Sherlock looked down at the body and frowned. Nothing. He saw absolutely nothing. Horror and dread filled him as he stared down at the blank parchment. The man was lying on the ground in nothing but his pants. There was no blood or any sign of death. Sherlock picked up the man's arms and examined the body closer.

"Well?" Lestrade asked, his arms crossed as he stared down at Sherlock.

The man in question felt his jaw drop in horror. Goodness. He had no idea about anything to do with that dead man. What was Sherlock going to do?

"Look, Sherlock, I'm going to need some information so that we can, you know, catch a killer," Lestrade told the detective.

"Sherlock?" John asked, hoping his friend was ok.

"I-I-" Sherlock was dumbfounded.

John bent down and examined the man. He too was unable to find anything. He showed no signs of asphyxiation, poisoning, heart attack, a wound of any kind or any pain. The man lay as though he was asleep. It couldn't have been natural causes, a man screamed out before he was found and he was only a young man, too.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance before looking up at Lestrade, an uncomfortable, apologetic smile on their faces.

~oOo~

Molly Hooper stared down on the dead body, a blank expression on her face. She woke up this morning to find Toby had vomited into her favourite shoes and, once she had looked after Toby, Molly decided to throw out the old pair. Some of her friends had laughed at those shoes anyway.

It didn't stop here. Her bus was late and she had to run to the next stop to avoid waiting half an hour. By the time she got to work, she was late. Very late. It had been almost 15 hours since she had last eaten anything. Her body was running on low, she could hardly concentrate.

The body was a blank canvas. She hadn't cut into him yet and she was staring him down. She almost wanted him to twitch his fingers so she could let him go and pretend that paperwork never came in. It was obvious how he died anyway. He was obese, high cholesterol, heart attack. See? Some days, she could rival Sherlock Holmes.

She had to cut him up, though, and she wasn't in the mood. She couldn't do it. She physically couldn't do it. She couldn't think about what to do.

~oOo~

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, a tart on a small plate beside him. He watched as Sherlock flew down the street. Mycroft was unsure of what case his brother was on, what criminal was harassing London today, nor why he was really watching his brother and boyfriend run down the street together. Mycroft looked at the tart and sighed. He wanted to eat it so badly and yet, he was on a diet. He couldn't win, could he? Nonetheless, he picked it up and bit into it.

~oOo~

Toby wandered around the street and watched as people rushed about. What fools. They could have all lived a cat like life of wandering the street and watching as the others wandered. They could live a peaceful life. Instead they bustled around as though it was fun. And his pet human, Molly, even came home crying some days and headed towards a bottle of wine in the fridge.

'Poor Molly,' he thought and shook his head.

The street was bustling with people going left, right and centre. He wasn't usually one to go out, but when he did, he'd watch people and make up stories about them. Today, however, Toby couldn't find any inspiration at all.

~oOo~

Mrs Hudson was making tea in 221A. Sherlock was on another case and ran out yelling something about a blank paper- a man with no obvious signs of murder. Mrs Hudson would often ponder with tea about what these cases were about.

There was a man last week who would walk into the pub every Thursday at seven. One day, he didn't arrive. He hadn't been seen for a week and he arrived on Sherlock's front door, absolutely petrified. She had decided he was on his way to the pub when someone drove past him and offered a lift. The man had accepted and gone with him. They kept driving and the man was left miles away from the original destination. He'd stay there, drugged up and out of his mind. He'd return a week later under the impression is had only been a few minutes. The man was scared- the pub owner had asked him where he had been for the past week as he didn't arrive on the previous Thursday. The man had said he never missed a Thursday and he was there last week. The owner told him the date and he got scared, deciding to talk to Sherlock about it.

Of course, she was always wrong about what Sherlock's cases involved and especially what the man had come about or what had happened. But this time, she couldn't think about what had happened to the man, she had no spark that decided to twist her thoughts and come to a logical explanation.

~oOo~

Sherlock lay in bed that night and stared at the ceiling. How could he be so stupid? What was wrong with him? How did he not know what was wrong with that man? All signs suggested that he should have been able to- he was a high functioning sociopath, after all. Today was different and Sherlock Holmes detested it.

Someone could die again if the police couldn't find out whom. There would be blood on the hands of Sherlock Holmes if another person was killed.

A/N:

Hey, this was a little story that is a suggestion/pressure for you to submit some prompts to me. I've got some time and the willingness to do so. However, I've been stumped for inspiration and thought you'd listen to the Sherlock characters, if not me.

So, please please please please please please please please please PLEASE be so kind as to send me a prompt because I will actually love you forever, you beautiful person, you!

A HUGE apology to Mega Sword for me transforming into Sherlock and turning them into Molly.

In other news, I fulfilled my life goal of running my fingers through curly hair. I wish to thank my friend for allowing me to harass his head while we were waiting for the end of school.