I've done a re-write as I wasn't happy with my second-fourth chapters. Hopefully they're better. Will try and update soon.

Sherlock was up and moving about the flat long before John's eyes opened the next morning. He seemed much happier than he did yesterday. Wondering, as he happened to do every morning, whether his flat-mate even bothered to sleep at night, John took two slices of bread from the bread bin – the last two slices, he noted, must get more bread – and went to put them in the toaster only to discover what was amiss.

'Sherlock, where's the toaster?' John called from the kitchen.

In the living area, Sherlock didn't look up from his phone, which he was staring at over the top of his interlaced fingers. 'In the bathroom, full of water; use the grill.'

Grumbling, John turned away and slid the grill out. 'We need some more bread,' he told Sherlock, as if the detective could magic some for him, or start a shopping list.

Instead, Sherlock called back, 'and milk.'

John (who had gone to the fridge to retrieve the milk for his tea) paused, frowning. 'I bought some yesterday.' Sherlock said nothing. John opened the fridge with a shrug and saw why they needed more. 'Sherlock!' he exclaimed, holding up the milk carton which had what looked suspiciously like maggots squirming inside it, 'Please tell me these are not maggots.'

Sherlock stared at him calmly and said, 'they are not maggots.'

John looked at the carton in disgust. 'What are they?' he said, the feeling to be sick rising at the revolting sight.

'They're maggots,' Sherlock replied. He had gone back to staring at the phone.

John goggled at him. 'But you just said…' he said.

'You asked me to,' Sherlock cut across him indifferently.

John glowered and asked himself, not for the first time, why he could not have a more co-operative flat-mate.

'Your bread is burning,' Sherlock said.

John whipped round and realised it was. He had to put up with very toasty toast that morning. Sherlock was still staring at the phone as if willing it to buzz when he had finished. 'Are you going to answer those text messages we received yesterday?' John asked as he sat down at the desk and booted up his laptop.

'Maybe,' Sherlock said. Knowing his flat-mate better than that though, John knew that the answer was yes.

He tried a different tack. 'What are you waiting for?'

There was a pause. 'I don't understand,' Sherlock said at last.

That was a surprise for John. He knew that Sherlock knew a lot about seeming random things, and a fair bit of normality (like the fact you don't drop toasters into baths full of water) he was seemingly ignorant about. Sherlock sat with his eyes closed, deep in thought. John coughed to get his attention and asked, 'what don't you understand?'

Sherlock didn't look at him. 'If they're not in danger, they're asking on behalf of someone else,' he murmured to himself, 'yet they're not related to that person, or people. They're not close friends or work bosses or anything like that…'

'What are you going on about?' john said, totally lost.

'Got another text or two,' Sherlock said in way of a reply, 'Asked a load of questions in return.' He stared at the ceiling in thought. 'They're worried about being caught texting me, so they won't say anything important.' His eyes narrowed slightly and then he sighed, 'it's no good.' He sprang to his feet and reached for his coat.

'Where are you going?' john said.

'I can't do anything without information,' Sherlock replied, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

'That's not answered the question.'

'Why do I need to answer it? You're coming with me aren't you?'

'I have to work.'

'By work, you mean look for work.'

'Yes.'

'Ah! Boring!' With that, Sherlock swept from the room.

There was a short pause. John sat on the edge of his seat, staring at nothing in particular, a deep frown upon his face. Then he swore, dropped the remainder of his toast and grabbed for his jacket. He clattered down the steps trying to remember the address texted to them.

He didn't need to bother. Sherlock sat in the back of a taxi with a smug smile on his face, waiting for john. John opened the door and got in. Sherlock opened his mouth.

'Don't say anything,' John growled. Sherlock smirked and rapped the glass separating them and the taxi driver who tapped the accelerator and sped away into the centre of London.

'Are you sure this is it?' John repeated.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and then asked, 'can you see any other building that it might be?'

John looked around momentarily, as if hoping that one might appear out of thin air, but as nothing materialised and numbers 22 and 24 Westward Grove were about a mile from them in either direction, he had to concede defeat. 'But why here?' he asked.

Before them stood 23 Westward Grove, a squat three storey, run down building with tiles missing from its roof and moss and ivy clinging to its walls. A rusty gate swung forlornly on its only still attached hinge and a sign, weathered and covered in cracked paint read "Grover's children's home". The front yard was concrete with two cars parked on it. A brick wall surrounded the property and separated the front from the back. That at least was still in good condition. The windows at the front were covered in lace curtains, except for the windows on the third floor which were all bordered up.

Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said then turned to John with a grin on his face, 'let's go and find out.'

He knocked the gate aside and strode across the concrete to the what-used-to-be-white front door before John could give his opinion. Slightly regretting his decision to come, John traipsed after Sherlock, who had already rung the doorbell. Then a thought struck him. This was probably better than job hunting.

John reached the door as someone opened it. A woman shrieked something over her shoulder before confronting them. 'Yes?' she asked briskly.

Sherlock studied the woman. She was tall, in her late-thirties, with a horsy face, watery blue eyes, loose mousey curls and a disapproving expression. His eyes flicked up and down her. Despite working here, her nails told him that she obviously didn't do much of the work; they were too well kept and were painted beige to match her dress and lipstick. Cared about looking good then. The wedding ring was obvious, a fairly good marriage judging by its upkeep. She wore high heels, another sign that she didn't do much physical work around here. She did wear a crisp white apron however. So she cared about what others thought and liked them to think that she tried to help the poor souls who lived at the home. She however cared little for those around her, evident from her expression as she surveyed the two men on her doorstep.

Sherlock smiled at her. 'Hello,' he said politely, 'we were asked to have a look around here.'

The woman froze, watching him warily. That got Sherlock's attention. Something was up if she was this wary about letting them in. The woman was saved having to answer by a man who called for her at that point.

'Clarissa? Who is it?' boomed a man and the woman opened the door wider to reveal a pompous, stout man with a large belly. Her husband, he also wore a wedding ring on his left hand, a little older than his wife judging by the grey flecks in his dark hair, dressed in a dark suit with a pale coloured waistcoat straining over his spotless shirt. Another worker who didn't put much effort into caring for the children. Probably head of the house judging by his and his wife's clothes, they would prefer to deal with their own personal wants rather than use the money for the preservation of the house. Greedy, obviously, obnoxious, clearly.

'Good day,' Sherlock said with a smile as the man stopped dead.

The man glowered at him before saying, 'we don't want to buy anything thank you. As you can tell from the state of this house, we have very little money.'

Sherlock sniffed. 'Your clothes and perfume suggest otherwise,' he muttered.

The woman, Clarissa, turned to her husband. 'He says they've been asked to look around here,' she said in a barely audible whisper. Her husband visually paled under his well-kept handlebar moustache.

He licked his lips nervously and asked, 'are you social workers?'

Sherlock merely smiled. The couple exchanged a nervous glance. There was defiantly something going on here. But before he could go deeper, there was a crash, a scream echoed down the dark narrow hallway he could see over the couple's shoulders and then someone started crying. Two boys about ten years old raced down the hall for the stairs to the next floor, only to stop when they saw they open door.

Unkempt, dirty, ill-treated: simple deductions. One had recently been in a fight; there was a yellowing bruise on his left arm. Must be about five days old. Second or third hand clothing showed obvious signs of their previous owners. So most of the money here was spent on the couple leading it rather than the children.

The boys were looking at Sherlock just as curiously when someone came striding out of the kitchen behind them. It was a woman, late twenties Sherlock thought, followed shortly afterwards by a thin teenage girl carrying a bawling toddler. The boys looked round at her as she pounced on them, grabbing each boy by the ear. She was either very cross, or very scared. Despite her fury towards the boys who now squawked in her grasp, her eyes kept flicking to the man and woman at the door. As they moved away from the door to confront the little group, Sherlock took the opportunity to invite himself and John inside.

As the couple advanced down the hall, the teenager carrying the toddler tried to squeeze past to get to the stairs but was stopped when the man flung out an arm. The toddlers crying increased. It was covered from head to toe in a sticky red-orange gloop that clung to her hair and frayed clothes.

'What,' the man hissed, advancing on the woman the struggling boys who went suddenly limp and silent, 'is going on?'

The woman looked reluctantly down at him. She couldn't have been taller than 5'7" yet she stood at least three inches taller than him. Her eyes darted between the man and woman and then found Sherlock. He put his head to one side and stared back until she looked away. She flicked back her brown hair, he was unable to distinguish much about its colour in the dim light and said nervously, 'this is nothing I can't handle.'

'What is she covered in?' the woman named Clarissa said, pointing at the bawling toddler, though was careful not to let her accusing finger stray too close to the mucky girl.

The young woman licked her lips. 'Tomato soup,' she answered to the floor.

'Why?' Clarissa asked with barely concealed rage.

'The pot was knocked off the stove and most of its contents landed on her,' the woman murmured. She had released the boys now and they were backing down the hall.

'The rest…' Clarissa said quietly.

'Landed on the floor,' the woman said quieter still.

'You clumsy girl,' Clarissa screamed, 'insolent child!'

'I'm not a child,' the woman breathed, but they didn't seem to hear her. The man was yelling, 'a week's worth of tomato soup was cooking in that pot!' whilst his wife screeched more insults. The young woman glanced towards the teenager carrying the crying toddler and gestured slightly with her head. The teenage girl slipped past the shouting couple and headed up the narrow stairs. As she passed Sherlock, she glanced nervously at him, but he saw deep down as glimmer of hope.

Beside him, John was looking shocked. Sherlock glanced at him and John turned his head to look back. With the smallest nod, Sherlock turned his attention back to the raging couple and coughed quietly.

All fight immediately drained from them. They slowly turned on their heels as Sherlock smiled pleasantly and asked, 'is this a common occurrence?'

'No!' the man insisted as Clarissa glowered at the woman, who flinched. 'No,' he gave the woman an equally disgusted look and she turned and scurried back to the kitchen. 'Let's forget about that,' he said, trying to make his voice sound jollier, 'how... how about we talk in our office?' he pushed open a door to his right. Sherlock and John exchanged another look. John shrugged.

Clarissa entered first, followed shortly by her husband. John was just about to enter when Sherlock pushed past him slightly in the direction of the kitchen.

'Aren't you…?' John started.

'Go ahead,' Sherlock called, 'I want to check something.'

Compared to the hall, the kitchen was filled with light pouring through the windows and open patio door. Pale yellow tiles covered one wall; the others were painted the same colour. The floor was tiled black and white like a chessboard. Everything was spotless. A large dinner table filled the space on the right hand side of the kitchen. A dark coloured fridge and freeze stood to one side. A series of counters and cupboards filled one wall, a big sink in which sat a large cooking pot, the inside splattered with tomato soup, with a small bookshelf filled with cooking books ranging from adult to children at the end nearest Sherlock. Two small ovens stood side-by-side under a small shelf filled with herbs and spices. By these, the young woman stood with her back to Sherlock, mopping the rest of the soup up.

Sherlock studied her. Evidently she did most of the work. She was dressed for that, in jeans, trainers and a plain blue-green t-shirt, her brown hair, more chestnut in this light, was pulled back from her face and fastened at the back in a clip. Her fingernails were grubby and bitten; she was under stress, probably from her fearsome bosses. From what Sherlock remembered, she had looked tired, confirmed when she rested her head on the mop's handle and groaned softly.

'You must really care to take the blame like that,' Sherlock said. The woman's head jerked upwards and she stared at him, horror-struck. He registered her eyes – pale green, flecked with brown and rimmed with a much deeper green – and pale oval face, the childhood freckles fading as adulthood took hold, must be considered pretty to many men. She opened her mouth, fear creeping into her eyes and he nodded towards the sink. 'The football is still in the pot.'

She looked towards it as he gestured. She swallowed and said, 'you're not going to tell them, are you?' He put his head to one side and she burst out, 'they're good lads really, but they're young and reckless and…'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'I'd wash that and leave it outside. It'll look less suspicious out there.'

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then the woman smiled. 'Thank you,' she whispered and turned away.

Sherlock nodded and left. The woman watched him leave in the reflection on the window. Her eyes narrowed.

As Sherlock joined John in the office, his mobile buzzed. Excusing himself, he took it out and peered at it. Another text from the anonymous sender. This one read: are you here yet? Lee

Sherlock noted the lack of capitals. He replied with a quick "Yes", slid his phone into his pocket, realised that now he was here he didn't have a clue what to talk about when his phone buzzed again.

Ask about Billy Grubbs' death. That will explain why you are here. Lee