Eventually, John stood up with a disgruntled huff with the intention of nabbing some biscuits. Although, it was more likely an avoidance strategy, because the way he bit his lip in contemplation before jolting upright told the story of his feelings clear as day.

Well, so sorry to disappoint, John, but this is one thing you are never going to find out about. From these lips anyway.

Sherlock regarded his flatmate's curving back as the doctor dug through a cupboard. As he straightened up, he placed the digestives gently on the counter top, and pinching the smooth edge of the pack so that the noise of crinkling plastic rang through the kitchen like brittle teeth on sugar cubes. The counter supported his weight through his straightened arms, and he hung his head in silence.

"John, you're thinking too loudly."

"Sorry." He shook himself down and shut the press, before taking the biscuits into the next room. "I just realised how ridiculous it is for me to constantly worry about the smartest idiot in existence. By all rights, you should be able to take care of yourself. And yet here we are." He sank back into sitting and ripped the pack open after three tries with his spasming hand. The detective recorded the movements as if he were filming a documentary in his head.

"Here we are indeed. After you woke yourself up from a horrible nightmare which you neglected to tell me about until tonight, and I attempted to calm you with details of my latest case and tea. Here we are."

John nibbled on the broken pieces at the top and waved off the comment. "Not the same thing."

"No? Then why have I not resigned myself to sleep yet?"

John licked crumbs from his lips and avoided the question.

"Yeah about that, I'll just uh... Grab a pillow and sleep on the couch tonight." He sighed looking over at his new arrangement and was suddenly awash with back pains and leg pains, and I-don't-know-where-that-pain-even-is pains.

"Don't be stupid John, you've probably smelled up my sheets already."

John guffawed. "Like that's even possible, the room absolutely stinks of cigarettes." He gave his friend a look- If you think I didn't know, then you are a stupid prat.

John ended up beneath warm covers, with the smell of tobacco in his nostrils, thanking the skies for the man now resting on leather in the living room.

Two hours earlier

Sherlock gripped the note tightly; aware of the grainy quality to the paper and the friction it caused in this palm. He tried desperately not to allow the pungent stench of human filth overload his thoughts. He felt his shoes slip slightly on the damp he trod over- a burst pipe somewhere, making the smell worse.

He was on edge. He always was when he closed in on a killer, and it had been a while since such an interesting murderer had popped up. The edge was tempting, so very exciting and dangerous and thrilling that the detective had half a mind to throw caution to the wind and sprint down the tunnels and leap headfirst into the view of those he pursued. But Sherlock had been overconfident before, and that had put a bullet in Moriarty's head. He reasoned John might not be happy with him if he died again, so he pushed the urge to the corner of his thoughts.

The torch he held dimmed. Sherlock hissed as he recollected its need for new batteries. John had left them in clear view on his desk only the other day, but then he had ignored the gesture in favour of watching the reaction between chalk and fox urine. That experiment hadn't even given him good results. The stupid urine sample had ripened too long. Stupid internet and stupid suppliers with their stupid out-of-date urine.

Not the time for this, I'm chasing killers, and my torch is going out. Stop wandering off.

He walked on for another three minutes before he heard a soft scuffling further ahead and a little to the left.

Probably just a rat.

The scuffling evolved into whispers and the tinkle of thin glass on the floor.

Not a rat then.

A match was struck and applied to a larger wick, throwing lacy yellow down to where Sherlock quickly crouched and switched off his light. Footsteps rang out in front, coming closer with every breath. As quietly as humanly possible, Sherlock drew his sword.

"I know you're there, Sherlock Holmes."

Cover blown, he gracefully swept back to his full height and gripped the scimitar more confidently.

"Is this encounter going to continue being so cliched, because if you insist on being this boring then I'm just going to leave."

A thinner sword glanced off his own in a sickening screech. Two weapons so different were really going to make things difficult, but this woman- Delia Fitzgerald, presumably- seemed unperturbed and thrust forward like the sting of a wasp. Sherlock grinned at the challenge.

I'm not gonna say sorry for the wait on this chapter, because I just started my massive exams this morning and ain't nobody got time fo' dat.

Another reason: I REWROTE THIS BASTARD THREE TIMES.

THREE.

TIMES.

So yeah, you're not allowed to be annoyed. XD

Anyhoo, please review or whatever, because it's nice when you write something you think is kinda shitty and people tell you they like it...

You may have noticed I'm not in the best of moods.

Exams. *shakes fist at the sky*