John was gazing deeply into the wall over the stove before he realised he should really have flipped his grilled cheese sandwich by now; he had been abruptly brought out of his reverie by the smell of burning toast. Quickly he turned it over, and frowned at the very dark underside.

"Your toast is burning, I think." Paul noted, wandering into the kitchen with his laptop on his arm, heading to turn on the kettle.

"Really? How did you figure that?" John asked in a surprised tone, his eyes watering slightly from the smoke.

"Well, because I can smell it…and there's some smoke…"

"That's…that's fine, Paul, I get it. And yes, I know it's burning."

"Oh." Paul sat at the table, setting his laptop down. He began typing, clattering the keyboard at a phenomenal rate considering he only used about three fingers. "Someone got shot down the street, I read."

John slid his sandwich on a plate, where it thudded on the ceramic in a not very appetizing manner. "Yes. I saw the scene. Dreadful, isn't it?"

"Yep." Paul continued typing, staring at the screen with wide eyes behind his thick glasses.

John waited a bit longer for him to continue. Then, realising the conversation had ended, he turned his attention back to his sandwich. By the time it cooled enough to eat, it had a texture that would put a plank of dry wood to shame.

Swallowing a bite, John shuddered and turned back to Paul. "Where did you read about the man being shot?"

"Hmm? Oh, the newspaper. It's in the living room."

"Thanks." John put down his sandwich and headed out of the kitchen.

"You gonna finish that sandwich?" Paul called.

John paused in the doorway. "Probably not. You'd do best not to either, Paul."

"You should throw it away if not, John, I've seen fruit flies about."

"I'll gladly do it in a minute." John walked out.

"I've seen quite a few fruit flies, John!"

"Paul, sod off, will you. I doubt even fruit flies want what I just made."

"Alright…"

John saw the newspaper set precisely flush with the edge of the endtable it was on. He picked it up and unfolded it. On the front page, a large photograph was next to a headline of "Third Shooting in Central London Gives Rise to Panic". John realised with a frown that the photo was most likely one that was taken by the photographer he had met. At least, Lestrade didn't look like he'd drunk his coffee yet. John again skimmed the article, finding no more then he expected. "For the third time, police are baffled at the seemingly random murders"…"A sense of fear is sweeping the streets of London"… "Nothing is given on the identity of the latest victim gunned down on Baker Street"… "It's at times like this one almost wishes the fable of Sherlock Holmes would rise and help solve this baffling and bloody puzzle"… John threw the paper back on the table. No more then he expected.

A bit of a sour start to the weekend, John thought moodily, picking up the remote and clicking on the telly. He flopped down in a chair and resigned to a morning of bad talkshows and cooking programmes.

John's phone began to vibrate, buzzing about on the table he'd set it on. Settled deep into his chair, John wasn't making much of an attempt to answer. Paul walked in from the kitchen, carrying his now closed laptop and a cup of tea. "John, your phone is ringing."

"Yes, Paul, I realise that." John said, determinedly keeping his eyes on the whisk that was mixing eggs vigorously on the screen.

Paul walked over and looked at his phone. "Steve's calling."

Steve? John kept looking at the screen. "I'm not answering at the moment. I'm very busy."

"You aren't, really." Paul remarked.

John closed his eyes for a second. Then he opened them and turned to Paul, who was still eyeing his phone. "Paul, should you not be studying?"

Paul looked at him, then his laptop. The most curious look of horror spread across his face, and without another word he scurried to his room, his tea splashing around dangerously in his mug. John heard his door close with a slam.

John debated for a few moments whether or not he should call Steve back, and decided not to. He would, eventually, but at the moment he didn't feel up to small talk, or even chatting about the most recent development in the case. He'd wondered if Lestrade had told him, since Steve was investigating it, somewhat. Then again, the dead man was a Londoner through and through, with no ties whatsoever to Ireland.

John flicked through the channels absently. Steve could wait. He hadn't contacted John since the night at the pub, and Lestrade had said he'd gone back to Ireland. It seemed strange that he would come back for a case that had clearly left his country.

Maybe his wife chucked him out again, John thought. I'll call him back in a bit.

But then, John was also reluctant to talk to him again, mostly because he knew that their last conversation would most likely be brought up one way or another. And John really did not feel like talking on that subject that morning. Not that he particularly wanted to any other morning.

Bzzzzzz. The phone vibrated again, moving closer to the edge of the table. It stopped quicker, so it was either a text, or the caller had accurately assumed their call would most likely go unanswered.

John spent a few more minutes flicking through channels before he threw down the remote and heaved himself out of the seat. His reason for getting up was as much for preventing the phone from falling off the table on its next ring as it was for checking the message. He clicked it on, and saw a missed call and a text from Steve.

John please call me back.

"Keen, are you?" John muttered. Well, he wasn't going to call. He slid open the keyboard and typed a text.

What is it, Steve? It wasn't the most polite thing he could have written, but John felt he'd used up all his morning etiquette in not strangling Paul.

A few minutes later his phone buzzed again. Why didn't you text me about the shooting?

It wasn't my place to, I figured Lestrade would. Why didn't you call him? So Lestrade had said nothing. He'd either not felt the need, forgot, or expected John to.

I have, all morning. His line's been busy.

Makes sense, since the case doesn't. Where did you hear about it, then?

I got the London paper.

Well, sorry then. Are you in London?

I'm on my way now.

John was surprised at this text. But then again, wasn't that what Steve had said when they met, that he often came to London on cases? His marriage must really be on the downhill slide.

Well, just text Lestrade then, he'll get it eventually. Weather's horrible, so he's probably at the Yard.

John, Steve is back in town.

John stared at this one, nonplussed, for a few seconds. Then he realised that it had been Lestrade who texted, with relief that Steve had not suddenly slipped into third person.

I know, I'm talking to him now. He's going to want to look at the scene.

Well, it's cleared up by now. But he can come down to the Yard and take a look at the evidence if he wants.

I'm assuming the scene's been cleared, then.

Yeah. Lestrade said you could go look at the evidence at the Yard.

Fine. Were you at the scene as well? You weren't in the picture.

I was burning myself with coffee at the time.

That isn't healthy, John.

There was a light knock on the door. John walked over and opened it; Ms Hudson smiled warmly at him, holding a covered dish. "Hello, dear. I made much more casserole then I could ever eat myself, so I brought over a bit." She dropped her voice down to a stage whisper. "I'm sorry, were you on the phone?"

"No, no," he slipped his phone in his pocket, "just a few texts." He took the dish and stood aside so she could come in. "Thank you, Ms Hudson, I know I'll never starve as long as you keep making "too much"."

"It was no trouble, John. You were smiling, were you texting Cheryl?" She hurried over to the fridge, opened it, and began rearranging the food inside to make room for the casserole.

"Ah," John said, wincing inwardly. "Well…"

"Oh dear…" Ms Hudson said, and for a moment John wondered if he'd let something awful grow in the fridge, but then she turned to him and gave him a sad smile. "Did you two have a quarrel?"

"How did—" John shook his head, amazed. "Yes, we did."

"Well, I'm sure it'll pass over, John."

"Actually, I don't think it'll work out." John shrugged and put the casserole in the fridge, then closed the door. "I think it was for the best."

"Well, she's the only one losing in this situation." Ms Hudson said assuredly, patting his cheek. "Who was that on the phone, if it wasn't her?"

"Oh, nobody, just a…friend. Did you want a cuppa before you go?"

"Oh no, dear, I'm afraid I'm already running late for a doctors appointment." She rubbed her hip. "A friend, hmm? Was it that Detective Inspector?" John saw her subconsciously pat her hair and grinned.

"No, another inspector though." Practically feeling her curiosity, he added, "His name is Steve. We met at Peggy's."

Her expression became concerned. "Peggy's? I don't like the sound of meeting people there, John, all sorts go there, it isn't exactly high class…"

"No, he's fine, he's helping the Detective Inspector with a case." John suddenly felt twelve, asking his mother for permission to go to a new friend's place. "Anyway, he's not exactly a friend. Just a colleague."

"Well…" She still sounded uncertain, but let the subject drop. She looked around. "Is Paul wandering about? Or is he studying?"

"It's eleven, so he's in his room." John shook his head. "Is school even learning anymore, or has it skipped that step and just sets exams every day?"

"Oh, I believe his finals are finished this week, since he's leaving next week. Is it really eleven already?" She checked her watch, giving an anxious little cluckat the time. "Would you do me a favour, dear, and tell Paul that he only needs to pay a half months rent?"

"Yes, absolutely." John walked her down the stairs to the door, and only then realised what she'd just said. "Paul is leaving?" he asked, surprised.

"Oh, yes, he's going back home. That reminds me, did you want me to put a new ad in the paper? Though it might be difficult getting an exchange student with the holidays coming, John."

John felt slightly overwhelmed. "Ah…well…" He shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Ms Hudson. I'll just pay the next while in full, and after the New Year I'll put an ad in." It felt too soon to have to break in yet another flatmate, a process that more often then not involved John explaining to shocked and slightly disgusted students that the skull on the mantle was a permanent fixture. The same went for the skull painting on the wall. They all most likely assumed he had an unhealthy fondness for human remains, since John never added a reason other then "they come with the flat". He did this partly because it was true; they had been there when he arrived, and they'd be there if he left. He also simply had a secret enjoyment seeing pampered, overconfident exchange students turn a bit green, and watching their expressions when he introduced the skull as "a friend of a friend."

"Well, if you're sure…" Ms Hudson gave his hand a parting squeeze. "I just can't bear to think of you alone on Christmas. If we're both lonely that day I'll make us dinner, hmm?"

"Sounds lovely, Ms Hudson."

John waved at her as she left, and he saw her hail a cab. He smiled to himself as he watched the cab drive off. But just as he was closing the door, he saw a flicker in his peripheral vision.

He opened the door wide again, and scanned the sidewalk in front of the flat. No one. He felt his smile fade as he looked across the street, to the buildings opposite. Nothing—wait. John squinted. And he saw the briefest flash of something disappearing behind a window.

John swallowed. He glanced around once more, with the intention of looking like he had seen nothing, but in his head his thoughts were racing. The tidy, rational and fairly calm part of his brain was saying that it could have been literally anything, and that even if it was a person it didn't automatically make it a person with a high calibre rifle. But then there was another significant bit of his brain going off in wild directions—wondering if he should call someone, wondering if he should go to the building and check it out, wondering if he'd cleaned his pistol recently…

After a few moments of contemplation, he realised that standing quite motionless in his doorway, in broad view, was not the best method of going about the situation. Quickly he backed into the flat, keeping his eye on the third storey window he'd seen the flash, then closed the door and bolted the lock. He resisted the urge to lean against the door, instead heading for the stairs, making the distance between him and the front of the building first priority.

As soon as he entered the flat, he took out his phone and quickly dialled Lestrade's mobile. He paced the length of the room, listening to it ring, and just as the call clicked to voicemail he hung up, muttering under his breath. He slide out the keyboard and sent a text for Lestrade to call him back as soon as possible. As an afterthought, he also sent a message to Steve: If you're with Lestrade, tell him to answer his bloody phone.

John hurried up to his room, taking two stairs at a time. Going to his dresser, he rummaged around until he found what he was looking for; a pistol, nestled deep in the corner.

His phone vibrated. Checking, he saw that Steve had replied. I'm not. Why?

Because I think I saw someone on the third floor in the building opposite me, the same area I saw a flash last time when the sniper fired. John put down the phone and checked his gun; still loaded. He slid it in his pocket.

The text came back swiftly. Did they see you see them?

Steve, I'm not even sure that what I saw was a person. But I did stand there for an unusually long period of time.

Are you in your flat?

Yes. Though not for long, if Lestrade doesn't get my message I'm going to take a look.

John felt significantly less brave then the text made him sound. But he levelled his shoulders and headed for the stairs. He wouldn't go into the building; no size gun in his hand could possess him to do something so idiotic. He'd go and get a small coffee from Speedy's, sit down for awhile, and watch. If someone came out of the building that carried anything remotely long, he would…well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Before he even started down the stairs, however, he felt his phone buzz once more.

Do not leave the flat stay there.

John felt a spike of frustration. They could get away. John waited for the prompt text back, resigning to hold off going out until Steve replied.

Waiting provided no result. There was no answering text from Steve, or Lestrade for that matter. John sat on his bed as the minutes ticked by, clenching and unclenching his hand, then thumbing the safety on his gun. With every passing moment he felt his restlessness increase, until he felt he could no longer stand it. He jumped to his feet and headed downstairs to the living room. He could at least take a glance out the window. If there was no one in the windows opposite, then he was heading out. Sod Steve.

Just as he was shrugging on his jacket and grabbing his keys, John felt his phone ring. With mounting irritation, he pulled out his phone and read the message.

The building's empty now. Whoever it was left in a hurry.

John blinked, staring at this message that made little sense. Then, fuming, he sent a heated text back. So he left, and he got a cab, or bloody walked. While I was in here. John threw his phone down on the chair and ran for the window. Yanking back the shade, he peered out, looking around the sidewalk in front of the opposite building. No one. He looked as far to the side as he could, trying to make out any figures hurrying away. Nothing.

Just as he was pulling back, he caught a flash of someone. Coming out of the building. John leaned forward and looked harder, nearly thunking his head on the glass. Then he realised who it was, letting out a sigh of mixed relief and annoyance.

Steve walked quickly to the sidewalk, looking left and right, presumably doing exactly what John had just finished doing. He put a hand to his brow and tried to block the clouded sun and the light snow as he gazed down the sidewalk. Evidentially as unsuccessful as John, Steve shook his head and reached into an inner pocket, pulling out his phone.

Bzz. John turned about and went to grab his phone.

Whoever it was most likely left through a back door. You wouldn't have been able to do anything.

Back door? Then why did you just look down the sidewalk in front of the building?

John waited a little longer for this reply.

Precaution.

John snorted. Right. How in gods name did you even get here so fast?

I was near the Yard when you texted. I came back here instead.

Must have been a fast cabbie.

They tend to be, with the promise of a hefty tip.

Philosophies we can all live by. John glanced about the flat, measuring its messiness and his reluctance verses his curiosity. He eventually caved to the latter. Did you want to come up? My thumbs are feeling faint.

As soon as the text was sent John began hastily cleaning, throwing things about in a frenzy and stuffing odds and ends out of sight as he attempted to make the flat look halfway presentable.

The phone vibrated. John stuffed a newspaper under the chair it had been on and snatched the phone up, sitting on the floor for a minute as he caught his breath and checked the message. I suppose I could for a moment. Which door is yours?

221 b. Right next to the cafe. Give me a second to come down.

John heaved himself to his feet. He took a glance behind him as he headed for the door. It hardly looked better then before he'd tidied—in his dismayed opinion it almost looked worse—but it'd have to do. Ah well, John thought, jogging down the stairs. If he mentions the mess I can say its Paul's.

John yanked open the door, almost absentmindedly brushing his hand against the pistol handle in his pocket.

Steve noted this with raised eyebrows. His glasses were fogged, either from the cold, or they had somehow become even more scratched since the last time John had seen him. He was still wearing the blue jacket, but he had wound a scarf around his neck to fight the biting wind, and flakes of snow were dotted in his ginger hair and beard. John quickly brought his hand back up, holding it out to shake. "Hey, Steve, come in. You must be chilled."

Steve shook his hand as he came in, closing the door behind him. He pulled down the scarf. "Not much." He looked around the foyer. "This is yours?"

"Ah, no, this floor is my landlady's. Mine's up a flight."

They headed back up. John huffed a bit; it did feel as though he'd done nothing but traverse stairs in the past half hour. Steve followed behind, not saying anything. When they walked through the door of the flat, John hurried forwards, noticing a pile of books on one of the two chairs in the living room.

After he'd cleared both chairs he looked back to Steve. "Sit, if you want. I can make tea if you fancy on staying a bit?"

Steve was busy looking around him, studying the flat, probably taking in the mess. John watched him, feeling almost nervous, as though Steve was some sort of house inspector. After a few more moments Steve answered, still looking about. "Don't trouble yourself. I'm probably heading for the Yard soon."

"Alright, then." John said, awkwardly. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and one hit the gun. He felt like taking it out and putting it away, but John knew that pulling out a pistol with no warning wouldn't exactly make his guest feel comfortable.

Steve didn't notice his awkwardness, or at least didn't mention it. Instead, John saw his mouth quirk slightly, and John knew it was in revulsion as he realised what Steve was now looking at.

"Yes, I know." John said with a smile.

"A skull." Steve said, nodding to the mantle.

John went to it and picked it up, turning it over in his hand, and grinned at Steve, who made even more of a face. "I know. A friend. Of a friend." John put it down. He couldn't ignore the strong déjà vu any more then he could ignore the irony of role reversal.

"That's…disgusting." Steve said jerkily. He turned away, evidentially disturbed.

"What with your line of work, I'd expect you to have a stronger stomach."

"In my line of work, human remains usually stay in the morgue."

"Not always." John took it to himself to sit down on a chair. "Speaking of which…was there anythingin the building to suggest someone was there? Anything at all?"

Steve finally sat down, as gingerly as though the chair was constructed of toothpicks and glue. "Nothing."

Of course. John kneaded his brow with his fingers. "So either he raced out the back, leaving no trace, or I'm seeing things."

"It would seem so."

"Well, that's heartening." John leaned back heavily in the chair. "I see things." He suddenly chuckled. "I see, but I don't observe."

"What's so funny?" Steve asked inquisitively.

"Nothing. Just…" John cleared his throat, wishing he hadn't spoken at all. "Just something a friend used to say."

"Oh." Steve glanced up, looking at the skull again, and rubbed his bearded chin. "Does his head now sit atop your mantle?" His sounded as though he almost dreaded the answer.

"What? No, no." John laughed again. "But you're close. That's a friend of his."

"Ah..." Steve was obviously puzzled, and for a second John felt almost sorry for him.

The silence dragged on for a while more. John wished that Steve had agreed to tea; at least it would have given him something to occupy his hands, to clatter about and break the quietness a little. But though John was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Steve seemed no more perturbed then when he first walked in. He continued to sit, a bit more relaxed, in the chair, looking around the flat with polite interest. John had hoped there would be more to discuss about the possible man in the building, unfortunately that didn't seem the case.

"So…" John said, desperately searching his mind for something to say. "Back to Ireland, hm?" It wasn't the most fascinating topic, but at least it was a step above talking about the past few weeks of grey skies.

"What? Oh, yes…" Steve tore his eyes away from the skull once more. "I was researching the first victim. Also looking at the past cases of the assassinations we've had there."

"Anything new?"

"Nothing that we haven't already gone over." Steve adjusted his glasses, frowning. "Who was the last victim?"

"Name was Ian…lets see…" John strained to remember. "Fenner. Ian Fenner."

"Occupation?"

"Not sure, have to ask Lestrade, won't you?" John picked up his phone and checked; no reply. "Horrid husband, though. Apparently he went through his wife's purse, looking for evidence that she was cheating."

Steve nodded. "So, the wife is a suspect, then." He thought for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. "And…I suppose…if the husband's instincts are correct, the man she's having an affair with could be a suspect as well."

Well done, Steve John thought, but didn't say."If the husband was cheating too, you can't rule out his own affairs as well."

Steve frowned. "Bit hypocritical, isn't it?"

"Just a bit."

"And yet, if we're assuming it's the same sniper, there has to be some way of connecting every victim." Steve tapped his foot lightly on the ground, before he seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped. "So far the only thing we have is the murders happening within miles of each other."

John felt his phone vibrate. Finally. Ever so slightly on the late side, though. John picked up, giving an apologetic glance at Steve and motioning that he wouldn't be long. "Hi, Greg." He stood up and walked towards the kitchen, not wanting to look rude.

"Sorry, sorry, on the phone all morning. Everything alright?"

"Ah…" John glanced at Steve, who had risen also, looking around again. "Well, I actually thought I saw something in the building opposite, but it turns out I'm a bit off. Must've been the bad grilled cheese."

"Do you want me to send someone over to check?" Lestrade sounded concerned, regardless.

"No, it's all fine. Steve actually took care of it."

"Steve? He's there? Bit of a side trip, isn't it?"

"I texted him after I called you. He's heading over to the Yard soon, no need to panic, Greg."

John spoke a few more minutes, then said goodbye. "Sorry." he said, sliding his phone back in his pocket and turning back. "He's been swamped all morning." John looked around, not seeing Steve. It took a moment before he found him across the room, looking behind the couch. Then John noticed what he was holding.

"Please put that back." John said, much quicker and clipped then he meant to be.

Steve jumped in surprise and turned to John, looking a bit bewildered at his tone. Almost as much as John was. But he didn't say a word; he merely placed the violin case gently back on the floor against the wall where he'd picked it up. "I'm sorry. I just…I never took you as a violinist."

Already feeling guilty, John smiled and shrugged, scratching the back of his head. "Well, I'm not. Sorry about snapping, I was just surprised. To be honest, I'd forgotten that was there."

Steve nodded, looking back at the sleek black case, whose top was covered in a thin layer of dust. "I can see that now. If you don't play it, who does? Your flatmate?"

"My…" John faltered, before realising who he meant. "Oh, Paul. No, no, god no, not Paul."

"Well, good thing. That layer of dust wouldn't be promising for his music career."

John chuckled. "No, it wouldn't." He ran his fingers through his greying hair and sighed. "I shouldn't keep it out here, really. It was my old flatmate's."

"Oh, I see." Steve tilted his head marginally, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his blue coat. "Why didn't he take it with him when he left?"

"He didn't…" John cleared his throat, which suddenly felt very dry. I knew this would come up. "He didn't leave. Not in that way. He died."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Steve said, slightly subdued. But behind his foggy spectacles his face was alight, and John knew that he was interested.

"He played the violin when he was thinking," John said, abruptly. He felt Steve's questions bubbling to the surface, and he wanted to avoid them for as long as possible. "He could play beautifully…when he wanted. Though mostly it was just useless plucking, at odd times. Sometimes it was at three in the morning. Drove me mad." John remembered, with surprising clarity, the sound of Sherlock thinking; the muffled plunk, plunk of strings pulled absently, with the occasional screeeeeee of a bow torpidly scraped. John also recalled his own gritted teeth at the grating noise, and the feel of his pillow folded over both ears as he attempted to sleep. This was usually followed, within minutes, of John's bellow down to the living room. The noise would quiet for a good while, and with luck John would drop off. But sometimes he just couldn't manage, and within fifteen minutes the languid claptrap notes would start up again.

"Seems a strange homage, then." Steve noted, looking back at the dusty case.

John shrugged. He didn't explain how it was the violin that, to John, represented both sides. Most of the time it was grating, irritating, and forever against whatever was proper, and yet sometimes, just sometimes, it made music.

"How did he die?" Steve asked suddenly.

John stared at him, and Steve looked back, his eyes blanked by the glare on his glasses. "He…ah…" John leaned against a chair. "He committed suicide." As soon as he uttered the words, there was the familiar pang of guilt, almost painful. That he was forced to explain it so bluntly and vaguely, so simply, seemed almost a crime in itself…but John just didn't have the energy to explain. Not again.

However, Steve didn't seem satisfied with the generic answer. "Good lord, why?" His face now looked properly horrified.

By now, John felt like forcibly pushing Steve out the door. Or perhaps the window. But he knew it wasn't rational, since Steve had no idea what kind of answers he was asking for. John took a deep breath. Then, instead of speaking, he strode to a desk at the side of the room and opened a drawer. He rummaged around for a while before finding what he was looking for. He walked back to Steve and handed him the wrinkled and slightly yellowed copy of the Times.

Steve took it, and looked at the front page headline. John saw him stiffen, as though surprised. "Is this…this was your flatmate?" His accented voice was low, almost hushed.

"Yeah." John folded his arms, choosing not to look at the newspaper himself. "Though, that version of the story is more along the lines of Donovan's opinion, which you already know the gist of." A spark of anger grew in his mind, which he immediately extinguished. No point.

"Intellectual fraud." Steve folded the paper and looked up, after reading the article silently for more then a few minutes. "So, what's your take?"

John didn't speak for a minute. Then he looked squarely at Steve. "All I know is…I knew the man. And what that paper says is not the Sherlock I knew."

"So…you don't agree with this?" Steve asked, tapping the paper with a finger. "Why would he kill himself, then?"

John felt like throwing his hands up in frustration. "I can't act like I know everything. To that, I have no answer. Whatever possessed both him and Moriarty to…to off themselves on St Bart's is something I won't understand. It's fitting, since I never really understood anything that they did."

"But then again, this is all going by your presumption that they both…offed themselves." Steve raised his eyebrows and shrugged, as though he was making an obvious point. "I mean, if this Moriarty even existed, and was behind whatever happened, wouldn't anyone be looking to stick a gun in his mouth?"

"Not Sherlock. He would never use violence in a situation his brain could get him out of." John rubbed his eyes. He was finding it increasingly difficult to block out the overwhelming memories, especially with people like bloody Steve prodding them to the surface.

"Perhaps this is one situation his brain couldn't get him out of." Steve countered. "Providing he had one. There is the possibility that you're wrong altogether, isn't there?"

"I'm not wrong." John said, gripping the upholstery of the chair he was leaning on.

"Why are you so keen on standing up for this man?" Steve asked incredulously.

"Because—" John stopped; he had nearly started yelling. Steve looked even more shocked. John took a few moments to calm down before talking again. "Steve, Lestrade's most likely waiting at the Yard."

"He's not suffering." Steve picked at the edge of the newspaper, fraying it slightly, then placed it on a table. "I apologise if I was out of line; I won't ask again. I'm just interested in things like this. My wife could tell you." He smiled uncomfortably, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

"It's fine, don't worry about it." John muttered, feeling drained.

"And you're right, I should get to the Yard."

Steve began zipping up his coat as he talked, and wound his scarf tighter around his thick neck. John hurried to open the door, and, feeling embarrassed at his near outburst, walked Steve down to the front door.

John held out his hand, which Steve hesitated to shake. John let out a sigh and looked in his eyes. "Because…because Sherlock was my friend. My best friend."

Steve looked mildly surprised. "Somehow I find that difficult to understand."

That doesn't surprise me. "Well, don't bother then, because I can't explain it well enough." John brought his hand down without shaking Steve's. "And I'm not going to attempt to try, it isn't worth it."

"Not worth what?"

"I just can't, alright?" Christ, Steve, haven't you ever lost anyone, or known someone who has? Do any of them ever want to talk about it? "And don't think I don't understand where everyone else is coming from, Steve. I'm not daft."

"I never said you were."

You were thinking it, it's annoying. "Every bloody time it goes through my head I feel the same guilt, because I always have this tiny part of my brain that…that doubts the rest." John had no idea why he was still talking. To a man he met at a pub. How splendidly cliché. "And I hate it. It's all so…" he dragged his fingers roughly through his hair again. He was going to scalp himself completely if he didn't calm down. "It never should have happened."

Steve pulled out his phone, and checked the screen; presumably looking at the time. "I wouldn't worry too much, John, that's a fairly normal way of thinking." He gave what John assumed he thought was a sympathetic smile. But John saw the condescending edge, and it was all he could do not to give him a sock in the jaw. "I'm sure that's how most people feel about death." John was almost expecting Steve to follow this with a pat on the head.

"Well, I'm sure the kin of a rich, stingy ninety-year-old would disagree." John forced a smile and gestured to the door. Off you go, you pompous tit.

Steve's lip twitched, and John hoped he was peeved. With a stiff nod of goodbye, Steve stepped carefully down the two steps to the sidewalk and set off at a brisk pace. It's just as well that he went gingerly; John saw the slight sheen of black ice on the concrete. Sherlock had once dashed out of the apartment for some reason or another, only to flip arse over teakettle when his foot hit an icy stair. Of course, he'd jumped right back up and took off without a moment's hesitation, but it didn't prevent John from bursting into giggles at odd intervals throughout the rest of the morning, earning him more then his fair share of exasperated glares that day.

Come to think of it, I wouldn't say no to Steve taking a pratfall on the sidewalk. John closed the door harder then he intended, and headed for the stairs.

He should have expected this. The few times he had tried to explain Sherlock's account to people, it always ended with at least one who would be looking incredulously at him, asking with their eyes how he could possibly believe the story he'd just told. It was those people that were mainly the reason he avoided talking about it altogether. It was often the case that he'd not enlightened people on the truth; more that he'd simply pitted further people against it.

John walked into the flat and met Paul, who had just exited his bedroom with his empty tea mug in hand. "Was there someone in here?" Paul asked, scrunching his nose to get his glasses up higher. "I heard voices. It could have been the telly."

"Well, it wasn't." John picked up the remote and flicked the telly on, muting it as commercials danced across. "Steve was here for awhile. He just left."

"Oh?" Paul tilted his head. "I thought you didn't want to talk to him?"

"I changed my mind. He was here doing me a favour, anyhow."

"He a friend of yours?"

John paused. "Probably not." he finally answered, sitting down in his chair. "I thought maybe, but I don't think we like each other too much. To be honest, he's almost as dry as the sandwich I made."

"I thought he sounded a bit pushy, like my Gran." Paul said absently. "His voice is kinda like hers, too."

John gave a small laugh, knowing that Paul was referring to Steve's high toned, slightly nasal voice. "Yeah, well…he'll be off to Ireland once this case's over. If it's ever solved, which I'm starting to doubt at this point."

"Hmm…" Paul wandered to the kitchen.

There has to be some way they're linked…John kneaded his knuckles into his forehead. It wasn't going to do any good; his head ached, and there was no way he was doing any heavy thinking for a good while.

John got to his feet and headed for the kitchen, planning to plug in the kettle. At least he could calm his brain with a cup of tea. Lestrade was probably doing the same thing, replacing the tea with terrible station coffee and whitener. If John thought he was tired, he could only imagine how close Lestrade was to plonking headfirst on his desk.

Sherlock would have loved it. Not the plonking, though he most likely would have chuckled at that as well. But he would relish in the challenge of a difficult case, not sigh with frustration as Lestrade and Steve had done. But then again, had Sherlock been around, the case would probably have been solved the day after the first shot.

The kettle whistled shrilly, sounding pained. John broke out of his reverie and took a mug down from the cupboard, plopping a teabag in. The case better get resolved soon, he thought, pouring the water in, watching the tea stain the water in a growing blossom. If this madman's motives are simply picking off poor souls at random, then I'm not going to be too comfortable walking down Baker Street. John knew the feeling of the dancing dot of red light, happily plotting the coordinates of his death. He knew the feel of many red dots. And he wasn't anxious to have it repeated. Well, I suppose it'd be fast. Wouldn't know a thing. A lucky way to go, really.

John took his tea to the living room. He hoped it would wake him up; though it was hardly noon he felt completely sapped. He sat down in his chair, holding tightly onto the mug, attempting to warm his chilled hands. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. Perhaps not the most intelligent thing to do when tired and holding a cup of scorching tea, but he couldn't resist; his eyes felt curiously scratchy and raw. Not the most relaxing start to the weekend, at least. But I'd wager it being slightly more productive then Iron Chef.

John grinned at the empty room. No, he hadn't had a moment of enlightenment, or an epiphany of any kind. He'd just thought about Sherlock slipping and falling down on the sidewalk again.