We love you all for loving this fic and we are INCREDIBLY sorry for the long delay in updates, but we've both been so busy; raffinit is juggling classes and a part-time job and ohgeelato is swamped with her new full-time job. To make up for the tardiness, here's a rather lengthy update!

Fear.

The room reeked of stale fear.

How many had there been before her? Whose life had last hung here, begging, pleading and sobbing as she did?

Perhaps there were many. Perhaps there were few.

The only thing she knew for sure was that she was one of them.

The bindings on her wrists cut deep into her skin, cold and unforgiving as blood old and new dried against the metal. It dripped and matted her skin, running down her arms like rust-scented tattoos. The blood moved over the bruises and the wounds; it was hard to tell what was really there and what was a play of shadows on her skin. It seeped into her clothes - what was left of her clothes - as she struggled to keep her body on her feet.

She hurt everywhere.

There were things he'd done to her that she hadn't thought the human body could withstand. But oh, how wrong she had been. Every scream from her mouth, every sob from her throat only seemed to spur the monster further; made him find more ways to get her begging.

She wasn't sure how much longer she could stand it.

The door slammed open, and he marched in with a frustrated air trailing behind him. She jumped, pressing herself painfully against the wall that bound her, almost as if the blood-stained cement could save her from his tortures. Fresh hot tears ran down her face and she whimpered as he came to her in an angry blur.

Her broken jaw brought stars to her eyes as he gripped it mercilessly tight in his large hand. His face was so close to hers; the vile stench of his breath reeked of liquor and spite, and her vision blurred in tears of horror as he forced her to look him in the face.

"They think they can bury me," he spat, gripping her face so hard it bruised even as he held it. "They think they can IGNORE me?"

He released her face with a shove, deaf to her violent sobbing and muffled pleas; the tears that streamed down her face only worked to set more fuel to the fire. "YOU DO NOT IGNORE ME!" he roared at her, and the mad gleam in his eyes sent brutal chills of terror down her spine. "I'll show them. I'll show them what I can do. I'll show them why you don't ignore me."

She found her wide-eyed terror staring back at her in the steel of the knife that came upon her suddenly. It was the last thing she would remember seeing; her death mask.

He moved in a surge of power, a force to behold as he swept through the makeshift bullpen in fast, controlled strides. His temper was roiling as it was, and the news of a new victim was going to give him more than a few grey hairs by the end of the day. Where he moved, people cleared the way; where his eyes landed, people cowered in fear.

The man known to his people as the Titan was now boiling in his temper.

"What do we have?" he demanded, low voice thunderous as the dark edge of his brow. Hotch had little patience for much at the moment; he wanted answers and he wanted them now.

JJ rushed to keep pace with his strides, moving in a flurry to meet his long legs. "Another Jane Doe, found this morning by the morning paper boy, hanging upside down on a pole." She paused in her step and stared after the man. "Hotch."

There was something in her tone that brought him to a screeching halt, and the BAU Unit Chief stood tense and impatient as he spun on his heels back to her. His dark eyes bore holes into her face, so sharp that JJ avert her eyes and found no strength inside her to meet his gaze. There was always something about the way he looked at them all; the intensity of his gaze, without words, could shame them. Finally she summoned the courage to face the Titan, and raised her eyes slightly.

He met her low gaze and grit his teeth as she spoke.

"There are some things a little...different about this body," she told him slowly, each word carefully spoken; like the careful treading of a soldier through a minefield. This new information was going to send the profiler into an all out attack - he was going to hold Sherlock Holmes down and beat him into the ground, if only because of the runaround he caused.

Hotch's face was livid but controlled; the raging storm beneath the calm was one that made JJ swallow nervously. "What," he growled, the vowel stretched. "Did he. Leave."

JJ licked her lips uncertainly. "He branded her," she said. "And he left a note. For us."

In a split second, it was as if something had clicked in his brain; it was like a twitch on his face, as Hotch's face clouded over thunderously and the man snarled. He snarled like a displeased lion; a belligerent wolf baring its teeth as he spun back on his heels and marched down the hall to where the team was gathered. He found them huddled over a desk, most likely reading the damned note left, and looked up at his billowing entrance.

Morgan spoke first, all too painfully aware of the rage rolling off their Unit Chief like molten lava. His own temper was flaring, having been the one that had protested entirely against involving Sherlock Holmes any more than deporting his English ass back to London. "This was exactly what we were trying to avoid!" he growled, thrusting the note down onto the desk and whirling away to pace madly by the large board of case information. He snorted, much like a bull, hands clenched in tight fists at his side.

"Give me FIVE MINUTES alone with him, Hotch! Just five minutes, and I'll make Holmes wish he never set foot on our grounds!"

The sudden outburst of Morgan's low roar startled them, and Emily whirled on her partner. "Derek, calm down!" she insisted, firm but even then she could definitely understand why Morgan wanted to beat Sherlock Holmes into a pulp. She wanted to beat him into a pulp, and she was the type to prefer cleaner, more controlled methods of death.

Like a bullet to the temple. There were easier ways to hide a bullet wound.

"What does it say?" Hotch demanded, quiet voice almost as effective as a roar. He wasn't the kind of man to verbally express his anger; if anything, Hotch was a man who grew dangerously quieter as his temper worsened.

Rossi scowled. "You don't want to read it," he warned the man, but the determined look on Hotch's face told the rest of them that they'd damn well start telling him things or there'd be Hell to pay for.

Hotch's mouth twitched into a scowl, and they could swear that there was very little else that was as terrifying. He marched over to the desk, barely sparing Reid as the younger man nervously leapt back in his seat, dropping the note onto the table as the man snatched it up.

"Hotch, I really don't think you should read that right now -," Reid sputtered.

"Watch me," the man uttered coldly, and Reid stared up at the man in fear, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly and gave his Unit Chief a meek nod.

Emily stepped forward at the vicious rumble, the movement catching his attention as Hotch began to read the note. She waited until his eyes met hers, and she gave him a serious, flat look until the tense coils of his shoulders lowered somewhat, and his dark eyes weren't glowing embers. "We can't work this case if we let him antagonize us."

Her blunt tone brought another scowl from the man, but the rage seemed tempered, as if he wasn't ready to unleash it - not on her. "If he's gaining the confidence from a stupid mistake we made -."

"We didn't make a mistake," she countered mercilessly. "We took measures to apprehend an interference in our case." She stared hard at him; they'd handled these things before - why was it that the Englishman was getting under his skin so?

"It cost us a woman!" Hotch snapped heatedly; the note was crumpled in the tight fist his hand had curled into. "Our job is to stop these men, Prentiss, not give them a window of opportunity to act out again." He glared at her - they were arguing, and arguing over what he thought to be something there shouldn't be reason to argue about. It was his call whether or not he wanted to read the damn note or not!

Emily shifted her weight onto her left leg, folding her arms as she met his dark glare almost unwaveringly as her own eyes flashed with irritation. "We are stopping him, sir. We're just going to have to do it without that vein in your head threatening to pop."

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment; one waiting for the other to attack in some way, and neither making any notion to continue the spat. Their eyes were liquid heat though; speaking things that none of the others could properly interpret - they could be talking of arousal and sex, or perhaps death and bludgeoning with sharp and heavy objects. It was difficult to say.

All they knew was that it was wisest not to get caught in the crossfire. Both dark haired agents had notoriously wicked tempers.

Eventually the pair tore their eyes from each other and Emily took a step away; physically distancing herself from the occasion and very calmly staring at her Unit Chief expectantly. She knew she had won this round; she was just waiting for him to admit it. If it was going to kill him with a massive coronary, she was going to get him to yield.

His nostrils flared as he inhaled heavily, and Hotch scowled at the woman before he remembered the crinkle of paper in his hand, and brought the rumpled note up to read. He ignored Reid's sputter again, and began to translate the messy scrawl.

YOU DO NOT GET TO STEAL MY WOMEN. THESE WERE NOT HIS KILLS TO MAKE. THEY WERE MINE, ONLY MINE. I HUNTED THEM, I TOOK THEM FROM UNDER YOUR NOSES AND I MADE THEM BEG. THOSE WHORES WERE MY MASTERPIECES. THEY ARE MINE. YOU CANNOT IGNORE ME ANYMORE.

I WILL NOT BE INVISIBLE ANY LONGER. I WILL SHOW YOU WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU IGNORE ME.

He hadn't realized his grip had become so deadly tight on the paper, but it was. It took a moment for him to process the words in front of him; to profile and take note of the graphological connections, and to calm his temper. When he found that his forehead had ceased pounding, Hotch calmly raised his gaze to his team.

"Prentiss, Rossi - I'd like you to sit in on Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Separate them; Prentiss, you take Watson. Rossi; Holmes. Try to get what you can from Watson about Sherlock Holmes that we can use. I'll need more to convince me he's not our UnSub and I shouldn't already be strapping him into the Chair."

Morgan looked apoplectic. "You're actually letting that son of a bitch in on this case? He caused this!" His dark eyes were incredulously wide, as his large hand whipped through the air in an angry gesture towards the interrogation room. "Our UnSub is devolving because of him, Hotch, and you want him in on this case!"

Clearly the man wasn't thinking straight!

"Then what would you wish for me to do?" Hotch countered evenly, face unreadable as he calmly lowered the note back onto the table. "If we charge him, deport him, he'll probably just walk a circle around us and do this behind our backs. He's the type to break the law at a blink - we've already been made fools of ourselves enough."

At the sharp retort, Morgan stepped back, fuming quietly as his Unit Chief turned to Emily and Rossi. He was right, and there was no mistaking the temper hidden beneath his calm facade - Hotch was just at the precipice of his control; one last push, and those men were sitting pretty on a plane back to London by the end of the day.

Hotch darted a glance at Emily first, then Rossi. There was a mutual understanding between the three; a common ground they stood on pertaining to the British 'consulting detective' and his role in their case. If they couldn't get information out of the man, they could use him as bait.

"If Sherlock Holmes wants to sing, we'll give him a God damn microphone."

Sherlock sat in the interrogation room, calm as you please, his fingers steepled while he just...waited. Oddly enough, the man was quite good with waiting as long as it was a definite prelude to something exciting.

John was still a little uncomfortable at how the interrogation had went. Hotch had completely pummelled Sherlock's observations, coming just a little short of calling Sherlock stupid. Usually, he would feel indignant, because really? Sherlock? Stupid? Sherlock was many things - an arsehole, a dickhead, an annoying little brat - but stupid was most definitely not one of those things.

But Hotch had made sense. Which was why John was uncomfortable with it. To admit that Sherlock could make such an elementary mistake was to admit that there was a possibility of him not being the great man John had come to think of him as.

Suddenly he remembered what Lestrade had told him once, "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Someday, if we're lucky, he might even be a good one."

He sighed; Sherlock Holmes was...complicated, to say the least. He was every bit the cold, analytical mind that everyone said he was, but sometimes, just sometimes, John caught just the smallest glimmer of the heart beneath the mind.

John fidgeted in his chair. It was best he not dwell on these thoughts. And lucky too, that at that exact moment, Emily and an older man walked into the interrogation room.

Sherlock looked up dispassionately, waiting for the newcomers to speak first. John was apprehensive. Was this the part where the FBI convict them of something officially? Was this the part where they get deported back? God, that would be embarrassing.

"This is Special Agent David Rossi." Emily cleared her throat and gestured for John to stand. "Come with me," she requested, in a voice that brooked no argument or alternative. He was going to follow her, or she was going to make him.

John glanced at Sherlock; they were separating them to be interrogated then. Something had definitely happened with the murders. "Sure," he replied, and stood to go after the tall brunette. He cast one fleeting glance back at Sherlock, and caught the almost imperceptible nod in his direction.

Go; things will be handled.

Once the door was shut and Emily and John were gone, Rossi began to speak. "There have been new...developments in the case," he said carefully. He'd been warned about the British duo. Sherlock nodded his head, as if prompting Rossi to go on and quickly.

"I hear you're a consulting detective?" Rossi asked.

"Yes," Sherlock answered curtly.

"And you say you can help?"

"Yes," Sherlock reiterated, irritation laced in his tone.

"How exactly can you help?" Rossi had heard from Emily that the dark-haired British man had profiled Hotch at the hotel they were in. The consequences of that little show were not unexpected, to say the least.

"If you bring me to the crime scene, I'll show you how," Sherlock said, leaning forwards in his chair. Maybe finally, they were seeing things his way. But why had they taken John away? He wondered briefly about what Emily and John were talking about, but then refocused on Rossi.

"Or if you show me the bodies of the victim," Sherlock insisted. Anything, just give him any little thing and he can get started. Fine, he'd admit he'd been wrong; coming to America on a whim wasn't the best idea he'd had. If anything, it was even more boring than London on a dreadfully crime-free day. But now, he'd found something interesting and he wanted to be a part of it.

Rossi frowned incredulously, thinking on Sherlock's request - well, not really a request, more a demand, but who was keeping tabs - and then he shook his head. "Hate to break it to you, Mr. Holmes, but we don't just let any old Private Dick walk around on our crime scenes and peek in on our bodies. This is real life; not some fancy crime series."

Sherlock was getting frustrated; what would it take for him to be let on the case? He just wanted to solve a murder or two. Out of the blue, he suddenly wished John was here. At least John can be trusted to back up the fact that he's not just 'any old Private Dick'. Not that he needed John for that, but he'd gotten used to John's moral support.

"If all you're going to do is tell us things we already know, you're not going to be of much help, Mr Holmes. I've handled my share of wise guys like you in my line of work - you think you know something we don't, but the truth is pal, you don't."

Sherlock slammed his hand on the table. He wasn't going to be rendered speechless again. But just as well, he wasn't going to succumb pointlessly to his rage and frustration.

"That last girl. I saw the pictures. Based on her clothes and the minute traces of dirt under her feet, she had tried to run away from your suspect. The rips on her clothing, that wasn't intentional. Your killer didn't tear it or cut it to shreds. And the dirt was in between her toes, not on her heels. She didn't get the dirt on her feet by the killer dragging her. She tried to run. But it was a while after she'd been kidnapped because look how emaciated her body is. She'd been starved, she found a chance to escape and she took it. Except evidently, she failed. But that means that he's not as careful as he thinks he is."

Rossi still looked unimpressed. "That's a nice observation, but it still doesn't help the investigation."

"It gives you a clue about his routines, doesn't it?" he snapped. "You special agents always look at what's on the inside. What inside his head, what's inside his methods. You never look at what's outside the victims and the killers. Why would he have spared her the opportunity of fleeing when he'd failed to do so with the previous ones? Had he faltered; had she fought back too much for him to subdue her? Impossible - she's a tiny thing; no match for a beast like him. So why then, Agent Rossi? Hmm? What could've possibly happened between them that made him hesitate. Or what could have kept him occupied or distracted enough that she had a window of opportunity to escape."

Sherlock's brow arched in a challenge, and his piercing eyes bore into Rossi's unmoving face. "Did you inspect her teeth, Agent Rossi? Have you inspected what was inside her mouth and under her tongue; hidden from sight?"

Rossi remained silent which was fine with Sherlock because he wasn't done. "Have you thought about where she might have escaped to, even if briefly? How quickly he must have recaptured her again, if you've not received a single report of a wild-looking girl looking for help? Wouldn't you agree, Agent, that knowledge of these things would have helped with the case?" He pursed his lips. Rossi frowned as if he was considering the barrage of information that Sherlock had just given him.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and leaned forwards. Now this kind of waiting, he could do. Speaking of waiting, he thought about John and Emily, and suddenly he felt...well, uncomfortable. He told himself it was just because he was worried about what John might do to compromise their chances of getting involved with the case. That's all. Of course that was all.

At this point, John was just curious. He'd long ago worked out the nervousness of the rigmarole of being arrested in a foreign country and etcetera. He'd even given up worrying about Sherlock because if there's one thing Sherlock has proven time and again, it's that he can handle himself.

At least when it came to things that were not grocery shopping.

No, now he was merely curious as to what the FBI hoped to achieve by separating them. Of course they were going to question Sherlock relentless, probably harshly. Not that John can blame them, per se. But what were they going to do to him? Question him too? About what? He hadn't the faintest idea what Sherlock knew about their case. He was mostly along just for the ride.

He was marched into a similar interrogation room by Emily, who closed the door and surreptitiously locked it behind her.

"Have a seat, Mr Watson," Emily offered generously, though her face was still as serious as ever.

"John. You can call me John," he said, as he sat down. Somehow the chairs here were even colder than the ones from the last interrogation room.

"Okay, John. I'll get straight to the point: You seem like a nice guy. What are you doing with someone like Sherlock Holmes?"

Wow, that was certainly straight to the point. "Um... we're flatmates, really."

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow in a way that John assumed meant 'Do go on', and not 'Riiiiiiight'. "I'd guess that a man like Sherlock Holmes isn't easy to live with," she commented casually.

John snorted, "No, he is not easy to live with. Imagine having to get used to your milk being in the same fridge as a pack of severed thumbs. For experiments, he says." John snorted again.

Now Emily looked concerned; suspicious, really. No one was that calm or dismissive when they spoke of severed thumbs in refrigerators - not unless they were the ones severing them. "And does Mr. Holmes make it a habit to...store dismembered body parts in his refrigerators?"

"What other types of 'experiments' does he conduct, Dr. Watson?"

John seemed to realize how his last tirade must have sounded to an outsider. Severed thumbs in the fridge? For experiments? It's no wonder the FBI thinks they're serial killers. He scrambled to answer Emily's question, "Uh, yes, but he didn't sever those thumbs himself, he got them from St. Bart's morgue," John laughed nervously before replying to the second question, "And experiments...yeah, he does a lot of experiments, but to help solve cases, you know. Like to find out how long it'd take for a body to form bruises after death, that sort of thing."

Emily did not look convinced. The woman took a deep breath and leaned forward on the desk, tenting her fingers in front of her as she gazed at John with a flat, unamused expression. She was tired; it'd been a long day, and there was very little holding Hotch back from deporting them. "I'll be honest with you, Dr. Watson," she began, holding out a palm like a weighing scale. "Right now, as it stands, you and Mr. Holmes are looking more and more like viable suspects to our cases. Despite the fact that you've only just set foot on our soil, the damning things you're saying about your 'roommate' -." She made little air quotations with her fingers that made John frown. "Are just about as good as guaranteeing you a very unpleasant strip search."

"Now," she leaned back in her seat, crossing her leg elegantly over the other as she regarded the man with a bored expression. "Answer me this, Dr. Watson, and think carefully before you speak this time.

If my boss were to somehow let Mr. Holmes take part in this investigation, how can you guarantee us that we're not just giving an international serial killer inspiration for his next targets?"

John took some time to compose himself. He was supposed to be the sensible, practical one; the one with the nerves of steel. And he knew with absolute certainty that Sherlock could help them, he just had to convince the FBI of it, since Sherlock seemed to not be able to do it.

"Look, Agent Prentiss, I understand that we got off on the wrong foot and I... both Sherlock and I have said things that may not have helped our case. But Sherlock isn't just a...a 'wannabe detective'," John said, as reasonably as he could, using what Morgan had called Sherlock earlier. "He's a bit of a prick, yes, but he's also worked with Scotland Yard on countless cases and there's yet to be an unsolved case that he hasn't solved. If you think my blog is just a pack of lies, then check the London press. Do you think the national press will give him the time of day if he was just a 'wannabe detective'?"

Emily still looked dubious and was about to point out that the FBI doesn't base their decisions on what catches the fancies of the press but John continued before Emily could speak, "You still don't think he's good enough? You've seen how...difficult it can be to work with Sherlock but Scotland Yard still recruits him on their toughest cases. I'm actually not even sure that's legal or protocol-approved," John frowned as he thought about the implications for Lestrade but he went on anyway, "Ever heard about the serial suicides in London a couple of years back? If it wasn't for Sherlock, that case would still be unsolved."

He didn't mention how if it wasn't for Sherlock, there would never have been such a crime in the first place. He also didn't mention how he was the one who had to come to Sherlock's rescue. The important point was that Sherlock figured out everything about the case before he stupidly decided to risk his life to know how and why the killer did it.

He stopped and waited for Emily to speak. He's said enough for now.

For a moment, Emily seemed to contemplate these statements. She had heard of the suicides, but only vaguely, and through Clyde, but she hadheard of them. She knew, at least, that the suspected mastermind behind it all had been 'mysteriously gunned down' before they had the chance to question him, but she supposed many things happened 'mysteriously' around a man like Sherlock Holmes.

"You'll forgive me if I don't really trust the credibility of newspapers, regardless of which side of the ocean we are," Emily drawled. "The FBI aren't necessarily best friends with the press. But I'll take your point. He's a good detective; great at what he does." Then she cocked her head to one side, peering at the man's face curiously.

"Aren't you at the least bit curious though; why he's so good at what he does? Why he's so good at getting into their heads like he does?"

John matched her tilted head, smiling coldly. "Don't you ever wonder why you're so good at your job, Agent?"

Emily's thin brow arched, but the woman looked impressed. "Alright," she conceded, and suddenly her posture was relaxed; friendly even. It was as if all of this had been a test - a test that he'd apparently passed. "Tell me about Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson."

He opened his arms with his palms facing up, a gesture of friendliness, feeling up to whatever other test Emily might want to throw at him, "What is it you want to know?"

"Let's start with why he's risking arrest and deportation just to get a toe in the line of this case."

John pondered that question. Saying, 'Because he's an egomaniacal idiot,' would probably not go over very well. So he settled for, "Because seeing an unsolved puzzle - especially one as interesting as this - drives him up the wall. He wants to know the hows and whys and whats and wheres and whos. He can't stay away."

"I'm pretty sure you have Cluedo in England," Emily retorted, rolling her eyes. If she had a nickel for every time she'd heard of intrigue in unsolved puzzles, she'd be just as rich as Rossi.

John nearly jumped out of reflex just hearing the word 'Cluedo'. No, never again would he go near a Cluedo set with Sherlock. He rubbed his wrist and said, hesitantly, "Yes, but - and he'd never admit this - I think a part of him...a very tiny part of him...just wants to help."

Emily arched an eyebrow yet again, and the woman was sure her thin brow would eventually stay that way by the end of it all. She said nothing to him though; merely slid herself out of her chair, and walked out the room.

John watched her go, face blank as the woman disappeared behind the deep grey door, but his fingers had begun to fidget in his lap, tapping incessantly on his thigh. That probably wasn't a good sign; that Emily had just upped and left like that. But he had faith though, he did. He had faith in their decisions.

But most of all, he had faith in Sherlock Holmes.

Through the darkened window of the room, Hotch's face was grim and unmoving as he stared at the army doctor's fidgeting figure. He'd been tempted to look into Sherlock's interrogation with Dave, but the man's temper was already on dangerously thin ice; he didn't think he'd want another migraine. Instead he watched Emily and John.

The verdict was still out on his decision.

Hotch's eyes darted over as the door opened, and Emily stepped into the dim room. He didn't speak, made no motion to do so until Emily had shut the door firmly behind her. "What do you think?" The question was posed so quietly it almost warranted a repeat, but Emily had long since grown accustomed to his low voice.

He was quieter when he was smothering a temper.

Emily shrugged her shoulders, but the heavy sigh that came from her lips told him she was just about as frustrated as he was. "Besides the fact that Sherlock Holmes profiles as a high functioning sociopath?" she quipped, gesturing to the man through the window. "I think John's either got a serious case of Stockholm Syndrome, or he's in love with the man."

She shook her head. "You don't defend someone putting severed body parts in your fridge unless you have to, or you love it just as well."

Hotch frowned thoughtfully. He'd heard it too. More importantly - he'd noticed John's indifference to the eccentrism that was Sherlock. "Do you think they're a team?" he queried, arms folded across his chest as he turned to address her now. In the dim room, his suit was almost black, and he seemed to materialize straight out of the shadows.

Emily blew out a breath, licking the corner of her lips. Were they a team? John seemed harmless enough...but then again, a lot of them were harmless in the beginning. "Honestly, no." Then she set her dark eyes on the man with a flat, serious frown. "But I don't think there's a lot of times John Watson has ever said no to Sherlock Holmes."

That was a dangerous combination, but Emily pushed on.

"...but I think, maybe...God, I'm actually saying this." She rolled her eyes. "Sherlock Holmes could help."

We've actually been sitting on 4500+ words in this new chapter for a while and we finally hunkered down and got it done last night. We hit a bit of an obstacle with the Sherlock and Rossi scene which made us despair and abandon this for a bit, but we got through it! Slowly but surely, we're venturing more and more into murky territory here, more serious crime-solving, but don't worry, the shenanigans are still going to be there! :D