Warning: rating has gone up to T, because of small amount of quite graphic violence quite near the beginning of this chapter.

This is a huge chapter, but I actually have a plot, and am really enjoying writing this! Reviews would be appreciated, if you have the time and inclination.

Lestrade strode towards them as they climbed out of the cab, looking eagerly around the place to which they had been summoned. As far as John could tell, it was a rather dodgy alley, not in the best part of town, and probably a good spot for a killing: most self respecting people would not take a stroll down here after dark. He couldn't see the body from where they stood: it was surrounded by people in blue full-body suits and latex gloves.

A few weeks ago, he would have thought Sherlock crazy for assuming that this team of professional people would move out of the way for a self-proclaimed consulting detective with the world's biggest ego, but now it was normality, even if it was normality that made him feel a little guilty. They were only doing their job; it was no one's fault that Sherlock could do it better than them.

"What do we know about the body?" Sherlock was asking, as he and Lestrade turned and walked towards the huddle of people. John followed. Sherlock was handed a thin file, which he flicked open, and surveyed haughtily.

"Male, 38 – he was a magazine reporter, steady girlfriend, he seems quite ordinary," Lestrade said, stopping a foot away from where the body lay, still obscured. "No known criminal affiliations, but we think the branding on his chest is the mark of some gang – got a couple of blokes running it through the computer now."

Sherlock made no answer, and Lestrade watched as the man donned latex gloves, handing his own to John, who shoved them in his jacket pocket. John thought Lestrade looked a little peeved, and he didn't blame him.

"Thanks," he said, used to supplying the manners that Sherlock forgot. The DI nodded once in acknowledgement. "How long was he missing for, by the way?" John jerked his head towards where the body was lying.

Lestrade looked a little perturbed at John's knowledge.

"He's rubbing off on you," he commented, glancing at Sherlock, who was ignoring them, and trying to catch a glimpse of the corpse through the curtain that was the forensics team. "How did you know he'd been missing?"

"Sherlock," John said, by way of explanation.

Lestrade smiled a little, and sighed. "Was reported missing about five days ago. Some poor bugger on the way back from a trip to Tescos found him here last night, shot through the head."

John grimaced. He'd seen his fair share of horribly injured people, but he couldn't imagine it a nice experience if you were caught unawares.

"Anyway, best see if we can let Sherlock have a look at him," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "God knows why I do this…" he stepped away, towards his team.

Within minutes, John, Sherlock and Lestrade were the only people around the dead man; the forensics team having moved away at the DI's request, albeit with a good deal of nasty looks at Sherlock. It wasn't pretty, John would happily admit: about half the man's head was blown off, leaving a bloody gaping hole where his face should have been – an ear and a few tufts of brown hair clinging to the skull that was still attached to his neck. A bloody mess was splattered on the damp wall of the alleyway: dark, congealed red against the dull green of the moss and the dark brick. The branding on his chest added to the ominous picture. It looked all the world as if it were a gang shooting. But something was wrong, John couldn't put his finger on it. He watched Sherlock bend over the body, tracing his fingers over the burnt in symbol, mouthing incomprehensible words to himself. He watched him move to the gruesome splattering on the wall, frown, and turn to John.

"How long do you think he's been dead?"

John suddenly realised what was wrong.

"About – about a week. Five days." John paused, his eyes meeting Sherlock's much paler ones, full of intrigue.

"That's when he went missing." Lestrade supplied.

"He wasn't killed here, then," Sherlock concluded, standing up, a smile breaking across his face. He turned to John, and pointed. "That is gorgeous. Look at the accuracy of the pattern of blood on the wall. Someone wanted us to believe he was killed here. But look – the blood on the wall is less congealed than what's left on his skull. But still. Nice craftsmanship. It would fool most people."

He shot a malevolent glance at the huddle of people a few feet away. The corners of his mouth pulled up slightly in excitement, and the detective pulled the latex gloves from his hands with a snap, turning to Lestrade, businesslike.

"Two things," he said, retrieving his own gloves from John's pocket and pulling them on. "I need to know if any of the other missing people's bodies turn up."

"Other…?"

"Missing people. Four others went missing at similar times to Daniel Yates. Judging by his body, he was killed as soon as he was taken, it just took his murderer some time to figure out what to do with the body. Therefore, the others are probably dead too. I need to know if you find them, it's vital. Secondly – do you have addresses for Mr Yates' place of work and residence?"

A quick trip to Scotland Yard had provided both addresses, although it had taken the combined efforts of John and Lestrade to bully Sherlock into the back of a police car. They had then taken a cab to the dead man's workplace, where Sherlock had got out, whereas he'd sent John to speak to Mr Yates' girlfriend with only the excuse 'You're better at feelings'.

That's exactly where he was now, standing at the bottom of the rather formidable block of flats, which was where Daniel Yates had resided just a few days before. It hadn't occurred to John to point out that his girlfriend might not even be in: it was, after all, eleven in the morning, and most people had jobs. His one hope was, now that this thought had occurred to him, that she might have neglected going to work after receiving news about her partner's death. However, if this was the case, he wondered if she'd be in any fit state to talk to a doctor playing assistant to a consulting detective. That was the problem with 'being good' at feelings (or, being considerate, as John thought it was): you worried about hurting them.

He arrived at the address he had been given, checking the number of the flat on the crumpled post-it in his hand. 28. He took a look at the dark blue door, and knocked, checking the post-it again for the name of the person he sought.

Jenny Bailey was, mercifully, in. His knock was answered by a tall, brown haired woman. She had blue eyes that were red rimmed at the moment, and she was clutching a tissue. John licked his lips nervously. The woman looked quite distraught, sniffing in the dim lighting of the hallway.

"Sorry for intruding, Miss Bailey" he said, finding it easiest to revert to doctor-mode with those grieving: it was more professional and helped him achieve some distance from their sadness – comparing it to his own past losses and becoming emotional would help nobody. "But I'm here about your partner's decease." He paused; the woman had made no move to indicate she had heard him. Then, he added a little more gently: "Is it OK if I come in for a moment?"

She did acknowledge that: nodding her head, and stepping aside to let him in. As she moved her head, her ponytail bobbed cheerfully, contrasting horribly to the tear rolling down her cheek. John wanted badly to reach out and stop it, it seemed inappropriate on a woman who was the picture of bereavement.

She managed to pull herself together enough to offer him a cup of tea – which he declined politely – and settle them both at the kitchen table. John let her mop her eyes, before beginning to speak.

"Are you sure it's not too soon?" he asked, feeling guilty. She nodded again, and sniffed. Remembering the deductions Sherlock had been firing off in the taxi, he begun with the one the detective had thought the most likely, almost certain.

"Right," he begun, feeling uncomfortable. "Now, I know Daniel was a reporter – I don't suppose he'd mentioned any particular stories he was working on? Recently." John added.

She didn't answer for a few moments, and John extended his hands to where hers were clasped on the table. She looked up.

"Really," he said. "It's fine if it is too soon."

"No," she answered suddenly, the first time she had spoken since he'd arrived. He saw a determination appear in her face, and felt her hands ball up under his own. She took a shuddering breath. "Daniel told me…he said he was working on something big." She managed a watery smile, and looked up from the wood of the table, meeting John's eyes. "Said it was his big story. Wouldn't tell anyone about it, mind. Terrified someone would get there first. Said he'd seen something, and he didn't think anyone else knew." She managed a little laugh. "I mean, he only worked for a little magazine, but you know. Really excited. He did tell me it was something 'scandalous', though."

She bit her lip, frowning. John squeezed her hands comfortingly.

"I don't suppose he had any enemies?" John asked, feeling this question was probably futile. Her boyfriend wasn't Sherlock, who had once answered 'which one?' on being posed the same question.

"Nah," she said, another tear emerging. "Wasn't the type. Kept himself to himself. Good word for everyone."

John nodded. She was dissolving back into tears again, and he felt the poor woman had probably been questioned enough for today.

"Thankyou very much," he finished, getting up, and giving her a sympathetic smile. She nodded, not looking at him anymore. He decided to let himself out.

It was on the way through the lounge that he encountered someone else. An extremely familiar someone else, sitting patiently on the sofa, yawning pointedly as John entered the room. He didn't speak to him, just glared, and followed him outside. Only after the latch had clicked shut did he address his flatmate.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, not wanting to have a full blown argument outside this poor woman's flat, who was understandably very upset. "You don't let yourself into people's homes!"

"I knew you'd be there," Sherlock pointed out, as they made their way back down the dim hallway towards the exit. "And getting very cosy by the look of it." His voice was laced with boredom, and John felt his anger flare. He genuinely hated Sherlock like this: being deliberately thoughtless, pointing fingers where it was unnecessary. It was with gritted teeth that he answered, wishing very much that he could get away from him.

"Her partner had just died," he said.

"Well, five days ago."

"And as such," he continued, ignoring the jibe intended to irritate. "I don't think it's unreasonable to offer some comfort to her." He looked at Sherlock, and tried to swallow the urge to punch him in his supremely unconcerned face. "Could you try and pretend that you aren't completely heartless?"

The last sentence hung in the air between them, and John found he couldn't quite look the taller man in the eye, he wanted to stuff the words back into his mouth. His mind was suddenly and horribly filled with an Irish drawl, a voice that made him feel sick when he thought of it.

"I will burn the heart…out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Once again, John found himself silently hating his own temper, making him that informant. Again. He couldn't quite bring himself to apologise, and the silence stretched on.

It became almost unbearable, and John wrestled with himself, desperate to break the tension, his pride not quite allowing him to.

"Anyway," Sherlock said suddenly, his glass eyes cold, as if nothing had occurred. "I wanted your opinion."

John was hit by the overwhelming urge to apologise. The words just wouldn't form in his mouth.

"You mean you wanted to show off your deductions," he said, with a surprisingly easy smile, which Sherlock returned. He fell into step with him, and began scouring the street for a cab as Sherlock began explaining his trip to Daniel Yates' workplace.

By the time they arrived at the small building, John had explained his talk with Jenny Bailey to Sherlock, who was particularly pleased with her assertion that Daniel had been working on 'something big'.

Sherlock breezed through the door, which creaked from rust as they entered, and John looked around the room in interest. There were hundreds of magazine articles lining the walls, and a few big glossy photos of pretty women in formal dresses, with headlines stamped across them. There was one picture of a man too: all white teeth and tan, and toned upper body, standing in trunks next to the reception desk. The whole room looked like a giant magazine cover, and John supposed the magazine in question was called Sheek, judging by the bold lettering peeling off the front of the desk. A receptionist with bleached blond hair looked up at them. She eyed Sherlock up and down, and frowned at him.

"What do you want now?" she asked, her eyes moving to examine John as she spoke.

"Just another tiny look," Sherlock answered, his voice lower and more silky than usual. His eyes met those of the receptionist, and an oddly seductive smile crept onto his face. John didn't like it, it looked wrong on him. "You don't mind, do you?"

The woman looked as though she minded very much, but John would challenge anyone not to give Sherlock what he wanted when he was looking at you like that, and she gestured towards the door with a little self-loathing sigh. Sherlock grinned, and darted off, John in pursuit. He spotted the woman glaring after him, unfairly, and was tempted to go back and tell her that it wasn't like that, and she was welcome to his flatmate, but he didn't. He was too damn curious to see what Sherlock had found.

Daniel Yates' office was small, with just the one window, and a little wooden desk right next to it, complete with computer, and stacks of paper which had clearly been sorted through recently, probably by the man squished into the room beside him. John turned to him eagerly.

"So?"

"Let's start with the room itself." Sherlock said, gesturing around him. "I've had a look around the whole building, and this is one of the smaller offices, so he's clearly not high up in the company. That's supported by the fact that none of his colleagues had any idea that he was working on anything special: so he clearly didn't want to risk anyone taking away what his partner described as his 'big story'. That confirms, almost definitely, that he was killed because of what he knew. As far as I can tell, there is no record in here of that particular piece of work: the paperwork by his desk shows he mainly worked on the sports section of the magazine – his partner's reference to a scandal suggests celebrity – and there's nothing to do with that here. So, he either never left that work here, or it was taken by his killer, possibly a combination of the two." Sherlock paused for breath, and continued. "He was kidnapped from here. It would have been easy, there's hardly much security around here. There was a brief struggle – see the scraping on the wood of the table and the tea stain on the floor? – clearly knocked during the struggle. Yates was generally very organised: his work is organised both by subject and in chronological order: if he'd spilled it he'd have made an attempt to clean it up, but none has been made, so he was clearly taken straight after it happened. Also, the window opens far enough to climb through, and it was unlocked when I got here. Obviously, you can't lock it from the outside. Will that do you?"

John nodded, trying to suppress the smile that was threatening to blossom into a full blown grin. It didn't seem to matter how many times Sherlock did that, he never failed to be amazed. He let himself out of the man's office, Sherlock following right behind him, pleased at John's reaction. Genius needs an audience and all that.

"The trouble is," Sherlock commented, as they left past the scowling receptionist, "is that celebrity scandal is hardly rare, and assuming that he was killed for his knowledge, nobody else knows about it."

"Except the other missing people," John supplied.

"Exactly, John," Sherlock answered, sounding both impressed and surprised. "And, obviously, our killer is closely related to the celebrity involved in this 'scandal'."

John didn't bother to comment; he supposed the suggestion sounded plausible. They continued along the pavement in silence for a little while: Sherlock deep in thought, John regretting the fact that he had to be back at the clinic tomorrow, and not only would he not be involved in further investigation, but he would be plagued by texts the entire time. Sherlock hailed a cab, and John climbed in after him. They sat in this comfortable silence for a few minutes, until the consulting detective was unable to contain his glee at this new found case.

"So, all we have to do now," Sherlock said, smiling, and looking at John in anticipation and excitement, "is wait for our next victim to be found."