A/N - Thanks to everyone for the reviews :)

Chapter 2: Fire and Rhyme

Let's get things straight, the following morning could have started out far worse. I woke, took a shower, and was feeling almost chipper as I headed downstairs. That is until I spotted Sherlock sprawled in one of the armchairs, still wearing his clothes from the night before and staring up at the ceiling, palms pressed together and fingertips against the bottom of his chin. All the awkwardness and downright bizarreness of the previous night came rushing back to me. I swallowed thickly.

"Did you not sleep at all?" I asked, moving to sit down on the couch. To the best of my knowledge we barely had any tea in the house, let alone anything by way of breakfast. I watched Sherlock closely, and he shook his head. "Thinking about what happened?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock sat up straighter, resting his elbows on his knees now.

I sat back, rubbing a hand through my damp hair. "So, who the hell was that guy? And what was all that nonsense about oranges and candles?"

Sherlock lowered his hands and stared at me. "Excuse me?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Oh." Realization dawned on him. He shook his head. "A children's rhyme from the nineteenth century."

"You weren't…oh god…" Apparently what I had hoped would prove to be an insignificant drunken event obviously wasn't so insignificant after all. Outside in the street a police siren wailed, but in the flat silence reigned. I found myself feeling quite uncomfortable now. "Alright, Sherlock, look, about the other, erm, thing…I wasn't thinking…"

"Obviously. And now neither can I."

"What?"

He got to his feet, pacing and clasping and unclasping his hands. "I can't think, John, and that is such an odd an unacceptable thing for me. I tried telling Lestrade about what happened – with the man, I mean, and then the fire – but I could barely get all the words out…" he stopped by the window. "Damn it."

"I'm sorry," I murmured, looking down.

"Don't. I haven't had a chance to make sense of it yet." He walked back over and sat down next to me on the couch, again folding his hands, again appearing lost in thought.

I nodded, sighing, sitting back. I half expected him to continue, and when he didn't, I glanced at him. "Wait, make sense of what? Were you talking about me or the fire?"

"Neither."

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you…"

"Yoohoo boys, morning paper's arrived!" Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway like some well-meaning sort of fairy godmother. She held our paper and a plate of fresh scones in one hand. "And I made a large batch of these, thought you might like some…I hope I'm not interrupting."

Sherlock eyed the plate, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips. A strange shudder ran through me as I watched him, and I immediately gave myself a strong mental shake. Sherlock glanced at me, raising one eyebrow.

"No, come in, Mrs. Hudson, thank you, those smell fantastic…" I watched as she set the plate down. "You weren't interrupting, we were just talking about that fire last night…"

"Oh! The one over in Soho, that restaurant, yes I saw it in the paper, where was that…" She flipped open the paper. "Right, terrible business all around, seems a few people were badly injured and someone died as well, can you imagine? They identified the body, was just some drifter but still…"

"I can imagine, actually," Sherlock murmured. "And there was the tattoo…"

Mrs. Hudson and I both stared at him.

"The tattoo?" I asked.

"The man who died. It was the one in the alleyway, the one who knew me," Sherlock said. "I noticed a peculiar and quite fresh tattoo on the back of his neck, a sort of totem style snake. I saw it because his hair had been carefully trimmed back there…Lestrade told me this morning that's how they identified the body."

"The article said they think it was arson," Mrs. Hudson continued, deciding not to ask too many questions about our whereabouts the previous night. "Is that true, Sherlock?"

He tapped his forefinger against his lips. "Yes I think it was."

Deciding I needed to focus on something else while Sherlock used our landlady as a sounding board, I grabbed one of the scones and took a bite. Still, my mind wandered, particularly to the fact that the old man in the alley had obviously known who Sherlock was. The last thing I wanted right now was to get caught up in some scheme involving someone targeting my flat-mate.

The sound of Mrs. Hudson heading back down to her own flat snapped me out of my train of thought. I found Sherlock staring at me oddly. "What?"

He brought one hand up to my cheek, brushing his thumb over my lower lip. "Crumbs," he said simply, and picked up the paper to begin leafing through it.

I shoved the last bite of scone into my mouth and closed my eyes. Bloody hell.

We sat together in Lestrade's office later that morning, though after we'd recounted our half of the strange occurrence, and Lestrade reported what they had found (the odd man was the top suspect for the blaze, which had been intentionally started) , none of it made any more sense to me. I was, however, much happier to focus on that than other pressing issues.

"You spoke with the owners of the restaurant, I take it?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade nodded. "Of course. They didn't have enemies, no one they knew of certainly who would do that as a personal grudge against them."

"No ties to a gang then, anything of that sort?"

"None," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "We did a background check, they're just an ordinary couple, nothing suspicious."

A slow smile spread over Sherlock's face. "Wonderful, that's just wonderful. Perfect."

Lestrade and I exchanged perplexed looks. Not that either of us had honestly expected anything less from our friend, but it would be nice if he at least provided some sort of explanation instead of just sitting there.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock looked between the two of us. "All of this, together, it's too much, something is going on here, something big and," his grin widened, "I am right in the middle of it all."

"Right…" A slow nod from Lestrade. "Well, better you than me I suppose, as long as you keep us updated and if this turns out to be something, really, that you let us know. Because if people's lives are in danger…"

Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet. "Yes, yes, of course…"

The door opened and a young woman, neatly dressed with chestnut hair drawn up in a bun and black framed glasses entered, moving to set a file on Lestrade's desk. "It's the full report from the fire last night," she said.

"Thank you, Donna," Lestrade said, smiling lightly at her as she turned to head back out to the main reception area.

"New secretary?" Sherlock asked, snatching up the file before Lestrade had a chance to. "She's American."

"Yes, interning here, top of her class at Harvard apparently." Lestrade scowled and held out his hand. "Can I have that back, please?"

After flipping through the file defiantly for a moment, Sherlock handed it to the detective inspector. "Yes, nothing in there I can use. I'll be in touch."

Lestrade nodded, still looking rather put out. I tried to shoot him an apologetic glance, but Sherlock had already grabbed my sleeve and tugged me out into the hall.

"D'you have to drag me about like that?" I growled, yanking my arm out of his grasp as we stepped out into the hustle and bustle of the main reception area.

"Do you have to keep dragging your feet like that?" came Sherlock's reply. He gave me a pointed look, and I swore there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. That man was going to drive me mad.

"Oh yeah, funny, really funny!" I said, and would have continued if Sergeant Donovan hadn't spotted us and wandered over with a smug look.

"Aw, having a row with your boyfriend, Freak?"

Sherlock gazed past her to two officers just entering, escorting a tough looking young man between them. "Not…really in the mood right now, Sally, don't you have better things to do?"

"Yeah, I suppose, this is more entertaining though."

"What's this?" Sherlock asked, nodding towards the young man being brought over by the two officers.

Sally was busy filling out a form and didn't look up. "Little punk was causing trouble down at Victoria Coach Station with some of his friends."

To my surprise Sherlock gave the young man a rather stern, arched eyebrow look. "Tony…"

"Wotcher, Sherlock," Tony said with a wide grin and halfhearted shrug. "You know how it is sometimes, me and the lads gotta do a bit of celebratin'." His expression grew serious. "Got something for ya though."

"Oh?" Sherlock stepped closer.

"People saying that fire last night weren't no accident, it was supposed to be for you." Tony shifted on his feet, but the officers kept him in place. "Word is there's somethin' moving in. Somethin' big and nasty."

"Alright alright," Sally cut in, motioning for the officers to take a hold of Tony. She smirked at Sherlock. "Sorry, Freak, no time for you to chat with your friend here, we've gotta get him in for fingerprinting."

With Sherlock giving Sally a particularly scathing look, the officers started dragging Tony off. At the last minute Tony turned back to Sherlock.

"They know who you are, Sherlock," he called, his brow furrowing now. "But they won't just stop with fire, not these ones. They want to bring London to its knees." Shooting my companion one last worried look, the young man let himself be led off.

"God, does that happen a lot?"

I turned to see Donna, the pretty young American intern, standing behind the reception desk. I smiled weakly at her. "Erm, welcome to London."

She laughed, flashing me a bright smile. "Boston isn't that much different, actually. The guys here just have cuter accents."

Behind me Sherlock scoffed. I managed to resist the urge to step on his foot.

"We should go, John, we have things to attend to," he said, pulling his gloves on and nodding towards the door. "The fate of London may hang in the balance."

I rolled my eyes, exchanging a bemused look with Donna.

"He must be an interesting guy to work with," she said, gathering up an armload of papers.

"Oh yes...never a dull moment."

Donna chuckled. "Have a good afternoon, Dr. Watson," she said softly, giving me a little wave before she headed back towards the offices.

"You too." I turned to follow Sherlock down and out into the street. Big Ben was tolling in the distance, and a group of tourists walked past us, a few stopping to snap photos of Scotland Yard. Sherlock was being suspiciously silent, and I finally sighed. "Oh, what?"

"You never told her your name."

"Sorry? Should I have?"

"She seemed to know it."

"So she heard Lestrade saying it." I stuck my hands in my pockets and frowned up at him.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to give me an odd look out of the corner of his eye. "How's Sara?"

"Oh, for God's – " I rolled my eyes. "I was not flirting, I was talking. I am allowed to talk to people, aren't I? Or do you now have a monopoly over my mouth as well as every waking minute of my life?"

Sherlock gave me a long, surprised look as he raised a hand to wave down a cab.

I swallowed. "Right, that came out…wrong."

"I would say it did, considering."

A cab pulled over for us, allowing me a minute to gather my thoughts as we climbed into the back seat. Settling down and listening to the rush of traffic all around, I soon realized Sherlock was still watching me, apparently not about to let it go.

"Look," I said, turning in my seat to face him. "About last night, can we just maybe forget about it?" And there, for a split second I saw that infuriating look in his eyes that let me know this wasn't going to be easy.

"Why should I forget about it? You obviously don't want to."

"Are you even listening to me?" I cried. "Didn't I just ask you to forget about it?"

"You keep bringing it up."

I gritted my teeth. "Only because I don't want you bringing it up at some entirely inappropriate moment, like in Lestrade's office or in front of your brother or something."

Sherlock turned to look out the window. "I'm not in the habit of kissing and telling, John." He glanced back at me with a light smile. I was still upset with him, however, or maybe more so with myself.

"Admit it, you're not in the habit of kissing at all," I snapped. "In fact, you're not in the habit of even just having a platonic relationship with someone! You know, most of the time I'm glad I don't know what's going on inside that head of yours."

That wiped the smug look right off his face. What replaced it however was far more upsetting. Did he actually look hurt? Or was this just another clever experiment of his? Regents Park appeared on our left and Sherlock turned to watch the trees go by. "You're angry with me."

"No…" I said finally, letting out a sigh as we rounded the corner onto Baker Street. "I shouldn't have done it. It was stupid, in fact, I can't even believe we're having this conversation…"

"Good, then let's not." Sherlock paid the cabby and we got out.

I leaned against the side of the building while he fumbled in his pockets for the keys. As we lingered there, a pair of young girls with their mums went skipping by, chanting in a sing-songy way as they did.

"Oranges and lemons say the bells of Saint Clement's,

You owe me five farthings say the bells of Saint Martin's,

Oh when will you pay me say the bells of Old Bailey,

When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch…"

Glancing up, I saw Sherlock following the girls with his eyes as they moved past us down the street. "Fires and nursery rhymes," he said softly. "Oh this is going to be a good one."

"They want to bring London to its knees," I said, remembering Tony's words from earlier. "And they know who you are? Doesn't that worry you?"

"Plenty of criminals know who I am, John, and hate me all the more for it. The ones who tell themselves they can take me down aren't the ones I'm particularly concerned with."

I frowned. "Then what are you concerned with?"

Sherlock smiled. "The ones who actually try."