John pulled the apartment key from his pocket and stuck it in the keyhole. The years of use seemed to be taking its toll on the locking mechanism, as it was taking longer and longer to jimmy it into precisely the right angle for it to work as the days went by. It wasn't bad that night, only needing a few seconds of wrenching and a couple of muttered curses before the lock clicked and the door meekly opened. John fumbled with the light switch, clicking it, and the chilly flat lit up into view.

He didn't stay long in the living room; after a few checks to make sure nothing had been stolen or destroyed somehow when he was gone, he made for his room. He'd spent the last couple of nights at Cheryl's, and after last night's argument taking up quite a chunk of sleeping time he was too bloody tired to do much else other then go to bed. It wasn't as though there was an abundance of things to do anyway; he'd finished the book he'd been reading and he knew for a fact (which was quite sad) that there was nothing on the telly that night. Chucking his keys into a bowl that sat on a table, he headed for the stairs, kicking off his shoes on the way.

When he pulled back his bed sheet, he saw a note resting on his pillow.

John, dear. I do hope you had fun at Cheryl's. Just letting you know (in case you we're worrying on their disappearance) that I picked up the rent checks this morning when I dropped off a meatloaf, which is now in the fridge. I let Paul know that he's welcome to some of it, though he informed me that he'd rather not eat meat. He's a strange boy.

John smiled and put the note on his endtable. From what he's seen, Paul didn't eat anything other then canned beans and instant oatmeal. John remembered offering him a liquorice twist at one point and him replying with a solemn shake of the head and some mumblings about red dye and chemicals. At that point it took John great effort to refrain from asking the boy if he'd actually peeked at the ingredients on one of the instant oatmeal packets that made up half of his diet.

This didn't bother John, though; more room in the fridge for him. It did, however, make the microwave a constant roulette, even more then when John still worked at Bart's. Paul seemed to enjoy his food molten, given he set the clock at about five minutes for each meal.

Though I suppose it'll never be the worst thing I've found in the microwave. John thought wryly, shutting off the light. Well, on an aesthetic level, anyway.

John woke the next morning blinking at the weak sun peeking through the shades of his window. It was a friendly sight, if only temporary. It was enough to set John humming as he pulled on a jumper. His shift didn't start until twelve, which gave him plenty of time to have some toast and a few cups of tea.

When he wandered into the kitchen a bit later, he saw Paul turning off the whistling kettle and the microwave already in full rotation. John glanced at the clock; ten. Right on bloody schedule.

"Did you get bread?" John asked, opening the breadbox and peering in. Empty, save for a miserable-looking bag of crumbs.

"Ah, no…I don't remember you telling me?" Paul said, confused.

"No worries." John actually wasn't sure himself if he'd said anything either. He closed the breadbox. There went the toast, then. "Do we have milk?" He took out a mug from the cupboard and popped a teabag in, then reached for the kettle.

"I just put it back in the fridge." Paul wiped his arm across the thick framed glasses he was wearing to get rid of the steam. John knew for a fact that he had twenty twenty vision, though for some reason the boy wore glasses regardless. John supposed that it was a fad, and didn't bother asking. Though he couldn't quite banish the mental image of a future London, where perfectly healthy people sported bright coloured hearing aids or trundled around in sparkly neon wheelchairs.

John opened the fridge, and there it was; soy milk that Paul insisted on investing in, at a level in the carton that John was positive it never deviated from. He wondered if Paul kept a stash of milk in a contraband minifridge and used it to keep the main milk at a precise amount, for the sole reason of keeping everything exactly the same every day.

Paul opened the door to the microwave and pulled out his bowl of porridge, which was bubbling in a slightly sinister manner. With an expression of mild approval, he simply plopped a spoon in the bowl and headed off to his room, with a mug of extremely milky tea in his other hand. "Do you want me to get bread later?" he called over his shoulder as he went.

"I suppose, if it isn't any trouble." John replied duly, sighing and taking the Exactly The Same Milk out of the fridge.

"Okay." He left, and John heard his door close.

John took his tea and headed for the living room. The bus would be around at eleven, so he grabbed the newspaper that Paul very kindly brought in and flopped down in his chair. Shaking out the paper, he sipped at his tea as he read the headlines.

John saw the murder case on the second page. Real estate agent shot dead in car park…John skimmed it briefly. There wasn't anything remotely conclusive. In fact, the article probably could have made do with just the title. It looked to John like Lestrade and the rest of the Yard were keeping closed lips on this one. It was probably best that the public were kept in the dark that a possible skilled assassin was currently active and working in the city, mostly because John had a feeling many people would be lining up to hire.

John drained the last cold drops of his tea and threw the newspaper across another armchair. He stretched and groaned; he'd agreed to work overtime that day, filling in for a colleague out suddenly with the flu, since no one else seemed to be available. You'd think a workplace full of doctors could have noticed the signs of a flu before making irreversible plans, John thought dryly as he grabbed his jacket on his way to the door.

He stepped outside, locking the door behind him. No longer bright; the sun had been veiled by a blanket of grey cloud, threatening flurries. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and started towards the bus stop around the corner.

He kept his eyes on the sidewalk, determined to avoid being a casualty of London's ample population of lazy pet owners. He was so intent on his path that he accidentally bumped into a man walking fast in the other direction. "Sorry," John said politely, looking up. The man grunted, already on his way again after regaining his balance. Without another thought John returned to his sidewalk examination, and to his idle contemplation on whether he should go for lunch at the new café that had opened near the clinic—

CRACK

There was the collective sound of shocked gasps and screams from the sidewalks, and John's stomach jumped horribly, the flash of light still in his peripheral vision and the deafening sound ringing in his ears. His mind whirled, and suddenly the drab greys of London disappeared; he was surrounded by brightness and a cacophony of noise, plumes of sand erupting around him, and he was kneeling in a hot trench, trying to keep out of sight while pressing a wad of gauze into a deep valley on a gasping man's leg…then the moment passed and he was back on Baker Street, frozen—in every sense of the word—on the sidewalk. He immediately began searching for the source of the flash and the sharp noise, a noise akin to the sound of a door slamming in an empty room, though he knew in his bones that it wasn't something quite as innocent. He was frantically scanning the halted pedestrians across the street when he heard a muffled thump behind him. He whirled around.

A man, the man John instantly recognised as the one he'd brushed against moments before, had slumped to the ground. Without a thought John ran to his side, his mind automatically switching into the set of his profession. Kneeling on the hard pavement, John grabbed the man's still shoulder and gingerly turned him from his side onto his back, John's eyes immediately snapping to the forehead.

A rose of red and black was blossoming, with blood already trailing down the man's immobile face in multiple rivulets. The shot had hit in the precise centre of the forehead, a stunning parallel to the victim John had seen the night before. "My god…" John muttered. Knowing full well there wasn't much of a point, John put two fingers on the neck regardless, mostly for the benefit of the growing crowd of agape civilians. Often the public only accepted death with the announcement of absent pulse, even if the body had been shot multiple times or cut in two.

Even with the din of phones being unlocked and dialled coming from all sides, John stood and took out his own phone. He called Lestrade's mobile; better he heard from him rather then a garbled account mashed together from a group of hysterical bystanders.

Lestrade uttered more then a few words not permissible in front of the elderly when John explained the situation. After barking muffled instructions for about ten minutes he advised John to stay with the body, and to do his best on keeping the public's hands and cameras off. John took one look at the sea of forward facing mobile phones and gently told him that the second instruction had been failed before it was uttered. A few more choice words, then just well stay put, anyway.

John smiled as he hung up, then felt his grin fade when he looked back at the dead man. Well…this wasn't exactly on my agenda today. With this in mind, John made a quick call to the clinic, explaining that he was, unfortunately, unable to come to work that day. Even with his excuse of witnessing a murder, the doctor who had picked up still managed to sound peeved. John felt a bit nettled at that point—he knew that they were understaffed that day, but unless the man on the pavement suddenly sat up, dusted himself off and exclaimed "my word, that sure got my juices flowing!", there wasn't much of a chance that John was coming in any time soon.

"Was there anything particularly notable about the man when you saw him?" Donovan asked. Or sighed. Sighed was the better word.

John shrugged. He knew, in the back of his mind, that it'd tick her off. "He was in a hurry. He also didn't apologise for bumping into me."

"Didn't you say that you bumped into him?"

"It was a mutual bump." John realised how that sounded far too late. Donovan raised her eyebrows. He hastily continued on, "I mean, even if it wasn't, it's still customary to say a quick sorry."

"So you bumped into him and he did nothing?"

"Well, he made a noise, like a grunt. Then he walked off, quickly. Like he was in a hurry, as I said before."

Donovan made a few notes on her tiny pad. "And when you heard the shot; what did it sound like?"

"Defiantly a rifle. No pistol I know could have made that noise." John motioned towards the buildings on the opposite side of the road. "From that building. Middle floor, more or less, the flash was in the corner of my eye so I can't be too positive."

She glanced at where he was pointing, then made one more note. "Alright, thanks." She strode off quickly.

A cab stopped just outside the hastily put up police tape. From it emerged Steve, who walked purposely towards the tape and ducked under without hesitation. John waved, and Steve approached him, his head swivelling around, taking in the scene.

"Well, John, I admit I wasn't expecting us to meet again so soon." he said, glancing down at the body behind John.

"That makes two of us." John said, crossing his arms across his chest in an attempt to warm up. After some thought, he had texted Steve after calling the clinic. Hey, Steve, it's John, from the pub. There's been another shooting, on Baker Street. I swear this has nothing to do with me.

John relayed the information as best he could, considering there wasn't much he knew. Steve wrote everything down, except unlike Donovan he actually looked like he was paying close attention. "Was there anyone that you remember even before the shooting? Across the street, entering the building?"

"No, I don't…I was staring at the sidewalk." John said, sheepishly.

"Ah." Steve put his notes away. He looked across the street, at the row of buildings.

"John!" John turned to see Lestrade hurrying towards him. He put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Sorry I was tetchy the phone. You alright?"

"Fine." He shrugged. "I've seen worse."

Lestrade looked at him strangely, and only then did John realise what he'd said. His mind suddenly flashed to another day; he shook his head to get rid of the image. Glancing down at the body, John felt his stomach clench; who was this mans family, his friends? "Are your men searching the buildings, Greg?"

"Working on it, yeah." It was only then that Lestrade noticed Steve, who'd wandered a few metres away, studying the body and once more scribbling on his papers. "Ah…hey, Steve!" He shot John a questioning glance.

"I texted him." John explained, feeling a bit guilty.

"Hello, Greg." Steve said, walking towards them and looking up from his notes. He smiled, then frowned, looking at his notes again. "The sniper seems to be getting more confident. Or more jobs."

"Detective Inspector," a man in a plastic forensic suit rushed towards them, "the victim's wallet. We're running the name now." He handed Lestrade a brown, beat up leather wallet.

"Thanks." Lestrade flipped it open, holding up to the weak light managing to shine through the cloud. "Nicolas Green…thirty nine."

"Not married," John pointed out, nodding towards the man's ringless hand.

"And not from Ireland. At least, his driver's licence says he's from London, so there goes that connection." Lestrade closed the wallet.

"So, what does that leave?" John asked. "It doesn't seem that they're connected personally—"

"So it's defiantly a hired gun." Steve finished, speaking up after a few minutes of silence. "Somehow this man…or woman," he added quickly, "is offering his services to the public."

"We just don't know how." Lestrade put in. "It's not exactly like they can put an ad in the paper."

"I've seen this before." Steve said quietly.

"Have you?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. In Dublin. People were falling to the ground with no apparent cause or connection. You might have read it in the papers."

"Might have, yeah," Lestrade said, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember.

"Of course, the headlines would have been bigger if we'd solved the case." John saw Steve's eyes flicker with frustration behind the fogged lenses. "We never caught the gunman."

John felt his mind slip again; a dancing red light on cloth. He shook himself back to the present. "So…Steve, you're thinking this is the same gunman?"

"I'd be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind. What I'm wondering now is why he'd come here…"

"Well, maybe because you lot were onto him back in Ireland?" An arrogant and nasally voice said from behind. John didn't even need to turn.

"Oh, hello." Steve said, smiling at Anderson, who was giving him a suspicious look that he wasn't even attempting to hide as he approached them.

"Who are you?" Anderson asked, crossing his arms and making an obvious attempt to look intimidating. "This is a closed crime scene."

"Anderson…" Lestrade said tiredly.

"My name is Steve Daniel. I'm an inspector from Dublin, and I'm helping on this case because it shows similarities to one that I've worked on." Steve gestured towards the body. "In answer to your statement earlier, I don't believe that a man attempting to start fresh would immediately begin his new life with a couple of murders."

"Some men are crazy." Anderson retorted.

"Well, for simplicity's sake, let's assume for now that there's a different reason." Steve replied pleasantly.

"Anderson, did you get any information on the man?" Lestrade wisely interjected.

"What? Oh, yeah…" Anderson took out a notebook. "Seems he worked in construction. A supervisor. No police record."

"Any enemies?" Steve asked. Anderson gave him a peeved glance. "My apologies," Steve said quickly. "Greg, could you please ask if the man had enemies?"

John grinned at the look on Anderson's face; as though he'd tasted something that was a little too salty. "Anderson, we don't have time for this. Did the man have enemies?" Lestrade asked impatiently.

"Well, no." Anderson replied moodily. "No one specific. But, no one seemed to have anything good to say about him."

"Well, that doesn't get us too far, given that could be said about plenty of people." Steve said, giving Anderson a friendly smile. John did his best to turn his laugh into a cough.

"Alright." Lestrade said, evidentially sensing Anderson's blood pressure. "Well, try to dig up some info on the people who knew him best, see what you can find."

"I'll get on it." Anderson replied sullenly, closing his notebook and giving Steve one more look of distrust before walking away.

"Charming." Steve remarked, watching him go. "Is he always like that?"

"Usually." John said. "Sometimes he doesn't talk, though. It's a treat when that happens."

"Okay, okay." Lestrade said, holding up his hands.

"Why is Anderson even working this case, Greg?" John asked. "I thought he worked Linguistics."

"Yeah, well, we're a bit short staffed lately." Lestrade replied wearily. "People keep calling in with the flu."

"Yeah, that's been going around."

"You should also find out where this man was in such a hurry to get to, in case it produces any leads." Steve spoke up, nodding to the body and adjusting his glasses.

"Well, I suppose that's what Anderson will find out, if he's successful." Lestrade said, rocking back on his heel. "Anything past John's place is a possibility."

"Yes, but we know he wasn't heading anywhere in walking distance." Steve said, a note of impatience in his voice.

"Wait…we do?" John said, confused. Suddenly, he was hit with a strong sense of déjà vu.

Steve glanced from him to Lestrade. "Didn't I tell you? I overheard some witnesses talking about how the man was hailing a cab when it happened."

"Oh, really?" Lestrade said, interested.

"Yes. Oh, of course!" Steve exclaimed, clearly understanding something. "That would also explain how the shot is on the forehead."

"That's right…it would have been on the side of his head if he'd been walking." John said, understanding.

"Did the witness say anything else?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, now that you mention it. I'm surprised Anderson didn't say anything; I think he was the one talking to them. One old woman said that he'd come out of one of the buildings over there," Steve pointed to a row not far beyond John's flat. "That would explain why he didn't hail a cab earlier."

"Anyone on this street would know that where he was is the best place to hail a cab." John added. "Maybe he lives around here."

"His address isn't on Baker Street," Lestrade said, looking through the wallet again.

"Well, he must have been visiting one of the other flats, or one of the office buildings. Either way it's something to go on, so you can start asking around this area." Steve said.

Lestrade looked a little miffed; John supposed it must be something to be given instructions by a man who wasn't even technically on the case. Especially orders that he was right to follow. "Right. Okay." Lestrade moved away, motioning to some of his men.

It had started to snow by then; little flakes that melted the moment they hit the ground. John wondered silently if he was allowed to leave. He'd given all that he could dredge up, and to be honest he didn't fancy standing out in the snow. He was cold enough as it was. "Ah, Greg?" John raised his hand and tried to get his attention.

"I don't believe you need to stay any longer, John." Steve said, taking a picture of the body with his phone.

"Are you?" John asked, annoyed.

"No, I need to contact the station, do some research. This new body throws a bit of a monkey wrench into the case." His lip twitched, as though he was annoyed as well. "It complicates things."

"Oh…well…I suppose I'll go then." John glanced back at 221. Then he shook his head; no, John, you're going to work. It isn't like there's a heap of excitement in staying home anyway. Just telly and tea with some Exactly The Same Milk.

John looked about, then headed towards the bus stop, stamping his feet to get the feeling back in his toes. He called a goodbye to Lestrade, who waved, and one to Steve, who said nothing. He just continued to search his phone, and gave a tiny jerk of his head to indicate that he'd heard him, but didn't particularly care. John made a face as he turned and continued walking, ducking under the tape. Prat.

"Have a good night, Dr Watson. Try not to witness any murders before you get home, eh?" The interns chuckled. The one who'd called out was the self proclaimed funny one, and invariably followed each of his jokes with a loud nieh! of laughter and two hard claps of his hands. John smiled an automatic smile as he shrugged on his coat while the intern niehed and clapped.

"Randal, don't be an arse." Emily scolded as she walked by.

"What? All I said was—"

"Goodnight, Randal. Night, Em." John said, giving her a real smile before heading for the door. "Night, Mary," he added to the receptionist as he walked past her desk. She smiled and waved, popping a scotch mint in her mouth before continuing her typing.

It was still snowing lightly when John stepped outside, with two wet inches on the pavement. John shivered as he walked quickly towards the bus stop. He kept meaning to buy a new winter jacket. But whenever he took a look at the prices at the stores he would begin mentally tabulating how much the same amount of money would last for food and expenses, eventually throwing up his hands mentally and thinking sod it. Then he'd go get Chinese. Even then, as he was thinking of a warm coat, he was wondering if he'd actually rather have Chinese instead. He never did get to have lunch at the new café.

He made a call to Paul, and asked him if he'd like anything from the Chinese place. He gravely answered that he supposed he'd have a small vegetable chow mien. Later that night he and John sat at the table eating in silence, save for the soft pattering of flakes on the windows.