"So this arse is looking for someone to kill now, if they haven't already," John said, feeling ready to start swearing. "That does not give us good odds," he said. "London is a very, very big place. What was the time frame between when this wanker found his trickster thing and there murders?"

"Two weeks for the first, but five days for the second," Sherlock said. "He was wavering before. Now he knows what he's doing, or at least, more inclined to act. We may only have a few days."

John swore. Then picked up his mobile with a slight wince and called Sarah.

Looked like he wasn't going in to work after all.

"Hello? Sarah Sawyer speaking," Sarah said when she picked up the phone, sounding like she was still half asleep.

"Sarah? Yes, it's John. I'm sorry to call you so late," he said, wincing slightly as it hit him that was 2am.

"John? What is it?" she said, now sounding slightly more awake.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I won't be able to work my shift tomorrow."

"Oh, you can't work your—What?" Sarah began to sentence half-asleep, but her last word made it clear she had fully woken up. "Why not?"

"I'm on a case with Sherlock, and we've finally hit on a lead as well as a countdown."

"Sherlock," she said, with the same tone of voice she almost always used with him. "You're blowing off you job and your responsibilities yet again to chase after Sherlock."

"I'm not—"

"Do you have any idea how much you doing this throws the surgery into confusion? How much it completely inconveniences everyone?" she asked sharply.

"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry. But it's an emergency. You know I wouldn't call in with this short of notice otherwise."

Sarah made a sound that John could only describe as "rude." He couldn't honestly blame her for it, but he would be lying if he said he in any way appreciated it.

"Yes, you would," she said pointedly, and John took a slow, deep breath to keep his temper in check. She was right, yes, but it was an emergency. It wasn't as if he enjoyed putting his more stable line of employment in jeopardy, but he did have his priorities. "John, I've tried to be patient with this, but you're a doctor. Have you forgotten that? You have a responsibility to this surgery and to your patients to care for them. Not just traipse alone after Sherlock. Just where, exactly, do your loyalties lie, John? Because it doesn't seem to be to medicine any more."

Sarah's words were like a slap to the face, and John clinched his free hand into a fist, then took another slow, steadying breath before he dared to speak. "We are tracking a serial killer. We think we only have another day, maybe two, before he gets his next victim. You want to know where my loyalties lie? They lie with saving a life. I became a doctor to save people. I went to bloody war to save people. And I am going to go with Sherlock today, to help track down this bloody serial killer, so I can save someone. My priorities have never changed. If you can't see that, I honestly have no idea what I can say any further.

"A day, Sarah. Maybe two. Before someone dies. And you ought to know by now that when I do anything with this short of notice, lives, actual human lives, are at stake. I've seen the crime scenes, I've seen the autopsies, I have seen the bodies and the blood with this one. I can no more sit this out than you could pass by an accident and not stop to help, even if it meant not going to the surgery," he ended.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. "Fine. I'll see if Anjali can come in. I expect a double shift out of you once this is over, to make up this."

"Fair enough," he said, and Sarah hung up before he could say anything else.

"Well, that went well," John muttered, then stuffed his mobile into his pocket. Then tried to put the entire conversation out of his mind, and failed utterly at the attempt.

He headed back into the living room. Sherlock glanced up at him, then back at his laptop. "John, go to bed," he said, attention focussed on whatever was on his screen.

"What?"

"I'm tracking down possible locations and properties owned by the two suspects, and a few other ideas to help track them down. It will take time. Lestrade can't even get a warrant until he gets told where to look. There's more than enough time for you to get the sleep you keep insisting you need. We will be running around all day tomorrow, so its better if you're focussed. Forget the argument you had with that woman you continue to work for and go to sleep." Sherlock glanced up and gave John a faint smile. "You'll need to be battle ready." He looked back at his computer, and John, grudgingly, figured Sherlock had a point. He was knackered anyway, and if he felt like the walking dead tomorrow, he'd be of no use. It, like Sarah's words, rankled, but he also had to admit the truth to them as well.

"Wake me if you find anything urgent and we have to go," John said, and Sherlock scoffed.

"As if I wouldn't even if it wasn't your idea of 'urgent'," he said, and John rolled his eyes, then headed off to bed and sleep while he had the chance, because he suspected he wouldn't be sleeping anymore until the killer was found.

John slept lightly, and was awake earlier than he normally was. He showered and dressed quickly, knowing he likely wouldn't get an opportunity to do so in the next few days, if Sherlock was right about the time line. It was always a smart bet to assume Sherlock was right, since he in general was. It also meant he needed to eat now, while could, and make sure to stick a couple of protein bars in his jacket pocket, since Sherlock wouldn't want to stop to let John eat.

As soon as he got into downstairs, Sherlock was on his feet. "I checked both of their past schedules. Neither of them have taken time off in the last six months, meaning whichever one it is, they commit their murders at night, likely early enough for them to be able to return home and get enough sleep so they can go in the next day. Which means we can investigate their homes while they're out."

"I take it you haven't told Lestrade that? No chance of having a warrant, doing it all legal-like?" John said mildly as he made himself breakfast. He knew he wasn't going to have time to eat once they got started, so best to load up now.

He also knew he wouldn't be able to make Sherlock eat, so he didn't bother. He did a fry-up for one, something that could easily get him through most of the day.

"No time, and they'd only get in our way," Sherlock sniffed, and eyed John cooking with obvious disdain.

John ignored that. "You know it won't look good if someone calls the police on us?" he asked instead, his voice mild.

Sherlock ignored that.

John ate at a normal speed, figuring that if Sherlock was in a rush, he'd have already tried to needle John out the door. Doubtless it was because they had to wait anyway for the suspects to go to work

Being left to eat in peace, however, wasn't in the cards.

"I've checked to see when they're next scheduled to work—"

I hacked into a government database, John translated in his head as he ate his beans.

"—and both of them go in at 9 am, meaning their homes will be clear. We can easily check both before their shifts end at 5."

So, a light spot of housebreaking, John thought, as he used his bread into what was left of the beans, to get the last of the tomato sauce. He debated whether or not to take his gun with him, and decided it was best to leave it, then - no need to tack 'aggravated' onto a possible 'burglary' charge. He was glad he'd decided to go for a full English breakfast, because it sounded like they would be out most of the day from the way Sherlock was going on. And glad he had gotten up early, so he had time to eat, and Sherlock couldn't fuss at him about it - they couldn't even begin their 'investigating' until both men and gone to work. But the man was full of nervous energy, now that he had a direction. John debated whether or not to try and get Sherlock to at least drink something, since he knew food was out of the question, then decided it wasn't worth it - when Sherlock was like he was now, he was too keyed up. Besides, for all Sherlock was terrible at keeping himself fed, it was very good at keeping himself hydrated and didn't to be pressed to drink something the way he had to be to eat regularly.

Sherlock continued talking about what they would be doing; John listened carefully as he ate, but kept in mind that at any moment, Sherlock could completely upend all his plans.

"We should leave around thirty or so minutes from now. That will give us time for both suspects to clear out."

"That would be good," John said blandly. Sherlock continued to pace about, and John ignored him, choosing to finish his meal, then wash and put away the dishes, since they had time. Sherlock paid him no heed, not until John was drying the last of the dishes.

"Let's go—why are you not ready to go? I said thirty minutes!"

John rolled his eyes. "Well, tack an extra two or three onto that. I've nearly finished. Those two minutes for me to put away the rest won't make or break the case."

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. John ignored it and finished. "All right. Let me get my wallet and we'll go."

"Bring your gun."

"No."

Sherlock startled slightly. "Why not?"

"Because the last thing either of need is to turn housebreaking into aggravated burglary," he said blandly. "Besides, he's not likely to be armed, is he?"

Sherlock shook his head in a way that John could only describe as "begrudging."

"And there you are," he said, and headed up to his bedroom to grab his wallet.

They went to Hebron's flat first, as it was the closest. They made it to the front door, and Sherlock frowned, then shushed John, who had not even spoken.

"Not him," he proclaimed, and turned on his heel.

"But how—?" John started, then trotted after Sherlock, who by then seemed to already be halfway to the lift.

"Obvious."

"Not to me," John said, feeling like that was one of the most common things he said to Sherlock.

"He has a family. Stay-at-home wife with a baby, most likely their first," Sherlock said as he pushed the lift button

"Which eliminates him how? Loads of killers have families," John said.

Sherlock let out a withering sigh. "What he does takes time and privacy. Both of which Hebron is not likely to have right now. And the door clearly shows he's a devoted new father. Likely he bores everyone at work with pictures of his infant."

"How can you tell that from a door?" John asked, completely perplexed as the lift arrived.

"There are smudges on the door itself, not just the knob. Indicating someone often pushes the door open for someone. That someone is likely his wife. A man who constantly pushes and holds open a door for a pregnant wife then a wife carrying a baby indicates the attentiveness of a new father very content with his life. Not the type to go missing for hours on end so he can murder people in intricate ways, nor one with the free time to devise such murders. Not our man," he said, sweeping into the lift and pushing the button for the ground floor after John followed him in.

It never ceased to amaze John how Sherlock could pick up on the tiniest details so quickly. "You know that's amazing, right?" he said, not bothering to not tell the other man. For all Sherlock was completely full of himself most of the time, he was also almost shockingly pleased when someone complemented him on his powers of observation. He was too used to people insulting him about what he had observed - because the man had absolutely no brain-to-mouth filter and most people didn't like having all their intimate details laid out for the world so unflinchingly - that praise threw him. It was as if his arrogance and general spikiness were there to protect himself from the expected slings and arrows of the world, and when he was praised, it was as if the childlike joy in what he did that the pride and prickliness defended slipped through for just a moment.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, his lips almost quirking up into a smile before he stuffed it back inside. "Like I said. Obvious."

The lift doors closed, and they headed down, then out, then off to their next destination.

Monroe was living in a small house, well outside of London and closer to the airport.

"Wait here," Sherlock told the cabbie as they got out. "We shan't be long."

"Your money, bruv," the driver said with a shrug, and Sherlock rolled his eyes with obvious distaste. John gave the man an apologetic shrug back, and the cabbie shook his head.

"Now, this is more like it," Sherlock said, perking up as soon as he got a good look at where they were. John scanned the perimeter as Sherlock poked around - someone had to keep an eye out, especially if, or rather, when, Sherlock did end up deciding to break into the man's house.

As much as John liked being in the thick of things with Sherlock, he also knew Sherlock would have no qualms leaving him behind once he was on the scent, and he also knew Sherlock, for all he was observant, was utter pants about seeing anything not directly related to the case at hand when he got like this. Someone had to keep the man safe from himself, and that job tended to fall to John.

Besides, if Sherlock wanted John's observations, he would loudly, and with great irritation, call him over.

So John positioned himself where he could do the most good; filling the role of look-out. It wouldn't do the investigation any good if someone called the police on them for housebreaking, after all, and they got caught.

He told himself this, because it was a lot easier than trying to get used to Sherlock forgetting about him. Sherlock was getting better about it than he had been in the early days, but John didn't want to force the issue all the time.

Luckily, Sherlock never took long whenever he engaged in a bout of housebreaking.

"He's good," Sherlock said as soon as he came out, eyes alight and a faint smile playing about his lips. "He doesn't keep trophies. Not here, at any rate."

John frowned. "Isn't that rare for serial killers?"

Something childlike lit up behind Sherlock's eyes. "That's why I said he's good."

John really hated how much joy Sherlock took in things most people took as perverse. The man's motives were pure, even though he knew there were very few who would see past how he presented to see it - and John was man enough to know he hadn't been able to for a long time himself - and it couldn't end well for him. One day, it would come back to bite him, likely bite them both, and it was only a matter of when, not if.

Sherlock knelt by the drive and tilted his head as he looked at some tyre tracks. "He has a van. It could be how he's transporting his victims."

"If he has a van, it's got to be registered to him," John said, and Sherlock nodded.

"And there will be CCTV footage of it, if he's driven it to work."

"We have a lead."

"We have a lead."

Sherlock was locked into his mobile as soon as they got back into the cab. "If anything happens, it will likely be tonight or tomorrow. He'll need time. I checked Munroe's schedule, and he has the next two days off after today. That would give him the time to make his next trickster."

John nodded, then took out his own phone and sent Greg a quick message, letting them know that they were pursuing a lead, and he'd let him know more and they got more information.

Once he sent off the e-mail, John started tapping his finger on his knee in anticipation. Things were winding up, and just the thought of the chance set his blood pumping in the anticipation.

They got back to Baker Street, and Sherlock immediately jumped in front of the closest computer - for once, not John's - and began tapping away quickly. John knew better than to ask at that point - Sherlock wouldn't react to him at best and would snap at him at worst, so there wasn't much point in it. Instead, he broke down and oiled his gun, then put it back together. He almost wished he'd gone to work, just to pass the time and keep the antsiness down.

He waited.

And then Sherlock jumped to his feet. "He's off shift and his van is on the move. He's going into the city but he's not home. Let's go," he said, and John was on his feet before Sherlock had even made it to his coat.

Sherlock had his smartphone out, already having an app of some sort open, when they get into a cab. "Tracking his van," he said, before John could ask. "Go straight. Turn when I tell you," he barked.

The driver gave a shrug, but did as ordered. Sherlock led them through several twists and turns, never once taking his eyes off of his screen.

"The van has stopped," Sherlock said suddenly. "And has been for the last ten minutes." He rattled off an address, and John was acutely aware of the gun at the small of his back.

The taxi drove them to a factory district, and Sherlock immediately sat up excitedly. "The van," he said. The piled out of the van in front of a factory that, despite the lights streaming out from the windows, had clearly seen better, more functional days, and John quickly paid the cabbie, then sent him on his way, because if he needed his gun, the last thing he needed was a witness.

Once the van was gone, they began creeping over to the factory building to look into the building. "...Scuff marks, in the dirt," he said, stopping shortly. "He's carrying something heavy, which is almost doubling his weight."

"His next trickster," John said, feeling cold in the pit of his stomach.

"Quite possibly," Sherlock said, with a nod. "Over there, the windows," he said, and they quickly headed over. Sherlock looked in, then let out an annoyed sound. "Can't see anything from here. We need to get in."

"Door's over there," John said, indicating with his chin where it was. If there was someone in there with him, they needed to get in, quickly. Sherlock headed over to it, and tried the door, then let out an expletive.

"Locked," he said, and pulled out his lock pick set as he knelt down before the door. While he started trying to pick the lock, John headed over to one of the other windows, to see if he could see anything this time from it.

At first, he didn't see anything, but then, almost obscured by some of the abandoned machinery, he saw a brief flash of someone wearing the yellow kitsune mask, and John cursed.

"We've got to get in there, now," he said, and felt irritated with himself for not bringing his gun. There was an innocent civilian in there, in danger, and he was stuck out here, unarmed and unable to do anything.

"Working on it," Sherlock said, trying to pick the lock and sounding irritated with John.

That was when they heard a high-pitched scream.

They looked at each other, and Sherlock started working faster as John called Lestrade.

As soon as Sherlock got the door open, they took off in a run, John right after Sherlock, adrenaline making the blood all but sing in his veins.

Sherlock led without a fraction of hesitation, but when they finally reached where Monro Jackson had gone, they both skittered to a halt at the same time and just stared.

"Well. This was not quite what I was expecting," Sherlock finally said, blinking.

A small-statured woman in a pair of very short shorts and a very tight sparkly top had Jackson pinned to the ground and in what looked like a choke hold, and was screaming obscenities. Off to the side was the yellowed kitsune mask and what looked like a smashed syringe, and when John looked at Jackson's hand, it had the look of several broken fingers, likely from having been stomped repeatedly by a foot.

All John or Sherlock could do for a moment was stare.

The woman finally seemed to notice them. "Oy, you shit bags better be either calling for help or coppers, because it you're here to help this shitfuck I will rip out your spleens and shove 'em so far up your cracks you'll be spitting out spleen chunks for a week, swear like on me mum!" she yelled. "And you, shut the fuck up or I knee you in the nuts again, I will!" she yelled at Jackson, who had started weakly crying for help. "Wanna see how high that scream of yours gets this time, once your bollocks get kicked into your abdomen?"

The girl looked over at them and snarled. "This cuntwaffle was going to try and off me or rape me or I don't even fucking care because fuck!" she yelled, and tightened her hold. Jackson made a wheezing, gurgling sound. "Finally get a fucking leave, I'm on my way to the fucking club, and this knobshite fucking bops me on the head and drags me into his car, talking shite about a 'kitsune,' whatever the fuck, I'm not even fucking Japanese, you fucking racist garglecunt; I'm half Korean and me mum's Israeli, you shit cunting knob!" she said, breaking her hold around his neck to slam his head against the floor again for good measure. He let out a piteous moan and she had him immediately in an efficient shoulder lock of some sort. "Oy. I said shut the fuck up, you pathetic, whinging syphalitic nut sack! And you two, are you useless tossers coppers or not?" she yelled, looking back over her shoulder at John and Sherlock. "Because this twat needs to go bloody under the jail, hitting me on the head and dragging me off to this creepy abandoned cabin like something out of Silent Hill and trying to jab me with roofies or whatever the fuck was in that cunting needle! So are you gonna stand there gawping or are you going to take your heads out your arses and fucking help me? What are you waiting for, engraved fucking invitations from the Queen?!"

John was having the hardest time keeping a straight face at the sheer amount of swear words coming out of the woman's mouth. He hadn't heard a stream of vulgarities like that since he left the military.

"No, we're not the police, but we work with them and they're on their way," John said mildly, pulling out a pair of zip-tie handcuffs to restrain Jackson until Lestrade came. And as he had suspected, several of Jackson's fingers were indeed broken, and he also had a dislocated shoulder, what looked to be a dislocated knee cap as well, and a rather nasty bruise to the throat developing from where she clearly had first gone for his windpipe.

"Move and I stomp a mudhole in your face, douche maggot," the woman said as she released her hold and got up so John could restrain him.

Jackson, wisely, didn't move. John had to pull the man up into a seating position so he could fix his shoulder before he put the ties on him.

"I am a doctor, and this is going to hurt," John said, then set Jackson's shoulder. The man let out a whimper, and the girl snorted.

"Fucking arselicker better be glad I didn't have my service revolver! I'd have shot your bloody bollocks off instead of just trying to knee 'em back into your body cavity! 'Can't take your service pistol on leave,' they said, bloody well like to see them try and stop me next time. Oy, don't even look in my direction, you fucking cunt heel! I've shat out bigger challenges than you! Wanker," she groused, looking ready to stomp over and kick Jackson in the head a few times for good measure, and John gave up trying not to laugh as he handcuffed Jackson.

"Lestrade should be here in ten minutes. Plus an ambulance," Sherlock said, pocketing his phone and looking highly amused.

"Oh, good," John said mildly, then turned his head to the fuming woman. "Military?"

He could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes at the obviousness of even asking when she nodded, giving John a death glare, like she expected him to give her a hard time for it. "Army."

"That explains the swearing," he said, still chuckling. "And I was in a captain with the Northumberland Fusiliers, John Watson," he said mildly, and the girl straightened, going instantly into a more military stance.

"...Sir. Lieutenant Lucy Kim, sir," she said, looking slightly chastised, and he bit back both another grin and the sudden urge to ask her out.

"As you were," he replied back, and she promptly returned to a long stream of swears about what anatomically impossible things that "cunting cuntbag of a twat" could go do with himself while John did what he could for the rest of Jackson's injuries then checked the bump on the back of Kim's head.

After Lestrade and his crew got there and they finished explaining to them what had happened, John's eyes were all but sparkling from the hilarity of it all, and he and Sherlock grinned at each other.

"Chinese?" Sherlock said.

"Sounds good," John said, chuckling slightly as he heard a fresh stream of blistering vulgarities coming from where Lt Kim was giving her statement to Donovan while a paramedic rechecked her head wound, and he very seriously considering the chances of him getting his head cut off if he went over and asked for Lt Kim's phone number.

"...then the fucking wanker tries to offer me twenty quid, like I'm a fucking whore, and I'm thinking, just walk away Luce, just walk away, so I turn around to leave and the knobend unclefucker goes and whacks me over the head! Then the little shit cunting cunt head—"

"I'd say the chances of getting kneed in the groin are high," Sherlock said, sounding amused.

"Can't blame a man for wondering," John said with a cheerful shrug and figuring Sherlock was right. "Come on, you go get a cab and I'll let Lestrade know we're leaving."

"Why bother? He'll see when we're gone."

"Yeah, see, this is why I knew Lestrade's name was 'Greg' and you didn't," John said, just as cheerfully, and trotted off towards Greg.

"So he was definitely working alone?" John asked, right before he popped his next-to-last dumpling into his mouth.

"Yes. I looked around while Lt Kim was swearing and before Lestrade came, and it was obvious. It shouldn't take him long to confess what happened."

Sherlock started chuckling slightly to himself, and John gave him an inquisitive look.

"We could just threaten to put Lt Kim in a room with him. I daresay he would confess before Lestrade even finished saying her name. After all, I do believe what we witnessed tonight was what is known as a 'kerb stomping', and I doubt he wants another round of that," Sherlock said mildly, but his eyes were lit up with amusement.

"God, I wish we could have seen the entire thing," John said wistfully. "It had to have been a thing of beauty, given that scream of his and that hold she had on him when we got there." He chuckled. "You know, I almost felt sorry for Jackson. He thinks he's getting an easy target for his 'kitsune' trickster victim, and ends up with a woman who's been doing Krav Maga of all things since she was seven and teaches it in the army."

"Now John, sympathy for a serial killer? Surely that's 'a bit not good,' wouldn't you say? What would people think?" Sherlock said exaggeratedly, and John gave him a two-finger salute.

Sherlock shot him a sly grin, then, quick as a snake, snatched the last dumpling off John's plate with his chopsticks.

"Hey! Now that was mine!" John said sharply.

"You weren't eating it," Sherlock said from around his chopsticks, giving a one-shouldered shrug. And while John was normally happy to see Sherlock eating, he'd wanted that dumpling.

Right. Turnabout, then, he thought, and went for the last shrimp shumai. Sherlock blocked him with a look of outrage, and then it was a strategic chopstick battle between the world's only consulting detective and an ex-army captain.

John hadn't been in a war for nothing, although there had been slightly fewer instances of sticking one's tongue out at the enemy in Afghanistan, and he felt more than just the slightest bit of pride as he got past Sherlock's line of defense and snagged the last shumai. He popped his hard-won dumpling into his mouth with relish, and was rewarded with Sherlock slouching into his chair with a pout.

John gave Sherlock a beatific grin, and Sherlock responded by sourly kicking his chair. For that, John went straight for Sherlock's fried noodles.

He lost that round spectacularly, and a fair bit of his chicken with broccoli to boot, but overall it was worth it - Sherlock actually got some vegetables in him, and he had got that shumai before.

He'd count that as an overall win, he would. And with the smug look Sherlock had had on his face as he popped the last piece of John's broccoli in his mouth, he reckoned Sherlock counted it as a win for himself.

And that was fine. They were fine.

It was all fine.