Hey there! I am in an unusually good mood today, as we were all sent home halfway through the morning yesterday because our school's boiler broke. Consequently, I am neglecting the increasingly huge pile of homework sitting on my desk and writing instead. It's also becoming obvious that I will never finish this story for Christmas, which is irritating, but I'm deciding to stay positive. Here's a new chapter for you to read my dears. Also, thank you to all those who have read or reviewed, you guys are awesome.

December 3rd

8:30 am

"So where is it?" Sherlock said, his usual cool, almost bored sounding tone echoing around the dingy flat. They were in a rough part of Hackney, in a dingy and dilapidated flat. The wallpaper was peeling, and places where pictures had once hung were outlined on the grimy walls. Floorboards creaked under John's feet, and there was a suspiciously sticky patch on the ground which he didn't like to think about. A harshly bright police lamp shone in the corner of the room, bitterly intense and dazzling John's senses. Sherlock stepped over boxes of papers into the bedroom- if you could call it that. A dirty white mattress was pushed up against one wall, complete with somewhat personal marks of previous owners. There was a small lamp- with no shade, just a light bulb- next to the 'bed', and a small pile of books. There was a cane chair with a broken seat in the corner, next to a broken mirror. Under the mirror were various bottles of pills on a sturdy wooden shelf, lined in a row in order of size. Iron supplements, B12, Vitamin E, he seemed to have enough to supply a pharmacist, but only a few were open. Maybe he was stocking up. Other than that, however, the room was empty. It was hardly a home. John turned and realised that the body of a man was lying on the filthy mattress, a gruesome slash across his neck. It was probably the only the bit of colour in the room, the blood looking jewel bright and oddly crimson in the bitingly sharp glow of the lights. The man could have been sleeping; his eyes were shut peacefully, the ghost of a smile eerily present on his face.

"Dead around 8 or 9 hours ago," said Sherlock, examining the corpse. "Knowing Moriarty I'd say he had him killed at midnight. He has a weakness for theatrics." Sherlock's distaste was clear in his voice, so John decided not to point out Sherlock's own love of the dramatic. He called his brother his archenemy and twirled his long coat constantly, for God's sake.

"So, how are we going to find the next victim?" he asked.

"John, if I knew that would I still be here?" Sherlock said, exasperated. "Don't ask ridiculous questions. He will have left us some clue." Sherlock continued to circle the body, prowling for evidence. "The man's in his early twenties, probably around 21. He's not from round here, he immigrated over from… Romania, I believe. He's short sighted, and in a relationship, probably with a man."

"How the hell-"

"No time, John. No time to explain." Sherlock crouched next to the body in a curiously catlike fashion, looking at the man's hands. The right had the number 11 sliced into it. "His right hand is slightly larger than his left, and his right arm is considerably stronger. This suggests he has done some sort of manual labour. His hands are scarred from repeatedly cutting himself, so he worked with tools. A carpenter, perhaps? No. Look at his eyes," Sherlock leaned over to examine the man's eyelids. "They're puffy and red. He hasn't been crying, his eyes have been watering. Hay fever then, plus, I'm sure over by his various medicines you'll find an empty box of hay fever medication- he hadn't taken any on the day he was killed."

"Fantastic," John said, in awe of his friend's deductive capabilities.

Sherlock smirked. "Thank you," he said. "But there is more to be done here. Where would he be handling something sharp and have his hay fever react? A florists, maybe. More likely something on a market stall, budget flowers, not anything fancy. But why would this man be working somewhere where his allergy will affect him?" Sherlock looked at John, expectantly.

John gazed around at the dank, dark room. "… He didn't have anywhere else to go?"

"Exactly. He needed all the money he could get. I'm guessing he had more than one job in any case, he wasn't exactly living in a palace."

Sherlock walked quickly back into the living room. "He cut stems with his right hand, and pulled the trolley full of boxes with it. That explains the difference in strength between the two arms."

John picked up a book from beside the bed. "Psychoanalysis? Sherlock, have you seen this?" He handed it to his flat mate. "The guy's living in this dump but can afford books on Freud?"

Sherlock smiled, still looking at the books. "Brilliant John." John felt oddly proud of being praised by his friend. "That's why he works. He's giving himself an education. Of course!" He shoved the book back into John's arms. "He works to afford his university texts, and where can you find highly paid work? In the criminal underworld. He probably delivered some 'packages' or something for Moriarty, little work but it comes with a lot of cash. He wasn't important, he was just a messenger."

John grinned at the revelation, but then glanced down at the body of the young man.

"21. Poor bastard."

Sherlock seemed unmoved, his mind still reeling from his last deduction. "But how do we find the connection? What's the connection between this victim and Edwards? There must be a link, there has to be."

John glanced around the living room. "Hey, what's that?" He picked up a curved set of pan pipes, which was surprisingly heavy. "Sherlock, what is this?"

Sherlock glanced at the instrument. "A Nai. It's a Romanian pan flute."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"There are lots of things I've had to find out for cases, John. This one just happens to have come up before." He took the instrument from John, and placed it to his lips. He blew out a little tune, the same tune he always played on the violin.

"You can play it?" said John, astonished.

"Only a little," Sherlock said modestly. "Come on. We don't have time to waste here. We need to go back to Bart's."

1:30pm

Sherlock smiled as he walked back into the lab. "After vehement protests from Donovan, Lestrade finally convinced her to let me search for the victim's identity myself. His name's Paul Ionescu, and he was a psychology student at UCL. John, are you listening to me?" Sherlock became aware that John was slumped over in his chair, apparently asleep. Sherlock laughed, and went to wake him, but before he could he heard John let out a small noise. A whimper. Sherlock's outstretched hand recoiled. John didn't whimper, he must have imagined it. But then, John whimpered again, louder this time, almost moaning. Sherlock glanced down at John's face, which was now contorted in fear.

"Stop it," he whispered fearfully, a tear trickling down his face. "Stop it."

For once in his life, Sherlock was afraid. What was he supposed to do? Wake him? Or would that just upset John more, knowing that Sherlock had witnessed him in the throes of his nightmare. In the end, Sherlock didn't have to choose, as John suddenly opened his eyes. Looking terrified, Sherlock span around and pretended to busy himself with a microscope.

Pretending not to hear John's gasp of surprise, he stammered "You've been asleep for a while. I didn't want to wake you."

John groaned as he got up, holding his head. "So… I've just been asleep? All this time?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, a little too quickly.

"… Nothing happened at all?"
"No. Why?" said Sherlock sharply.

"No reason," said John, looking relieved. "Sorry for falling asleep. I haven't really-"

"I know. I've been keeping you up. Why don't you go home for a while?"

"I couldn't just leave. What if you need someone to get you coffee?" He laughed.

Sherlock smiled. "Then I'll ask Molly. Go and sleep, John, I'll ring you if I need you."

"I'll only be a few hours," he said happily, grateful for a rest. "I had a date with Sarah tonight, but I can cancel it. It's not really important."

"John," said Sherlock directly. "Cancelling a date with your girlfriend to look at dead bodies with your flatmate is not wise if you want to keep the aforementioned girlfriend. She's already pissed off at you for running off with me all the time. Go, have a night off. Be with Sarah."
"You don't mind?"

"Of course not. Besides, if she gets anymore annoyed with you she might dump you, and you'd just be grumpier then. Believe me, in the long run, this is better."

"Thanks," John smiled. "I'll see you later." He grabbed his coat then left, whistling happily. Sherlock sat down in the chair John had just left, confused. He'd just had what looked like a horrific nightmare, but he just… Did he feel better? Was that all it was, some stupid nightmare? Or was John just hiding his feelings from Sherlock… He suspected that was it, but it disturbed him still. He knew John was notoriously private, but if Sherlock hadn't witnessed the distressing dream even he wouldn't have been able to tell. John was a better actor than Sherlock gave him credit for. But still this new emotion haunted Sherlock's mind, taunting him for being so ridiculously sentimental. To think he was worried about someone. The former sociopath, worried about his flat mate. For God's sake, it was simply bizarre. Sherlock shook his head, trying to understand. This wasn't important right now- he'd have to observe John later.

I'd best start my Physics homework… Awww.

Thanks for reading!