Hello, you lovely person, you. Unfortunately, it's been a crappy day due to the frankly sadistic music department at my school and an overload of coursework. I'm not in the mood for R.E homework, I'd rather do the detention. And as for preparing for a French Writing test… Bleh. Anyway, thanks to all of you for the incredible 124 reviews.

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A very happy 157th birthday to Mr Sherlock Holmes for the 6th, many happy returns. Is it wrong to love him still? No it is not. In other news, I HAVE STARTED A BLOG. *trumpets* Apparently it helps with getting journalism work experience, so I thought I'd start one. And at the moment, it's completely crap because I've not written anything. But if you want to check it out, just google "crypticnymph" at LiveJournal. Shameless self-promotion there, but whatever.

December 7th

3:30am

The body of Miss Laila Jansen was frighteningly peaceful. She could have been dreaming, no trace of the horrifying expression of terror Sherlock had seen in her otherwise attractive features earlier. She had a relaxed, sleepy smile on her face, her lips coated in a scarlet lipstick that almost matched the shade of the wound on her neck. It was all so neat.

John wavered a little at the sight of the body, still unused to seeing the corpses of young women. Sherlock remained as impassive as ever- in fact, if anything, he had gotten worse. His infernal crush on John had distracted him from his work, it had made him careless and this woman had died for it. And whilst Sherlock felt no guilt or sadness, it reaffirmed to him that his feelings were getting in the way of his job.

"We need to find out everything we can about her," said Sherlock coldly to Lestrade. "What do you know?"

"Well, she's lived here for about a year. She emigrated from the Netherlands, as you can probably tell from her name. She's been working for the hotel for around six months now. Apparently she was a lovely girl, very quiet, but she never caused any fuss according to her landlady."

"It's usually the way," said Sherlock dispassionately. It's always the quiet ones. The victims or the murderers, whichever really, but something bad was going to happen whenever 'a quiet one' was involved. They were always- he shuddered at the thought of using the word- the freaks.

"Apparently she has no known relatives here in London, but plenty of friends."

Sherlock paced the morgue carefully. "Moriarty hasn't called. He's breaking his pattern."

"I think Moriarty's far too impulsive to ever stick to his own patterns. Those rules he makes himself just inhibit his ability," said John, with surprising insight. Sherlock looked at him quizzically, and John flushed a warm shade of red. "I had a look at that Psychology book Ionescu had," he said hotly.

Sherlock smirked. "Do you think he's waiting to prolong the pleasure?"

John looked gravely at Sherlock. "Yes. He's the one who gets off on crimes, Sherlock, not you."

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "I'm going to get coffee. Come find me if you get a lead. Come on John."

4:00am

"This coffee tastes like crap," said John, gingerly holding his mug and giving it a look of disgust.

"Agreed," said Sherlock. "You'd think they'd give the police good coffee, wouldn't you? What with all the hours they have to work." He took another swig of his drink, before noticing that John was giving him a worrying look. "What?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"That girl died. Lestrade says she's twenty three. And you…" He clenched his hands tightly and took a deep breath. "You don't seem to care."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whether or not I care is irrelevant, John. It's not going to help them, as I've told you before. If anything, it's just going to distract me. Feelings get in the way. If I started caring about everyone I would be too busy caring to save them."

There was a brief silence. "I think you should see my therapist," said John, barely audible.

Sherlock scowled at him. "What good would it do?"

"Sherlock, you make me go. If you don't understand the importance of discussing it then I'm going to stop going too."

Sherlock felt a small snarl rise in his throat, angered by John's attempt at emotional blackmail. "You wouldn't." He spat. "It helps you, it helps you to talk about your feelings to someone impartial. For me, there are no emotions that aren't necessary. I would be making them up. Besides, my family tried the 'therapy' route when I was a child, and it didn't work then. I mentally destroyed my last three therapists. I don't need one."

John looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't. Instead he glared down at his cup of coffee, clenching the mug a little tighter than was strictly necessary.

5:00am

Sherlock had been absentmindedly leafing through a glossy magazine he had found in the police waiting room. He'd managed to deduce a fair deal of information about various celebrities- he was gay, she was having an affair, he was planning to propose to his girlfriend, the usual- but it had been nothing hard and he was now bored. Sherlock was often surprised by how many cases had boiled down to lust. There were only ever three real motives- sex, money and addiction. He felt his phone vibrate.

Get down here. Now- GL.

Leaping to his feet, Sherlock tugged John out of his seat and sprinted down the corridor to Lestrade's office. Lestrade was waiting there for them, a peculiar look of excitement on his face.

"What's happened?"

"We've traced the victim back to her old life in the Netherlands. She's got a past."

Sherlock smiled half heartedly, his suspicions confirmed. It's always the quiet ones. "And?"

"Well, it turns out she used to live in Amsterdam. Imagine where she worked."

"Ah. She was a prostitute," said Sherlock plainly. John looked slightly embarrassed by the situation.

"Yes. We'll find our answers there."

"So?"

"We're going to Amsterdam."

10:00am

Annoyingly, the first flight available was at noon, but this had given Sherlock time to pack his things. He had startlingly few personal possessions, yet he managed to fill a reasonably large suitcase. John had brought a tiny case with him, and Sherlock marvelled at his packing skills. So here they were, standing in Heathrow airport, about to visit Amsterdam. Well, it certainly wasn't the place he'd imagined he'd be earlier that morning.

John, Lestrade and, annoyingly, Donovan were flying over there with him for the investigation, and Sherlock was glad of the company. Though he hated to admit it to himself, he did not enjoy flying. This irrational fear of his irritated him- the chances of a plane crashing were next to nil. He knew this and yet it still terrified him to sit in the craft. The idea of the sheets of steel crushing him, the rapid descent to the ground before the merciful impact, but most of all, those last few minutes. Where the doomed-to-die call their families, to tell them they love them still. Where total strangers huddled together in a metal coffin and cried together. There was unity in such a death, Sherlock thought. A whole range of human emotions were felt by everyone onboard. And he would never experience that.

Sherlock explored the shelves of the newsagent's, trying to something to interest him. He found very little, purchasing a paper and a bottle of water but nothing else. John had browsed the books and bought a war novel (how achingly predictable) and a guide to Amsterdam.

"It says here that Amsterdam has a population of approximately 8.1 million," John said, sitting down on the seats in the terminal.

"Mmm," said Sherlock, not concentrating.

"It was ranked 13th best city in the world for quality of life."

"Mmm,"

"The Amsterdam Stock Exchange is the oldest stock exchange in the world."

"Mmm," They carried on in this fashion for a while, John seemingly unaware that all Sherlock could think about was who he'd ring from a crashing aeroplane.

12:15pm

"Hello, this is your captain speaking. My name is Stuart, I'll be your pilot for this afternoon." Sherlock resented the man for his falsely cheery voice. "Welcome aboard this flight to Amsterdam." He fidgeted with the edge of his newspaper, ripping off little strips in his apprehension. John lifted his bag into the overhead locker and sat down next to Sherlock, whacking him around the head with his book.

"What was that for?" He said, rubbing his head angrily.

"For being nervous. Why did you say you were afraid of flying?"

There was a snort of laughter from the seat in front. Sally turned around and smirked at Sherlock. "You're afraid of flying?" she sneered. "You? The great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock gave her a withering look. "I'm not afraid of flying, I just dislike it." His tone was typically acerbic. "Don't jump to conclusions."

She settled back down in her seat, chuckling to herself still. Sherlock attempted to burn holes in the seat with his eyes. The plane began to move.

Just a plane, it's just a plane, it's not going to crash, it's perfectly safe…

He fiddled with his jacket, knuckles whitening. It began to rise into the air and blood seemed to be rushing in Sherlock's ears. He screwed his eyes up tightly.

"Sherlock?" he heard faintly. He opened one eye cautiously.

"Yes?"

"We're level now," said John.

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief. "Right. Thanks."

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Before he could answer, there was a sudden jolt of turbulence, and the plane dropped a few feet. Sherlock blanched and let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a scream. He closed his eyes once more, ready for the screaming, ready for the crash.

"Sherlock?" Again, he heard John's voice.

"John," he said, surprised to hear something like a whimper escape his mouth.

"You're crushing my hand." Sherlock looked down. He had John's hand in a vice like grip, pinning it to the arm rest where it had been resting.

"Oh…" He let go. "I'm sorry, I thought it was the arm rest."

"Don't worry about it." John turned back to his book and began to read. Sherlock thought he heard a chortle from the seats in front. Damn Donovan. He got out of his seat without moving John- he had chosen the aisle seat, he disliked seeing how far they were from the ground- and went to the bathroom. Filling the sink with water, he scooped some up and splashed it across his face. Hands trembling from what he told himself was the cold and not fear, he leant against the back wall and closed his eyes. This was illogical. He shouldn't feel this way, he wasn't supposed to, it made him weak, but he did and there was nothing he could do about it. Again, he told himself he was talking about the plane, and not the man sitting next to him.

It has often been said that the gods have no sense of timing, that they bring the things you want just too late. This is untrue, they arrive precisely when they're meant to- it's just their timing benefits them and their entertainment, not you. Sherlock's phone rang.

"Having fun?" Moriarty drawled.

"Not particularly," Sherlock said flatly.

"How's it going?"

"Now why would I tell you that?"

"Because you know I'm not going to change my plans to benefit myself. Where's the fun in that? I want to see if you can solve it."

"I'm not in the mood Moriarty. Leave me alone."

"Don't you want to hear what I've been doing?" Moriarty sounded almost disappointed. "You're supposed to ask back. Manners Sherlock."

"What are you doing then," he said, annoyed by Moriarty's tone.

"I've been thinking about what I'll do if you lose. If you can't solve the last puzzle."

"And what, pray, have you been planning?"

"I'm not sure yet," he giggled. "Am I going large scale? A bomb in a very public place? A food shortage in some third world country? Or something closer to home? Something personal?"

Those last few words sent a shiver down his spine. "What?"

"Got to go darling. Ciao!" The phone line went dead.