Sorry it's been so long, guys. We both have a lot of school work and this week was show week for the school musical and I was helping out all week. Been beat. Also there was a problem with our connection so asdfgh. Sorry and here!

John scrambled up the ladder, squinting in the sudden ray of sunlight that hit him square in the face. He opened his eyes wide, in surprise and shock, when he saw what Sherlock was crouching next to.

On the roof of the chip shop was a man. He was barely conscious, and covered in a shiny, but clear, liquid.

"Careful," Sherlock said calmly, "that liquid's flammable. I think he's one of the gang that got Penber."

"So, take him to the police station and get him questioned!" John shouted, not daring to step away from the flat roof he found himself on. It would take 6 steps to get back to the hole he'd climbed out of, and he'd have to climb over the wet, slippery, highly flammable slates if he wanted to get to Sherlock.

The man groaned, he coughed and something dark speckled his lips. He was bleeding, probably in his lungs. John's medical training kicked in.

"Sherlock! Don't touch him!" John shouted. He turned around and tried to get someone on the street outside the house's attention. One man looked up, then another, and another. John's phone rang. Greg. He was a life saver.

"John, what the fuck are you doing up there?" His voice was tinny and hollow.

"Paramedics. Now." John said, clearly but not calmly. "Suspect on the roof, bleeding internally. Get some paramedics!"

"Too late, John." Sherlock appeared at his side. "Just run!" Suddenly a great wall of heat hit John's back. Fire.

John's legs soon kicked into gear and ran back towards the ladder. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest and yet he felt nothing other than excitement. As a doctor it should have worried him that something as dangerous and life threatening made him feel alive. Maybe it was completely wrong to be thankful of all the sudden drama forced back into his life. He was ushered down the ladder first by Sherlock who quickly followed. John swore he had never gotten down a ladder that fast before in all his life. Expect that time he had fallen off it in year nine when him and his friends had been mucking around in the garden.

At the bottom he found an extremely worried looking Lestrade. Obviously searching for the non-existent victim. When John walked over to Lestrade he didn't speak but merely shake his head. Sherlock was soon next to them. In the background John should here the nearing sounds of fire trucks. Looks like Lestrade had summoned them again.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Lestrade demanded. "There was a fire on the roof! There was someone on the roof! What was going on up there?"

John shook his head and pointed to the door. He wanted to get away from the roof as soon as he could. Sherlock laid a hand on John's shoulder and pushed him out the door. Lestrade was next. Sherlock followed them down the stairs.

"So?" Lestrade demanded again.

"There was a man, a traitor to the gang, up there. He was beaten, like Penber and was covered with a flammable liquid. He dropped a lighter and died, rather than go to a hospital and help us."

"So, loyal traitor?" Lestrade's brow crumpled.

"Scared boy, Greg." John said quietly. "He was terrified."

"Ah." Lestrade nodded. "That doesn't give us any clues though!"

"Actually," Sherlock grinned, "it does. We know they're a gang. Based locally. Who know the area. And the people in it."

"So?"

"So, we only have to find the boss. And get him to talk." John said, watching Lestrade's face.

"No, not even that much work." Sherlock said. "The man that hired them, we'll never be able to find him using the information we have. So, we forget the Penber case."

There was silence amongst the men. Slowly the sounds of the outside world penetrated their bubble.

"What?" John asked, his eyes almost popping out of his head. Sherlock was... Giving up a case.

"We'll gather more information as it goes along and we'll find the person responsible. Sooner or later."

"Well," Lestrade sighed. "Okay."

"I'd send some competent people up there up after the fire has been put out." Sherlock turned and began walking up the street.

"Walking away without an explanation. Again." Lestrade chuckled. "You know, I've actually missed that."

John nodded in agreement. He had to admit, he had missed the little things. Though some of the things had started to annoy him again. He had missed the man but he had forgotten how infuriating he was. "Have you got the time?"

"Yeah," Lestrade raised his arm to inspect his watch. "It's twenty to twelve."

"Thanks." John continued to look at the watch. He had sworn the day before the man had been wearing a metal strap. Today however Lestrade had a brown leather one on with a different watch face. It was well polished and looked relatively new. "New watch?"

"Erm... yeah. It was a gift." Lestrade replied sheepishly.

"Oh, who fr-"

"JOHN! HURRY UP!"

"COMING!" John yelled back before turning to Lestrade.

"Bye, John."

"Bye, Greg." John rushed after Sherlock and soon caught with him. "So where are we going exactly?"

"Chemical distribution factory."

"Why on earth are we going there?"

"That liquid used was an industrial solvent. Seeing as the men are local that would mean the large quantity required could only come from a local factory. There is only one chemical distribution factory in this area of London. Hence that's where we are going."

John stood puzzled for a moment. "And how did you deduce that the liquid was an industrial solvent?"

"The smell. It was a sweet smell so that narrowed down the field. The rate of burning too. All that indicated that we're looking for Trichloroethylene." Sherlock let out a disappointing sigh. "Laws prohibit it being used within food and pharmaceutical industries. Due to the toxic nature. Probably safe too. Just do not know why it is being used around here. Unless it was ordered by the company especially for somebody."

Sherlock's long strides pulled him quickly away from John, who hurried to catch up as best he could. Sherlock's eyes were focused on something John couldn't see, probably some part of his amazing 'Mind Palace'. John followed him as close as he could, to make sure that Sherlock couldn't get into any trouble.

"Left." Sherlock muttered, still not fully 'there'. He was think, hard, about something. John jogged a few steps to keep up. They turned into an alley, a dingy little road that had a distinct smell of rotting litter. John's eyes bulged as he tried to keep his breathing under control. Sherlock didn't seem bothered by the stench.

"Right." He said, only loud enough for John's ears to have to strain to hear him. The duo walked through an old playground. Inside the fences sat a group of about twenty teenagers. Most, if not all, were boys. The group of kids that hung around avoided them. There was an element of fear in the air. The kids were scared of Sherlock? Or of John?

"Here..." Sherlock said, looking up at an old factory. "This is it."

"It's a shithole, Sherlock." John said a hint of impatience in his voice. "They won't have kept anything flammable here."

"What's that then, John?" Sherlock said, pointing to the far wall. There were barrels of something stacked three high across the back wall. John shook his head.

They couldn't possibly hold that substance Sherlock had spoken about. The barrels probably contained nothing. Even if they did look oddly suspicious. It was just unlikely. Especially for the area. Then again Sherlock hadn't been wrong about things like that before. John fathered what was coming next. Investigation. Exploration. Knowing their luck probably an explosion or two. Maybe a crazed gunman.

Of course Sherlock was the first one to approach them. He ran his hands over the barrels. Letting his fingers curve with the shape. John could see the faint resemblance of what appeared to look like a chemical warning sticker. Looking around John saw a possible two locations which the barrels could belong to however Sherlock seemed to edge towards a rusting metal door on his left hand side. The building looked run down and void of all life. John didn't doubt that. It certainly looked it. He doubted the place had been used for probably industry in years. Yet it still covered as a chemical distribution factory. Something wasn't quite right there. Why would an apparently run down factory still order harmful or flammable substances if they weren't going to sell them on for use in production? Something fishy was going on and it didn't take a genius to figure that out.

Sherlock reached out to grab the handle. The door swung open. Inside John could see numerous boxes and packages that could contain numerous items John didn't even care to think about. As far as he knew the men who had killed Jo and nearly killed Penber were in there. He knew Sherlock would dive head first into the unknown. He always did. It was just lucky John always carried his gun with him. It always came handy.

John held his gun in the 'safe' position, although with a gun there was never an actual safe position. Come to think of it, around Sherlock there seemed to be no safe position either. And John had landed himself the most dangerous job, the ever-faithful assistant.

Faithful John, he chuckled to himself, that used to be his favourite fairy tale. Now it just reminded him that he was following an idiot. It would take Sherlock forever to realise that listening to John was a good idea and John didn't hope for it in the next few years.

He crept into the darkness beyond the open door and stopped, letting his eyes adjust and the faint light from outside make Sherlock vaguely visible.

"Wha-"

"Shh!" Sherlock stepped forwards, almost nose to nose with John and whispered, "No talking."

John nodded. He followed Sherlock around the room like a lost puppy.

"Okay." Sherlock nodded. "No bugs."

"Why would you be worried about bugs?"

"Because if I had a 'top-secret' base that I wanted hidden, I'd build it somewhere no one would ever go. And, on the off chance someone did go there, I'd have a security system in place." Sherlock sighed as though John's inability to follow his thoughts was uncommon amongst people.

"Ah." John nodded. He tightened his grip on the gun. Something was making him feel very uneasy. Something close by.

Looking around was utterly pointless. It wasn't like he would be able to see anything. He knew Sherlock probably could see through the dark like some weird form of nocturnal animal that lived off carrots. It was just what you had to expect with the man.

John slowly edged forward, the gun raised in the air. He didn't know where he was pointing but it made him feel protected. He put it down to old army techniques. A cocked gun and an unarmed madman who was actually on his side. For some reason that wasn't exactly comforting. Then again the way he had been thrown into all of this wasn't exactly comforting either. It had been three days since Sherlock had returned and the death toll was quickly rising. Just like the old days. His limp was completely again gone now. Showed John how quick he did depend on Sherlock.

Something rustled in the behind him, forcing John to quickly spin around. He could hear Sherlock doing the same. What he couldn't hear was the sound of breathing. From anybody. It was unnerving. That's when he heard it. The humming. It was eerie. Almost like a nursery rhyme. There was something to it though. A nervousness. It wasn't being hummed with ease. It was like they were scared. Like they didn't have a choice. This reminded him too much of something. Too much of the past. He didn't like it one bit. He remembered another sick freak who had had a thing for nursery rhymes. Thrived off of them.

A blinding light flicked on and filled the room leaving both John and Sherlock to close their eyes.