Sorry for the wait everyone! I've been combating writer's block. I wrote this chapter several times and in pieces so hopefully the end product is good. As always, thank you for reading. N. it's not the end, but the beginning of part 2! Don't worry I'm not even half way through the story. Thanks Diddlepie, your reviews are very encouraging :)

Estella Jean

John lounged in the passenger seat partway reclined, staring out the window pleasantly.

Initially, it seemed fairly relaxing to him to ride with Sherlock, as they left the urban areas and entered the rural ones. He admired the grasslands they passed, a nice change from the structured buildings and grid like populated streets of London. He felt inexplicably content next to his friend, eased by the warmth of the noon sun and his cozy jumper.

Originally, their conversation and the scenery were both smooth and somewhat therapeutic in nature. Sherlock explained his current experiment, which John tried not to be bias towards despite being used as a lab rat for it the night before. The doctor couldn't help but tune out the more complex points of his explanation, but nevertheless, found that what he was attempting to do was interesting. Or maybe, it wasn't even the experiment he found interesting, but the glowing in Sherlock's blue analytic eyes as he told him in that low mesmerizing tone.

"You see, it appears as though the effects of the drug were present in the victim because he caused the machinery accident at the factory, allegedly due to a sudden loss of motor skills, but it couldn't have been possible because you and I, with the same amount of blood alcohol content as he did at the time, and yet a much lower body mass index, didn't experience it for approximately eight hours...are you paying attention?"

The man suddenly paused, his eyes narrowed in examination, his cheek bones distractingly noticeable as he looked over his blonde partner. John was simply staring at him the entire time he had been speaking, a barely there smile, softening his features.

"Hm? Oh yes! Very interesting," he lied, having stopped listening nearly five minutes ago. His partner's critically narrowed eyes had not changed however.

"You stopped listening didn't you," he accused.

John's face reddened. He broke eye contact and shook his head slowly.

"No..." he said a bit too self consciously.

"You're lying," Sherlock stated, returning his eyes to the road. John scoffed with a teasing smile.

"And how would you know that?" he questioned challengingly.

Sherlock smirked at the roadway, entertained by John's predictability, "You always hesitate when you lie. Sometimes just before you respond, sometimes mid-response. You talk slower, like you're trying to search for the right words."

Sherlock noted the silence and gave his passenger a quick curious glance. He was looking out of the passenger window, shaking his head with a small smile that Sherlock easily identified as his 'I've been caught' expression.

"Whatever," John shot back in a joking tone, embarrassed about the truth of his transparency. A transparency which infiltrated all aspects of his life it seemed.

. . .

They rode in silence for awhile, but as usual with the two men, argument and tension were inevitable, and soon childish quarrels began to interrupt the quiet of the vehicle.

John yawned and stretched his arms, the action nearly startling Sherlock, who had not expected to see sudden movement in the corner of his eye, John chuckled at his jumpiness and decided to follow through with an idea he had been holding since they reached the M40 motorway.

"What are you doing?" the darker haired man asked, quirking an eyebrow as he watched John carefully unfold a map he had retrieved from his bag in the back.

John scanned the lines with his eyes before raising them to his partner.

"Reading a map," he said simply.

"Clearly," Sherlock said sarcastically, "But we have a satnav."

John snickered as he looked at said device, mantled on the rental car's dashboard.

"Yeah well it lags, surely you of all people could sense that," he told Sherlock, gesturing to the glowing screen. Sherlock's face changed, thinking over John's point. Yet, his partner knew from the gleam in his narrowed eyes and his tense expression, that he was being stubborn and was about to fight him on the subject, probably because he had specifically asked for a car with digital navigator and felt a sense of confidence and control in operating it.

"It doesn't lag," he said as if it were ridiculous, glancing at the paper map with a wrinkled forehead, "And who even uses maps anymore? I thought they stopped printing them in the nineties."

"It does lag," John tiredly responded, not in the mood to argue about it.

"It doesn't lag, John. I don't know what you're talking about," he told his partner.

"We'll see," John shrugged and folded the map back up.

A half an hour later the pair decided to find a place to eat before continuing their journey since both men were feeling a bit drowsy. If anything, the stop would at least allow them to stretch their legs and give Sherlock a break from driving.

"You know there is a really good restaurant in Birmingham. A girl I used to date told me about it once," John suggested. Sherlock hummed in thought.

"Which one?" he asked curiously.

"I think it was called Anderson's Grill. Or something similar."

"What an unfortunate name," he gave a look of disgust at the thought of his rival, "But I meant which ex girlfriend."

"Uh…," John rubbed a hand over his face in thought, "I think she was blonde...might have had a K name…Karen, maybe Kelsey...yeah I can't remember."

Sherlock smiled slightly to himself, finding it funny that John could remember the name of a restaurant he had heard mentioned once, more than he remembered a girl he had had a relationship with.

He watched as John searched for the address on his phone and entered it into the satnav. It was only ten minutes away.

"Looks a bit pricey," the doctor noted, but it was more of subtle way to ask Sherlock's opinion.

Sherlock gave a nod of understanding, "Might as well dine in style. We've been in this car for 2 hours after all."

John smiled, thankful that his partner had agreed. From the menu options online, it looked amazing, not to mention the images of the restaurant portrayed an ambient and intimate atmosphere.

Nearly ten minutes had passed and the satnav still hadn't given them any verbal command. John noticed Sherlock's furrowed brows as he stared at the device and realized that it was frozen.

"Oh," was Sherlock's only awkward comment, not wanting to admit being wrong. John scrambled to look at the map and determined they had almost reached the exit.

"Sherlock we are about to miss it! Get over now!"

Sherlock dangerously crossed lanes of traffic to reach the exit in time, causing John to close his eyes shut and swear out of panic. The blond wondered silently if fine dining was really worth risking his life.

Luckily, they arrived at Anderson's safely and were able to calm down over their gourmet meals and warm surroundings. Sherlock was relieved to take a break from driving considering how long it had been since the last time he had driven such a long distance. He found comfort in his cup of tea and delicious seabass and so did John in his linguine.

When they returned to the rental car, the consulting detective gave John a look of acceptance and pressed the off button on the satnav, finally agreeing with his offer to ditch the device. Since then John was in charge of the map, a task which gave him a feeling of dutiful pride.

Something about Sherlock delegating responsibility to him always made him feel strong and invigorated. It seemed like ever since this particular case began, Sherlock had been entrusting him with more vital tasks, from questioning Meredith and Bruce, to finding the electrician. Each time, John secretly challenged himself to do twice as much as Sherlock expected, to always astonish him by going beyond. After all, Sherlock was always astonishing him with his miraculous deductions, and If it weren't for his ambition and determination, people would continue to assume he was nothing more than Sherlock's "live in PA", a term he greatly despised. He would be nothing more than a person existing to do Sherlock's bidding, when obviously he was so much more than that.

I'm not his "PA", he would think, Flatmate, yes. Best friend, I hope so. But I'm also his partner dammit (in a professional sense), and he needs me. I can't even remember all the times I've had to save his life when solving a case. I've had to protect him since the first day we met.

. . .

An hour after they returned to the motorway, tensions began to escalate again, and Sherlock's driving was entirely to blame.

They passed the rolling hills of the countryside too quickly, the green of one crest, blurring into the next. Trees merged into a single streaked form. The speed they traveled on the curved road caused the vehicle to careen around turns in a sweat inducing manner. It made the doctor nervous, he shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, looking to the driver periodically in hope that he would notice.

From the sideways looks Sherlock returned, it was apparent that he did understand John's worries but chose to ignore them.

"You're not going to slow down are you?" John asked with an aggravated sigh.

"Nope. Not really planning to," was Sherlock's rude and absolute response.

Instead of reducing his speed, he hoped to distract his partner from protesting by hitting the button for the radio, which filled their heads with white noise static.

"Find something John," he ordered him in hope of changing the silent subject.

John agreed, if only to get his mind off of Sherlock's reckless driving habits and sudden sour attitude. He turned the dial till he found a clear and audible station, and a familiar sounding love song echoed through the car. It was soft and not entirely unpleasant to the ears, but the lyrics were incredibly sappy.

Sherlock responded with a sound of disgust.

"Sentiment," he uttered while screwing up his face in annoyance.

John shrugged, not arguing with partner's opinion.

"Alright," he mumbled, changing the station again. Most of the stations were scratchy but suddenly out of the monotony of the high pitched buzzing, to their dismay, a modern pop song blared out of the speaker and filled the car with a cacophony of noise. The abrupt intensity of volume and nauseating tune threw both men in a temporary disorientation.

"Oh John, please, no!" Sherlock exclaimed with desperation, swerving the fast moving car in his state of disruption, throwing his passenger partway into the driver's seat.

John pushed himself away from Sherlock and groaned at the sound infiltrating the small space. He quickly scrambled to turn the radio off, realizing that it caused more stress than relief on his nerves, now that Sherlock was not only speeding but swerving as well. The so called music stopped and both men let out a breathe that they had been holding in, thankful for the silence again.

"No more radio," John told his partner breathlessly.

Sherlock nodded in response, eyes wide from the startling fiasco. At least, he resolved, I am completely aware of my senses. If drowsiness or tunnel vision was a problem, it isn't anymore.

"Are people going tone deaf?" He exclaimed as the car returned to its respectful lane and his driving stabilized.

"I definitely think it's a possibility if this is what's popular," John laughed in agreement and nervous relief.

"The chorus is the same three words repeated, two of which are profanities, to a god awful beat. Sentiment is one thing, but this rubbish? Brahms would turn in his grave!"

John laughed at the truth in Sherlock's sudden heated speech about the depravity of pop music, but also at the passion with which he argued.

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, "Calm down Sherlock. We don't need you driving any more carelessly than you already are."

John winced as the car came around a bend much too quickly, causing Sherlock to drive partly in the shoulder and dangerously close to a grove of trees.

"My point exactly," John gasped with more controlled panic in his voice this time, clinging to the armrests of the seat. He half hoped they would nearly hit something, just so his partner would take his concerns with gravity. Luckily Sherlock did take his comment seriously and eventually resolved to slow down to the posted speed limit. He looked to John as if to seek approval and John replied with a thankful nod, his muscles relaxing back into the seat.

"I'm just trying to get there relatively soon," his partner explained. John scoffed with an edge of amusement.

"Relative to what?" He asked incredulously, "Do you mean relative to the estimated time of arrival provided by your broken satnav? Then trust me, you don't need to worry. We are nearly fifteen minutes ahead of schedule."

"Perhaps but I'm still trying to make up the time we lost when you were chatting with Mrs. Hudson while I waited in the car for half an hour," he shot back.

John scoffed, "Half an hour? Try ten minutes you impatient arse."

Sherlock blinked and looked over at John almost critically, then felt a smile threaten his features as John's sassiness humored him. His partner smiled too and chuckled at their childish fighting.

"I can't believe you called me an arse," Sherlock told him.

"You deserved it! You know how worried she was."

Sherlock laughed at that statement, "She is always worried. I just hope she doesn't open the fridge before Molly gets the body out."

John also laughed at the thought of the poor woman finding the corpse in place of their food items, then instantly felt guilty.

"I warned her about that thankfully," he explained and Sherlock seemed grateful to hear it. He knew if she had discovered his experiment, he would never hear the end of it. If there was anything to fear in their line of work, it was an upset landlady.

. . .

After the radio of terror, their trip was mostly filled with a comfortable, mutual silence, as many people often slip into during long drives. Sherlock watched the road ahead but from the way his eyebrows slightly furrowed, John could tell his partner was deep in contemplation of the case. He often chose quiet moments to lose himself in his work. It was reflexive, unavoidable.

John didn't feel the desire to think about the case yet, perhaps because of their exhaustive focus the day before. For the doctor, this road trip was a brief chance to rest, one which he highly valued, because once they arrive at their destination, who knows when they would get such a chance again. With that thought in mind, the doctor stared at the scenery in a daze, feeling himself drift into unconsciousness.

"Are you ever going to tell me what you are thinking?" John teased softly with a small smile, watching with half opened eyes as Sherlock blinked in surprise at the mental interruption.

"Just be patient. I need the chance to be alone with my thoughts so I can come up with leading theories," he explained.

John was slightly offended by his partner's statement.

"Well I could help you come up with leading theories. I might not be a genius but I am actually quite smart," he countered defensively and yawned out of sleepiness.

"I don't doubt that," Sherlock told him, looking over at his partner with an unusually sincere look in his eyes that persuaded John to believe him. It gave John a fuzzy feeling which only made him more tired. He nodded, and curled up in his seat, feeling his heavy eyelids pull him into sleep.

. . .

John lazily opened his eyes, blinking as Sherlock's form materialized beside him. At first he remained quiet, watching his friend drive, wondering what he was thinking of. His curls shined in the afternoon sunlight and his eyes glowed an even brighter blue than usual.

How is it that he looks even better in these moments?

"Feeling rested?" Sherlock asked without looking at him. John smiled, not even surprised that he had sensed him awaken.

"Yep," John told him and adjusted himself to sit up, putting his chair in an upright position. He rubbed his eyes and noticed something he hadn't before about his friend. Sherlock had dark circles under his eyes, probably from exhaustion and concentration.

"Do you need a break?" John offered. Sherlock appeared reluctant at first but eventually conceded. They took the first exit they approached and switched places in a carpark, then John returned them to the road.

Sherlock closed his eyes but remained awake as John drove. Memorizing every bump and turn they encountered.

"John, you're not going the speed limit," he mumbled.

John looked over at his partner and saw his closed eyes, amazed that he could tell that just from the feel of the car on the road.

"Sorry, I'm going five miles under. I know you're in a hurry."

Sherlock hummed and nodded his head slightly. John smiled at his tiredness and followed through with his request. Five minutes later another interjection came from his curly haired flatmate.

"You're following too close to that car."

John looked over at him and saw his eyes were now half open, staring at the car in front of them. He sighed and slowed down again, although the doctor didn't actually believe he was following too close at all.

"Fine," he said with a little annoyance in his tone.

John drove silently for awhile, Sherlock presumably asleep because he no longer mumbled criticisms. The sun had disappeared behind overcast clouds, leaving the grassy hills on either side of the car grey and dull looking. There was an eery serenity to the landscape. Mountains in the distance were peaked in snow and fog and thick trees lined the road. They loomed around them, pinning them in. Some trees were still bare like skeletons reaching out from a lush dark green background. John couldn't help but find it absolutely beautiful.

"John, you're going too slow again."

To the doctor's surprise, Sherlock was suddenly awake and staring at him with a critical expression.

"Sherlock, stop critiquing my driving or so help me I will drop you off on the side of the road. Anyways, we are almost there," John threatened. Sherlock grumbled something but did what John asked. He crossed his arms and scowled out of the passenger window.

Soon the distant mountains were no longer distant. They climbed the heights through a sharply winding road, occasionally glimpsing patches of white snow among the dark rocky cliffs, which were crudely cut from the sides of the mountains. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at a shimmering shape hidden between these cliffs and grove of ancient looking trees. It appeared to be a lake, but as soon as he saw it, it was gone again, swallowed up by it's shadowy surroundings.

The mountains seemed almost dreamlike, something seen before but very faintly. It made John feel dazed, disoriented.

"Strange," Sherlock said, looking over to John. He nodded.

"Very strange," he whispered.

They went down in altitude again, following the turning road in its decline. The cliffs became a faraway scene in the rear view mirror and the naked trees began lining the straight road again. It was hard for them to estimate how long they drove that flat road, because every stretch of it appeared the same as the one before. Eventually the tree line broke and their vision of their surroundings returned. Around them were more bare hills and green fields, and as they left the gloom behind them, on the side of the road, a sign greeted them to their destination.

Welcome to Cresmere

They entered the front street, watching as they drove by the quaint brick buildings, one after another, many with beautifully historical architecture and colorful shutters. While some came to victorian style peaks and had stained glass windows with intricate patterns, others were more simplistic and Georgian in style with plain uniform stuctures. In between buildings of flats community gardens began sprouting spring tulips and other delicate flowers, creating a charming country feel to the relatively small town. Specialty shops sold anything from Cresmere souvenirs, to cheese, wine, baked goods, and boutiques filled with local designer clothing. Families with small children walked the pavement, holding hands underneath hanging plants that hung from the streetlamps. A young boy with his mother excitedly looked through the window of an ice cream shop, grinning at the flavors inside and a towering stack of waffle cones.

John was surprised that such an atmospheric historical town existed just beyond the dangerous mountain range they passed through recently. Even Sherlock seemed in awe of the sudden change in environment. Then it dawned to the consulting detective quite impactfully. This town, this near paradise vacation spot, was where seven people were murdered.

"The crime rate here must be so low," John commented, reading Sherlock's mind, "It's odd isn't it. That this is where they went missing."

"It is. It makes it that much more fascinating," Sherlock grinned, content with the new element of bizarre that it offered the case.

The fact was, it wasn't the number of people killed that interested him. It wasn't the case's current fame in the news. It was the criminal's sense of style. He put so much thought into how to kill the victims, how to make them into something so gruesomely artistic, that the motive for his actions couldn't be anything less than incredibly intriguing, and now knowing how picturesque his hometown was, this motive caused ever growing curiosity.

"Do you have the address for the place we are staying?" John asked his passenger. Sherlock unbuckled himself and reached into the back seat for his suitcase, unzipping the first compartment to retrieve the folder Lestrade had given them. They followed the included directions, continuing through the town and over a bridge which carried them above a small lake, the water sparkling despite the mostly cloudy sky above.

It looks like something from a postcard, John thought admiringly. The rest of the town past the bridge seemed even larger than they had expect. Some buildings were four stories tall with partial balconies, and the main street contained more businesses. There were estate agent companies, a local newspaper, a small print shop, and on the corner of one street was the business they were seeking.

Elementary Books

For the Omnivorous Reader

It was a bookstore located in half of the ground floor of a two story building, sharing the other half with a women's clothing shop. The entire wall of the ground floor facing that street was covered in large window panels, showcasing the goods inside both shops. John pulled around into the alleyway between the building and the one beside it, where a few parking spaces were marked beside a skip and a loading area for small delivery lorries. He was so relieved to turn off the engine finally, signifying the end of their five and a half hour journey. John and Sherlock exited the car, thankful to breath in the fresh air.

However, they only had a minute to stretch before having to unload the car. Sherlock did most of the work since John had been the one to drive last, handing his bag to him before retrieving the others. Together they toted their two bags and a single large suitcase through the alleyway and around to the front side of the store. As they passed the long windows, they took notice of the book display featuring bestselling books and the shelving units in background which never seemed to end. They reached the glass door labeled Elementary Books and Sherlock resolved to be the first one to enter. When he opened the door a bell jingled to alert of their entry.

The partners waited a moment for the owner to greet them but the room seemed silent and vacant. Sherlock sent John a confused look and the doctor returned it.

"Hello?" John asked, but the men were alone with the dust in the room and the smell of crisp book pages and leather covers. Sherlock ventured farther, walking to the right side where the counter was. John shifted the large bag on his shoulder and uncomfortably followed his partner.

"Hello!" Sherlock called impatiently. John turned around to see if anyone was behind any of the shelving units, perhaps asleep in the maroon armchairs in the back, but no one was. Meanwhile, Sherlock walked past the counter and into the backroom hidden behind a silky curtain. He noted that there was a fireplace and cozy reading nook filled with haphazardly stacked books. It smelled of freshly brewed exotic teas.

"Oh dear, oh dear, OH DEAR!"

Sherlock jumped back from the room as he heard the cries of distress. John's heart began to race as he ran towards the counter where Sherlock stood.

"What was that?" He asked panickedly.

"It came from upstairs," Sherlock replied quickly, his head spun around, eyes searching for the stairs, they were located in the back corner on the right side of the store, past the back room with the reading nook. Without a second thought, he dropped the bag and suitcase and dashed up the narrow wooden stairs, hearing sounds of loud clanging from above. John was close behind him, wishing he had hadn't packed his gun away.

Above the stairs was a hallway which was covered in floral pink wallpaper, it led to a messy living room and two doors branching from the left and an open doorway through which was a kitchen. Plumes of smoke gushed from the open area and instantly Sherlock held his nose and ran through it to the source.

A petite brunette woman stood over a skillet that was engulfed in flames, holding a bowl of water above it, just about to tip it onto the fire.

"No!" Sherlock screamed and leaped at the woman, pushing her onto the floor. Both of them coughed as their lungs filled with smoke and John ran towards the cupboards. He rummaged through them quickly, finding a hand towel, and running it through the tap. He squeezed it out a little and ran back to the hob, turning off the heat and throwing the towel over the burning skillet. The fire extinguished and the three people let out a deep sigh of gratitude.

Once Sherlock caught his breath, he got up from the floor and held his hand out to the woman who was now soaked with water, the glass bowl broken into pieces.

"Don't ever put out a grease fire with water," Sherlock told her sternly, looking into her wide green eyes and fear stricken face.

"I-I'm so glad that you came in when you did! I'm so sorry," she said as she got to her feet. She looked down at the mess on the floor and the skillet with scorched grease crusted to the sides.

"Oh my," she mumbled thoughtfully then giggled a little, "I suppose I'm done with cooking as my hobby of the week!"

"I would highly advise staying away from it," Sherlock agreed.

She laughed and nodded, brushing a piece of hair that fell from her messy bun behind her ear, then held her hand out to Sherlock.

"I'm Penelope," she told him with a jolly grin, revealing her dimples.

"Sherlock," he responded, looking down at her hand uncomfortably. John gave him a warning look and he finally took it in his. She grinned even wider as she shook his hand a bit too energetically.

"Ouch! Oops sorry. My finger," she exclaimed and retracted her hand quickly. The men noticed a large bandage on her pointer finger. She turned to John and held out her left hand this time.

"I'm John Watson. What happened to your finger?" John asked considerately and with a friendly smile as he shook her delicate hand.

"I was cutting an onion and ended up cutting off the tip of my finger. I had to have it reattached actually. I guess I should have known then not to continue with the whole cooking thing. That's alright my food was awful anyways!," she laughed sheepishly. She noticed the shocked looks the men gave her and cleared her throat.

"Right! So you probably don't want to hear all about me," she smiled apologetically, "I bet you came here for a book. I will let you pick out any of them for free since you saved me and my bookstore...and emergency services from having to come here again."

"Uh well-" John began.

"They will only come here ten times a year now. I've already called them six times and it's only March so please don't feel bad about it. In fact, you can take two books each!" She insisted, holding up her hands to prove her point. John and Sherlock smirked at the interesting young woman and gave each other a look of mutual humor.

"But Penelope, we didn't come here for books. We are your renters," John explained.

An expression of realization transformed her glowing smile and a blush of embarrassment darkened her cheeks. Her hand flew up to her forehead in memory.

"Sherlock and John! Oh, psh, yes I totally forgot you were coming today. Let me help you with your bags and show you to your room. It's on the second floor," she explained. She removed her stained apron, and dropped it to the floor with the broken glass and puddle of water, stepped over the mess, and then gestured with her hands for the men to follow her back down the stairs.

"What a woman," John mumbled with a snicker. Sherlock chuckled too and then they trailed after her.