Hi. Unfortunately, I have the flu, so I'm stuck at home and not at school (what a shame) feeling thoroughly miserable. So what better to do then write the next chapter? Enjoy (Oh, and it's a tad longer than usual).

December 7th

2:00pm

They had arrived at Amsterdam airport earlier than expected, allowing them plenty of time to check in at their hotel. An indeterminate thought struck Sherlock of how odd they must look- three men, one woman, turning up at the last minute and booking rooms. Sherlock said nothing as Lestrade and John sorted out the details, sitting on the sofa in the lobby with Sally next to him.

"So freak," said Sally smugly. "I hear you've got yourself a little crush on Watson."

Sherlock gave her an icy glare. "Then you've heard wrong."

Sally snorted. "Please! I've seen the way you look at him, Holmes." Just ignore her, don't react. "The way your eyes sort of glimmer when you see him." What an interesting plant. "The way you rake your eyes up and down his body." Such lovely petals. "I bet you just want to screw him over and over and-"

Sally's taunts proved too much for Sherlock. "Fuck off Donovan." He hadn't been able to stop himself, and clearly Sally's actions had produced what she had hoped for.

"So it's true? I was just teasing you, but now I think you really do have a thing for him," she sneered. "You realise he's straight, don't you? And even so, who'd want to be in a relationship with you? Or is that not what you're after? You want someone you can fuck with no strings attached."

"Shut up will you? I'm trying to work." They sat in angry silence until John and Lestrade returned. John had an odd expression on his face.

"Here's your room key," he handed Sherlock a key card. "My room's 208, Sally's is 209, and you and John will be in 210."

"Me and John?" said Sherlock, attempting to keep the strain out of his voice.

"Yeah. The police can't afford to give us all separate rooms, Sherlock. Some of us had to share-"

"What about you and Donovan?" he said accusingly.

"We can't share Sherlock! It would be completely unprofessional. So you two had to. You're flat mates, how hard can it be? It's not like you'll be sleeping together." John said nothing, and Sherlock mumbled something inaudible to the rest of them. "Right. For official reasons, you two can't be seen sneaking around with the police. It's been bad enough trying to get us to liaison with the Dutch force, let alone two ama-" He broke off at the look on Sherlock's face. "-consulting detectives. It's just not allowed- but we do need you on call at all times."

"So what are we supposed to do until then?" said John.

"I don't know, sightsee? Order from the mini bar? Amuse yourself until this evening- then you'll have a job to do."

5:00pm

Three hours later, Sherlock was yet to "amuse" himself. He was lying back on the hotel bed, planning an elaborate scheme for revenge against Sally, but the retaliatory part of his mind seemed to be having creative block.

He was vaguely aware of a coat landing on his face. "John?" he said, then realised that the sound would be muffled by the clothing. He wrenched it from his head. "What are you doing?"

"We're going out."

"Where?" Sherlock pulled on his coat.

"Anywhere," said John. "This is my first trip to Amsterdam and probably my last. I want to see what it has to offer. We're going to some museums, okay?"

Sherlock groaned but stood up to leave with John. "Like what?"

"Well, first off, I thought we'd do Anne Frank's house. You do know who Anne Frank was, right?" he said, a little condescendingly.

"Yes I know who she was. Don't patronise me," he snapped, but John just laughed.

Anne Frank's house was around twenty five minutes from the hotel, in the very centre of Amsterdam. The house itself was incredibly tall, like all houses in the city, made of red brick and had large dark windows. Sherlock and John travelled through the building in respectful silence until they reached the bookcase that hid the entrance to the annex where Anne Frank had hidden.

"They used this space for the archives. There was no reason for them to suspect that they were hiding Jews in there."

Sherlock said nothing. It wasn't that he was bored by the house; he just had other things on his mind. As interesting as the rooms could be, it would never compare to the complexities of the latest case. Should he feel bad for saying that? He supposed he should, but couldn't bring himself to, his familiar sociopathic tendencies returning.

They walked through the door. It was larger than Sherlock had expected- he had imagined an impossibly small room behind the door, but he could still not imagine anyone ever having lived there. Inside the living room, they saw a life left seemingly untouched- as if the families who had lived there had popped out for a moment and never returned. Which, when Sherlock thought, was exactly what happened. Through a door to their right was Anne's bedroom. She'd stuck up pictures on the walls in an effort to brighten her day- film stars, royals, even pieces of artwork. Again, the room looked so intact and unblemished by the passage of time; he found it hard to believe that the family had been discovered a good sixty-five years earlier.

Sherlock saw that John was stunned silent. He saw the glisten of a tear in John's eye- and come to mention it, in the eyes of everyone in the room. He alone had remained unmoved by the house and its contents. He was going through cycles of hypersensitivity- well, in his rather limited experience- and then numbness- all too familiar. He should have been upset, but he wasn't. Maybe he was a freak.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

Red Light district, now. We're interviewing a few old "colleagues"- GL.

Sherlock didn't wish to drag John away from the museum but the case called. He was aware of other tourists giving him the sort of look that was usually reserved for the kind of person who said "But what was so bad about the Holocaust?" for checking his phone.

"John?" he said quietly. "We have to go."

7:00pm

Sherlock and John tried incredibly hard to look inconspicuous whilst entering the Red Light district. It wasn't a natural fit for either of them- John was an incredibly private man when it came to sex, and if Sherlock had had anything to be private about, so would he. They tried to ignore the sex shops by making frantically inane conversation.

Eventually they saw Lestrade and Sally loitering outside another shop. Sherlock was reassured to find that Lestrade looked as uncomfortable as they did.

"It's, um, over there," he coughed, scratching the back of his head and blushing. He knocked on the door of a building, the windows lit by bright lights. There were several prostitutes in the windows, all giving them dazzling smiles and beckoning suggestively. Sherlock suddenly felt very protective of John.

"Spreek je Engels?" said Lestrade to a scantily dressed young woman, holding up his badge. "Britse politie."

She nodded and brought them through, looking rather anxious. There were many young women there, some who looked scarcely older than eighteen. A red headed woman walked over to Lestrade and put her arm around him.

"English?" she said, her voice heavily accented. "You are looking for a good time?"

"Yes, and er, no," he said awkwardly, brushing her off and flushing a deep red. "We are the police. Could you tell us where Miss Adriana van Bruggen is?"

The woman looked rather disappointed. Clearly Lestrade was a better class of customer. "Adriana," she called. A dark haired young girl, one of the youngest there in fact, approached them.

"Is something wrong?" Her English was far better than most of the others.

"You were friends with Laila Jansen?"

"Yes I- what do you mean, were?"

"Is there somewhere quiet we can talk about this?"

She took them all into a private back room. They collectively tried not to think what this room was used for. Adriana sat down on a sofa.

"What has happened to Laila?"

"I'm afraid Laila Jansen was found dead early this morning. She was murdered."

Adriana burst into floods of tears. Sally gave Lestrade a burning look that seemed to say 'you're so bloody tactless sometimes', and began to comfort her.

"I'm sorry, but we need to know all we can about her," said Lestrade gently.

"She worked here for a while," she said between sobs. "She was here before me. I came because the money was good, and she looked after me. She looked after all the girls, even the older ones," Her cries became louder.

"But you especially?"

"Yes," she wailed. "I am an orphan, like she was. She was like a mother to me!" Adriana yet again howled into Sally's shoulder.

Lestrade looked unsure of how to deal with such a delicate situation without seeming oafish or cumbersome. "I, er, do you know if she had anyone who would wish to-"

"Kill her?" said Adriana. "Never. She was the nicest girl anyone would want to meet. I cannot think who would do this to her."

8:00pm

They didn't manage to get much out of Adriana after that. She was too distraught by the death of her friend that she was unable to speak coherently.

"I don't understand," said Lestrade weakly. "Who would want to kill this girl? She was so ordinary."

"In Moriarty's opinion, she was evil," said Sherlock. "He's made himself a sort of bringer-of-justice, like he's passing righteous judgement."

"But she sounds like a lovely person, according to Miss van Bruggen," said John.

"The difference between Moriarty and you is that he judges people not on who they are but how interesting they are. He prizes his games with me because we are intellectual equals. A lowly prostitute was nothing to him. He considers a lack of intelligence a punishable sin."

They stayed quiet for a while until they arrived back at their rooms. Sally and Lestrade gathered in room 210, sitting down noiselessly and wondering what to do next.

Sally was the first to speak. "I don't know about you," she said to them all. "But I am really desperate for a fucking drink."

"Is now really the time?" Lestrade asked tentatively, but Sally was already opening the mini bar.

"Yes. I am on holiday- I want to order room service and get pissed, ok? None of you are going to stop me."

"I second that," said John, taking a bottle that Sally was offering them. Lestrade reluctantly followed.

"What about you, Sherlock?" she said finally, handing him a beer. Sherlock was visibly taken aback. She had never called him by his first name, not even the first time they met.

"I don't drink a lot," he said flatly.

"Oh come on Sherlock," said Lestrade. "Stop being so bloody mechanical and get shit faced, will you?"

John shot him a grin. Well how could he refuse that?

11:00pm

In retrospect, getting shit faced was not the best idea. John had began to paint on the bathroom mirror with shaving foam, and Lestrade had passed out with his face in a bowl of spaghetti bolognaise- he was not a strong drinker. Neither for that matter was Sherlock, and he was now utterly off his head.

"Sssssally!" He slurred, pulling her into a tight hug. She giggled. "You arrre an evil bitch, y-you know that?"

"And you!" she garbled. "Are a f-f-f,"

"Ha!" Sherlock snorted. "You caaaan't even insssult me!"

They both collapsed onto the floor, chortling merrily. John came back in, eyes wide and gleaming.

"Hey!" he yelled, far too loudly. "I've got an idea." Out of them all, John had managed to stay the most sober, clearly used to drunken idiots whilst in the army. However, it had made him… mischievous. John turned over the still zoned out Lestrade with surprising ease. He took a pen from his pocket. Seeing what John had planned, Sherlock and Sally began to cackle and took out their own pens. Whilst drawing on Lestrade's face, there was a strange thought in Sherlock's drunken head. Sally was a good person to be drunk with. He was sure he'd regret this in the morning, but for the moment it was hilarious and he needed to loosen up. Getting smashed with Sally and John was the most fun he'd had in years.

Some time later, Sherlock began to sober up. He'd knocked back a few too many beers too early- he'd always been a light weight when it came to alcohol- but the effects were beginning to wear off. Sherlock glanced at John and saw that he too was beginning to feel the effects.

"Fuck," he moaned. "My head fucking kills."

Sally was still managing to amuse herself by laughing at the Dutch television. "Their lllllanguage is so funnnnny!" She rolled around on the floor, convulsing with the hilarity of the moment.

"Maybe we should take Lestrade back to his room," said Sherlock, getting to his feet a little unsteadily.

"Yeah," said John. "Help me with him." They lifted Lestrade to his feet and walked him gently to his room, lying him down on his bed.

"What do we do now?" said John. "Just leave him?"

"Unless you want to undress him, yes," said Sherlock. John seemed to agree that this was not an inviting idea.

"Sally," said John as they entered their own room again. "You've got to go back now."

"Awww, why?" she whined, stamping her feet like a petulant child. Unfortunately, this made her overbalance, but Sherlock caught her before she fell.

"Woah, there. C'mon." She hung on Sherlock as they walked to the door.

"Sherlock?"

"Ye-" As Sherlock turned his head, Sally kissed him lightly on the lips. Horrified by the events now unfolding, he pushed her away. She was still grinning.

"I still think you're a freak," she said, stumbling into her room. "But you're a beautiful freak."

Sherlock shut the door, and heard a crash from her room. He had planned on forgetting the moment had ever happened, when he heard hoots of hysterical laughter. John had followed them into the corridor.

"Shut up," Sherlock groaned, pushing his way back into the room. John was clutching the doorframe for support, positively howling with laughter.

"Hey, you can use this as revenge for her calling you freak!" He smiled at Sherlock, walking into the bathroom and swaying slightly.

Sherlock grinned. "I suppose I can." He quickly changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed, falling immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep. It had been a good evening.

3:00am

Sherlock awoke with a moan. The hung-over feeling that he had not experienced since university had returned with a vengeance. He glanced at the time on his phone and groaned. Walking into the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. Sherlock saw the words written on the mirror in shaving foam- "Lestrade fancies Donovan"- and grinned. Only then did he hear the whimpers coming from the bedroom. Sherlock froze. Not now. Please, not now. Walking cautiously back into their room, Sherlock listened carefully. He must have imagined it. Just as he was about to get back into bed, he heard John's soft cry again, but this time it continued and grew louder and louder into a terrifying crescendo.

"Please," John gasped in his sleep. "Please, God, let me live. Please, not me. Please. Please!" With the final word he woke up, bolting upright in bed and panting. Sherlock was not sure what to do. He could hardly pretend he had not witnessed John's terror.

"Are you alright?" He said carefully.

"Yes," said John, his voice cracking.

"Are you sure?"

"No." John broke, tears beginning to stream down his face. Sherlock's body acted without his brain's permission, sitting down on the bed and pulling John into a tight hug. John did not pull away, but buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

John shook his head and mumbled "Later." Sherlock grabbed a tissue and wiped John's eyes.

"I'm sorry," John cried. "You must think I'm so stupid."

"Never, John, never," said Sherlock softly.

"Can you-" John hesitated and stopped the rest of the sentence.

"Can I?"

"It doesn't matter."

"John," Sherlock gripped his shoulders tightly, forcing John to look him in the eye. "It matters to me."

"… Stay," he whispered. "Can you stay? Here? Just so I have someone with me?"

"Yes," said Sherlock's mouth, without hesitation. His mind didn't seem to catch up with the events until he thought about it later. He got into John's bed, lying down beside him.

"Thank you," John murmured, closing his eyes. It didn't take them long to fall asleep.