The walls of Sherlock's room were covered in papers. Newspaper clippings, journal articles, printed profiles with bits of webpage. Niles Cohen was the name scrawled across the lot of them - Niles Cohen, the green-haired, pretty face of cardiovascular surgery, Niles Cohen, young and brilliant, England-born, German-learned, medical prodigy. Sherlock tossed a crumpled piece of paper down at the floor in frustration. His record was clean. There was not so much a hint of criminal activity, of unsavory behavior - the man might well have been a saint for all the lack of evil that was in his past. The only potentially questionable thing about the boy was his sexual preference, but that was hardly proper reason for the detective. But that couldn't be. No man was devoid of issues, and genius - especially the sort that excelled at the study of humanity - came with often superlative problems.
Sherlock dropped himself down onto the edge of his bed, crumpling newspapers beneath him. He closed his eyes, his palms meeting in front of his face, his mind preparing to delve -
His phone beeped, loud and audacious.
Hope you haven't dipped back into the recreationals. -MH
Piss off, he wanted to say. But instead he ignored it. Only glanced at it when it beeped again.
He seems to be getting on fairly well. -MH
Sherlock's lips twitched. Was he really having such an issue with John's roommate being a possible homosexual? Why would he? That would imply some level of protectiveness, of jealousy - and those were emotions, things he deemed long ago not worth the time. His surveillance had awarded him with the information that they were rarely at home together, rarely spent time together, rarely even interacted, except their most recent outing to the pubs. Sherlock scoffed at himself. He was not so petty, so inane as to be jealous that somebody else was living with John Watson. They had been colleagues - no, Sherlock corrected, they had been friends. It was a strange concept, friendship, but Sherlock accepted it in the case of his former flat mate - John deserved at least that. Even so, John had the right to live with whomever he wanted, to drink with whomever he wanted. He'd drunken with Stamford and his old friends often enough when they were living together, hadn't he?
His phone beeped again..
I could provide a distraction, if you are otherwise unengaged. -MH
He growled. He wasn't concerned with what was going on in London. Sherlock turned on his side, his eyes falling to a news article pinned beneath his right elbow. Nine missing persons, all on their deathbeds, all disappeared without a trace, without a struggle. He had been mulling over it on and off, trying to stave off the boredom. Perhaps he was just bored, perhaps that was all this was - all of this needless research - boredom.
Sherlock sighed, scouring the article on his bedspread. Nine non-connected victims that simply vanished into thin air, over the span of a month and a half.
Sherlock's eyes widened. When had Niles Cohen moved back to London? A month and a half ago? He scrambled up from the bed, gathered up newspapers, gathered up blog entries, gathered up updates from his personal pages. The dates coincided. The first disappearance, only a week after Niles' arrival. A respected medical official, recently arrived from traveling abroad, devoted to his work, devoid of social interaction, along with the deathly ill victims - so easily accessed by someone with a medical degree - it was a long-shot, but Sherlock couldn't simply ignore it. John was living with him, after all.
He snatched up his phone, firing off a quick message to his brother before beginning to stuff papers and articles of clothing into a bag.
Busy. See you in London. -SH