You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'

-Eleanor Roosevelt

Syn let the doctor check her vitals and change her bandages but refused to close her switch blade. She tried not to shy away at his touch but it had been a long time since she had had any friendly touch especially from a man. But perhaps these men could help her, the doctor had said his friend was a consulting detective and she could tell he was smart but she couldn't tell just how good he really was.

"Why haven't you called the police?" She asked after John finished rewrapping her wounds. She had watched him carefully the entire time, making sure he didn't try to threaten her and because she really needed to learn how to patch something like this on her own. She had gotten lucky over the past few years when she had gotten hurt. She usually had a way to stay hidden until she could clean herself up and she had been…gifted with the ability to heal fast as well so she usually wasn't down for long. But her body had been too exhausted to do it last night and she had nowhere to go. Even now she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

"You asked us not to." Sherlock stated simply, as if it was an everyday occurrence that they found wounded people on their doorsteps begging to not be taken to the hospital. But something told her that that wasn't true.

"Yes but after going through my things and finding the small arsenal in my bag I assumed you would have." It was a bit unsettling to her that they seemed perfectly alright with the fact that there was a dangerous criminal in their flat.

"How did you," John started but was cut off by Syn.

"Know that you had went through my things? Easy, curiosity always gets the best of everyone, John."

"Right. Well, I'm going to make breakfast." John said more to himself than anyone, quickly retreating into the kitchen. As soon as John disappeared Sherlock sat up in his seat, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He's getting ready to tell me his deductions. She said to herself with a smirk.

"From what I've gathered, you're in your mid-20's and not originally from London, judging by your fading tan and American accent. The branding on your shoulder suggests that someone thinks they own you. It obviously wasn't pleasant scarring you physically but not emotionally, suggesting you've been capture several times but refuse to acknowledge it happened.

You have 20 small circular scars on your body, 5 on of your both arms and legs, most likely from a large needle. Now what you were given I'm not sure but I know it wasn't drugs, so whoever branded you also injected you with something.

The numerous scars on your body says you were tortured and after looking through the contents of your bag I'd say you have something they want and it's obviously something of importance since you've been running from them for at least 6 years judging by the fading of your scars.

Now, to make my intentions clear; I find you situation interesting. I plan on finding out as much as I can about your past. Not for your sake, mind you, but because I love puzzles, and you, my dear, are puzzling.

What I ask of you is that you do not touch my experiments, stay out of my way, and do not bore me. I'm not here to coddle you, that's John's job, I'm here to unravel you." He stood abruptly, brushing his way past her and leaving.

Closing her switch blade she sat in her previous spot on the couch and tried to think of the options she had. She knew she could only lead her assailants astray for so long especially since they knew she had been shot. The diversion she had set up a few days ago hadn't lasted as long as she hoped, last night being proof that they were getting quicker at figuring out her tricks. But she was so incredibly close. After working with Him for 4 years she knew all His habits and patterns but by the time she had tracked Him to a certain location He would already be 2 steps ahead of her. However, one of her contacts reached out to her a few weeks ago and told her He was here in London. She didn't think these men were in any danger because of her and she didn't think his men would come after her knowing she was injured.

It was just a warning, she reminded herself, they want you out of action long enough for them to get a head start. Satisfied that there wasn't any immediate threat she curled up as best she could without hurting herself more and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

-/-

The sound of a door slamming shut made her jolt awake and unconsciously flick open the blade in her hand. Her side screamed out in protest at the sudden movement and she ground her teeth to stop from crying out. As she fell back to her previous spot on the couch and the last bit of blurriness of sleep left her eyes she realized that it had been John who had slammed the door shut.

On the table beside her was a note with her name on it that she didn't bother to read because she already knew what it said. The clock in front of her read 8 am meaning John was going to work and would most likely be home by 5 that evening. Sitting up, slowly this time, she rubbed her eyes and let her mind continue to run endless scenarios, statistics, and possibilities for that day. The silence of the flat meant Sherlock was gone as well so there was no one to stop her from walking out the door and disappearing forever but something about being here made her feel safe. It was a completely terrifying feeling.

Keeping her switchblade in hand she slowly stood and moseyed into the kitchen. Beakers and microscopes and notebooks and chemicals took up the entire table and most of the countertops. Opening the fridge she couldn't help but chuckle at the decapitated head and the variation of chopped up body parts. Always busy aren't you, Mr. Holmes? Wandering into a bedroom and surveying the room that was undoubtedly Sherlock she realized why she felt so safe here. Not only did Sherlock and John have the ability to help her find Him, but she had finally found someone who was like her.

She scoffed out loud at herself. "Sentiment gets people killed, Syn and we can't have that." Poking around in his room a bit more she found her backpack and was pleased to see all of its contents still there. Stepping into the adjoining bathroom she changed into the extra set of clothes she kept in her bag and smiled in contentment at her reflection. She had exchanged the night pants and sleep shirt for a gray T-shirt, her brothers black leather jacket, and a pair of black jeans. She was on the run, what did you expect? With her bag slung over her shoulder, not wanting to be separated from it again, she started her search for her shoes and clothes, relieved to find that Doctor Watson had bagged them up for her in the kitchen.

After inspecting her clothing she knew there would be no saving the blood soaked garments and the little bit of blood that had gotten onto her well-worn black combat boots blended in with the years of caked on mud and dirt. Thankfully none of the blood had gotten onto her balaclava. Sitting back on the couch she reveled in the silence, finally allowing her mind to take over, trying to sort through what was important and what needed to be deleted as she began to clean her weapons.

-/-

"Syn!" Sherlock ran up the flight of stairs, his entire body humming with excitement as he threw the door open to their flat. "Syn, we have a case!" She had just finished cleaning her Colt 1911 when Sherlock came running in. "What do you mean we have a case?" Skirting around her he picked the newspaper up off the table in front of her and skimmed over the front page until he found what he was looking for. "Detective Inspector Lestrade called. He wants me to go look at a body that was found in Thames. He thinks it may be connected to the bodies that have been found in Manchester and Birmingham."

She tightened her grip on her gun at the mention of the two places where she had last killed. If DI Lestrade knew the two bodies were connected how much more did they know about her? Maybe it was time to hack into their database and find out. "So what does it have to do with me?"

"I want to see how smart you are. You were able to deduce me and John within a matter of seconds and now I want to see what you can do at a crime scene." She nearly laughed out loud at the man. "Come on Sherlock, I thought you were smarter than this! Do you think running around with black paint around my eyes and a balaclava around my face is just some sort of fashion statement? If I go to the crime scene with you, with or without all of that, someone is bound to recognize me."

Sherlock simply smiled.

-/-

She felt completely exposed as she stepped out of the cab and onto the wet soil of the park. She had exchanged her leather jacket for one of Sherlock's coats, and wrapped around her nose and mouth in place of her balaclava was one of Sherlock's black scarves. Her hair had been tied back in a bun and hidden by the sweatshirts hood and she had taken a pair of John's sunglasses to cover her eyes. For the first time in her life she was grateful for the cold weather of England. She could wear what she was wearing now and not many people would question it considering they were all dressed nearly the same way.

She didn't like the idea of being out during the daylight but she decided maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. She would be able to get a feel for her surroundings and it would be a lot easier to see if someone was trailing her. As she hurried to catch up to Sherlock's long strides she felt herself begin to panic at the sight of all the officers they were approaching. Any one of them could recognize her and any one of them could be working with Him and kill her right now.

Sensing the woman's discomfort Sherlock tried to reassure her. "Don't worry, they're all simple incompetent fools."

"Sherlock, you can't just bring anyone to a bloody crime scene!" Lestrade exasperated when he saw Syn trailing behind Sherlock. "She's not 'anyone', she's a friend of John's." He said without breaking stride. Syn refused to look directly at the DI for fear that he would recognize her. She knew she was just being paranoid but paranoia had saved her life more than once. She quickly followed Sherlock under the yellow police tape and through the wrought iron gates of the gardens.

"Lara Bishop, twenty-two, stabbed 8 times after suffering a beating." Lestrade gestured to the woman lying in a pool of blood. "Where's John?"

"Work. Who found her?" Sherlock circled the body slowly before crouching down.

"Her husband. Said she never came home from work last night so he followed her usual way home and found her here." The DI nodded towards a distressed man leaning against the squad car.

Syn felt a bit odd staring at the body in front of her knowing she, for the first time in a long time, wasn't the one who put it there. The woman laying on her side was very pretty and it was almost a shame that she had to be murdered but then again Syn did love solving crimes. She treaded carefully around the crime scene as Sherlock glanced around the body, noting the set of almost invisible footprints that had been left behind. The slightly flattened patches of grass were pointing both towards and away from him. Looking behind him to see that everyone was watching, he noticed Syn's eyes weren't on him, but instead on the almost invisible trail. Oh, she isclever.

"Is she…like you?" Lestrade asked taking in her jeans, boots, scarf, and jacket. He couldn't help but feel that there was something off with this girl but he couldn't figure out what it was. "Not exactly. She just notices more that the average idiot." Sherlock smiled fondly at Syn, something that wasn't missed by the others. "What did you say her name was?"

Syn began following the suspect's footsteps, placing herself in his shoes trying to see what he saw. The strides were longer than her's but the shoe size was nearly the same. Stepping carefully around the crime scene Sherlock pulled her away from the prying officers. "Tell me what you see." She looked back at the others before turning her gaze to Sherlock, unsure if she should speak. "Go on, I know you see it."

"The suspect is a male, mid 30's, size 10 shoe, about 6'3, athletic, slight limp in his left leg judging by the way the left footprint is more defined in the grass. There's a pale ring around her ring finger so she was having an affair. A majority of the stab wounds are to the stomach and her attacker used a serrated blade, maybe a SOG or a SK3. Judging by the depth of the wounds and the way she was cut I'd say SK3 just because it's a longer knife. So whoever did this knew she was pregnant and was furious about it. How do I know she's pregnant you ask? Receipt from a baby store sticking out of her front pocket and she's fat yes, but not fat-fat, she's pregnant fat. It could be either man that did the stabbing because either man could've been mad. My guess is the husband did it due to the fact that she's having an affair and she's pregnant with her lover's baby and he found out. Look at her arms, see the bruising? It's in various stages of healing which means tonight wasn't the only night she was beaten."

Sherlock couldn't suppress the small smile that spread across his face. "Let's have a chat with the husband then, shall we?" Ducking back under the police tape Syn stuck close to Sherlock, growing increasingly on edge as the amount of officers became more and more as they reached the husband. He put on a rather believable show of sobbing and he almost fooled Syn but there was something about him that didn't sit right with her.

"The victim was your lover?" Sherlock asked.

"Wife," the man corrected.

"Have you ever laid your hands on you wife before last night?"

"How dare you suggest that I was the one who did this to her!" The man curled his hands into fists, one arm pulled tighter to his side than the other. Syn focused on that arm, watching his fingers twitch and missed what Sherlock said next.

"You basard!" Face red with rage, spit flying, the man made a move towards his back and Syn reacted.

Click. The sound of the safety on a gun being switched off made everyone freeze. All eyes turned to Syn, who had a Glock pressed to the side of the man's temple. She hadn't planned on things escalating to this point, but she didn't want to be unprepared. She had a gun holstered at her side but she didn't want to take it out for fear someone would recognize it.

Reaching for his own gun, Lestrade found his holster to be empty. Looking closer at the gun in the woman's hands he realized it was his. Dammit, this was not good.

Sherlock took in her stance, not unlike John's when he held a gun. The scarf had ridden down on her face, just low enough to see her set jaw. "Gun underneath the sweatshirt and the knife is holstered to his left leg. He doesn't have a limp, his leg is just weighed down."

As officers cuffed the man, Sherlock bent down and pulled out the bloodied knife. Bastard hadn't even gone home to clean it. Syn casually flicked the safety back on and deposited the gun back into his holster at Lestrade's hip.

"Sherlock, I can't have your girlfriend stealing my gun whenever it suits her. It's bad enough having you steal my badge. I really should report her." Syn stiffened beside him, her heartbeat picking up as panic rose up within her. She hadn't meant to cause trouble, believe it or not, she just wanted to be prepared in case something happened, which it did.

"But you won't," the taller man said confidentially, turning towards the street and hailing a cab.