"Okay, Mr Lennox, you can breathe now." John hung his stethoscope back around his neck while the hefty man sitting on the bed let out a noisy breath. John waited for the gust of infected and undoubtedly rancid air to rush by his face before talking again. "It looks like a nasty cold you got there."

Mr Lennox looked confused. "Wha? Are you sure?" He sniffed loudly, and pressed a ball of tissue to his running nose.

"Yes, it's nothing serious."

"Buh…buh it doesn't feel like a cold…" He coughed a wet little cough. "My throat hurts, my head's killing me, feels like pudding's been poured in it…"

"Yes, those are all symptoms of a cold."

"I can't sleep, I haven't slept well in days…"

"Due to the cold, yes, it can be uncomfortable."

"My ears ring, it's muffled, like I'm going deaf—"

"Again, cold. Ears fill with fluid, causing them to ring." John flipped the paper over of the chart on his clipboard, and pretended to consult relevant information while subtly checking his watch. "Its fine, Mr Lennox, you just need bed rest and fluids, and maybe some extra strength antihistamine. Give it a couple of days; you'll be up again in no time." John smiled at the man. Amazing; a large gentleman in every sense—stubble, an impressive amount of muscle, hands probably very capable at dismantling things—yet he seemed in the depths of miserable suffering, holding the tissue to his nose and shuffling pathetically out of the room. John shook his head, still smiling as the door closed.

The man was his last patient of the day, a day filled with many of his kind; men and women bursting in, proclaiming to be the host of a deadly virus or flu, and leaving, slightly bewildered, with instructions on how to survive a dastardly cold. John ripped the used paper off the bed and threw it away, then sat down on his stool and sighed, closing his eyes. The day had been long and fairly uneventful, which was surprisingly as taxing as if John had been running about, performing emergency surgeries one after another.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" he called, standing up. He shouldn't have any other patients scheduled after six.

It was Emily. She smiled at him. "You're off, John?"

"Ah, yes." He tried not to rock back on his heels, which was proving difficult. "Are you?" He realised too late what he was implicating, and tried to blow it off by casually consulting his clipboard again. But he couldn't prevent his ears from pricking hopefully as he waited for her answer.

"Yes, I'm off. Going to meet Brian." Her voice lit up on the name, and John felt the familiar thud of his thoughts settling back to square one.

"Ah. Boyfriend?"

"Yes. Well, no actually." John mentally raised his eyebrows, only to lower them as she brought up her left hand, a glittering ring visible on her finger. "He asked last night!" The ring seemed to wink roguishly, as if giving John a condescending little chuckle; he had the strangest urge to make a face at it.

"That's fantastic, congratulations!" You cocky prat, John thought. To the ring.

"Oh, thanks! I'm just on top of the world!" She hummed a bit as she took his clipboard for him.

John chose that moment to leave, saying goodbye to a still humming Emily. He told himself that it was because he was tired and wanted to go home, but in truth he didn't fancy hearing any more about this phenomenal Brian. Also, she'd taken away his clipboard, giving him nothing to consult importantly as she watched.

John took his mobile out of his labcoat pocket before hanging it in the staff closet, and saw he had a message from Lestrade. He hadn't text John since apologising again after the pub, just under two weeks ago.

There's been another one.

John stared at the simple message for a few long seconds. Then he quickly fired a text back.

Where?

Baker Street. A bit farther down, and the man was on the other side of the road.

Well, I'll be seeing it, then. I'll stay back, though.

It took a few minutes for Lestrade to reply. John had hurriedly waved goodbye to whoever happened to be in the lobby and exited the clinic before he felt his phone vibrate again.

Probably best. This place is a mob.

John slipped his phone back in his pocket, and hailed a cab. He wasn't waiting for the bus today.

Lestrade hadn't been exaggerating. The place was swarmed, by civilians and reporters both. Behind the police tape the investigators and forensic team tried to work while keeping the scene hidden from the hungry eyes of the media. A hastily put up tent served that purpose, while presumably keeping the body dry from the half-hearted sleet that had started falling.

John kept to the other side of the road, walking slowly as he surveyed the scene. Taking out his phone, he sent Lestrade a text. Do you want a coffee? I was going to get one.

He waited, rocking from foot to foot as he watched the tumult across the street. He could see Lestrade now; on the phone, talking to whoever it was like they wouldn't let him get a word in. John waited a few minutes longer, then started walking again. He'd get him a coffee anyway.

He went to Speedy's and ordered two larges from a barista that seemed much more intent on craning her head over the counter in an attempt to see the crime scene. If John was so inclined he probably could have paid her in pieces of napkin.

Walking back, he was grateful for the two coffees he held that were unfreezing his fingers a bit. Though he really should have been concentrating on their contents staying in the proper place, instead he took the time to study each person he walked by. A bony man and his little dog, a woman in spiky mauve heels absolutely opposite what she should have been wearing in two inches of sleet, an older bloke with a briefcase and a hairpiece …No one quite jumped out as being handy with a rifle, but John knew criminals often had a habit of being the least likely people imaginable.

Like a cabbie, he thought, wincing as a scalding drop of coffee ran onto his hand from the leaking top on one of the cups. Or someone from IT.

John nearly spilled both of the coffees when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Awkwardly placing one cup in the crook of his arm, he pulled out his phone and checked the message.

Sure. Thanks.

Sighing, John stuffed the mobile back in his pocket and grabbed the cup from his arm before it slipped all the way through.

Just as he was about to cross the road, John spotted a gangly photographer on his side of the street, aiming a large professional looking camera at the scene. He walked over. "Ah, hi?"

"'ey." The man took another picture, kneeling low for a more dramatic angle. John didn't know whether to do anything or not; surely he wasn't doing anything illegal. But John still felt the inkling that it wasn't the best idea, as though it were promoting the killer somehow. Advertisement.

"Don't you think you have enough?" John asked, not rudely.

"Piss off." The man replied, though in the same friendly tone that John had used. He took his eye away from the camera to give John an up and down glance, as if sizing him up. He didn't look impressed. "You want to give a statement?"

"Are you a reporter?" John asked, wishing he could put the hot cups down, despite the cold. He should have asked for sleeves.

"Nah, just a freelance photo-grapher." He pronounced "photographer" as two words, and looked extremely proud of his own wit. "But sometimes they ask me if I get any quotes from people. Some don't talk to the press, but they'll talk to me."

"Ah, sorry, I don't have anything." John said politely.

"Eh, makes no difference, they never use my info anyway. Just the pics." He straightened up and put his camera away, stuffing it in a rucksack. "If that. Later." He walked off, swinging the pack over his shoulder.

John hurried across the street, conscious of the great number of police enforcement that could witness his illegal crossing. None of them seemed to notice, or care. However, Lestrade looked more then pleased at the coffee that John gratefully handed to him.

"Thanks." He took a sip, still on the phone. "I've been trying to get through to this guy's physician for the past ten minutes."

"His physician? Why his physician?" John asked, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his trousers.

"Well, I'm not quite sure if it is his physician." Lestrade tucked his phone in the crook of his neck and held out something. John took it and studied it curiously. It was a small, very battered business card in a protective baggy. John squinted, trying to make out the writing. "All we can really get out of it is that it's some kind of doctor, and the phone number. Well, most of it, save for one digit. I've been going from zero to ten for the past bit. Trial and error, though it doesn't seem to be working."

"It doesn't?" John asked, looking at him. "Trial and error not working? You'll be dividing by zero next."

"Hilarious. Eight of the numbers are households, and two don't exist, like this one." He brought the phone down, shaking his head in frustration.

John handed him back the card. "Probably changed his number, lots of people are switching to mobiles nowadays. The card looks pretty old."

"I'm guessing it is, it was crumpled at the very bottom of the man's jacket pocket." Lestrade looked back at the tent. "Other then that, there was no ID."

"None at all?"

He shook his head. "There were some other receipts for restaurants that we're running now, looked about as old, though." He smiled unexpectedly and snorted a laugh. "And a lipstick tube."

John laughed as well. "You serious?"

Lestrade looked back again, grinning. "Looks like he had a few secrets he wasn't telling." John saw his grin fade somewhat. "Maybe one of them was what landed him under that tent."

"Don't suppose I could take a look? Maybe I've seen him around."

He shook his head. "Sorry, John. Would, but its hectic, people are starting to panic. Don't want them seeing you come in and think it's suddenly a free for all." He took a long drink of coffee. "Plus, there's really not much chance of anyone recognising him at the moment. The bullet went through the back of the head."

"Bit different from the norm." John remarked.

"That there's a norm at all is worrying, and even more so since the exit wound's done a number on the face. No nose or upper mouth."

John made an involuntary face, which he attempted to cover with a sip of coffee.

Lestrade's phone began to ring, and he hurriedly pulled it out. "Sorry, John, got to take this." He motioned with his coffee. "Go on home, mate, you look frozen."

John began to deny it, before realising it wouldn't exactly be convincing if his teeth chattered while he talked. "Will do. I'll see you around." Reluctantly he waved as he turned away, his mind still whirring as he trudged on numbed feet towards 221.

How's the search?

Do you know an Ian Fenner?

Name doesn't ring a bell. That the bloke?

Seems to be. The receipts were his wife's. Same goes with the lipstick, so he wasn't amusing himself by trying on woman's pants or anything.

Why would he have her stuff in his pockets?

Apparently he was a jealous bastard. Went through her purse.

Ah…so he wasn't a nice man.

No. That seems to be a theme, funnily enough. Though the wife seemed properly devastated. She wants to see him.

Not a good idea, is it?

I wouldn't say so, no. Unless she just wants to confirm a job well done.

Still not a good idea. You should see if he was messing around behind her back. I read somewhere that cheaters are often the most suspicious of partners.

That's an idea. If it's true, it gives us a few more potential suspects. Ok, I'm off.

Have fun.

Thanks.

Yeesh, another short chapter! Sorry, guys. I believe the next few are longer. *Virtual high fives for dealing with my erratic chapter lengths and publishing*