[A/N]

Wow. Some of you actually want me to continue this thing. I'm really and truly honored. Thank you so much!

About a week after I posted the first chapter I decided to check up on it and see if there were any reviews. Y'know, some constructive criticism for any future stories and stuff, because I really didn't plan on writing a second chapter. I had no idea where this was going, and I still don't, like an early life crisis. I was overly stressing about things like "Should I have some hetero johnlock in there? Then what am I going to do about Mary later on? Without Mary, the whole Magnussen arc falls apart! What do I do?" But I realized that's not until Series 3, so i decided to just see where I end up later on and wing it for now. Bear with me, as this will be something I will be doing in my few stolen moments of spare time and might not be updated as quickly as other fics written by much more qualified writers.

If you find any errors or have any questions with this story, please feel free to ask. I don't bite. (:

Thank you for supporting me, and I promise I will do my utmost best to write fabulously!

Chapter 2

Welcome Back, Doctor Watson

"Look, can you shut up about Harry already?"

Sherlock did, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "For the time being. We're here."

The house was blocked off by police cars and some tape. A young woman was standing guard in between the police cars, and by her impatient expression, she was expecting them. She looked about mid-twenties, with curly black hair and a professional attitude. "Well, look who finally showed up. Freak." She obviously loathed Sherlock. John assumed it was a one of those petty fights between women but it was also very likely it was just Sherlock in general.

The offending woman in question remained her emotionless mask. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"Because, Sally. I'm just that irresistible." She ducked under the police tape and straightened her coat. "You smell lovely today. Have you changed your deodorant lately?"

Sally didn't bother to answer and pointed at John. "And who is this? Your new project? A pet?"

John frowned. "Um, excuse me."

Sherlock cleared her throat. "He's a… colleague of mine." She turned to John. "Doctor John Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. She's an old friend."

John grinned. "Like the skull?"

"Yes, very much so."

John ducked under the tape and followed Sherlock to the front doors. A forensics specialist stopped Sherlock and looked her in the eye. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Do you understand?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course, Anderson, if it isn't already contaminated by you horribly incompetent 'specialists'. May I ask how long your wife has been away?"

Anderson scoffed, "Oh, not this again. Who told you?"

"Deodorant."

Anderson looked confused. "And how did you get that from deodorant?"

"I'm the world's only consulting detective, Anderson. But, if you really are dying to know, your deodorant is for men."

"Of course it is. I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donavan." Sherlock cleared her throat and started walking towards the door again.

Anderson looked one step away from causing someone bodily harm. "Whatever you're trying to imply, Sherlock…"

"Oh, I am most definitely not implying anything. Sally clearly just dropped in for a cuppa and just happened to stay over. Good night." Before Sherlock entered the house she turned back around to where Anderson and Sergeant Donovan were still standing in mute horror. "Sally, have you ever considered finding work as a maid? Anderson's floors must be scrubbed very nicely, judging by the state of our knees." With that, Sherlock disappeared and John followed quickly.

"Did you have to do that? Was that absolutely necessary?" John had to walk very fast to keep up with Sherlock's long legs.

"Oh, I don't do anything unless it's of the utmost importance, John."

-oOo-

They stopped at a room full of people in blue coveralls. D.I. Lestrade was putting one on as they entered. "John. You need to wear one of these hideous things."

"Who's this? Only authorized personnel are allowed here. It's hard enough getting you in every time."

"He's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said he's with me." Sherlock snapped on a pair of sterile latex gloves.

"Sherlock, aren't you going to wear one of these?" John glanced up from trying to get his foot through the pant leg. She gave one hard look at John before he realized what a stupid question that was. Of course the amazing Sherlock would never lower herself to such base standards like preserving evidence.

Brisk as ever, she asked, "So, where are we?"

Lestrade pulled on his own pair of gloves and zipped up his coveralls. "Upstairs."

-oOo-

"Two minutes. That's all I can give you."

"Might need a bit longer."

Jennifer Wilson was found by a few children. She was lying face down in an old derelict room dressed completely in pink. Sherlock remained in thought for a few seconds before moving and put her mind to work.

The woman had scratched the letters "r-a-c-h-e" into the wooden floorboards with her left hand. Left-handed. Rache, in German, meant revenge. She could also have been spelling out Rachel, most likely a family member. The back of her coat. Wet. The umbrella. Dry. The collar of the coat. Wet. Her jewelry. Clean. Her wedding and engagement rings. Dirty. Unhappily married 10+ years. The inside of the ring. Clean. The outside of the ring. Dirty. Conclusion? Regularly removed.

Diagnosis? Serial adulterer.

1 minute and ten seconds.

She smiled.

"Got anything?"

Sherlock took out her phone and began typing away furiously. "Nothing much."

Anderson suddenly appeared behind the three, trying to offer a suggestion. "She's German. Rache is German for 'revenge'. Maybe she's trying to tell us something."

"Yes, yes, yes. Why don't you go find Donovan and discuss keeping her deodorant at your house from now on?" She slammed the door.

John hid a grin as sounds of protest could be heard from the other side. "Is she really German?"

"No. For future reference, don't listen to Anderson. His idiocy will poison your mind unless you take active measures." Sherlock continued tapping her phone. "What do you think, John?"

"What, me?"

"No, I was talking to the body – of course you. Do you see another John in here? You're a doctor. Surely you must have some idea."

"Sherlock, I have a team ready outside," Lestrade said.

"They won't work with me."

"Then figure out how to work with someone, instead of just complaining about having no assistant." Lestrade looked fairly fed up with Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled, and John thought smiles looked nice on Sherlock if they weren't fake. "That's exactly what Dr. Watson is here for. Dr. Watson, if you will."

"Sherlock, no. You're not even technically allowed here."

"Alright then. This case seems easy. Scotland Yard could probably figure it out. Good night, Lestrade." She cleared her throat and stood up.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh, for god's sake. Sit down, Sherlock. Dr. Watson, please go ahead." He poked his head out the door where Anderson was apparently still stewing over Sherlock's cold-hearted refusal of his assistance. "Anderson. Stop sulking and keep everyone out for the next minute or so."

Sherlock and John were crouched on opposite sides of the victim's body, but John just stared at the corpse. He couldn't fathom how Sherlock managed to take in so much detail in so little time. It was, simply put, astounding. "Why exactly am I here?"

"To prove a point?"

"What point? I'm supposed to help you pay the rent, not looking at dead bodies."

"You have to admit, this is more fun than drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson."

"Fun? Sherlock, a woman is lying on the floor and she's not exactly alive."

Sherlock shrugged. "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper. Is that seriously it?"

John groaned and sighed. He leaned down to inspect the corpse like Sherlock had, taking a big sniff. "Well, um, asphyxiation? She passed out and choked on her vomit, but I can't smell any alcohol. It might be a seizure or drugs."

"Not bad, compared to some of the others here," Before John could even manage a proud look, Sherlock smirked. "But still not insightful enough." She stood in one fluid, graceful movement.

Shaking his head, John struggled to push himself upwards with his cane. Lestrade cleared his throat. "Okay, Sherlock. Your two minutes are up. Give me what you got."

"Victim is in her late thirties. Probably a professional person, unless she dressed up for the occasion. That shade of pink is atrocious. I prefer a pastel pink myself, but even then in moderation. The only sane women who would wear so much are women in some sort of occupation relating to media. She's from Cardiff, and she's staying in London for... one night, by the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?"

Ignoring Lestrade's question, Sherlock continued. "She's been married for around 10 years, but she's had multiple lovers. Obviously none knew she was married."

"Obviously?" This time it was John who interjected. Surprisingly, Sherlock deigned to answer John.

"Her wedding ring's been taken off often. It's old and dirty, which is exactly the state of her marriage. The inside of the ring is shiny, but the outside is dull and scratched. The only polishing it gets is when she pulls it off of her finger. She doesn't take it off for work, her nails are nicely done so she doesn't do anything that requires hands. So what does she remove her rings for? Not just one lover, because she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time. Simple, if you look in the right places."

John's eyes were wide in awe. "Wow. That's… brilliant." When Sherlock and Lestrade turned to him, he flushed. "Sorry."

There was a point that Lestrade couldn't figure out. "Why Cardiff?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No. It's why I'm asking."

Sherlock took on a look of horror. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains. It must be so boring. And terribly dull." She gestured to the bright pink coat. "Her coat, gentlemen. Her coat's slightly damp. She's been in the rain, but there's no rain anywhere in London. The underside of the coat collar is damp too; she's turned it up. The umbrella in her pocket is dry, and unused, as far as I can tell. So it was too windy to use the umbrella, and since her coat still hasn't dried, she was in the rain for a few hours. Her suitcase shows that she was planning to stay the night here. Now where is the only place around here with strong winds and rain and within a few hours?" She reached into her pocket and showed the men why she had been typing away on her phone earlier. It was a weather map for the past 3 hours, and the only green and yellow splotches were above a city east of London. "Cardiff."

John's mouth was literally gaping. "That's fantastic!"

Lestrade frowned. "Do you know you're doing that out loud?"

John's blush was a violent shade of crimson. "Sorry, sorry. I'll shut up now."

Slipping her phone back into her coat pocket, Sherlock said, "Yes, please do," but Lestrade could tell she was secretly pleased at the flattery.

"And why do you keep talking about that suitcase?"

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone, or an organizer of some sort. Have someone find out who Rachel is."

"How do you know it's Rachel or not Rache like Anderson said?"

"Yes, she was most likely leaving a vengeful note in German, of all languages. Of course she was writing Rachel, don't be stupid. The question is why didn't she write it until she was dying?"

"How do you know there was a suitcase in the first place?"

Sherlock pointed distractedly at the woman's stockings. "The splashes from the wheels; she was dragging the suitcase with her right hand. A bag of that size and a woman with a desire to wear such appalling clothes would only point towards an overnight bag. Probably had some other color coded outfit like lime green in there. Where is the suitcase?

"There was no suitcase Sherlock. Why do you think I'm even asking you?"

"Well, to be fair, you ordinary people are strong advocates of endless repetition. I assumed this was one of those occasions."

Lestrade gave a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "There. Was. No. Case. There never was any case."

Sherlock bolted up and started dashing down the stairs. "Suitcase! Has anyone seen a suitcase?"

John slowly made his way to the top of the stairs with Lestrade. "I told you Sherlock, for the millionth time, there was no suitcase."

"I really did hear the first time. The victims take the pills themselves. They chew and swallow the pills all on their own. Even you and your teams could figure it out."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Thanks. And your point is…?"

"But no, these are murders, every one of them. Serial killings. Oh, those are always so much fun!" Sherlock kept whirling through the house. "Come one, her suitcase. She wouldn't have left it at her hotel – she hasn't even gone to her hotel yet." She stopped her constant movement for a second. "Oh."

"Oh? Now what?"

Sherlock clapped her hands and did the same happy dance she did back at Baker Street. Apparently the only thing that made her happy was either a). Murders, or b). Serial murders. The latter was preferred. "Oh, as in oh, yes, John. Serial killers are always difficult. You have to wait for them to make a mistake, you see."

Lestrade yelled from the top of the stairs, "We don't have time to just wait, Sherlock!"

"No, we're done waiting. There's been a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. Go to Cardiff and find out who Rachel is. Pointless, but at least you'll have something to do." She practically fell down the stairs.

"What mistake?" Lestrade was left calling to thin air.

Sherlock retraced her steps and yelled back, "PINK!"

-oOo-

"Sherlock's gone. She does that."

"Well, is she coming back?" John had finally managed to struggle out of his coveralls but Sherlock's black cab had long gone.

Sally scoffed. "Does she ever? Look, who are you? You're not her friend. That psychopath doesn't have friends."

"I don't know. I just met her."

Sally laughed. "There's your first mistake. Stay away from her. Far away."

"Why?"

"Why do you think she shows up to these crime scenes? She likes it. Some weird murder and you can bet your mum's grave that she'll be there. She gets off on it, she does. One day, it won't be enough. One day, there's going to be a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

"And why would she do that?"

"Psychopaths are unpredictable, Dr. Watson. Stay away." She walked into the building.

John shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the main road to get a cab. To his right, a public telephone rang. He glanced at it, but continued walking. Every telephone he saw on his way to the road rang, but stopped when he passed them. John felt a cold shiver reaching down his spine. Public telephones ringing: it only happened in those horror movies he rarely watched. Finally, he gave up and answered the fifth telephone down the road with quite a bit of apprehension. "Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

"Who is this? Is this a prank?"

"The camera, Dr. Watson. Do you see it?"

The cold chill returned. John looked up and saw that there was, in fact, a CCTV camera on the wall. He cleared his throat to stop any sound of fear coming out. "Yes. I see it."

"Now watch." The camera turned to where it was no longer pointed toward the telephone box. "There's another camera and the opposite building. Do you see it?"

"Yes." The camera turned away.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

John looked at the swiveling camera. "Who are you? How are you doing this?"

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson." A black car had stopped in front of the telephone box. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

John set the phone down. Now that he knew it wasn't some story straight out of a horror movie, his fear dissipated. He had his gun; he never went anywhere without it. If things turned ugly… well, he had shot his gun before.

-oOo-

A very attractive woman sat tapping away on her BlackBerry phone, and she gave no indication that she noticed him.

"Hello."

She smiled at John, and her teeth almost blinded him. "Hi."

"What's your name?"

The woman appeared deep in thought before answering. "… Anthea."

"And is that your real name?"

She smiled. "No."

John nodded. Figured anyone he met nowadays was weird. Hopefully she wasn't as bad as Sherlock. "I'm John."

"I know."

"Is there any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all, John." She flashed her blindingly white smile at him again before returning to her phone.

-oOo-

John squared his shoulders and entered the abandoned warehouse. A well-dressed man was leaning on an umbrella in the center of the room, and a thin shaft of light from the window illuminated the ground around him. Very dramatic. "Hello, John." His voice was very smooth. John was no Sherlock, but even he could tell that this was someone who talked and manipulated for a living. Someone powerful who controlled others through simple words. "Your leg must be hurting you. Please. Sit down."

"I have a phone, you know. A very functional phone. You could have phoned me."

"Apologies, I've always had a touch of theatricality, and when one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet,. Hence this place." The man stopped leaning on his umbrella and began pacing the room. "You don't seem very frightened."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man laughed. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"Then you must be braver than me."

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson?" His manner had changed. Before it seemed like idle banter, or as idle as it could get in an abandoned warehouse. Now his tone seemed more threatening, as if this was when the real business began.

"I barely know her. We met yesterday. "

The man arched an eyebrow. "And since… yesterday, you've decided to move in with her and solve crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who exactly are you?"

"An… interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met her. How many 'friends' do you think she has? I am the closest thing to a friend as she is capable of having."

"And what is that?"

"An enemy."

This time John was the one to arch an eyebrow. "An enemy?"

"Well, in her mind, most definitely. If you asked her, she'd probably say I am her arch-enemy. She does enjoy drama."

John stared pointedly at his surroundings. "Well thank God you're above all of that." John's mobile phone beeped. He looked briefly at the text message.

Baker Street.
Come at once if convenient.
SH

John had no idea how Sherlock had gotten his number. No doubt, if she was anything like the man standing in front of him, she went through some illegal means.

With a sickly saccharine smile, the man said, "I hope I'm not distracting you."

"No, no, not at all." He placed the phone back in his pocket.

"Do you plan to continue your current association with Ms. Holmes?"

"I could be wrong.. but I think that's none of your business," John said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

"Well, Dr. Watson, if you do plan on moving into 221B Baker Street, I'd be more than willing to provide a significant amount of compensation to ease your way. On a regular basis, of course."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what she's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about her. Constantly."

John rolled his eyes. "Well that's very nice of you."

"But, I would rather you not tell her about my concern. We have what you might call a,,, difficult relationship, if you will."

John's mobile beeped again.

If inconvenient, come anyway.
SH

John smiled for a split second before putting the phone back up. "No. Not a chance."

"I haven't even mentioned a figure yet."

"Don't need to hear one."

"You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, no. I'm just not interested."

The man pulled out a notebook and consulted it. "It says here that you have trust issues. Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, out of all people?"

John's mind flashed back to the last therapy session with Ella. "Who says I trust her?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." He gestured to John's left hand. "People have undoubtedly warned you away from her, but your left hand tells me that is not going to happen."

'Oh great, another Sherlock.' "What do you mean by that?"

"Show me," the man said, clearly referring to his hand. He leaned against his umbrella again, and waited for John to present his hand like an obedient servant.

John remained where he was, feet firmly planted on the ground. When he was like this, nothing short of a grenade could move him. The military had made certain of that.

The man sighed and yielded to John's stubbornness. "Quite remarkable."

John could barely keep the hiss out of his voice. He had had enough of people knowing so much more about him than himself. "What is?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by the memories of your military service. But she's not quite right, is she?"

"Who the hell are you?! How do you know that? How do you know any of this?"

"You should fire her. She's completely wrong. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." He drew closer to John's ear. "You're not haunted by the war. You miss it." When John's eyes met his, he grinned. "Welcome back, Doctor Watson."

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