A/N: Any resemblance of emails or names used to any other person or email is purely coincidental, except in the case of Mr. Dominic J. Tremp, Sr. The author asks that readers please leave the owners of these names and emails alone, on the off-chance that they're actually real. Thank you.

Also, I am about ready to murder whoever came up with the formatting for this website. BOLD things are scene changes, everything else is an in-scene change. Hopefully it will make sense.

Scene One: Temporary, Part One

It's been nearly a year, and Sherlock is tired of self-pity. He's started cleaning, or at least organizing. His files are, instead of all over the floor and stuffed into the toaster, piled into haphazard stacks that at least take up no more than one corner of his flat. He doesn't cook any more than he used to, but if Mrs. Hudson has started to bring up "leftovers" too regularly to be coincidence, and if he's started paying her, well, that's his affair.

Lestrade mercifully made no comment when Sherlock started saying "I'll be there" instead of "We'll be there" when referring to crime scenes. It took Sherlock weeks to be able to say that without pausing beforehand to either swallow or grit his teeth. The one time he messes up and mentions him (Day 253 After John at 7:23am, and he'd gotten no sleep for four days) Lestrade doesn't even call him on it, and blessedly Sherlock hadn't been in hearing distance of Donovan or Anderson.

The two of them start referring to That Day as a "break-up," and to John as his "ex." They snicker together that Sherlock must be a terrible lay, with all the girls John kept bringing back home, and Sherlock has long since learned in turn that neither gritting his teeth in silence nor making a comment about their own torrid—and passionless—affair does anything to deter them.

The worst thing is that they are right in a sense, and yet John is both more and less than an ex, or at least as Donovan would consider one. Sherlock is not so wasted on pop-culture to not know that his and John's…relationship was a bromance for the ages, and their "break-up" has been the internet sensation of the year. At least he is no longer photographed everywhere he goes. There is nothing good about him for others to see without John there to point it out and cultivate it.

He doesn't dislike this life, though there is little he can say in favor of it. He is alone now, alone as he ever was. It is truth, and there is no room for emotion in truth.

What Sherlock doesn't like to admit is that he is unable to delete John. Memories of him have crept out of their neat box and into the rest of Sherlock's mental files, and at this point he doesn't know what deleting John would do to him. In Sherlock's mind, John is irrevocably associated with his cases, and Sherlock is loath to delete his cases.

Truthfully, Sherlock thinks of John often. It is nothing but association. He does it as naturally as thinking of tea, or of Mrs. Hudson. There are very few times that he finds himself actually missing John, however. Sherlock is a machine, and John is not an essential part of his existence. There is nothing left between them, and Sherlock has accepted that fact with the same readiness and detachedness that he would accept that the sun gives off light.

That is the simple truth.

Interlude: Remnants, Part One

To: Leon Robertson

From: prettynpink12

Subject: Tomorrow :)

Sent 17 June 6:45pm

Hi daddy! I cant wait for tomorow! Ur picking me up at noon, rite? Mum's at work so i can't ask her. She said shed b home really late 2day. I think its work. Or Mike. I like u better than Mike daddy.

Love you xoxo

Amber :)

To: prettynpink12

From: Leon Robertson

Subject: Re: Tomorrow

Sent 17 June 6:52pm

Hello Amber!

Yes, I was supposed to pick you up tomorrow, but if your mother is going to be out all night I'll pick you up earlier. Please be ready in twenty minutes, and remember to ask who it is when the buzzer sounds. It's not always going to be me, baby.

Love you more,

Daddy

To: M Robertson

From: Leon Robertson

Subject: Our daughter

Sent 17 June 6:58pm

Morgan,

What the hell are you doing, working late and leaving Amber home alone? She's only nine, even if she types like a bloody preteen, and she can't run a house whilst you're not there. I'm coming by early to pick her up.

No love,

Leon

To: Leon Robertson

From: MAILER-DAEMON

Sent 17 June 6:59pm

Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to the following address: m_robertson. The host does not have an email address on file of that name.

To: M Ashfield

From: Leon Robertson

Subject: Have we really sunk that low?

Sent 17 June 7:44pm

What the hell are you doing, working late and leaving Amber home alone? She's only nine, Morgan, for God's sake. I've got her now, so you don't worry about stopping your day to take care of our bloody child.

Leon

PS: Thanks for letting me know of the name change, Morgan.

Setting: The Story of a Murderer, Part One

She didn't like the term murderess. It was too close to seductress, to mistress, to all those things that were dark and dangerous and stank of sex and leather. She was a good girl, a small town girl who still curled her blonde hair into ringlets and wore cardigans over her floral-print dresses. She had always considered herself happy; she always dreamed of the white picket fence and the three children, had picked out what flowers she wanted in her garden and learned her grandmother's scone recipe.

Maybe that was why when Brendan came around, she'd thought she found true love. He was a mechanic from the next town over, and he was big and strong and nice to her and paid attention to her and even got her those pretty pearl earrings. When she dreamed of their children, they all had his green eyes.

She didn't panic when he got her pregnant too. Her Brendan would marry her, she was sure, and she was right. They bought a little cottage in the country on a plot of land his daddy owned and he painted the room for the baby himself. On afternoons when he was at the mechanics' she loved nothing more than sitting in the rocking chair in their baby's room, stroking her stomach and wondering who that child would be.

And then one day it was over. The baby was gone, and so were her uterus and her ovaries. She was shattered; uterine cancer had taken everything that had really mattered in her life. She clung to Brendan like a lifeline. She thought she would always have him at least, but that was before he'd stayed one night too late at work and she'd found out about the cute young waitress he was fucking.

So then that gorgeous house in the country was gone, and so was Brendan, and she found herself alone with too many thoughts. She'd always been the perfect girl next door—not too memorable, not too pretty, not too successful or intelligent or witty or charming or happy or good at anything.

That was the day she threw away her dresses, moved into the city, and stopped thinking.

Interlude: Remnants, Part Two

"We're losing her! Where's the godforsaken crash cart?!"

"Look at that, it must have been something she ate—"

"Then get the goddamned ipecac! You're a resident, not an imbecile,"

"I'm not giving her any bloody ipecac until we know what she ate!"

"Fuck the fucking ipecac, you two! CLEAR!"

"Daddy?"

Leon jumps, then checks the time at the corner of the computer screen before looking at his daughter. He'd put her to bed two and a half hours ago. "What, sweetie?"

The girl rubs her eyes and sleep-mussed hair and clambers idly onto his lap. She curls her small body into the protective mass of Leon's before speaking. "Did Mum call you today?"

"No, baby. I tried her mobile, but it was turned off. I'm sure she'll call tomorrow."

Amber looks up at him with doubt in her big brown eyes and, dammit, Leon would move heaven and earth to see a smile on her face again. "But she didn't call yesterday. Or the day before that."

Instead of answering, Leon sighs and tilts his head forward to press a kiss into her hair. Amber is right. Morgan would never go this long before contacting Leon, especially after that last email he sent her.

Something must be very wrong.

Scene Two: Temporary, Part Two

Sometimes it feels as if the world is ripping apart, imploding and exploding all at once, little strips of reality peeling off of the rust of the world and floating upwards. Sometimes Sherlock is half convinced that if he turns around in the busting London streets full of life he'll see nothing but bent and twisted towers of iron and ramshackle heaps of bones behind him. It feels as if pestilences and fires follow in his footsteps, sweeping out from his billowing overcoat to swallow the whole world. He is dark and impatient and angry, frustrated at the world and waiting for it to end.

He would swallow the earth, cut out its light, lay inky nighttime blackness over all of London. He is larger than life, a shadow peering down out of the ether to peek into windows and down chimneys. Rooftops and ceilings are no protection from him; they are peeled off as easily as old scabs. Opened, Sherlock imagines they would be filled with plots, and subterfuges, and thoughts and intricacies and plans; their closets would be filled with old skeletons and ghosts and some would have to be original.

Four o'clock in the morning suddenly becomes a brilliant time to do anything because it's been so long since Sherlock's eyes have closed for a reasonable amount of time and even when they do it's not enough and he's so, so tired and his brain can't shut off because it isn't lack of material that's wrecking him, it's these infernal living dreams.

He thinks one night that he might have killed God in a test tube back one day in high school, and then learns that it apparently takes around five days to hallucinate from lack of sleep.

Though he may feel it, he knows he's not even close to falling apart. Falling apart was lying, half naked and filthy, on a stranger's floor in his university years after taking a hit. His observation skills are fine and his deduction is as mechanically brilliant as always. He waits for a truly fascinating case to present itself and in the meantime devotes his time to converting all of the parts of Camille Saint-Saens' Danse Macabre to the violin.

Then there are days where it seems like he can see the past and present and future of London from looking out of his windows. The city is bright, vibrant, and alive, and he wonders why he can only see in shades of grey when the world is painted in color. The irony of spending his life locked in a graveyard of blood and murder inside his head is not lost on him, and he wonders if he should feel afraid or melancholy that he simply does not care.

Setting: The Story of a Murderer, Part Two

There are many things she has forgotten about her life, and that is the only way she can say that it was happy. If anyone asks her about her past, she tells them about her mother's horrible baking and how her father always hunted for the perfect goose for Christmas dinner. She fondly reminisces on the songs her mother sang on Sunday mornings and the old, rusted-out car her father always swore he'd fix one day but never did.

In reality, the past these memories convey is far from the truth. The family she was born into was perpetually poor; their clothes were always threadbare, their stomachs half-empty. She doesn't know much about her father because he was a drunk who would come home from work late with whiskey on his breath and his fists clenched in front of him, and her mother tried to shield her from her father's violence as much as she could.

Then there was the day her father had been so drunk he had aimed for his daughter instead. She doesn't remember the A&E, though she remembers not being able to ride the neighbor's horses for months, and smiling at her father with a bland respectfulness with nothing behind her eyes. Nowadays she covers the scars on her legs with hosiery and tells friends it was the car accident that killed her parents. It's enough for them to stop talking, though seeing their pitying faces is almost as bad. It's not like she deserves this pity, after all—nothing happened.

But in the back of her mind, she knows. She remembers. Somewhere, tucked away in a dark and dusty corner, lies all the horror her conscious mind rejected. The truth of it lies in the burned-out shell of her house (an accident), the cold graves of her parents (an accident), in the empty smile she gave her grandparents when they took her in. She's okay, she's alright. She has problems sleeping; she dreams terrible, debilitating nightmares that wake her and leave her breathless, but she's fine.

Interlude: Remnants, Part Three

Morgan is dead. Morgan Robertson is dead, had lain dying alone in a coma in St. Bart's as Leon cursed her for leaving their precious daughter alone.

Leon cannot get used to the "Ashfield" next to his nearly-ex-wife's first name on the official letter that had arrived with her death certificate. She is his wife, she is a Robertson. She is his wife.

The hospital had informed him that he was still listed as her next-of-kin and emergency contact. He feels a fool for reading into that—they were getting a divorce, she was seeing someone else, their marriage could have never worked a second time. And in any case, it doesn't matter now, because she's dead.

If he'd thought their separation had nearly killed him, he was sorely mistaken. The feelings of utter shock and numbness when Morgan left him are nothing compared to how he feels now that she's dead. After all, he'd seen the end of their marriage coming; he'd noticed how her lips formed a malicious smirk as lies slithered off of her honeyed tongue when he asked her where she'd been. At the time, he couldn't comprehend how he'd ever loved her in the first place. How dare she leave their daughter to be third place to her career and her new boyfriend? How dare she cut them out so easily, those who had been her life for more than a decade? It provided a taint that had soured every happy memory he had of the woman.

But this, this is different. Morgan is dead, and all he can see of her is the date where he'd first realized he was in love. She was beautiful, all dark hair and pale skin, and they'd been laughing about some stupid joke someone had made. The light had caught her eyes, and as she looked at him, he knew he was gone. It had felt so right, so perfect. A part of him has never forgotten that moment, has remembered it through the moment he knew she was cheating on him and through horrible arguments that were spoken late at night in harsh whispers to hide from Amber.

That doesn't matter now. He loves her more than everyone besides Amber, and he regrets the last six months of not trying to work things out between them (of hearing Amber ask why Mummy didn't see her more, of not waking beside her) more than anything else in his life.

A man's voice pulls his gaze away from his wife's coffin and he faces a tall man in a suit that would have cost him half a month's salary. "Oh, you must be Morgan's husband," the man gushes, and Leon is surprised to find the man's eyes red-rimmed and raw—could this be yet another illicit boyfriend of Morgan's? But then the man seems to remember himself and says "God, sorry, I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Stephen Holmes—I interned under your wife. I'm so sorry for your loss…"

Scene Three: Ripe for the Slaughter

The Telegraph

Home News World Sport Finance Comment Blogs Culture Travel Life Fashion Tech

Politics / Obits / Education / Earth / Science / Defence / Health / Scotland / Royal / Celebrities / Weird

Home News Obituaries Finance Obituaries

Dominic J. Tremp

Real Estate Tycoon, Dominic J. Tremp, Sr.—a household name after the premiere of The Apprentice (UK)—was found dead yesterday by his maid. This is a shock to those who knew him, as his health was notoriously good for a man of 66 years of age. Authorities are currently investigating his death, but have informed us that it looks like he died of a freak case of unusually virulent E. coli food poisoning after eating at a prominent West End barbecue establishment. He is survived by four ex-wives and seven children.

Dominic J. Tremp, born 14 June 1946, died 27 June

The Telegraph

Home News Obituaries Medicine Obituaries

Lucinda Hawkins

Lucinda Hawkins, the Assistant Director of University College Hospital in London died Tuesday of an allergic reaction to shellfish while eating at a popular restaurant and bar near her place of residence. Representatives of the restaurant insist that all proper precautions were put in place, and do not know how this unfortunate accident could have occurred. Authorities have officially labeled her death an accident. She is survived by a brother and an aunt.

Lucinda Hawkins, born 28 March 1975, died 9 June

The Telegraph

Home News Obituaries Science Obituaries

Hugh Lloyd Pierson

Hugh Lloyd Pierson, who had died age 29, was the founder of Pierson Laboratories, Inc., a private company who provided genetic testing for overworked police departments and labs across the country. Authorities tell us he died after drinking coffee lased with chemicals the lab frequently worked with. As coffee is used in the lab's microbiology work, authorities are treating the incident as an unfortunate accident. Mr. Pierson is survived by a wife and two young daughters.

Hugh Lloyd Pierson, born 7 February 1983, died 20 June

Sherlock's Bookmarks

In Folders: New Cases: Poisonings

The Telegraph

William Jones, salesman, hospitalized in late March for severe food allergy

Maria Lopez, secretary, hospitalized for three days in early April from severe food poisoning

Marcus Canelli, Italy-UK trader, died 16 April, food allergy

Katia Pikul, biochemistry professor, died 3 May, poison, determined to be angry ex-grad student

Lucinda Hawkins, hospital asst admin, died 30 May, food allergy

Hugh L Pierson, entrepreneur, died 5 June, accidental poisoning

Dominic J. Tremp, real estate, died 27 June, accidental food poisoning

Morgan Ashfield (Robertson), banking, died 4 July, non-accidental food poisoning

Interlude: Discovery

Gloria was not a patient woman, and she'd be the first to admit it. She'd already been patient enough with that recent immigrant from Italy, what with barely understanding his words and all. When he told her he'd have the first months' rent in a few weeks after he found a job, she agreed to hold off on the due date. And that was all decided by pantomiming to each other.

Well, she had exactly eighteen minutes until the roast was ready, and so Gloria thought she had better go upstairs and see just what that Marcus was doing with her rent this time. He'd waved to her that the rent wouldn't be a problem when he'd gotten that stellar job downtown doing something at Lloyd's Bank. Lord bless that man, she hoped it was nothing having to do with speaking.

But oh good God, what was that smell? If that man wasn't taking out his garbage or was spreading feces on the walls like her last tenants—

"Mr. Canelli? Hello? It's Gloria," she yelled, rapping on the door. No answer. Muttering, she took out her key and opened the door, pushing it aside roughly. Bloody immigrants, could never trust them to behave like true Englishmen…

And then the smell hit her. She gagged, tasting bile, and tried to shield her face from the stench with her hand. What in the world…? It smelled like her tenant had opened his freezer and let everything rot in the middle of the living room!

Wait. Rotting meat? And was that the buzzing of flies she heard?

She rounded the corner of the entrance way in horror, dreading what might be there on the floor waiting for her.

This time her hand didn't stop the vomit from coming out.

Hours later, the police informed her that he must have been dead for at least a week.

Scene Four: While You Were Sleeping

It's the sixth of July, and Sherlock is a tornado.

Or maybe it's just that Donovan looks like she'd be happier if she'd looked up from her desk to find the latter rather than the former. For his part, Sherlock leafs through his pile of newspaper clippings with barely-veiled patience until she is off the phone before smoothly saying, "Hello, Donovan. I need to speak to Lestrade. It's rather urgent."

Grinning incredulously, she snorts and looks around her as if trying to get someone else in on the joke. "Freak," she replies, staring right at him, "DI Lestrade isn't in right now."

Right. Sherlock puts his best put-upon expression in place. "Tut-tut, Sgt. Donovan, you know better than to lie to me by now, don't you? When will you stop trying to be clever? Repeated failure isn't a flattering look on you." The faux-friendly façade falls, and he levels the full force of his stare on her. "Get Lestrade, preferably before anyone else dies because of how long you've waited."

She scoffs and turns away, but he can see her swallow. "Freak, he's out at lunch, I bloody told you—"

Whatever patience Sherlock had under John is clearly gone. He puts both palms on the table and leans toward her, a rather primal show of dominance that will nevertheless have an impact on a rather primal mind like Donovan's. "And I told you, Donovan, to stop lying. It's 1:33 in the afternoon and your tea is nearly full, but it's an office cup, not one from Costa's like you would buy if you'd been out for lunch, and it's not like you to want another cuppa so close together. It's not that you've had a late night either, because Anderson has been more of a blithering arse than usual lately, and that wouldn't be the case if you'd spent the last night massaging his nethers."

He sighs impatiently and stands up fully, noticing that half the department is listening. Excellent; that means DI Lestrade's attention isn't far behind. "So, obviously, you never went to lunch. The only reason you would ever miss lunch is if Lestrade forbade you, which he would only do if he was swamped with paperwork that he didn't do yesterday because of his hangover—oh, don't look surprised, I can read it in your temples—and so Lestrade must be in his office, working. Simple."

By now, Donovan is bright red and seething. Slowly, she rises and steps into the conspicuous lack of personal space around him and snarls, "One day, Holmes. One day you'll be standing behind bars and I'll be the one to have put you there. Just wait."

"Ah, but that means you'll have to catch him first, Donovan, and we both know he's too bloody brilliant for that," a tired voice sounds from the left. Just on time.

Sherlock whirls around, papers in hand again, and grins. "Ah, Lestrade! Just the man I was coming to see!"

"What is it this time, Sherlock? You've got to know I don't have a case for you." Lestrade leans on the corner of Donovan's desk where she is once again sitting, trying to ignore them both.

"The state of the food industry is obviously declining," Sherlock declares, waving the file of newspaper clipping about. "It's all here. From March until now eight prominent professionals have been hospitalized for severe food-related poisonings. Six of them have died."

Lestrade takes the file with a sigh and glances at the obituary clippings. "Food poisonings? Sherlock, all of these have been labeled accidents, and we've already caught the man behind the one that wasn't."

"No, you're wrong, don't you see?" Sherlock snaps desperately. "Eight deadly food poisonings in five months, all targeting young professionals? Look at that list. You've got four victims related to finance and four related to science administration. I know that at least five of them were workaholics whose families seriously resented them."

Looking up from the papers, Lestrade gapes at him, raising an eyebrow. "What, are you trying to tell me that somewhere in London there's a murder club for all the disgruntled spouses of businessmen? Sherlock, half of London would be there!"

But Sherlock's gaze doesn't waver, and the smile slowly slides off of his face. Sherlock is being serious, deathly serious. "No," he says quietly, bleakly, right to the ominous cloud surrounding Lestrade's heart. "I'm not saying there's some sort of absurd conspiracy between day-care mothers. I'm telling you that someone with a lot of knowledge of food safety and not so many morals has noticed, and has decided to do something about it."

Lestrade swallows. "We've got us a serial killer, don't we, Sherlock?"

Scene Five: Gutter Songs

John Watson would be quite a catch, Dawn muses. From what she's picked up from asking around the bar, he's an ex-military man with a doctor's gentle touch and salary to boot.

Making sure her hair is still curled in its blonde ringlets, Dawn sidles up to where John is sitting at the bar, a mostly-empty drink in front of him. She sits down next to him and rests an arm under her chest, pushing it up and into John's field of vision. And oh, he does not disappoint. "I don't think I've seen you here before. Mind if I buy you a drink?"

He smiles, short and sweet at her before looking quickly away. "No, ah, thanks, but I've got work tomorrow. Busy day at the A&E and all…"

That won't do at all. Dawn calls over the bartender and asks for two beers, setting one firmly down before John. "It's on me. Come on, one beer won't kill you," she smiles, watching John debate for under a minute before grinning shortly at her and taking a sip.

"Thanks, ah—I don't think I caught your name—"

"Dawn," she says from behind her smile, watching John's eyes flash down to her chest again. God, men, she thinks, scowling. They only think of one bloody thing, don't they?

It's half an hour later and she's pretty sure John is interested. Then again, John seems to be the type of successful doctor to only be interested in cute young things with breasts and brains, and Dawn knows her mediocre intelligence will only keep him interested for so long.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asks, tilting her head to the side flirtatiously. She needs to get her information out of him before he loses interest.

"Ah, no," John smiles, looking down quickly. "Haven't had one in a while, actually. My…my work tends to be pretty demanding, you know, and my ex didn't like that."

Something in her smile catches over his last line and freezes. "Is it really? That's just too bad for you then, isn't it?"