Beta read by the lovely NeedaStar. I'd like to thank my new followers (GoddessKalina, Noir Rose, drpaz, schihigh, and the unregistered wolf animagus) and my reviewers (CrazyPerson8 and Anonymous) for recognising my story, I had to remove a guest's comment for one reason. If you guess the plot outside of Private Messaging me, I will remove your comment. Please review, though. I spend a lot of time on perfecting it, and I want to hear anything you think, no matter how brief. Constructive criticism is appreciated, as long as they're not flames.

Chapter Two: In Which Old Secrets Are Unearthed And Perceptions Altered

Sherlock evidently was out late taking care of whatever shadowy thing Mycroft coerced him into; when John returned from his shift the detective hadn't returned. As the sun rose, however, the sleuth was talking on his phone. More out of character behaviour…Sherlock never talks when he can text. John paused on the stairs. From his eavesdropping point, he was only able to pick up snatches here and there. "Venue...opinion…amusing…ironic…confession." He finally yelled into the phone, "I know what I'm doing, Mycroft!"

John came down the stairs as if he had just woken up, rubbing his eyes for effect. As he puttered around mindlessly completing his morning routine, Sherlock stopped contemplating his phone as if it held the answers to the meaning of life and addressed John directly.

'Lestrade texted a little bit before you woke up. They've a serial killer who has killed four different men, completely unrelated men, no similar causes of death, with the only connection being that, in each man's blood, there is what appears to be Arabic scrawled on the walls they were found leaning against. Are you coming?'

John smiled, glad to be of help in a more interesting way than setting broken bones or pumping some poor kid's stomach. He hurriedly got ready, then followed Sherlock out the door. As usual, Sherlock's confidence and height made a cab pull up in moments. Soon enough, they were at the fourth crime scene. It was a little alley near the Imperial War Museum. Sure enough, there was forensics bustling around the body of a man in his mid-twenties. Sherlock saw the grisly graffiti, blanched, and strode over to Lestrade and the rusty red message on the wall.

سقراط لم أعتقد أنها انتهت هل عندما ذكرتم لي ؟ إنهم فقط افغانى, والنساء. سوف يأتون في أقرب وقت، ومن ثم لن يكون من معاناة. قانون أخلاقي هذه المحاكمة وفي بعض الأحيان على القوة من هادئ الحياة المدنية. لا جثث مألوف بالنسبة له ؟ أعتقد أنك يمكن أن يتعاطفوا مع موتهم. إذا كنت لم يحالفهم الحظ من الشيطان الذي قد يبدو تماما مثل الان. تمتع بقية حياتك لأن الذئب قادم لك .

After Sherlock read the message, he began leaning against a wall for support. Without even glancing at the body, he said raggedly, 'The corpse. He was shot in the stomach and left to bleed out.'

Lestrade bellowed, 'How in the bloody hell did you know that? You haven't even seen the body?'

Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock continued, 'Were the first three bodies dead from severing the spinal cord and brain stem, what has been known as "the water cure", and suffocation from burn-induced swelling? If so, the murderer is one Jeffrey Knoll, an ex-SAS Corporal dishonourably discharged in 2001 for the rape of numerous Afghani girls and young women. The whole event was swept under the rug, but you could probably find him in your databases. He seems to be a gun for hire now, but he seems that now is the perfect time to strike for his revenge. After all, the message reads, Socrates,

You didn't think it was over, did you, when you reported me? They were just Afghanis, and women to boot. I'll be coming for you soon, and then I won't be the one suffering. A moral code is such a trial sometimes, for it will force you out of your nice, quiet civilian life. Do the corpses look familiar? I think you can empathize with their deaths. If you didn't have the luck of the devil you would have looked exactly like they do now. Enjoy the rest of your life, because Wolf is coming for you. I'm done here. Thank you for this fascinating case. It was a wonderful waste of five minutes.'

Lestrade scowled, recognising the heavy layer of sarcasm in his tone, and let him go with a wave of his arm. He quickly pulled John aside. 'Did you notice Sherlock's face when he saw the message? For a second there, he looked alarmed. If I can't get enough information for a warrant, I might need to come by Baker Street. Fair warning.'

John simply nodded, perturbed by the glimpse of alarm on Sherlock's face. He wandered over to where Sherlock was waiting in a cab. John noticed that, as the scene was being processed, the Yarders were gossiping about the secret crown prince and how he might look and act.

John went to go do the shop as soon as Sherlock announced that he would be watching the autopsies of the previous victims, still bothered by something that was off about Sherlock that had started once he saw the crime scene. Like a lightning flash, it hit him. Sherlock had been standing at parade rest, and walking with perfect four-four timing. As far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't even consciously aware of that fact.

John came back to a flat full of Yarders. He was quietly resigned to this fact by now, after it happening numerous times over the years. It was the best card Lestrade had to play when dealing with a reticent Sherlock. The doctor decided to just settle into his habitual chair and watch the bustling Yarders. Lestrade just sat there as Sally made sure the rest of the volunteers were careful and respectful of Sherlock's belongings. She and Sherlock, after he began consulting again, had developed a near-friendship built on mutual respect and similar levels of stubbornness.

Sherlock came in not ten minutes later, looking harangued. His only response to the 'drugs bust' was to flop down on the sofa and mutter, 'This farce better be over soon. I have experiments to get back to and you have a killer to catch.'

Lestrade smiled affably. He responded, 'We just need a little cooperation. If you could just explain your reasoning in accusing Knoll…'

Lestrade's cajoling was cut off by a rookie's cry of, 'I found a secret cupboard!'

Sherlock stomped into his bedroom with a sound of outrage. 'That box contains no illegal or recreational substances. It is, however, deeply personal. If you could just…oh bollocks. You've already opened it, haven't you? Dammit.'

Watching Sherlock and following close behind, John joined in the team's gobsmacked silence as they looked at the contents of the very large trunk that had been hidden in a hollowed-out portion of the wall. Inside the case, there was a camouflage uniform, a tan beret, a dress uniform, and a clear box with three items in it. One was a badge with a sword and 'Who Dares Wins' inscribed upon it, and on the far side from it was the Military Cross and bar. In the centre of the case, along with a photo, was something no one would have ever dreamed Sherlock had received. Gleaming golden on a red ribbon hung a Victoria Cross.

Here is where Sherlock's secrets begin! In a few chapters, there is a hint of a crossover, but it is less a crossover than incorporating ideas into this world. I'll post another chapter soon.