HFTS: So... I can't really think of anything to say right now. I suppose I should apologise for taking such a long time. Sorry.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Chapter Four: The Last Stop

The candlelight illuminated Sherlock's face in a way that made him look more ethereal than usual. John tried to busy himself with the meal in front of him, but it was difficult to keep from staring like a man first seeing the sky. Sherlock was ignorant of John's infatuation, watching the address across the road without even blinking. Angelo reappeared with the promised candle and two glasses of wine. John wondered momentarily what he could be planning. "There we go. More romantic," the man grinned, walking off before John could protest.

"Don't mind him. He tried to set me up with his daughter, so I told him I was gay. Now he's hell-bent on finding me a 'nice man to look after me'. Honestly ever since he found out about-" Sherlock's mouth clicked shut and he turned away.

"About what?"

"There was an accident, a few months ago. It left me in hospital for a while," Sherlock answered reluctantly. "Angelo was puzzled when I didn't remember him after he got out of jail, so I had to explain what had happened. He's just as bad as Mrs Hudson."

"It's nice that you have people that care about you," John smiled.

"Do you think so?"

John nodded. "It must have worried quite a few people, this accident of yours."

Sherlock kept quiet, turning back to the window. He stiffened. "John."

John turned his head ever so slightly, pretending to be peering at a wall decoration. At 22 Northumberland Street, a taxi was idling. "Do you think it could be him?" John whispered, barely moving his lips.

"It has to be someone," Sherlock replied. "Come on, let's go for a walk." John grabbed his coat and hurried after Sherlock. Just as they burst out of the restaurant, the taxi sped off. Without a thought, Sherlock gave chase. John felt the breath leave his chest as the man was side-swiped by a car. When the detective merely rolled off the hood and kept going, his heart settled back into its usual place but its beating was still off kilter. That seemed to be something Sherlock was good at doing.

John accepted the cane from Angelo with amused confusion, glancing back at Sherlock. He bid farewell to the man, heading upstairs. Sherlock had slumped into his armchair, paying no mind to the belligerent Detective standing over him. John only caught the tail end of the rant, but he assumed it had something to do with the Pink Lady's suitcase. Lestrade took a seat on the sofa and glared at Sherlock. "Is there anything else you've neglected to tell me?" he demanded.

"I forgot, so what?" Sherlock shrugged. "I've been doing that a lot lately."

"Yeah, but did you forget, or 'forget', Sherlock?"

"It's not his fault. We got caught up in setting a trap for the, uh, kidnapper and chased his cab through London," John said, settling into what he now possessively referred to as 'his' armchair despite only sitting in it once before.

"What." Lestrade's head whipped round to stare at John.

"It was an honest mistake. I'm sure Sherlock's willing to hand the case over seeing as he's done with it anyway," John continued calmly. "Right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned, sinking back into his chair. "Fine."

Lestrade blinked. He glanced from John to Sherlock and shook his head, deciding not to press the matter. "Right. Thanks. The reason that I'm here is we found her; our Lady in Pink."

Sherlock moved to his feet in a single, fluid movement. "She doesn't remember anything, does she?"

"No. She's at the hospital; they found her wandering a tube station. She had nothing on her except for a piece of paper telling her to run."

"Interesting."

"How long before you told me she wasn't dead?"

"It was only a theory."

"So, are you going to come down to the hospital? Do your scanning thing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. John and I will follow you in a cab. John?"

"Coming." John briefly considered leaving his cane behind. Still, one miracle didn't mean he was cured. Better safe than sorry, really. Sherlock's mouth thinned as he glanced at the walking stick, but remained quiet.

"Why don't I just drive you? It'll be quicker," Lestrade complained as he descended the stairs.

A hospital again. John was beginning to hate them, which was unfortunate consider his chosen profession and hobby. He followed Sherlock and Lestrade down the hallway, watching doctors and nurses and underpaid medical staff bustle and bump their way through busy schedules. Patients were shunted from room to room to elevator to room and back again with an uneven kind of efficiency. The Lady in Pink's room was plain apart from a watercolour hung on the wall. She was sitting up, staring at a talk show dribbling out of the TV. When they walked in, she looked up. "Oh. Hello. Do I know you?" she asked.

"Ah, no. I'm Detective Lestrade. This is Sherlock Holmes; he's a consultant," Lestrade explained. John had slipped over to the end of the bed, picking up her medical chart and perusing it like a paperback.

Sherlock approached the woman's side, keen eyes flitting about her person. She flinched, drawing the blankets up to her chest. Sherlock barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Can I see the clothes she was wearing and any other personal effects?" he asked Lestrade.

Lestrade produces them in seconds and Sherlock wastes no time in tearing away the plastic wrapping. He lays it out on the wheelie tray, running his hands over the bright pink fabric. Lestrade watches him intently. John pulls out the notepad and pen Sherlock insisted he carried just as the man turned to look at him. "Ready?" John queried, holding the items at the ready.

Sherlock hid his smile by bending down to sniff at the material. He turned away, sliding the jewellery out into his hand. "Unhappy marriage," he murmured to John.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly. He shot a quick look at the woman sitting up in the bed.

"It's all right," she said. "I don't care if he finds out I'm a stark raving psychopath. I just want to know who I am." She nodded to Sherlock, spurring him on, and waited. Sherlock turned back, continuing his work. When he was finished, Lestrade stepped out of the room to call HQ. John finished off his notes and got to his feet. His wrist was snagged by a hand with chipped Flamingo Flaunt nail polish. "Please? Can I-" She gestured to the notepad.

"Yeah, sure." John ripped the page out of the notepad and passed it to her. "Here."

"Thank you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exiting the room. John followed him, smiling reassuringly as he left, though the woman didn't see it. Lestrade hung up as they approached. "Anything useful?"

"The note she left, it must mean something," Sherlock murmured.

"It does. Missing Persons called. Her name is Jennifer Wilson, and she had a daughter named Rachel."

"Had."

"Stillborn. Fifteen years ago." Lestrade's voice had settled into hard professionalism. There was no softness to it. Only facts delivered as bluntly as he could manage.

"That can't be it. Why would she bother?"

"Think of her daughter in a moment where she might be dying? I wonder."

"She didn't just think of her. She carved her name into a wooden floor with her nails. It would have hurt. There has to be a reason. It can't just be sentiment," Sherlock said.

"The killer has her phone," John murmured, eyes furrowed. There was something, some distant memory, that was deep in the back of his mind. "But he wouldn't have taken it; they can be tracked by-" That was it. Harry excitedly telling him about an app that could find her phone if she accidentally dropped it somewhere. That was the memory.

"They can be tracked," Sherlock repeated, his eyes widening. He took off, forcing John and Lestrade to chase him. Lestrade was trying to convince Sherlock to let him call HQ first, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He could only see another piece of the puzzle, and sing the praises of Jennifer Wilson.

This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen. John squeezed his eyes shut, wanting desperately to wake up. This wasn't happening. But, of course, it was. He could feel Sherlock next to him, vibrating with energy and excitement and danger. The man didn't seem to mind the fact that they'd been kidnapped by an insane cab driver. The only thing that was keeping John from tackling the cabbie was Sherlock's quiet assurances that this was all according to plan. It wasn't, but John was willing to pretend it was. So, he watched the cabbie with narrowed eyes as he blathered on about how he and Sherlock were one and the same. It was close enough to a supervillain monologue that John couldn't take him seriously. He probably should – his life might depend on it – but the absurdity of the situation only made him wonder if this as all a very bad dream. Hence the aforementioned desperate opening and shutting of eyes. They rolled to a stop, the cabbie opening the door with a leer. "Last stop, gentlemen," he said.

"What makes you think we're going to follow you? There are two of us," John pointed out. The cabbie inclined his head and slipped his hand into his pocket. A black grip could be seen for the small moment before he pushed it back. An alarm in the back of John's mind rang. 'Observe, John. What aren't you seeing? What are you seeing?' He shook his head, glancing at Sherlock. The cabbie beckoned with a crooked finger and the detective followed like a lamb to the slaughter, stopping only to make sure John was by his side.