Sherlock is twenty-two, and he's tired of monotony.
He wishes the police would listen to his advice.
''Your wife's sleeping with another man... your neighbor again, isn't it?'' Sherlock only glances up at the man next to him.
The man nearly chokes on his nearly empty drink. ''How the hell...?'' He asks, turning toward Sherlock.
''I heard a few things. Work's been more stressful than usual, too.'' Sherlock actually looks at his neighbor at the bar. ''You look like you need another drink.''
There was no objections from the man whose many grey hairs were probably caused by the same reason he was here.
Several drinks and a slurred confession later, Sherlock is explaining in great detail exactly what Detective Lestrade needs to catch the serial murderer that has pushed him to drink.
''You're not looking at it correctly. They're all linked by one thing.'' Sherlock explains. He's sure that Lestrade won't remember most of it, but when he goes back to the case the memories should be triggered.
As Lestrade nearly falls asleep at the last drink of the night, Sherlock slips a scrap of paper with his name and phone number on it into his pocket. With any luck, he'll call.
Four months later, after the case is solved and Lestrade is promoted, another strange series of murders occurs.
Two days later, Sherlock's phone rings.
''Sherlock Holmes? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to talk to you.''
Sherlock smirks into the phone receiver. ''On my way.''