shut up now.'

'No, it's…fine' Holmes said slowly, still surprised at how the good Doctor easily accepted his deductive prowess. It felt…good.

'Holmes, why do you keep talking about a suitcase?' Lestrade inquired, still scribbling down the information the consultant had given him just moments before.

Said consultant sighed and pointed at the woman's body. 'Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it? What have you done with it?'

'Sherlock, there was no case' Lestrade told him. 'We didn't find any suitcase here.'

Incompetent as Scotland Yard might be, even they couldn't lose a suitcase Sherlock thought to himself, mind racing.

'Maybe she got to a hotel and left it there?' Watson offered.

'No, no, no, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking like….Oh. Oh!'

Sherlock clapped his hands and ran outside. Completely mystified by the consultant's actions, Lestrade and John strode after him. 'Sherlock, what is it?' Lestrade boomed down the staircase.

'These aren't suicides, they're serial killings!,' the consultant shouted back, 'Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!'

John swore mentally as he watched Sherlock dash off into the night and leave him behind. 'Yeah, just leave me alone, why don't you, you bloody git' he snarled out. As he started limping away from the cordoned off house, Sergeant Donovan approached him, examining him curiously, not quite sure of what to make of the new outsider.

'You're not his friend' she called out. 'He doesn't have friends. So who are you?'

'Me? I'm…I'm nobody' he shrugged. 'I just met him yesterday.'

'Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy. You know why he's here – why he's really here? It's not for the pay. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there.'

Watson frowned – sure, Sherlock bloody Holmes was a complete git and eccentric but he couldn't imagine the man doing something so….mundane. Feeling the need to at least defend his new flatmate, he spoke up, 'And why would he do that?'

'Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored' Donovan told him, with such conviction that he almost believed it. She turned away as Lestrade began calling for her, throwing over her shoulder, 'If you know what's good for you, stay away from Sherlock Holmes.'

'Right' John blinked. If I remember what DI Lestrade said, we're in Brixton right now…the main road should be….there. The doctor nodded to himself and began limping away from the crime scene, eager to get back to the comforts of Baker St. Just as he reached the main road and prepared to hail a taxi, his phone started ringing. John frowned – no one should have this number apart from Harry and Sherlock and he certainly wasn't on speaking terms with the former, whilst the caller ID didn't match Sherlock's. He answered the phone.

'Hello?' he spoke into the phone.

'Dr John Watson,' a smooth, oily voice dripped through, 'formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. We have a common acquaintance, Doctor Watson – one Sherlock Holmes, to be precise. I'd like to speak with you about him.'

John scowled as he heard the unctuous voice; he knew well the type of man such voices belonged to – schemers, backstabbers, politicians.

'I'm afraid that I don't-'

'Get in the car, Doctor Watson' the voice continued before promptly hanging up. John glanced around- a black car pulled up beside in; the door opened. John Watson, former army doctor of Great Britain, sighed and got in the car.

-Empty warehouse-

Mycroft Holmes sniffed delicately as he surveyed the empty abattoir. Though intellectually he understood the necessity of all this subterfuge, he felt nothing but disdain for the filthy warehouse – the strong sense of chemicals and rancid meat pervaded the air, filling his nostrils and sending his stomach churning in revulsion.

'Ah, Doctor Watson, welcome' the elder Holmes sibling greeted with a very obviously insincere smile.

'You know, you could have asked me your questions on the phone' John said tightly.

'When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place' Mycroft retorted, before deciding to launch right into his impromptu interrogation. 'What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?'

'I don't have one' Watson sighed. 'I barely know him, I just met him yesterday.'

'Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?' Mycroft pressed. Angry people make rash decisions, perhaps he'll reveal something…

'Who are you?' the doctor countered.

'I'm an interested party' Mycroft deadpanned.

'Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends' John questioned.

'You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having' Mycroft sneered. In truth, the two of them were actually quite close – as close as two people such as them could possibly be, at any rate. 'An enemy. Well, in his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.' he added for Watson's benefit.

John frowned as his phone buzzed.

Baker St. Come at once if convenient- SH

'I do hope that I'm not distracting you' Mycroft said, a little miffed at being ignored.

'Oh no, not at all' the doctor smiled at him thinly.

The elder Holmes sibling decided to get straight to the point. 'Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?'

'I would think that that's personal, and as such, none of your bloody business mate' John snapped out tightly. He was just so infuriated – first by Sherlock's antics, and now by being dragged out to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

'It could be' Mycroft rasped out ominously.

'Trust me, it really couldn't' John spat out.

'If you do move into, ah, two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way' Mycroft hinted as he consulted his notebook.

'Why?'

'Because you're not a wealthy man; consider it an act of charity, if you will.'

'Charity implies that you're not expecting it to be repaid. So, money in exchange for what?'

'Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ... uncomfortable with. I'd just like you to tell me what he's up to. As for why… I worry about him. Constantly.'

'Rather nice of you.'

'But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship.'

John blinked as his phone received another text from Sherlock.

If inconvenient, come anyway- SH

PS. Could be dangerous

'No' John shot at the man. 'No, I'm not spying on him for you. Good night.'

'I haven't mentioned a figure-'

'Don't bother' the doctor said calmly.

Mycroft peered closely at the doctor that Sherlock had decided on as a flatmate, putting the entirety of his considerable mind towards deducing the man. Brave, loyal, reliable, strong, strong moral principles, smart…

Mycroft shook away those deductions and smiled at the doctor genuinely this time. 'We'll meet again, Doctor Watson' he promised, and gestured for Anthea to escort the man home – Hades knew how Sherlock would react to losing his pet project after only one day. Speaking of which…Mycroft fired off a text towards his wayward brother.

I was impressed by your flatmate- MH

-221B Baker St-

Sherlock grinned as he sent out a text using his burner phone to Ms Wilson's phone.

What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland St, please come.

He blinked as his own personal phone buzzed; from Mycroft apparently.

I was impressed by your flatmate- MH

The detective immediately scowled – he didn't need his stupidly overprotective sibling vetting who he chose to live with!

He sighed and started squatting on his armchair, waiting for John impatiently. It wasn't long before he heard the good doctor pounding up the stairs, gun in hand, and, curiously, missing a walking stick.

'You'll be taking the room upstairs then I take it?' Sherlock smiled at him.

'W-what?' John stammered out in surprise. Sherlock lazily pointed at his legs in response.

'Knew it was psychosomatic' the detective congratulated himself. 'Anyway, that's not why I called you here -'. Sherlock stopped talking as he realised that John was looking at the glaringly pink case situated on the small coffee table.

'That's- that's the pink lady's case' John said slowly.

'Yes, obviously' Sherlock drawled, before remembering that John had a gun at hand. 'Perhaps I should mention before you shoot me and call the police: I didn't kill her' he added dryly.

'I never said you did' the doctor said warily.

'You didn't have to; I could read it off your face' Holmes answered before slipping into a normal sitting position. 'Given the fact that I had her case, it was a perfectly logical assumption.'

'Do people usually assume that you're the murderer?'

'Now and then, yes' the detective shrugged.

'OK...how did you get this?' Watson asked, prepared for another lengthy rant as Holmes rattled off a chain of deductions. He wasn't disappointed.

'The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens; took me less than an hour to find' Sherlock spouted out.

'Now, when I checked the case and the notes that Lestrade's team took, I noticed that there was one item missing- her phone' he continued. 'We know she had one, there was a tag on her case,' he gestured vaguely at said piece of baggage, 'so where could it have ended up? She wouldn't have left it at home; running a string of lovers and leaving her phone at home is just asking to get caught – she would never leave her phone at home. She-'

'She could have lost it, not likely though; the only remaining possibility is that the killer has the phone' John broke in, before rubbing his head sheepishly. 'Ah, sorry about that – guess I just got a little caught up.'

'No…it's fine' Sherlock waved off. 'I'm impressed really, most people can't follow my train of thought. But…anyway, I took the liberty of texting the phone; with any luck, the killer won't have disposed of it. And if they haven't, then when they receive my text, they'd panic! Let's go.'

'Go? Go where?'

John was starting to get seriously frustrated at his companions antics. I am going to have a long talk with him about teamwork after this blows over, he vowed to himself.

'I'll fill you in on the way there' Sherlock told him as he shrugged on his coat.

-Later that night after chasing down the cabbie and returning to 221B-

Sherlock and John burst into adrenaline-fuelled laughter and leaned back against the wall together.

'That- that was, exhilarating' the doctor exhaled.

'Indeed' the detective grinned at him. Before they could exchange any more conversation Mrs Hudson bustled in.

'Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?' she asked tearfully.

'Mrs Hudson?' Sherlock asked in confusion.

'Upstairs' she pointed.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shot off up the stairs. What are they doing here? he thought to himself as he gave the flat a onceover – uniformed police officers were swarming inside his sanctum sanctorum, violating every nook and cranny. He stormed over to Lestrade, who was casually lounging in his armchair. 'What do you think you're doing?' he hissed out.

'Well, I knew that you'd find the case. I'm not stupid' Lestrade answered affably.

'You can't just break into my flat!'

'And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat, this is a drugs bust.'

'Seriously? This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?' John spoke up; Sherlock looked downwards momentarily in embarrassment - he had poured himself into a syringe in the aftermath of Redbeard's death. Odd as it might sound, he didn't regret it though – it had put him into contact with, he grudgingly admitted to himself, one of Scotland Yard's finest, and, perhaps, even a new friend.

'John…' he started.

'I'm pretty sure that if you searched this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational' John continued.

'John, you probably want to shut up now' Sherlock spoke up, spearing him with his eyes warningly.

'No. You?' John gaped.

'Oh, shut up' Sherlock replied tetchily. He turned back to Lestrade. 'I'm not your sniffer dog.'

'No, Anderson's my sniffer dog' Lestrade nodded towards the kitchen. Said police officer, along with Donovan sneered at Sherlock from the kitchen and waved at him sarcastically.

'W-what are they doing here on a drugs bust?' Sherlock growled out.

'Oh, I volunteered' Anderson said mockingly.

'They all did; they're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen' Lestrade threw in, relishing in the sight of the normally lackadaisical Sherlock Holmes floundering. But enough was enough; he gestured at the other policemen to stop searching. He leaned forward and looked at Sherlock seriously. 'Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in as a consultant, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?' the DI asserted.

'Quite clear' Holmes replied reluctantly, seating himself in another armchair. 'Have you found Rachel?'

'Never mind that. We found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath' Anderson chimed in, jabbing a finger violently at said psychopath.

'Oh, do shut up Anderson. I'm not a psychopath; I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research' Holmes tossed back at him before steepling his fingers and focusing on Lestrade. 'You were saying?'

'Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.'

'Wh- that makes no sense…Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?'

'Well, you said that the murderer makes them take the pills themselves; maybe he, I don't know, used the memory of her daughter somehow?' John interjected.

'Oh, please, it was fourteen years ago, why would she still be upset?' Sherlock dismissed. A rather awkward silence fell, with Lestrade and John determinedly not meeting his eyes. 'Oh…not good?'

'A bit not good, yeah' John agreed.

'She was dying from poison. She scratched the message into the floor with her fingernails – you saw them, they were chipped, bleeding a bit. It took effort. It would have hurt' Holmes explained. 'Wilson's trying to tell us something!'

'Sherlock, your taxi's here!' Mrs Hudson cried out from the staircase.

'I didn't order a taxi, tell them to go away!' Holmes roared back, as he started pacing back and forth furiously, pressing fingertips tightly against his temples. 'Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off.'

'What? My face is?!' Anderson spluttered.

Sherlock completely ignored him, and only vaguely heard Lestrade shouting at Anderson to turn his back as he descended into his mind palace.

Rachel-stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago-irrelevant-Jennifer Wilson, serial adulterer, clever, why would she lose her phone….unless she DIDN'T lose her phone…

'Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer' Sherlock enthused before dashing over to his laptop. 'On the case, she had an email address listed, jenny dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk, and the password is Rachel!'

'So we can read her emails, so what?' Anderson derided.

'Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the one who killed her' Holmes explained.

'Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver is very insistent that you called him…' Mrs Hudson told him from the doorway.

'Tell him to go-' Sherlock paused as his laptop whirred and the screen dissolved into a map. And according to this map…the phone was in 221B.

That's impossible, I wouldn't have missed it being in the case, and I most certainly wouldn't have dropped it…. Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? Who do we trust, even if we don't know them? Unbidden, his mind flashed to his trip to Lauriston Gardens with John in the back of a cab. His eyes widened. A taxi driver.

His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts.

Come with me, or they die.

No matter how much he disliked the majority of Scotland Yard, he wouldn't let them all die, nor would he allow for innocents to be harmed when he could stop it. Not even if they were dull, boring and utterly irritating. 'John, I'm going out for some fresh air' Sherlock improvised, and rose, moving outside the flat and down the staircase to the cab waiting outside.

'Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes' the cabbie called out, leaning casually against his vehicle. His name was Jeff Hope according to the ID card loosely dangling form a cord around his neck.

'You're the cabbie that stopped outside Northumberland Street' Holmes realised. 'It was you, not your passenger.'

'No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer' Hope replied.

'Is that a confession?'

'Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise. Why? Because you're not gonna do that.'

'You seem rather certain of that, Mr Hope' Holmes commented.

'I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing' Hope leaned forward seriously, 'I will never tell you what I said that made them kill themselves. An' you won't ever understand how those people died. So get in the cab.'

Holmes shrugged and sighed dramatically before opening the door and sliding himself in. His eyes flashed and danced in their sockets as they roved the interior of the vehicle. Behind Hope's left ear, dried shaving foam, on the dashboard, a framed picture of a younger man – Hope himself with two children, but rather clearly torn; his clothes, judging from their fading, rather old, but clean, recently laundered –

-221B Baker St-

'The Freak just got into a cab' Donovan reported. John's jaw tightened as he saw how the other police officers just accepted that slur to Sherlock – true, he didn't seem overly nice, but he wasn't actively going out of his way to antagonise them either. An anonymous complaint might be in order he thought

'Donovan, do shut up' Lestrade growled out, much to John's surprise – he hadn't thought that the DI would come to his flatmate's defense. 'Holmes is a human being too you know, and a valued consultant, the only reason our squad has such a high solving rate is because of him!'

'Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time' Donovan frothed.

Lestrade glared at his subordinate disapprovingly before turning to face the rest of the team. 'Alright everybody, we're done here, put everything back in it's proper place' he hollered out.

As the police officers started filing through the doorway, Lestrade turned to John and demanded 'Why did he do that? Why did he just leave?'

'Well, you know him better than I do' the doctor shrugged.

'I've known him for five years and no, I don't, I really doubt that' the DI sighed, and made to leave.

'So why do you put up with him then?' John called out. The DI ran a hand through his greying hair and turned back.

'Because, even if no one else on the force seems to admit it, we need him,' Lestrade answered, 'and because Sherlock Holmes is a good man, he's always had my back. Even though he's…eccentric, that doesn't change those facts. Unfortunately, not everyone sees it my way…'

He smiled resignedly and left. John stared after him consideringly – perhaps Lestrade wasn't the incompetent he'd initially taken him to be. Perhaps…as he took his cane and prepared to go back to his bedsit, Sherlock's laptop beeped triumphantly. John leaned over and checked the phone's location – just outside a Roland-Kerr Further Education College. He frowned. What business would a serial killer have there in the middle of the night? Unless…unless they were planning another one he realised. John Watson, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, grabbed his flatmate's laptop, patted down his coat pocket to make sure his gun was still there, and charged downstairs, intent on stopping another murder from being committed.

-Roland-Kerr College-

'Bit risky, wasn't it? Abducting me right under the nose of half a dozen policemen. And Mrs Hudson will remember you' Holmes commented coolly, propping his feet up onto a nearby bench.

'You call that a risk? Nah. This is a risk' Hope replied, pulling out a small glass bottle. Sherlock's eyes flickered to it – inside was a single capsule – the poison? A nagging suspicion began to grow in his mind, which was only confirmed when Hope pulled out a second bottle, identical to the first down to its contents, to the naked eye at least.

'You weren't expecting this, were you Mr 'olmes?' Hope smirked. 'Look at you! Sherlock 'olmes'. 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it.'

'A fan of mine?'

Hope ignored him and continued, 'You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. "The Science of Deduction". Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?'

'Oh, I see, you're a proper genius too' Sherlock drawled in condescension. The cabbie didn't know what he was talking about – after meeting Daedalus and the other Holmes family members, his perception of genius had been completely redefined. Euler, Gauss, Einstein, Heisenberg…none of them could compare to Mrs Holmes, and the youngest generation of the Holmes family – himself and Mycroft were her acknowledged superiors when it came to mental acuity.

'Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know' Hope hissed out.

'OK. Two bottles, one has poison, the other a harmless pill I presume?' Holmes queried.

'Precisely' the cabbie nodded. 'You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die. You choose one pill first, and I take the other.'

Sherlock grinned as he felt his heart racing, adrenaline flooding his body. This sounded interesting. 'I suppose this is what you gave the rest of them?' he stalled for time, eyes riveted on the two pills, striving to see the tiniest difference between them, to draw upon some niche of his pharmacological knowledge that might help him tell which pill was the poisonous one. So far as he could tell, they were perfectly identical…

'Yes, and now I'm givin' you one' Hope said calmly, head swaying back and forth in a near-hypnotic fashion. 'Take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game' he grinned, licking his lips in anticipation.

'This is no game, it's chance' Sherlock growled out, disappointed at the proclaimed 'proper genius'. Did he really think that someone of his calibre would believe that he hadn't found a way to rig the odds?

'I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... this ... is the move' Hope smiled, sliding a bottle across to Holmes. 'Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one. You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?'

'There's nothing to play, this is fifty-fifty chance' Holmes ground out. A slight frown crossed his brow – he STILL couldn't see any difference between the two pills…unless they were both poison? No, that didn't make sense, and yet…once one had eliminated the impossible, all that remained, no matter how improbable, had to be the truth. How was the cabbie surviving if both pills were poisonous? Medication – it has to be his medication for something!, Holmes exulted.

'Chance? Four people dead, and I'm still walking, there's something more than just chance at play here Mr 'olmes. You're not playin' the numbers, you're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff? I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone's so stupid – even you' Hope spat out.

Sherlock smiled evenly and steepled his fingers as he said, 'Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie. So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?'

'Time to play' Hope evaded, nodding at the bottles.

'Oh, I am playing' Sherlock rebutted, leaning forwards on his elbows until he was staring directly at the cabbie. 'There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts. Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?'

He peered closely at the man over his fingertips. Lack of personal care for himself, utter confidence, kamikaze murder spree…he's dying, isn't he? So those pills are his medication…but medication for what? Too many drugs I can think of, need to narrow it down…

'Three years ago, is that when they told you?,' he continued. 'That you're a dead man walking?'

'So are you' the cabbie shrugged.

'So, what is it, a – a stroke? Congestive heart failure?'

'Aneurysm,' the cabbie tapped the side of his head, 'right 'ere. Any breath could be my last.'

'And because you're dying, you decided to go and kill four people?' Holmes frowned. 'I don't think so, bitterness is paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children.'

'Ohh…' Hope sighed. 'You are good, ain't you? When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.'

'Or serial killing, for that matter' Holmes interjected.

'You'd be surprised.'

'Surprise me, then' Holmes challenged.

Hope smirked and leaned forward. 'I 'ave a sponsor' he grinned.

'W-what? Who'd sponsor a serial killer?'

'Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man ... and they're so much more than that.'

What d'you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What? What d'you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?'

'What d'you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?' Sherlock questioned. If there was an organisation out there sponsoring murderers, he needed to inform Scotland Yard, regardless of their differences. A gnawing suspicion began to grow in the depths of his mind.

'There's a name no-one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter' the cabbie nodded at the two bottles. 'Time to play.'

'Or I could just walk right out of here' Sherlock challenged. In response, the cabbie pulled out something from his pocket – a gun? Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he looked at it. No, not a gun, just a very good fake he decided.

'You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head' Hope promised.

'We're done here' Sherlock replied, getting to his feet. 'We both know that those pills are the same – blood thinners – and that that gun is nothing more than a fake' he threw over his shoulder. As he made to leave, he paused and turned back around to the cabbie. 'Out of curiosity, what did you mean when you said that there were others out there, more than a man? An organisation? A god?'

He noticed the stricken look that flickered over the cabbie's face as he asked his last question, only to be replaced by his impassive veneer once again. Suspicion confirmed. 'Actually, it doesn't even matter' he answered himself. 'I'm sure that you'll still be able to tell us in prison.'

That man is a demigod, he thought, mind already racing ahead. He said that there were others out there who enjoyed a good murder – criminal demigods that never made it to camp?

As he pretended to turn his back on Hope, he tensed his muscles loosely, ears strained to perceive the whisper that preceded a weapon being drawn – there! He threw himself to the side, just barely dodging the arrow that had been fired at his heart. Before he could do more than that, a gunshot rang out, and Hope fell down, bleeding from his left shoulder. Holmes spared him a cursory glance – he was incapacitated for the moment but the wound was fatal – he had already lost so much blood. He moved swiftly to the window, tracing back the bullet's trajectory mentally. No sign of the shooter, he noticed idly before turning back to Hope.

'Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name' Sherlock growled out.

'No' the soon to be former cabbie croaked out.

'The police are coming, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name!' Sherlock snarled out. I would feel guilty about this if he wasn't a serial killer, he thought to himself, and firmly planted his foot onto the man's shoulder. 'The NAME!'

'MORIARTY' the cabbie screamed out. Sherlock glanced at the bow and drew upon the power Hecate had bestowed him ten years ago. Burn! he commanded mentally; within seconds, the bow had disappeared, completely atomised. The arrow Hope had fired followed seconds later.

Moriarty, Moriarty, I've never heard that name before in my life, Sherlock frowned. This sounds rather interesting he smirked to himself.

-Outside Roland-Kerr College-

'So, the shooter. No sign?' Holmes demanded of Lestrade.

'None, cleared off before we got here. Don't have anything to go on either' Lestrade shrugged. 'Unless you…'

'The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ... and nerves of steel…' Sherlock trailed off as he saw John patiently waiting for him outside the police cordon. He shot it to save me, he realised. How could I turn him in for that?

'Actually, you know what, just, um, ignore me' he muttered. At Lestrade's questioning glance he brandished the blanket lying around his shoulders. 'Look, I'm, I'm in shock, I've got a blanket!'

Have to make sure that they don't discover it's John, he reminded himself. Appeal to the man's sentiment.

'Look, Lestrade, I just saw a man get shot in front of me, so if you don't mind, I'm going to go home and rest. I'll answer your questions for you tomorrow and help investigate' Sherlock relented.

The DI hesitated, and offered Holmes a card. 'That's the name of a good, um, therapist, if you feel that you'll be needing to talk about it to someone' Lestrade told him, shuffling his feet awkwardly. Holmes blinked, genuinely surprised that the normally impassive DI was doing this, and took the card. Perhaps Scotland Yard wasn't so hopeless after all, with a man like him in its ranks. 'OK. I'll see you tomorrow, no, make that three days in my office. Off you go then' he cleared his voice and turned to speak to his officers; taking the hint, the consultant moved towards his flatmate.

'Let's have dinner; I'll pay. End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two' Sherlock offered to John as he came close. 'Are you alright?' he added in a hushed voice as they began striding away. 'You did just shoot a man.'

'I've seen men die before – good men, friends of mine. Thought I'd never sleep again. I'll sleep fine tonight.'

'That's good,' Sherlock nodded in approval. 'Very good indeed…'

He'll make a fine partner, Holmes mused to himself.

This man, this Moriarty…I didn't know there even existed any demigods out here in Europe…what was he trying to achieve by sponsoring a serial killer? Surely he knew that I would catch him…he must have wanted me to catch him; he wanted me to be aware of his presence?

Sherlock grinned. It's been a while since I've had a nemesis. Not in over ten years…I haven't this alive since fighting Gaea. I will not fall to anyone, not even this Moriarty.

Author's note: So do you readers think it's coming along alright - that I did the Sherlock TV series justice?

Thanks for the positive reviews so far everyone, it means quite a bit to me! Again, I would like to ask - what stories from the canonical Sherlock Holmes would you like to be incorporated into this story? Please leave a review stating which stories you would like incorporated (excluding the following: A Study in Scarlet, The Final Problem, The Empty House, The Sign of Four, The Hounds of the Baskervilles, A Scandal in Bohemia, The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton). I only have space for two or three cases, remember, so pick wisely!