HFTS: I promise the next chapter will (hopefully) have a bit more action in it and we'll reach our splitting point and diverge from the canon timeline. I am trying to make this as different as possible, though. And forgive my shitty deductions. It's kind of hard for me to plausibly string all of this together but I'm doing my best.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Sherlock, amazing as that revelation might be.

Chapter Three: To Trap a Wolf and Fend Off a Snake

John walked slowly, deep in thought. There had been nothing left behind except the woman's shoes, and a word scratched into the wooden floor. Not a lot to go on, but for Sherlock it seemed to be enough. He had surmised that the victim was a woman, and that she had painstakingly scratched the word with her nails. And that the word, even if it was incomplete, was Rachel. An idea had then occurred to him and he had raced off without explanation, leaving John to make his own way home. He wasn't surprised. Sherlock was very obsessive over things that interested him. But it was still very annoying all the same. A ringing phone broke through John's concentration, and he looked towards its source. A phone booth. With a sigh, he held the receiver to his ear, expecting someone that had called the wrong number. What he got instead was a veiled threat and instructions to get into a car that was waiting at the curb; the voice niggled at John's mind, though he brushed it off. A woman was inside, fiddling with a phone. She seemed vaguely familiar to John, but he couldn't quite place her. Any attempt at conversation with her was met with one-word responses and vacant smiles. When they arrived at a warehouse, John barely twitched. Briefly he wondered if he had ever crossed paths with some sort of Mafioso, but then he reminded himself that that sort of thing was reserved for television. A much more likely thought was that this was to do with the military. He had met quite a few agents and soldiers who saw themselves as the next James Bond. And it wasn't above them to kidnap people and drag them off for a chat.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," a man greeted, leaning on an umbrella. From what John could see and hear, this was no lowly military agent. He was dressed in a tailored suit, and an air of importance hung around him like smog. Apparently the government wanted to have a talk with little-old wounded ex-soldier John Watson.

"Y'know, if this is to present me with a medal or something, you could have just used a courier service. Or, I don't know, phoned me?" John said sarcastically, looking around. "On my phone." He shook the aforementioned device for effect.

"This isn't for an award."

"Oh? And here you had me all excited that the government was acknowledging my… what was it they said? 'Valiant sacrifice in the line of duty'?" John levelled the man with a glare. "Why am I here?"

"Would you like to take a seat?" the man offered, moving forward a few paces.

John remained standing, staring at the man with boredom etched across his face. "Or I could just go home. There are plenty of seats there."

The man's lips thinned in displeasure and he pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. "You're therapist thinks your psychosomatic limp comes from the trauma of war. That you were under stress, that you couldn't handle the pressure. She thinks you shake because you are afraid. You should fire her."

John arched an eyebrow at him. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"Let me see your hand," the man commanded, walking closer until there was only an arm's length between them.

"I'd be happy to show you a finger," John offered, forcing a smile.

"Now, now, Doctor Watson. No need to be hostile," he tutted. He gripped John by the wrist, bringing his hand up to the light. "You're under stress right now, and yet you're hand is completely still. You don't fear the war, you miss it."

"Your point?"

"Is that what drew you to Sherlock Holmes? Or was the connection more personal?"

"What are you implying?" John said, his eyes narrowed.

"Nothing. It's just, you met two days ago, and you're already looking at a flat together. 221b Baker Street, yes? You're relationship is progressing rather quickly, don't you think?"

"Our relationship is as flatmates. I'm moving in with him for the sake of convenience and affordability," John ground out.

"Really? There's no… attachment? You feel no emotions for him, even after all that time you spent together?" the man said coldly.

John straightened up, his hand curling into a fist. "How do you-"

"I make it my business to know about anyone who has dealings with Sherlock Holmes."

"Who are you?" John demanded.

"An interested party. I suppose he would consider me the closest thing he has to a friend: an enemy. He might even say an archenemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Well thank God you're above all of that," John snapped.

"Have I upset you? I apologise, that was not my intention."

"What do you want with me?"

"I want to make an offer that you will find very attractive. In exchange for a handsome sum, I-"

"No."

"You haven't even heard my request."

"I don't care. I'm not going to spy, or steal, or whatever it is you want me to do. I don't care what you offer me," John told him.

"You're very loyal very quickly, Doctor. Anthea will take you wherever you wish. Good day."

John stood still for a moment, watching the man leave. As far as he could remember, Sherlock had never mentioned an enemy. At least, not one with the funds and status to merrily abduct people off the street without fear of prosecution. Maybe this enemy was unknown to Sherlock, hanging back in the shadows, waiting to make his move. His mobile pinged as a message was received. Apparently Sherlock needed him for a reason he refused to specify. Rolling his eyes, John made his way to the car, eying Anthea with suspicion. It didn't strike him as unlikely that she might kill him and dump his body in a sewer to cover up her boss' tracks. Then again, she seemed more interested in her phone than anything else, so perhaps he was overreacting.

John stepped into the flat, feeling the gun cradled at his back. He crossed to the window to peer down, seeing the tail end of the car disappear out of sight. Turning he found Sherlock watching him from the sofa, sprawled across it so nonchalantly he might have been a cat in another life. John waited expectantly, staring back evenly. After five minutes passed without a word, John spoke up. "What did you want then? You said it was important."

"I did?" Sherlock blinked. Screwing his eyes closed, his hand worked his temple. "I did. It was… It was… Ah, yes. May I borrow your phone?"

"What."

"Your phone," Sherlock repeated, stretching out his hand. "May I borrow it?"

"You have a phone," John said flatly.

"Keen observation, John. Not exactly on my level but I'm sure you'll get there before the end of the century," Sherlock snarked, sitting up. "My number is on my website. He might have it."

John rolled his eyes, throwing his phone to Sherlock. "Who's he?"

"Don't know, hopefully this will tell us." Sherlock jumped up, pulling a violently pink case from behind the armchair and propping it against the coffee table.

"I never imagined you as a fan of pink," John said, sitting down in the armchair closest to the door.

"Funny. It isn't mine, it's-"

"The victim's."

Sherlock stared at John for a fraction of a second, his expressions shifting like waves in a storm. Finally he settled on an impressed smirk. "Very good, John. It's good to know you can keep up."

"So I assume something at the crime scene lead you to this. Her shoes maybe?" John guessed, remembering the shoes the exact same shade of this case. "Clara would have killed to have a pair like that."

"Yes, how is your brother's ex-wife? You were… fond of her, weren't you?" Sherlock asked, and John couldn't help but grin at the pout on the detective's face.

"Not as fond as Harry is," John said. "And they're not divorced yet, just having a trial separation."

"Hmm." Sherlock glanced away, still frowning. "And it was the shoes, partly. I also found specks of nail polish in the floor. Flamingo Flaunt, or something like it; I'd have to check my nail polish catalogue to be sure. But her nails matched her shoes, and a woman who colour-coordinates like that would have at least had a handbag in the same shade. Took some digging, but I found the case and an umbrella in a skip two blocks away."

"Impressive. That's quite a leap," John remarked, running his eyes over the case.

"Thank you. Anyway, even if she hadn't colour-coordinated the way she did, those shoes still stand out in a crowd," Sherlock explained, throwing his phone over to John. "Apparently there's an online competition based in London concerning the most photos taken with interesting strangers."

John looked down at the screen. The picture was a full body shot of two teenagers on either side of a glamorous-looking woman. Her hair was a little windswept and her smile slightly strained, but the colour of her coat was unmistakeable. "Is there a name with it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It was all about not knowing their identity. I've sent it on to Lestrade, though, so they might be able to do something with it."

"What about this tag?" John questioned, lifting it up to the light.

"It's been soaked through. I could only just make out the email and mobile number," Sherlock replied.

"There's no phone here."

"So where could it be, John?" Sherlock asked, looking at John with watchful eyes. Evidently, he already knew the answer and was waiting to see if John could get there too.

"It wasn't at the crime scene. You would have mentioned it if you had found it in the skip," John said, chewing his lip. "So… it's either on the woman, or with her killer."

"Exactly."

"But how would she have got it on him?"

"What makes you say it's a him?"

"Well, the case and umbrella were dumped pretty quickly. People wouldn't question a woman lugging those around, but a man might be more memorable. He wouldn't have wanted to draw too much attention to himself, so he threw them in the nearest skip he could find."

"Why not an ordinary bin?"

"Too small. The case wouldn't have fit properly in anything more than a half empty bin, and with trash day tomorrow, it's unlikely he'd have found one with enough room."

Sherlock grinned. "Nicely done, Doctor Watson. Perhaps I'll make you my official assistant. At the very least you have more observational skills than most."

John shrugged, taking his phone back from Sherlock. He paused looking down at it suspiciously. "Wait, so you texted that number, which is either with a condition-unknown victim or a killer? Brilliant."

Sherlock appeared not to hear, turning his attention away to the window. "Why did it take you so long to get here? The crime scene isn't that far away."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I met a friend of yours," John told him dryly.

"A friend?"

"Well, he called himself your 'archenemy' but that might just be him."

"Oh."

"By his pomposity, I'd say government."

"Ah, I know who you're talking about." Sherlock glanced down at the phone in John's hand as it began to blast a pop song Harry had taken a liking to. "Don't answer that," he said.

"Why not?"

"I need to see something." The song cut off before the chorus, lying silent. Sherlock stared at it a moment longer, before smirking in satisfaction. He nodded, meeting John's eyes. "We have our answer; the abductor has her phone."

"Abductor? Not a killer?" John frowned.

"No. See, I don't think he's killing them. This man isn't afraid to show off. He leaves behind their shoes, and then posts to a message board where to find them. Why not leave a body too?"

"Maybe he's trying to be mysterious? He wouldn't be half as frightening if people knew how he was killing, or what the connection was between his victims."

"He doesn't have a specific type of victim. Judging by the shoes he's taken two males and this fourth victim makes it two females as well. The sneakers were well worn, scuffed, the type of shoes you'd see on a young man. The other man wore hand-stitched Italian leather. That means money. The first woman wore practical flats in muted tones, likely someone who is practical in day-to-day life. This fourth one wore flashy clothing and colour-coordinated her luggage, by the shade of pink I'd say media or entertainment industries. There's no reason for these people to have a connection. If he was a serial killer, he'd be more rigid. They have patterns, obsessions. This one doesn't seem concerned."

"So a spree?"

"Possibly. The first two were slow, as if he were just testing it out. He's speeding up, getting more confident," Sherlock said.

"And we just texted him and made him think he might have screwed up."

Sherlock got to his feet. "Send another message: Can we meet at 22 Northumberland Street in half an hour? I think you have my suitcase."

"Northumberland Street?"

"You know it?"

"Um, it sounds familiar. How do you know it?"

"According to my brother, I helped put away the previous owner for child pornography distribution, among other things," Sherlock said, pulling on his coat. "Have you sent the message yet?"

"Yeah, yeah, wait a second." John clumsily tapped out the message and sent it off. Looking up, he considered Sherlock's previous statement. "You don't remember putting the guy away?"

"I don't remember a lot of things," Sherlock replied.

"Tell me about it," John muttered, getting up. "So are we going together or are you going to pull your Batman card and work alone?"

Sherlock eyed him for a moment before shrugging. "I do think best out loud, and Billy only draws attention when I take him out."

"You named him Billy," John smirked. Sherlock remained quiet, holding the door open. Together they made their way downstairs, quiet as mice so as not to bother Mrs Hudson, and gently shut the door behind them.