It was exactly the same as the last one. The same pricey envelope that caged a similar object. The same pen was used, still on its last dying dregs of ink. The handwriting scrawled out the name and the address to which it was to be sent. And sent it was. The package sat on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. The landlady of the aforementioned flat picked it up and brought it inside out of the drizzle that had begun to fall outside. Waiting for the occupants of 221B she turned on the kettle and sat down to get the weight off her hip. It just seemed to only get worse these days. The sound of a key in the door and the professional chatter could be heard from down the hall. They were home. She lifted herself off the chair, pain searing through her hip for a moment before getting properly balanced. She went to greet the boys.

"Sherlock! John!" She cried as she came down the hall.

"Mrs. Hudson, how's the hip?" Sherlock asked embracing the woman.

"The same, so awful. A package came for you today. I left it in your flat. The kettle's just boiled, would you like me to bring you boys up a cup?"

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson that'd be perfect." John replied following Sherlock up the stairs.

Sherlock stared at the package and in that moment he realized he was dealing with more than a clue of a murder. He was dealing with a serial killer. A cold-blooded predator who's weapon of choice was an electrical current.

"Expect another dead body in the near future. SH"

Greg Lestrade stared at his phone a minute trying to figure out exactly what he meant. My God if Sally had been here she would've most certainly accused Sherlock for the body. He did sound like a bit of a psychopath in this text. But this was Sherlock, the great Sherlock Holmes, he must've found a clue.

"What do you mean? GL"

"I've received another book, expect another body. SH"

Goddammit. There was no way they could prevent this either. No one had any idea who this mysterious killer and book fanatic was. There was nothing tying the murder to anyone. It's been almost eight months since the last body was found, followed by Sherlock coming running to us the day after saying this book had something to do with the murder, there was some connection he just had no idea what it was. And if Holmes couldn't figure it out, there was a very little chance that anyone in Scotland Yard could possibly decrypt the message. The warning. Lestrade looked at the calendar on the corner of his desk that sat beside a wedding picture of him and his wife. They looked so happy then. Her green eyes radiating sheer happiness, her smile - wide telling the whole world she'd just married the man of her dreams. When was the last time he saw that look? Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe she was sleeping with that P.E. teacher.

Molly's breathing stopped and then quickened rapidly. She was standing in the middle of the street reading and re-reading a text from the person she'd always dreamt would send her a message like this.

"I need you. Come to St. Bart's as quickly as possible. I've made you coffee. SH"

Molly stood paralyzed for a bit until a person, obviously in a hurry to get on their way bumped into her. Then she walked off, well, she jogged off. She was only a few streets away from the hospital and to say she was eager to find out why Sherlock needed her would be the understatement of the year.

Sherlock was slightly alarmed when Molly came crashing in through the doors.

"You've been running. Your breathing is slightly elevated."

"Yes, yes. Well, uh, you said - you said to come as quickly as possible."

"Ah yes, there was no rush." He said handing her a cup of coffee and watched her like a hawk as she took a sip. She was surprised at how completely disgusting it tasted.

"Sherlock, this coffee…"

"Yes?"

"It's awful."

"Oh." A look of disappointment came across his face. He wanted to so badly to impress her.

"Well, it's not the worst cup I've ever had." She piped up, hoping to make up for what she had just said. At least a little bit.

"Thank you Molly. Now, have you read this book?"

"You got another?" He gave her a look that immediately told her she shouldn't have asked such a stupid question. "No, no I haven't read it."

"Well I just had, it's remarkably dull don't bother. Since you were able to connect that the last book was related to the murder in November." He said walking slowly towards her. "I thought you, Molly, would be the best woman for the job."

I can't feel my hands. He's so close to me. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

"Molly?"

"Yes?" She stepped forward to grab the book out his hands and tripped over one of the lab stools into him. He dropped the book and caught her in his strong arms. She grabbed on to the lapels of his coat and slowly looked up. I can't believe I just fell into Sherlock Holmes. God, why am I so embarrassing? But the thought disappeared when she saw his face. He was smiling at her, a sweet smile she's never seen before. One that actually reached his eyes, his eyes, oh God his eyes. Looking so deep into hers she was sure he could read her mind. They stood there for a minute in each others arms, his hands gently resting on the small of her back. I've forgotten how to breathe.

"Are you alright Molly?"

I am now. "Yes. Yes."

"Good, now should we get back to work?"

No, we should stay here forever. "Ye-yes, I think we should. Sorry, sorry." A new grin had creeped its way onto Sherlock's lips.

"Oh no, it was my pleasure." He purred as he let go of her and bent down to retrieve the book.

They sat together trying to figure out the warning, when the clock in the back of the lab's minute hand passed over the XII. Outside in the distance the London clock tower chimed once. It's midnight. Four times. It's June 28th. Twelve times. Let the show begin.