HFTS: I promise not to make a habit of using too much of the canon lines and stuff. I just need to get it a little further along before I can really diverge from the main storyline. Also, I'm very glad the story was well received. I'll also try to make this less villain-centric and more about John and Sherlock. The first few chapters might be, but hopefully not for too long. Please enjoy this little chapter, and don't forget to suggest anything you might wanna see.

Also tell me if there are any horrible spelling mistakes or anything I need to fix.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Chapter Two: 221b Baker Street

The cab jerked to a stop, and John climbed out awkwardly, passing the cabbie some cash. He waved away the change, too impatient to wait for the man to clumsily count it out. The taxi drove away just as John heard a familiar voice. "Oh good, you made it," Sherlock called as he crossed the busy road.

John held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. "Sh- Mr Holmes," he greeted.

"Call me Sherlock," the detective replied. He jumped up the small stairs and knocked smartly on the door, rocking on his heels. The door opened almost immediately, an older woman appearing in the doorway. She smiled, pulling Sherlock into a tight hug. "Sherlock, it's good to see you!"

"Mrs Hudson, this is Dr John Watson," Sherlock said, gesturing to the doctor. He slipped past Mrs Hudson, into the hallway, and made his way up the stairs two at a time. John nodded to Mrs Hudson, noting the way her eyes lingered on the cane, and slowly made his way up the stairs. He hated stairs; they were the worst thing for someone with a bad leg. He reached the top, breathing heavily. Sherlock held the door open for him, a hint of nerves creeping into his eyes. John couldn't help but smile at that. He looked around at the interior, taking in its cluttered, messy appearance. Sherlock must have already moved in, he thought to himself.

Sherlock cleared his throat, standing behind an armchair. "What do you think?"

"It's nice. Very… cosy. A bit cluttered though."

"Oh, uh, yes. I, uh, only just moved in so I haven't had much chance to organise everything and my sock index has suffered for it," Sherlock babbled, hurriedly moving stacks of paper and boxes of unidentifiable contents out of the way.

John sat in a now debris-free armchair and watched the flustered detective fuss with the placement of his books. His eyes swept across the mantelpiece, stopping dead on a leering skull. He coughed, gaining Sherlock's attention, and pointed at it with his cane. "Unique choice of decoration, isn't it?"

"He's a friend. I mean- I say friend but I-" Sherlock said hurriedly.

John chuckled, startling the man. It seemed Sherlock desperately wanted to impress him, as well as do his best not to drive him away. It was actually kind of cute. "Are you going to introduce us, then?" John smiled.

"Er… I never really named him. I just talk to him from time to time," Sherlock explained, his face a mask of composure even as his hand twitched.

"Call him Billy," John suggested. "Or Louis."

Sherlock stared at him, his expression a mixture of amusement, confusion, and relief. "You're not… frightened?"

"I went to medical school, Sherlock. I've seen a lot of skulls." John turned his gaze to the tower of newspapers still resting on the table and picked up the most recent. He glanced at the headlines, looking for anything about Afghanistan. Sherlock moved towards the window, snatching up pillows and blankets as he went. "So, do you have any insight on this 'serial killer' the papers are raging about?" John asked, turning the page.

"It's not a serial killer," Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

"Is that a yes?"

"Ooh, those murders are horrible, aren't they?" Mrs Hudson said, bustling into the room. "Three people just vanished without a trace. Not a single body has been found and the police are at their wits end."

"They never had any to begin with," Sherlock muttered.

"Just imagine, three people completely gone!"

"Four," Sherlock said. "There's been a fourth."

The sound of the front door flying open reached them, followed by heavy footsteps up the stairs. A man burst into the flat, looking straight at Sherlock. "Sherlock-"

"What's changed?"

"You know how they never leave anything behind? This one left a note. Will you come?"

"Who's working the scene?"

"Anderson."

"No, he won't work with me."

"He's not your assistant," the man said tiredly.

"I need an assistant."

"Will you come?"

Sherlock sighed, turning away. "Not in a police car. I'll follow in a cab."

The man nodded, disappearing out the door. John looked from the door to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "Important business?"

Sherlock leapt up, pulling on his coat and scarf. He clumsily shoved a note pad and pen into his pockets. "Mrs Hudson, I'll be out late. Might need some food."

"I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs Hudson responded.

"Something cold will do. John, make yourself comfortable," Sherlock said, running out of the room.

John set aside the newspaper, looking around the disorganised flat. Mrs Hudson cleared a small space on the table and set down a cup of tea. "Here you are. So, how long have the two of you been together? It can't have been long or Sherlock would have mentioned something before now."

John, who had chosen that moment to take a sip of his tea, choked. "Wh- What makes you- say such a thing?"

"Oh no, it's okay. I'm a very accepting person, I promise," Mrs Hudson said earnestly.

"We- We're not together. Not like that. We've only just met," John told her, still coughing.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I just thought… Well, the way you two interact, it seemed very familiar."

"It's- it's fine. Really. Don't worry."

"Well, if you need anything else, I'm right downstairs." She left the room, and silence fell. John wondered whether he was expected to sleep here for the night, or if he was just to let himself out and make his own way home. The sudden dismissal stung a bit, but it was to be expected of the genius. Still, John wished they could have talked more. It was nice.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said, leaning against the doorway and scaring the absolute hell out of John. "An army doctor, yes?"

John struggled to his feet, nodding. "Yes."

"A good one?"

John thought back to those months in the desert, putting people back together while bombs rained down only a few feet away. Not once had his hand slipped. "A great one," John said.

"You've seen a lot of… violent deaths? Brutal injuries?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Yes. So many; too many for one lifetime."

"Do you want to see a few more?" Sherlock purred. Well, at least that's how John interpreted it.

There was something seductive in Sherlock's tone that crawled up and down John's spine and wrapped itself around his throat. Pushing aside his somewhat concerning lust for danger and mayhem, John brought his emotions under control. He let out a small shuddering breath, looking Sherlock in his gorgeous and mesmerizing eyes. "God yes."