Finally we're going to find out about this sewer stuff. One thing: in my plan for this story, I hadn't intended for this case to be important, and I was wasn't going to write it at all. But then I realised that people might actually be curious about it, so I spent a month or so coming up with the details and the whole significance of it for the story line. It'll become more obvious in the next chapter.

Very little actual narration here, sorry. We'll get back to it after this, I promise.

Also to anyone living in England, I'm sorry if my research was faulty here. As I may have mentioned before, I am in no way familiar with any of the areas I am talking about. Please don't be disappointed, I tried my best.

Anyhoo, please r&r as you have been doing, every one is deeply appreciated. YOU HAVE ALL OF MY LOVE.

ONE MORE THING I'm gonna give the chapters names now. Thought you might like to know.

Sherlock put his t-shirt on before leaving his room to make tea for the two of them- a rare occurrence. John sat for a moment in thought before crawling from the bed to follow him. He watched the detective closely, noticing in this light several colouring bruises across his face and down his arms. His neck was red just below his Adam's apple, evidence of a deadly encounter. John didn't ask. He was still jittery after the nightmare, and didn't need the fear of knowing his friend had cheated death again that very night.

There was silence between them before they sat down opposite one another, teacups cradled in still and shuddering hands.

"How much have I told you about it already?" Sherlock asked, not wanting to waste time on pointless repetition.

"Just that a body was found under a bridge with candle wax all over his hands and arms."

"Not much then. Very well, I might as well start from the beginning. It was an odd one, I'll admit. The odd ones, are, however, the most obvious ones. Although I'm sure you've realised that by now." He gently put down his cup and crossed his legs to match John's position.

"The victim's name was Stephen Richards, 27 years old. A council builder, electrician. Wife, two children, elderly mother, younger brother. Found stabbed to death under the Hammersmith flyover. Half pulled into an opening to the sewage systems. Stabbed multiple times in the stomach, once in the back. As you said, candle wax all over his lower arms."

Sherlock stopped to take a breath, allowing John time to speak. "Hammersmith flyover? Work stopped on that a couple of years ago, back in summer, what was it, 2012. And if he was an electrician, that just doesn't make sense."

"Oh very good John, yes. You're getting the hang of this." He smiled fondly at his friend, who gave a bewildered smile back, waiting for it- "Took you long enough." There it was.

"Anyway, yes that was odd, but right now it isn't important, what IS important is what was down in that area of the sewers. Lestrade phoned me a week ago about it, as you know; the network had been explored for extra evidence and of course they came across another five bodies, surrounded by the same candles that had stained Stephen Richards' sleeves. They were identified as his family members, Grace Heston his wife, Julia and Mark his children, Patricia his mother, and Matthew his brother. They had been killed with a potent dose of snake venom- Black Mamba venom to be precise, but anyway, it had killed them within twenty minutes. The police figured out that much, and then came running to me for help because they're just so utterly incompetent at their owns jobs."

"Right." John nodded, assuming Sherlock's next comment. "So then you left the case for an entire week because you thought it was boring."

"Of course it was boring John, it was obvious."

"It wasn't obvious to me," John retorted. "It still isn't."

Sherlock's appreciation of the developments in his friend's intellect disappeared instantly, and he shook his head in disappointment before sipping at his tea.

"Well. It took some effort to pinpoint exactly who committed the crime- lots of cross-referencing and trawling through files and other tedious things, but the pieces came together beautifully and in the exact manner I predicted." Sherlock took a moment to bask in his own utter genius, and continued. "Firstly I considered the employment of venom. Not many people have access to such toxic substances, save those studying or working in laboratories. That ruled out a great number of suspects, but still left quite a gaping hole in our knowledge, as the location is too close to a nodal point to single out a single university or scientific research centre. Next I considered the sizes of the bodies and their placements- The five bodies in the sewers were dragged through quite a few tunnels to reach the dumping ground, and all of them would have been fairly light. Richards, now, he was an overweight man, about 5'9"- far more of a challenge but still a doable job by a male. But our killer hadn't managed to drag him under, suggesting a female physique, or else a weak male. Another deduction in suspects. Now, the candle wax. That was where things took a strange turn." His fingers peaked under his chin. "At first I thought it could have been a cult ritual, candlelight and all that, but no, the five bodies had no identical injuries, weren't positioned in any particular way, and well, it was a sewer. Another clue- there was a stock of them. Boxes of plain candles. Why would you need so many, unless you planned to spend a lot of time down there without the use of a flashlight? But who would rather use candles over flashlights?"

"Somebody who gets headaches from florescent light?" John added hopefully. Sherlock only frowned at him.

"Of course not! You can get those torches that have those bulbs that give off natural light anyway. For goodness' sake John. It was clearly somebody who has an absolute hatred for electricity."

"You have got to be joking." The was a long pause as the doctor tried to see the logic in Sherlock's statement. "Sherlock... This is the twenty-first century. England. How could anyone even- I mean that just sounds stupid."

The detective grinned slyly.

"Old people."

"Sorry?"

"The elderly, John!" He just about jumped in his chair. "So afraid of change, always looking back at what was and never accepting that the world has left them behind!"

"Sherlock!"

"What? It's the truth. There are often old people who refuse to accept the changes in modern life. A country dweller, living much of the first half of life without wiring and piping and the luxuries we have now."

"This is England though! We have had electricity for over a hundred years!"

"And yet it is a fact that people such as the one I am describing exist. Now shut up and let me finish."

John's eyes shot to heaven but he stayed quiet and listened again. Sherlock was becoming more engrossed in his explanation and seemed to have forgotten their exchange of ten minutes ago. Good.

"So, an old person with an aversion to electricity. A female college professor, student or researcher. The two don't seem to fit together all that well until you do some digging. I instructed Lestrade to search through council files and their electricity bills, keeping an eye out for any old ones who didn't pay. In addition the Yard went searching for members of college fencing teams, specifically women's' teams."

"Fencing?"

"Her aim was almost perfect for the first three blows. The blade that stabbed Richards was a light, thin type quite like a rapier. So, fencing. Simple."

"And... Did those two things actual connect?" John was looking at him with a cocked brow, completely lost.

"Naturally. Two of the people the Yard found were related. Grandmother and granddaughter. The younger rents a house from Grace Heston. Delia Fitzgerald. Studying zoology, and happens to keep homing pigeons."

"Couldn't send messages to her grandmother in any other way..."

"Yes, yes! Anyway, have you figured out the motive yet?" He eagerly gripped the armrests. John took a moment to think.

"He was an electrician."

"Yes, and?"

"And?"

"Double motive, John."

The doctor took another sip of tea as their conversation repeated in his head. "They were threatening to evict the granddaughter because of the pigeons?"

Sherlock just about screamed with delight.

"YES, well done John, ah now I remember why I can stand living with you, you aren't nearly as stupid as you make out to be!"

John sucked at his teeth.

"Oh shut up, you know what I mean."

"Yeah." The doctor put down his cup and shuffled forwards in his chair, entwining his fingers. Sherlock twitched under his scrutiny.

"And are you going to tell me how you got so badly beaten up?"

If Sherlock had seemed uncomfortable before, it was nothing in comparison to this. He drew in a sharp breath, cheeks tingeing scarlet.

"I... Had a brief scuffle with the younger one. I'm fine now, obviously." John continued to gaze at him sternly, with some disappointment added in for good measure.