Thank you reviewers N. and abutterflymind! As well as my new followers and other readers. Consider this chapter the beginning of part II of the story. The rest of the story will mostly take place in a new location in a fictional town called Cresmere. If you are ever interested about the real life crime that inspired my story (although loosely) let me know and I'll send you the information. It's quite interesting.

Estella Jean

They entered Lestrade's office and were automatically surprised by the detective inspector's sour mood. His hands gripped in his hair as he frowned down at a stack of papers, which now covered his desk, the paperwork resulting from the previous day's arrests. John closed the door behind him and the inspector looked up as he heard the sound.

"About bloody time you arrived," he growled at the men. Sherlock seemed unfazed but John instantly felt guilty that they had not gotten to Scotland Yard right away.

I knew I shouldn't have followed Sherlock on that decision!, the doctor thought to himself as he saw Greg's face redden with frustration. The consulting detective noted the dark circles under his eyes. He had rarely seen the man wound up so tightly.

"We're sorry Greg. On our way here we questioned a suspect. It took awhile longer than we thought it would. How did the stakeout go last night?"

Lestrade rubbed both palms over his face and groaned into them. As if in response, the door to the office opened immediately, and Sgt. Donovan walked swiftly in without a word upon her entrance. She didn't appear as put together as usual. Her eyes also sagged with exhaustion, her nails were bitten to stubs, and if you squinted you could almost actually see the steam of rage rising from her. She sent a hard glare to Sherlock as she passed, then tossed a folder on the top of the stack in front of Lestrade. He removed his hands to see her and was met with an icy look.

"Your reservations. Sir." she spat with intensity. Without asking if there was anything else he needed, she stomped out of the office and closed the door behind her a little too harshly, making it rattle in the frame. The air was tense for a moment, but it started to lighten again slowly in the wake of her departure. Lestrade sighed in exhaustion and surrender.

The detective inspector looked back to John.

"Does that answer your question? She and Anderson waited all night for the buyer to show up at the wharf, and I waited here on standby."

Sherlock furrowed his brows, "He never showed up?"

"No. Someone must have tipped him off somehow that the exchange wasn't happening. So the real criminal is still on the loose. At least we have a lead on the killer, that's why I called you down here so urgently. The victims have been identified," he paused and began looking through the stacks for the correct folder.

"Where did I put it?" he muttered with irritation as he rustled through them. He sorted through various papers, even knocking a few to the floor in the process. John quickly came to assist him by picking them up.

"I just had it!" he exclaimed and became more frantic with his search, causing a few more sheets of paper to flutter downwards. The doctor handed him the fallen papers, and noticed a folder underneath the inspector's coffee cup, labeled victim profiles.

"Uh…" John uncomfortably pointed to the folder and Lestrade froze as he realized. He cleared his throat, swallowing his embarrassment, as he slid the folder from under the mug. He frowned at the ring of liquid staining it, and then handed the information to Sherlock.

"Right," Lestrade mumbled, scratching the back of his neck, wondering when he decided to use the new reports as a coaster.

Sherlock flipped open the yellow folder and began reading through the reports.

Annie McCray

Age: 23

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Height: 5'7"

Last place of residence:

Wheatley Terrace

38 Ellis Lane

Cresmere Town

Copeland

CA25 6TW

Cumbria

Declared Missing Person since 18th September 2014

Deceased since September 2014

Last contacted 15th September 2014 by her mother Grace McCray on the phone.

Last known location: Her place of residence

Cause of death: Asphyxiation by potassium cyanide poisoning

He turned to the second report curiously.

Rebecca Larson

Age: 34…

Then the next.

Amala Bassi…

And the next.

Tina Kellerman…

He decided he had read enough and handed the folder to John to look over. He looked to Lestrade, understanding the urgency he had for them to arrive there earlier in the morning. The women were all from the same town, and had gone missing within the same time frame.

"You already made reservations," Sherlock observed. John read the reports with concentration and was quickly following along.

"Not for me. I had Sally make them for you and John. I have to stay here at least for a few days to get this mess back in order. Not only that, I have a press conference tomorrow about the case. You know how those are," Lestrade sighed, his face pulled into a grim expression at the thought, "and it doesn't help that the lady from the gallery has practically written me a script for it. She really does not want the wrong information out, that's for sure."

Sherlock smiled at the knowledge, Wonderful! There's nothing better than a fascinating murder to myself...

"When do we leave?" he asked eagerly.

Lestrade glanced at his watch, "Two hours ago," he responded.

"We still need to pack," John reminded both of them. Sherlock sent a dismissive wave.

"Ten minutes at most," Sherlock argued and grabbed the folder from the doctor, giving him a look of excitement as he did. John rolled his eyes but smiled at his unusually good mood, secretly feeling the same desire to find out more about the mysterious town. He turned to Lestrade and held his hand out to receive the plans Sally had made. Lestrade transferred the information to him and within minutes they were calling a cab to get back to the flat.

…

John discovered that packing was a difficult task indeed. It would be easier, for one, if he knew the duration of their trip. They might be gone for two days, or two weeks, but that range was incredibly widespread when taking into account how many pairs of socks to bring.

"Hey, Sherlock!" he called to the curly headed man who was currently recording the effects of the drug that he gave to himself and John the night before. An experiment which John had discovered, was not actually for the case at all, but part of another research paper with Molly.

Despite what the chipper woman might say, John was firm in believing that it wasn't at all important enough to drug him involuntarily, especially when they were already in the middle of working on a case. He had made Sherlock agree to no more on the side work, after all, they needed all their concentration centered on the killer.

Sherlock finished logging the rest of his data and finally responded by shouting up to his flatmate, "What John?"

"How long do you think we are going to be there?" the blond yelled down from the top of the stairs.

Sherlock began calculating the length of the average case in his mind, setting down his journal among the rotting food on the kitchen table. Typically, he decided, they take between 6 hours and 48, depending on their level of complication. We have already taken one day however, just to find the thieves, our destination is 5 and a half hours away, and there are seven unaffiliated victims.

"Not enough data John!" Sherlock replied at last. He heard a faint dejected huff come from the stairs.

Perhaps I should make him some tea. That might be a good gesture, considering how relatively understanding he was about becoming my unknowing test subject. He usually gets so upset about that sort of thing. He's becoming desensitized, I think. Yes, tea would be nice.

Sherlock resolved to make his flatmate the comforting beverage, pushing back from the cluttered table to look for the special blend stored in the cupboard, that he was sure would put him in a more positive disposition. It was a concoction Sherlock himself had developed, a flavor combination of black tea, hazelnut, rose, cinnamon and caramel. As the kettle heated water, and he filled the tea strainer with the blend, he pondered over the case.

It is hard to imagine someone bloodthirsty enough to murder seven women, intelligent enough to sneak the bodies into an art gallery for display, and yet inexperienced enough not to know the biodegradability of jute rope. The killer is brutal, but cunning, patient, yet not thorough, absent minded in a way for not considering the details. Yet, everything else was performed smoothly.

...or perhaps not. Perhaps, there were other small details that he overlooked, other loose strings so to speak, Sherlock considered, as he poured the water from the steaming kettle into John's mug.

How did he manage to get the bodies in the gallery? Perhaps the art heist was distracting us. We know how the thieves got themselves in, with the temporary power outage that they created. Was there some other sign of a break in, previous to that point, that we could not distinguish, something so skillfully undetectable that we looked right past it in the security video? Or, it could have happened after the art thieves entered. Lestrade should have the video double checked for tampering just be sure it was not edited over.

Another interesting point, Meredith is so very concerned about this suspicion people seem to have about someone at the gallery being 'involved' in the crimes, almost as if she knows for a fact, that someone was. It is therefore possible, that someone at the gallery, maybe even the security officer, assisted the killer with the display of the bodies. Although, he did appear entirely too dumb for that to be true. What about Cara, Meredith's assistant? I should have John look into those people more, in secret of course, for if Meredith knew we were taking those accusations seriously, she would most likely have us kicked off the case.

I can't imagine a greater tragedy than leaving the most interesting case I've come across in years, to the hands of Lestrade.

Sherlock furrowed his brows in concern over the thought, dipping the strainer in and out of John's tea, watching the wisps of darkened liquid swirling in the cup. He began thinking of John, imagining which jumpers and checked shirts he might be packing at this exact moment.

He finished steeping the drink and removed the strainer, beginning to carefully carry the mug upstairs, so as not to spill it. The floorboards of the stairs creaked under his barefeet and he memorized the smoothness of the wood. When he was halfway up, John appeared in the doorway of his room, alerted by the sound of Sherlock's footsteps. He noticed the mug in Sherlock's hands and gave him a look of pleasant surprise, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. Something about that moment was very still and quiet, one of the typical soft silences they experienced in the flat which complimented the passionate determination involved with their work.

The curly headed man looked at the cup and back to John with slight confusion, as if there was nothing at all unusual about him bringing the doctor tea, slightly defensive even, of John's expression of surprise.

"I brought you tea…" Sherlock said stiffly, reaching the landing and now on the same level as John. He said it as if it was a simple, insignificant fact, like stating the time of day, or the weather.

John grinned and chuckled at him, "Yes Sherlock, I see that. Why?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if being accused, "Why must there be a 'why'? If you don't want it-"

"No! I do, thank you," John interrupted, taking the mug from his flatmate. Sherlock seemed satisfied by the action, his stiffness beginning to dematerialize. He couldn't help but look inside the room behind him, noticing that John's entire bed was covered in clothing, namely socks. He furrowed his brow and John caught on.

"What?" he asked.

"Do you really think you need that much clothing?" Sherlock questioned quizzically. John shrugged at him as he looked over the pile.

"We have no idea how long we will be gone. Better to be prepared."

"I find that offensive, John. You of all people should have more confidence in my capabilities. We can't be gone that long. I'll be done with this case in three days at most," Sherlock told him with an assuringly confident glint in his eyes. John had his doubts, but he gave his partner a half-smile in agreement, anyways.

"Alright, three days," he echoed.

His partner nodded in agreement and began retreating down the stairs.

"That was kind of you for the tea," John told the distancing form thankfully.

The doctor breathed in the smell of the liquid and smiled, feeling the steam wash over his face. It's that one special tea that he sometimes makes, he pondered. He was about to take a sip when a thought occurred to him. He looked down at the tea suspiciously.

"Wait...it's just tea in here right?" he called down to the living room which Sherlock had now disappeared into.

There was a moment of silence which made John wary, but finally Sherlock responded with a definite reply, "Just tea John!"

…

Sherlock waited in the rental car outside of the flat for John to come with the remaining baggage. He was eager to get on the road, tapping an insistent rhythm on the steering wheel. He huffed impatiently and look outside the car window, examining the people walking on the pavement on the opposite side of the street. They didn't carry umbrellas today, and the ground they treaded was not puddled or glassy. He looked up and saw the sky was mostly blue, except for a few delicate clouds which occasionally drifted by.

Thankfully the storm we had yesterday has not returned, he noted. Although he loved the rain, he admitted that it was not the best condition to be driving in, especially when in a hurry. He checked the time on his watch, becoming even more anxious when he found that both hands pointed to twelve. He stared at the door of 221B for several more minutes, starting to weigh his options.

Would I be risking more leaving John here and dealing with his wrath later, or waiting and missing the chance to find vital information?

An image of an angry John popped up his head.

It might be in my best interest to wait a little while longer.

At last John appeared through the door with several bags, and behind him stood Mrs. Hudson with a worried expression. Sherlock sighed, knowing it was most likely the reason for his partner's delay. From what he could tell from John's slight annoyance, their landlady was nagging at him for something or other. John opened the door in the back to store the bags and Sherlock was able to hear their conversation.

"I just worry John! I can't help it. That's very far away, you don't know when you'll be back and Lestrade won't even be with you! Anything could happen."

John chuckled as he hoisted another bag into the back.

"Dear Mrs. Hudson, we will be perfectly fine. We've been in more dangerous situations in the past, you know that."

This did nothing to dissuade her worried expression. She rubbed her hands together in anxiety.

"I suppose," she agreed, "but seven people murdered John!"

John shook his head and turned around to face her. He put his palms on her arms and held her in place to reassure her. She took a deep breath, grounding in the support.

"We will be fine," he said firmly but gently. Mrs. Hudson nodded in defeat, patting one of his hands.

"Alright, just...remember to call and of course take care of Sherlock please," she said, looking over to the man in the car. Sherlock gave her what he hoped would look like a comforting expression, but mostly turned out eager.

"I will," John promised "By the way, Molly is coming over later so could you let her in for us? And if you don't mind too much, Sherlock left the kitchen table a mess...maybe if you're not busy you could throw that stuff away while we are gone."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a disapproving look in response. He laughed slightly.

"I know! Not our housekeeper, but just this once, since we will be gone."

"Okay, John. Just this once," she assented with a smile, "Now you better get going. Sherlock might drive away without you!"

She gave him a hug and reluctantly let him go. He shut the door to the back and walked around the car to the passenger door. Sherlock started the engine and breathed in steadily again, now that they were truly ready to leave.

Mrs. Hudson still stood on the pavement beside the car, giving Sherlock a sad wave of goodbye. He was just about to pull away from the curb when he remembered something. He rolled down the window which made Mrs. Hudson give him a questioning look.

"Don't look in the fridge until Molly has left!" he told her urgently. The woman was clearly unsure of what he meant, giving him an odd amused look, but nodded anyways, waving again as they finally departed.

As they began driving down the London streets, the spring sun suddenly shining on their path, Sherlock scoffed to his passenger, "I don't need taking care of."

John look over to his friend, noticing the concentration on his features as he planned their travels in that fantastic mind he possessed, his blue eyes tracing the streets out like a human map. He felt a whisper of a smile creep up as he watched him.

"Yes you do," he said, then focused back on the street.

Sherlock said nothing in response but looked over at John every so often, trying to discover his thoughts, and never quite succeeding at the task.

The partners were just at the very break of an ominous adventure. They could both feel it, just beyond their grasp, just beyond the horizon of the road.