Darkness had fallen over the four story apartment complex in lower London that Sherlock called home, but he had made no progress in the case of that afternoon. Reports had come back to him that the body had been completely drained of blood, and the organs so vividly on display had almost completely dried out, and seemed to be oddly placed in the hacked up torso. Obviously she had died elsewhere, and someone had felt the need to return her to her home and set it up; but who? And why. And how? Sherlock ran his hands through his thick, curly hair, giving a sigh of exasperation. For what felt like the thousandth time that day, his phone rang out across the room.

"Holmes."

"Sherlock, feeling better are we?" Mycroft's voice, just as smooth and irritating as ever, rang through the receiver. "I will admit, your behaviour yesterday did very little to put my concern to much rest."

"Oh, I assure you brother, your concern is very much unneeded now." Sherlock draped himself lazily over the couch, eyes darting toward the kitchen. "I assume you are up to date on the newest developments in my professional life?"

"Of course." His tone was almost mocking. "The butchered woman with the pigs blood. Did that idiot Anderson really not realise that it didn't belong to her?"

Sherlock murmured in agreement. "I keep telling Lestrade that he is useless, but you know how it is at Scotland Yard; there is very little actual talent there, an unfortunate fact for both me and for London."

"Yet quite fortunate for the criminals. But then that is why they have you, Sherlock."

"Mycroft, is there a reason for this phone call, or did you just want a friendly chat?" Sherlock nerves were starting to wear thin with his brother, and there was an edge to his voice.

"Are you implying there is something wrong with friendly chats between family members?"

"Goodbye Mycroft."

Sherlock dropped the phone on the coffee table, and gave a sigh as he heard it clatter to the floor. Staring at the ceiling, he turned his mind back to the case, but there was no denying that since leaving the crime scene in Shepherds Blush, the lethargy that plagued his life in recent months had started creeping back. He had pinned every scrap of evidence up along the wall as per his routine, but where the scraps of paper and the gruesome photographs usually enticed him and fuelled him further into the mystery, this time they only created a mess, and hung abandoned and untouched.

Forcing himself to his feet, he shuffled lazily across the room, raking his eyes over the wall of text and images. He already knew where the useless path he was treading was leading him, and he determinedly kept his eyes away from the mantle, where the bottle sat waiting patiently. The memory of his heightened abilities played on is mind despite his best efforts to avoid them, and the urge to inject another dose of the substance and re-examine the scene with his enhanced vision tugged at his mind. His unmoving eyes bored holes through the papers on his wall as the temptation gently pulled at him, dragging him nearer to the acceptance that there was no other way, until with an infuriated cry, he spun around, grabbing the bottle off the shelf and shoving it into his pocket. Adding a fresh needle from the kitchen, and his phone from the floor, he stormed out of the apartment onto the street, hailing a cab and climbing in.

The bottle weighed heavily in Sherlock's pocket as he sat in the rear of the cab and gave the driver the address. He hadn't fully decided on whether or not he would take the drug when he got there when his phone once again cut through his thoughts. A quick glance at the screen before answering told him it was Lestrade.

"What's happened?"

"There's been another one. Same deal." The Detective Inspectors voice sounded hopeless down the line. "Its down over the bridge this time, Southwark. Friend found her about an hour ago."

"Another woman?" Sherlock noted the similarity with interest. "What's the address, I'm on my way. Tell your boys not to touch anything, understand?"

Sherlock called the new destination out to the driver and sat back in his seat. Maybe this scene would offer up some answers, and he wouldn't need the cocaine after all.

But then again, maybe not.

The errant thought made him scowl and he tried in vain to banish it from his mind, instead focusing on the idea that being high only made him doubt his sober senses, something he simply could not accept. He relied on his senses, he always had, that is how he had survived in the world, and if something made him doubt them, he didn't stop until it was eradicated.

Unless that something improved them. Improved your work. Made you stronger.

Sherlock spent the rest of the car ride locked in uneasy, conflicting thoughts, and by the time the cab pulled up behind the police tape, his mood had turned downright sour. Stepping into the crime scene did nothing to improve this as he was greeted by the angry face of Anderson, the forensics detective who delighted in mocking the Consulting Detective.

"Don't worry Your Highness, we've hardly stepped foot in there." He sneered, his nasally voice making Sherlock's nostrils flare. "Your lap dog Lestrade made sure of that."

Sherlock didn't even bother to respond as he strode past. With every step he felt the hidden drug nudge gently against his side, and the sensations just made the tension in the air around him thicken. To indulge Anderson in his mocking would only make this worse for him.

He found Lestrade in the main bedroom, along with the new corpse, mangled and displayed in almost an identical fashion to the first. Pigs blood had once again been splashed around the room, coating the walls, floor and furniture in layers of crimson, although this time, it was obviously much fresher. This scene had obviously been found much sooner than the first. Turning to Lestrade, Sherlock began his investigation.

"The friend who found her, I assume they are being questioned?"

"Yeah, she's down at the station now. Don't expect we'll get much from her though." Lestrade sighed. "She's a right mess."

Sherlock murmured in agreement.

"You said this was found about ninety minutes ago. The killer can't have been here much longer before that."

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest as his eyes followed Sherlock around the room.

"What makes you think that?"

Sherlock waved a hand towards the reddish brown walls.

"The blood. Still hasn't dried in the thicker areas. Since it's a cooler day out, the weather wouldn't have been assisting it to dry, so it can't have been thrown about more than two hours ago. Get Anderson in here to take a sample, it should tell us how old it is."

"Yeah," Lestrade muttered in response. "Yeah. Right."

Sherlock was left alone in the room as his fellow detective went to fetch the forensics crew. Crouching next to the bed, he narrowed his eyes at the mess of butchered organs, trying to gain an idea of what kind of weapon could do such a thing.

"These marks," he said as he heard the two other men re-enter the room. "Were they found on the other victim?"

It was Lestrade who answered.

"Those kind of jagged tears? Yeah, the guys at Bart's think they were made by some kind of roughly serrated blade. High powered, like a power saw or something."

"I'd have to be a bloody big power saw to do that to a person." Anderson scoffed from the side wall.

"Hmm," Sherlock rose to his feet. "Yes, it would have to be."

The next hour turned out just as much information as the previous scene had, despite Sherlock's best efforts, a fact that absolutely infuriated him. Once again, there was no trace of anyone else being present, or any possible way the body could have gotten there. Lestrade had informed him that no prints were lifted from the first body, or the first scene, and that they weren't hopeful about this set either, so there wasn't even that to go on. With every passing minute Sherlock grew more and more aware of the bottle sitting patiently in his pocket, and by the time the forensics crew had cleared away their equipment and the officers were leaving, he had made up his mind that that night, he would return to view the scene with his new found perspective, and pry the answers from its cold, dead hands.