John snatched a protein bar from the shelf in his office, the only lunch he'd have time for today between the crush of patients. Apparently flu season was early in London this year. He was just tearing open the wrapper when his phone buzzed against his desk.

Interview 4:30 Paddington Gloucester Terrace and Chilworth St. SH

John shook his head in disbelief before tossing the phone back on the desk. What to do when your deluded flatmate thinks he can have a row with you in the morning and order you around in the afternoon. Sherlock could do an interview by himself today. Sherlock could bugger off today.

John took a bite of the bar. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and something caught his eye. From where his jacket was hanging on the back of the door he could see a piece of white paper sticking out of the inner pocket. He hadn't noticed it before. Wondering whose vital lab results he'd forgotten to submit he crossed the room and plucked it out.

He blinked at it. Not lab results. It was the torn envelope with the girl's—Hannah's—number on the back.

Sherlock stood at the corner of Gloucester Terrace and Chilworth Street. He'd arranged an interview with a woman named Kathleen Bauer. She was a close friend of the woman who died in the car crash: Body B (probably more commonly known as Amy Elliot). He shifted in the cold as he waited, eyes fixed on the flats across the street without seeing them.

The client who had dropped the information into his lap this morning had been surprisingly convenient. Too convenient to be accepted at face value, of course. The moment she mentioned the scars he'd surreptitiously sent a text to one of his homeless network who worked the Baker Street underground station and was never far off. He was waiting for the girl on the street when she left and a text confirmed he'd followed her directly to the funeral home where she worked, no deviation. Only partly satisfied Sherlock had done a quick search while John was upstairs getting dressed. It revealed Hannah Walsh had been a member of Facebook since 2008 (not a new identity) and a subscriber to John's blog since 2010 (not a new interest).

He wasn't surprised. He didn't give her enough credit to be able to act well enough to fool him—not an easy feat. So far only Moriarty and The Woman had been able to do it. No, she was genuine, everything from her stammering to her blushes—annoying but harmless. If she was working for someone she was doing it unwittingly. It wouldn't take more than a gentle hand to help her connect the dots, even make her think she'd come up with the idea to go to Sherlock on her own. It wouldn't be the first time a bad Samaritan had pointed him in the right direction. And if that was the case, so be it. The right direction was the right direction, regardless of who revealed the path. If someone with less than honorable intentions was waiting for him further down the road, he would meet him there.

And there was still the possibility of coincidence. Though it rankled, he couldn't completely rule it out. If men were dropping dead around London with scars on their thighs it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that two of them could end up in the same funeral home. Whatever the truth turned out to be, their morning client was an innocuous component.

He checked his phone and stuffed his hands into his pockets, exhaling a cloud of cold air. 4:35. No response from the doctor whose shift had ended at four. The cab ride from his surgery was twenty minutes in current traffic. He tried to analyse the probability of whether John would show up, but the numbers were unclear in his head. Frustrating. He could deduce whether a complete stranger would buy earrings or a necklace for his mother, yet still be uncertain about John, of all people. Words and numbers blurred around John in his mind. Irritating.

Sherlock flexed his fingers in his pockets, suddenly craving a cigarette the way he hadn't in a while. In truth the only thing preventing him from smoking one now was the fact that he didn't have one. Sometimes the simplest solutions are the most effective.

4:40. Perhaps there had never been a reason to believe he'd come. Perhaps he could go to hell.

Sherlock began walking up the block toward the Bauer woman's house. There was the sound of an engine. A car door slammed.

"Sherlock!"

He turned.

John was paying the cab driver. Brown brogues, jeans (he'd changed from his work trousers. He never wore them if he didn't have to), grey jumper under unzipped black coat. His sandy blond hair stood out in contrast against the grey and black of his clothes, the grey and black of London.

"Sorry I'm late," John said, walking up to where Sherlock was standing still. "Here, take this." He brusquely shoved a small brown paper sleeve into Sherlock's hand, not meeting his eyes.

More than a little curious he opened it and pulled out one of the last things he could have expected John to hand him on the street in a brown paper bag.

It was a cookie.

Sherlock looked up at John, who seemed to be having trouble maintaining eye contact. "I assume you haven't eaten today," he said. He was right. "And I know you didn't eat yesterday."

Sherlock blinked down at the cookie in amazement. It wasn't just any cookie either. It was exactly the same kind as the one Sherlock had stolen from John more than half a year ago. They had been reviewing case notes at a café. John had bought a cookie with his coffee and when he stepped out to take a call from Mary Sherlock had decided he'd try a piece. It tasted good. Really good. By the time John returned to the table the cookie had vanished completely. Sherlock had shrugged as though the mystery were beyond his abilities.

Did John remember the moment? Of course he must; it couldn't be a coincidence. A thought struck Sherlock and his eyes perused John's face in attempt to confirm it. Did John record information about him the same way he did about John? One thing he'd eaten voluntarily and John had remembered it all this time. Was John quietly cataloguing his food preferences? And using the information to manipulate him into eating more, as John, ever the good doctor, was always insisting he do?

Sherlock's mind raced through memories from when they'd lived together. John making late night runs to the twenty-four-hour fish and chips place near their flat, nudging the chips toward Sherlock until he was absently picking at them while he worked. John's curious habit of leaving out plates of fruit and vegetables. Were they all for him? Did he eat them? He supposed he did, a bit, sometimes. Was all the tossed, uneaten food worth whatever nutrients Sherlock might glean on the occasions he picked up a slice of apple or cucumber? John would be no poster boy for sustainability.

Sherlock almost laughed out loud. He'd had no idea. Sherlock Holmes—the detective of detail, the master of minutia—he actually hadn't noticed. He never bothered paying attention to what he ate. Food was at the bottom of his list of interests along with golf and poetry. He closed his eyes and saw clearly the meals he ate reappearing on their table and the meals he didn't failing to do so. I like that one, Sherlock had said the other night about the stir fry. I know, John replied. I remember. Oh, John was good. Better than good. He was surely the consulting doctor of manipulative healthcare.

"Did you call her?" Sherlock asked, finding as he said it that his brain had been following two tracks of thought simultaneously.

John, who had been looking at the houses on the block, whipped his head around, surprised by the question. "No," he said finally, "I didn't."

Sherlock held his gaze until John shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms and looking away across the street again. He glanced back and met Sherlock's eyes briefly as he said, "She's not my type."

The slight linger in his look told Sherlock he was remembering the scene from the living room a year ago. After they'd cornered Mary behind the façade at Leinster Gardens and before Sherlock had collapsed onto the paramedics' stretcher. You are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people.

Of course John's craving for dangerous situations would spill over into a desire for dangerous people. Sherlock had seen both on his initial read of Dr. Watson.

"We don't know a thing about each other," John had said in the lab that day. And how sure Sherlock had been then that he already knew everything—his deductions speaking for themselves. But then John had shot a rogue cabbie and Sherlock learned there was more. At every turn there was more. How was it possible? Sherlock needed less than a minute to learn all that was worth knowing about a person, and he'd lived with John for a year and a half. He knew his scent, his posture, his gait, every expression, every one of his laughs. He could identify him in the dark by his breathing. He could draw every detail of the contours of his face from memory. (John's face had aged only subtly in the five years since they'd met. Sherlock suspected John would always look young for his age. The boyish quality that correctly suggested a mischievous personality wouldn't fade.)

Sherlock knew every fleck in John's uncommonly dark blue irises. John's voice was as familiar as his own. There was no one he knew more thoroughly, more completely, than John Watson. And yet he must not know him nearly so well. Because John was one of the very few people (a short list that mostly included criminally insane serial killers) who could continue to surprise him, impress him, be worthy of his attention.

Sherlock looked down at the cookie in his hand. He took a bite and it was just as good as he remembered it. Cinnamon, sugar, vanilla, soft, sweet.

Kathleen Bauer was an eye-roll worthy woman to be sure. Black faux-leather shoes. Trousers and blouse from the sales racks, read: low-paid office job. Yet the flat (unshared) was far nicer than any single, low-paid Londoner could hope to afford. Family money then. But clearly not for clothes. She would have an independent streak that stopped at London real estate. Mid-thirties, symmetrical facial features (at least moderately attractive), figure neither heavy nor thin but one forever swaying one way or the other—an anxious stress-eater on a permanent diet, read: shaky self-discipline and constant personal dissatisfaction. However, her straight posture and defiant expression suggested a veneer of blunt confidence, a typical defence mechanism for the self-critical.

"Oh my, aren't you handsome!" she said to Sherlock upon opening her door.

"This is John Watson," Sherlock replied. "He's my partner."

"Yeah, I work with him," John reiterated, shaking her hand.

She grinned at them. "Come in, come in!" she said, turning around and clomping in her heels across the living room floor. "Have a seat"—she continued into the kitchen—"I'll just bring the tea."

Sherlock's eyes swept the Ikea-laden room as he and John sat on a fading green couch. Sherlock checked off the deductions in his mind. Single, serial dater, twin, good relationship with brother, strained with mother, many friends (few close), high libido… He looked down at the couch. John touched his wrist and his eyes flicked up. The warning in John's expression told Sherlock he must have been making a face.

"There we are," Bauer said as she set the tea tray down on the coffee table. She sat down in a matching green armchair across from them. For John's sake Sherlock made a half-effort restrain a grimace as he was forced to read, through scratches in the fabric, the various explicit scenes that had occurred there. His skill in deduction was one he wished he could at least occasionally turn off.

"You said you wanted to talk about Amy?" she asked, picking up a cup.

"Amy Elliott died in a car crash earlier this month when her body was flung through the windscreen of Brandon Riley's car. Riley also died on impact," Sherlock stated.

"He's direct isn't he?" Bauer said to John, who merely twitched his mouth to a half-smile. She looked back at Sherlock and said, "Well, I think it's good to be assertive." She licked her lips unconsciously and he was aware of John rolling his eyes next to him. If John had changed his mind about the necessity of playing polite, perhaps he would be able to properly cringe at the couch now.

"Are you investigating her death?" she continued. "Is that typical for car accidents?"

"We're looking into a few details," John said. "We need to be certain we have the record straight for her file."

Sherlock smirked. The art of bollockspeak was not lost on John. "Tell us what you remember about the last time you saw Amy."

"It was the Friday night before she died, October ninth. We were out celebrating a friend's promotion. I had driven her since she doesn't live far from me."

"Didn't," Sherlock corrected. John nudged him with his knee and Sherlock wished his capricious flatmate-assistant would make up his mind about whether or not they had to be polite.

"Didn't," she repeated, face dropping a bit. "We'd gone from the restaurant to a bar and it was quite late when I got a call from my brother."

"How late?"

"I don't know, maybe one o'clock? He said he'd had too much to drink and wanted a ride home. So I took Amy with me and we went to pick him and his mate up from some strip club or whatever ridiculous place."

"Do you remember the address?"

"Not exactly. But I remember the name. It was called Monroe's. Do you want me to write it down?"

"Not necessary."

"Anyway, I spent the ride home arguing with Tony—my brother—about whether he wasn't a dickhead, and Amy spent the ride home snogging his mate Brandon in the back seat. Both of them were pissed, so I figured it was nothing. But Amy told me she got a call from Brandon the next day asking her out on a date. It was just on Monday night—I guess they were driving back from dinner when some arsehole drunk driver ran them off the road. A Monday night! The report said it wasn't even past ten…" She trailed off, scoffing in disgust. "Well," she gave them a tight-lipped smile, "fate can be a bitch."

"There's no such thing as fate," Sherlock said.

John cleared his throat. "He means he's sorry for your loss."

"That's not what I meant."

"That's all right." She waved her hand dismissively. "How about your girlfriend, Mr. Holmes, does she believe in fate?"

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Really?" She arched her eyebrow at him.

"How well did you know your brother's mate, Brandon?" John cut in. Sherlock looked over suspiciously. That had been his next question.

"Not very well. They'd been mates for a few years; I'd seen him around once or twice."

"Are you aware that Brandon had an unusual pattern of scarring on his thighs?" Sherlock asked quickly, lest John try to steal another in his line of questioning.

She ruffled her hair a bit and said, "I don't know what you're accusing me of, but I can tell you I've never seen Brandon's legs without trousers on."

"Sounds like you know exactly what he's accusing you of," John muttered under his breath. Only Sherlock was close enough to hear it.

"Does your brother have scars on his inner thighs?" Sherlock continued.

Bauer raised her eyebrows. "In what situation, Mr. Holmes, would you imagine I've seen my brother's inner thighs recently?" Her eyes automatically dropped to Sherlock's thighs.

Sherlock felt John stiffen slightly next to him, sitting up a bit straighter, imperceptible to anyone who didn't know his posture so well, but Sherlock could read the shift in tension along his shoulders and back.

"Perhaps he mentioned an injury?"

She wasn't listening. "You're quite tall," she grinned at Sherlock, reaching out to touch his knee. He jerked it back.

"Would you just answer the question please?" John snapped.

Bauer's face darkened. She returned John's glare and said acerbically, "No. My brother never mentioned any injury involving his thighs. What kind of question is that? What does it have to do with Amy's death? Who the hell are you anyway? Do you even work for the police?"

"No," Sherlock said with a grin, rising from the couch. John followed his lead. "We don't."

She stood. "Get the hell out of here! I'm calling the police right now, you freaks!"

John chuckled after she had slammed the door and they stopped back out on the street. "I'm just imagining the reaction the police are going to have when she rings up to say two people named Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were asking her weird questions." John looked at Sherlock. "What?"

Sherlock was regarding him thoughtfully. "You're not usually the one who gets us thrown out of flats."

"Oh, come on," he said. "She was horrible!"

Sherlock quirked a brow at him.

"Well excuse me for trying to intervene before she jumped you," he muttered.

Sherlock smirked. "Was that you being chivalrous?"

"Shut up. I did it for my own sake. I wasn't about to sit there and watch a grope-fest."

Sherlock smirked harder. "Very noble of you to defend my honour."

John set his jaw. "One more word, Sherlock, and I'll shove you and your honour right back in that house and lock the door. There'll be nothing left but the soles of your shoes by tomorrow morning."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Oh, do you want a rematch? On account of your losing the last time?"

"You cheated."

"All's fair in love and war."

"If you could keep the clichés confined to your blog…"

They had walked a few blocks out onto a main road and Sherlock raised his hand to signal a cab.

"Where are we going?" John asked him.

"Home. Need a new strategy now that your bit of gallantry has put a ticking clock on our investigation."

"Fine, you know what? Next time I'll just toss her a bottle of lube and walk out."

Sherlock cringed. "Was that necessary?"

"What do you mean a 'ticking clock'?"

A cab pulled up to the kerb.

"We've got to talk to her brother before she does," Sherlock said, swinging open the door.