Hey guys. It's been a while! I've been on holiday with school to Berlin/Krakow over the last week, so I haven't been thinking about writing too much. Right now, it's the only thing I want to do, but I'm being forced into other things. Dull.

I'm sure you've all heard about the rioting, and it's getting scary now. They're rioting in Wolverhampton, where I live, but not on the same scale as London. Still, it's freaking me out…

I also need to ask you about the level of slash you want- because we all know its coming (*coughs*) like a freight train. These boys are going to get it on, and soon. That's right! SOON! All this UST I've been torturing you with will have been for a reason! YAY! But I need to know what you would like to see in the moment where those two finally give into their feelings- bear in mind, I am a fifteen year old girl. I'm not going too graphic. Still, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

I also need to thank bbmcowgirl for pointing out to my silly little brain that John's clothes would be ridiculously short on our dear Sherlock. It has been worked in, don't worry : )

OK, I'll shut up now. I'll leave you with one thing- I have vaguely estimated how many chapters I have left. Very vaguely, mind. As I've already shown, my story doesn't stick to what it's told to do. This story is over seven months overdue for finishing *facepalm* OK, it should be around 42 chapters. Hopefully. If all goes to plan. I KNOW THAT DOESN'T FEEL LIKE SOON, BUT IT IS. OK. Shutting up now. Now. NOW.

Kay looked at her. She was so beautiful; he could not imagine a wiser, lovelier face. She no longer seemed to him to be made of ice, as she once had seemed when she came to his attic window and waved to him. Now, in his eyes, she was perfect, and he felt no fear. He told her that he could do mental arithmetic, and fractions too; that he knew the square miles of all the principle countries and the number of inhabitants. As he talked she smiled at him, until he began to think that what he knew was, after all, not quite so much.

December 13th

10:00am

Sherlock had gone to bed soon after the police officers had left- he was suddenly exhausted, he imagined it was from the shock of the situation. It was painful lying down, what with his chest in such a bad condition. As a result, he had not actually fallen asleep until the early hours of the next morning.

Groaning as the morning sunlight streaming through the windows temporarily blinded him, Sherlock swung his legs out of bed painfully and groped for his clothes. Well, John's clothes that he was using temporarily. It soon became obvious to him that wearing John's jeans was no longer viable. It was fine whilst he was still standing, their length was barely noticeable. But when he sat, the turn ups rose to the middle of his calf, and this was more so. He looked for the loosest jeans he owned- he couldn't wear his suit trousers with John's jumper, he'd look absurd. He was a slave to his own vanity.

Eventually, he found a pair of looser- though still rather tight- Levis to wear, and went into the living room. John was sat reading the paper, and drinking a cup of tea.

"John, have you got a clean jumper I could borrow?"

John looked over at him, looked away, and looked immediately back at him. "Sherlock," he spluttered, nearly spilling his tea.

"What?" he asked, puzzled.

"I- Those jeans, they're too tight for you to be wearing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, John, I am a good half a foot taller than you. To wear your jeans in this weather would be suicidal- unless you want me to catch hypothermia?"

John frowned. "Of course I don't. Wear those if you must, just stick a shirt on, will you?"

"Well I came to ask you about one, which you'd know if you'd been listening," Sherlock replied teasingly.

He was surprised to see John flush a brilliant scarlet. "Pick from my room."

Sherlock went to John's room, intrigued by his reaction. He was obviously uncomfortable with Sherlock walking around the place shirtless. It hadn't bothered him yesterday, though he supposed, it was probably not the best time to mention it. Still… to have such an adverse reaction to him… It was confusing.

Sherlock picked a stripy blue jumper that was one of his favourites and stuck it on. The arms were a little too short for him, but it stretched to fit him. The thought of John wearing it later, the arms covering his hands, was far too adorable.

"Come on," Sherlock threw on his coat as he entered the room once more. "We've got a crime to solve- back to the jewellers for a while, hopefully we'll find something."

11:30am

"You're here later than I expected," said Beatrix Adams, frowning at them as they entered.

"Traffic problems," said John, by way of an explanation.

"Any more leads?"

"I'm afraid we can't discuss that," said Sherlock coolly, wincing a little as he entered the shop. "I believe the police have arranged a protection officer for you until midnight tonight, Ms Adams, but this is merely a precaution."

"Well, I'll feel better knowing it," she said warmly. "Can I offer you two gentlemen a drink?"

"A cup of tea would be wonderful," said John. "Thank you."

She busied herself in the kitchen, and Sherlock examined the merchandise. "You know, some of this stuff isn't half bad."

John laughed. "You're mellowing in your old age, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "How dare you suggest such a thing. I am as irritable and high maintenance as I have always been, thank you very much."

"Yeah, don't I know it," John grumbled.

Beatrix returned with the tea. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to be brief whilst talking to you. My daughter is ill, and I have to look after her."

"We'll try to be brief," John reassured her. "I just need to look over your accounts, whilst my friend asks you a few questions.

"By all means," she said, taking Sherlock into her office and leaving John alone. Sherlock sat down on the uncomfortable beanbags, sinking into the squishy fabric. "Ms Adams," he began. "If there is any evidence at all you can give me, I would be deeply thankful. But at the moment, I cannot fathom a connection between you and the killer. And believe me, if I can't, I doubt anyone can."

"You're very confident, that's good. But I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you either."

Sherlock struggled to his feet. John would be a while with the books yet, and they needed to be thorough. They'd been sloppy before, and made mistakes. He glanced briefly at a crystal hanging from the ceiling. "You are very spiritual, then?"

She smiled. "I like to think so. I believe in Holism- the fundamental interconnectedness of all things."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ah, really. Well, that's nice."

"I could always give you a reading, if you like," she said. "Of your palms, I mean."

"I don't think that would be appropriate," he said hastily.

"Oh come on," she said, taking one of his hands in hers. She traced his palm with her fingers. "Ah, your head line is very strong. You're intelligent, wise, proud. And your heart line is strong and broken- you're passionate, but you attempt to restrain yourself."

Sherlock frowned at this. It was horribly accurate. "And your life line," Beatrix continued. "It's odd. Your life is dangerous, exciting, you live on the edge. How very interesting."

Sherlock was about to pull his hand away, when he noticed something for the first time. "Ms Adams," he said slowly. "Your hands."

She blinked and looked at them. "What about them?"

"Well," he began. "It's just that, I would have expected them to be less, well, looked after. You make jewellery after all, but your hands are not scarred or calloused at all, and your nails are freshly done."

"Oh no!" she laughed. "I don't make the jewellery, I simply design it."

Sherlock was suddenly interested. "You don't? Then who does?"

"My daughter!" she clarified, and Sherlock smiled.

"We'll need to talk to her, if that's OK."

Beatrix frowned. "She's ill, she's in bed. She's had another migraine, you see."

"My colleague is a doctor," Sherlock pleaded. "He'll stop me if I'm harassing her. Please, someone's life may depend on it."

Reluctantly, she agreed, and Sherlock fetched John from the other room. "We may have a lead," he explained, and they travelled up the stairs to the rooms above the shop. It was much the same as the space below, decorated in crystals and bead curtains, and an old CND poster was pasted on the wall.

"Purity," Beatrix knocked on the door of the room. "It's some people who need to ask you a few questions, is it OK if they come in?"

There was a muffled sound of consent from inside. Purity… Now damn it if that didn't sound familiar… They entered the room, and saw a young woman sat up in bed, with blazing red hair.

Simultaneously, each recognised the other.

"You!" Sherlock cried.

"Me? Never mind me, what about you? What are you doing here?" she cried.

John and Beatrix looked puzzled. "You two know each other?" John asked.

"So do you, John," Sherlock smiled. "Ms Purity Adams- she was protesting about the black swans on the Feversham case."

The memory flooded back to John. "Of course…" he sighed.

"And the bastard still built his property there," she moaned.

"Language, Purity," Beatrix scolded.

"Sorry mum," she grumbled. "But- why are you here?"

"The same reason we were last week. There's been a murder inquiry. And we think you may be targeted. Again. That's brilliant of Moriarty," he said to John. "To target the same person twice."

John looked uneasy. "Right. We're sorry to disturb you when you're ill, Ms Adams, but we need to ask you some questions."

"Whatever," she replied, her tone acidic.

"Do you have any connection to gold whatsoever?" Sherlock asked. "Any gold jewellery you might own?"

"I make my own jewellery, thanks," she said coldly, swinging her pyjama covered legs out of bed. "And I don't know anything about any gold."

Sherlock's heart sank. They were unlikely to reach any new conclusions. The brief moment of hope that had swelled inside him shrivelled, and he sagged. "Well," he said. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Ms Adams."

"Not a problem," she said, taking a box of the bedside table. She took out a long bandage and began to apply it to a large wound on her hand.

John frowned. "Ms Adams, when did you cut your hand?"

"About a week ago, why?"

"It shouldn't still be bleeding."

Sherlock sighed and tapped John on the shoulder. "We haven't got time for you to be nursing people back to health, John. Thank you for your time."

Sherlock turned to leave, but John stayed put. Slowly, he began to laugh.

"What is it now?" said Sherlock, irritated.

"I," John said smugly. "Have an idea."

"You do?" said Sherlock, a little shocked.

"Yes. Ms Adams, let me take a look at your eyes." He crouched beside the bed and looked closely at her eyes. He grinned. "Just as I suspected."

"Will you please tell me what's going on?" Sherlock snapped.

"It's not nice to have information withheld from you," John taunted.

"Just tell me!"

John relented. "Do you get migraines often, Ms Adams?"

She glared at him. "Quite often, yes. Why?"

"Are you often tired in the middle of the day?"

"Yes."

"Find that cuts won't stop bleeding?"

"Yes."

"Are you irritable?"

"Yes," her mother answered for her. Purity was stony faced.

"Forgetful?"

"Yes."

"Promiscuous?"

She blushed. "What kind of question is that?"

"That's a yes," Sherlock added.

"What are you saying?" she asked John. "What are you on about?"

John turned to Sherlock. I believe that Purity here has Wilson's disease. It's a genetic disorder that causes copper to accumulate in the tissues. Beatrix and Purity's father must have been carriers of the gene, it's a recessive disorder, she had about a one in four chance of contracting it."

"So?" Sherlock said irritably. "What does that mean for the case?"

"Another characteristic of Wilson's disease is copper deposition in the cornea. If you take a look at Purity's eye," Sherlock crouched beside her, "you will see that she has a golden ring around the outside of her iris."

Slowly, Sherlock smiled. "John?"

"Yes?"

"You are actually brilliant."

4:00pm

They reached the flat after much celebration, and John smugly telling Sherlock that he would have to be far nicer to him from now on. Sherlock was surprised at how effective John had been at diagnosing Purity- it had only taken him a few moments to realise what she had. In a way, it reminded him of his own gift for noticing details about other people. Except John used his power for good, not evil.

"So I can have the night off tomorrow?" John said, hanging up his coat in the hallway.

"John, you can have 'the night off' anytime you want."

"Yes, you say that," John said, grinning. "But you're all sarcastic and moody with me if I don't ask permission."

"Oh shut up," he said, barely suppressing a smile.

Their happiness was to be short lived. After reaching the top of the steps to their flat and opening the door, they saw a grey haired man sat on their sofa, his head in his hands.

"Lestrade?" John said, confused. "What are you doing here? I thought you were organising protection for the Adamses."

"I didn't know where else to go," he said quietly. "Moriarty, he's- he's given Steph- My daughter, my second daughter, he's given her a present."

Sherlock felt the familiar shiver of revulsion that he was now so used to. "What?"

"He bought her a phone," he said, his voice quivering. "And it had his number in it. He rang her. He spoke to her. They've been chatting for weeks."

And he looked up into the vast expanse of the sky, as they rose up high, and she flew with him over the dark clouds, while the storm wind whistled and raved, making him think of ballads and olden times. Over forest and lake they flew, over sea and land; beneath them screamed the icy blast; the wolves howled, the snow glittered; the black crows soared across the plains, cawing as they went. But high over all shone the great clear silver moon, and Kay gazed up at it all through the long, long winter night. During the day he slept at the Snow Queen's feet.