Hey! I'm back! I didn't die!

I ought to apologise, a lot. I haven't updated in ages. I know. I'm awful, I can't believe you lovely folk put up with me. But it should be going a lot smoother from here on out, as I have officially made sure I know every detail of the plot from now on. Well, maybe not every detail, but almost :D

So here's a chapter, if you're not too angry at me to read it. I'M SORRY. I REALLY AM. I've littered the chapter with as many in-jokes as I could feasibly fit in, which is surprisingly hard. It ended up being longer than I expected so it's more of a bridge chapter, but hopefully I'll get more out soon. Thanks to my beta Kim, who's been putting up with some ever so subtle hints from someone… *coughs* SHONA *coughs*

Perhaps the river is carrying me to little Kay, thought Gerda, and her spirits began to rise. She stood up, and gazed for hour after hour at the beautiful green banks. At last she came to a cherry orchard, in which stood a little house with curious red and blue windows and a thatched roof. Then, from the cottage, came an old, old woman, leaning on a crutch shaped stick.

"You poor little child!" said the old woman. "However did you come to be on this river, so far out in the wide world?" And with that she stepped into the water, hooked the boat with her crooked stick, pulled it ashore and lifted little Gerda down. "Now come and tell me who you are," she said, "and how you managed to reach my house."

So Gerda told her everything, and the old woman shook her head, and murmured "Hm, hm!"

December 17th

9:00am

It had been a long night.

Sherlock didn't sleep much (though he'd been doing it a lot more recently) and it showed. As a teenager, he'd been extremely lazy, staying in bed for hours after he'd woken up, but he'd cut that out of his life a long time ago and he'd changed physically as a result. His cheeks had become pallid where they had once been rosy, his eyes misted with sleep and all excess fat taken from his body.

It was a lot more visible today however, which was confirmed to Sherlock by a fresh faced DI emerging from the bathroom. "Christ Sherlock, you look awful."

"Thank you so much for pointing that out to me," Sherlock snapped.

"No need to have a hissy fit. What's with you?"

Sherlock's brain faltered briefly under the weight of the real reason, before quickly finding an excuse. "You've been in there for half an hour, which judging by your usual standard of personal grooming seemed excessive. I thought you might have died. I was about to call John."

"I'm glad to see you're concerned for my welfare," Lestrade gave him a half grin.

Sherlock shot him his ever impressive "don't be such an idiot" glare "Hardly. I was thinking about your body" His eyes sweeping over the DI's form "It would be immensely useful for my research."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Well, thinking about my body will make a refreshing change for you, won't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored his words but swore to get him back for that comment later, and shut the door of the bathroom tightly behind him. As soon as he was confident that Lestrade had left, he rested his head in his hands and sat down on the edge of the bath.

John had dreamt of him. As much as he had attempted to play down the occurrence (with little success), he could not deny that there were not many people called Sherlock, not nowadays. And it had sounded very… eventful. He half thought he had imagined the noises John had made, as if it were some blissful dream. But the sounds in his memory were too vivid, too knee-weakeningly pleasurable for Sherlock to possibly make up.

He could not remove the image of John from his mind. Flushed and writhing on the sofa, slick with sweat and moaning oh so sweetly, moaning his name over and over, moaning because of him…

Sherlock bit the back of his hand sharply to keep from whimpering. Christ, he would not get an erection with Lestrade in the house. He was mixing work and home there- and if he found out, Sherlock would never live it down.

What to do from here?

He had two possible paths. Declare all his feelings for John, or remain quiet. Deep down, he knew that this was a puzzle he had already solved, however it was one he did not want to willingly accept.

"Just because he had one dream," Sherlock hissed quietly to himself, "doesn't mean he's attracted to you. The subconscious is a complex thing. You have no way of knowing what he feels. The extent of what he feels."

It pained him to admit it, but it was true. Horribly true. And even so, even if John were attracted to him, it had to be purely a sexual thing. Sherlock knew he struck an impressive figure to some, maybe John liked that type? He wasn't about to have one night of passion with John only to ruin the friendship they had for good. John meant everything to him. More than he dare admit.

His decision was made. He wasn't going to say a thing. No. No he was not.

There was a sharp tap on the frosted glass of the door. "Sherlock?" It was John's voice. "Are you in there?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said quickly, attempting to make himself presentable. He was terribly aware of how his unruly mop of hair stuck up at the back. He would need to carry some sort of brush at all times for any more last minute occasions. Breathing deeply, he opened the door to a smiling John.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned. "You look a bit flustered."

"I'm fine," something like Sherlock's usual self returned, "I just want to get on with the damn case."
"Any clue where to go next?"

"Absolutely no idea."

John passed him in the doorway, brushing against his hipbone ever so slightly. He would have barely noticed normally; however with being so on edge lately, the touch seemed to scald, and his breath caught awkwardly in his throat. Once he had retreated to the kitchen, Sherlock expelled a heavy sigh and leant against the counter. He needed to think.

10:00am

Lestrade finished his phone call with Mycroft just as their journey ended. He looked very reassured. "Your brother's arranged security for us."

"I wonder why," Sherlock muttered.

John elbowed him in his ribs quickly but Lestrade had not answered. "That's brilliant. From my experience, you can rely on Mycroft Holmes to monitor anyone safely."

Lestrade smiled as they walked through the automatic doors of the clinic. "Mycroft's rather friendly once you get to know him, I don't know why you're always so awful about him."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "On first name terms now, are we?"

Lestrade blushed. "We didn't all go to public school, Sherlock," he said hotly.

"And what a blessing that is for you."

A smiling woman led them through the many labyrinthine corridors. It had looked tiny from the outside- it reminded Sherlock of a show John liked, about a police box and an alien, but he'd of course dismissed it as fantasist rubbish. Eventually they arrived at Purity's room, where she was being kept for observations. Her mother was sat beside her, looking on despairingly.

"I don't know, I'm sure there's a more natural way of dealing with this."

"Zinc will help," John said by way of a greeting, immediately slipping into his medical role with ease, "but it's more effective coupled with a treatment of Syprine. Your daughter's condition is easily manageable."

"Ms Adams," said Lestrade, "I don't wish to harass you, but we'll have to ask you a few questions if that's alright?"

Purity scowled deeply back at him. "I don't see how I can stop you, so go ahead."

"We just need a basic character study for our case. Hopefully this will be over soon, by Christmas at the latest."

"They said that about the First World War, and look at what trouble that caused," Purity said sourly. "What do you need to know?"

"Everything."

"Thank you for being so darn helpful," she glowered, her words dripping with acrimony. For one horrible moment she reminded Sherlock of himself.

"Purity, don't," her mother gave her a warning smile, "just because you're ill it doesn't mean you can insult the nice police officers."

"Officer," Sherlock butted in, "John is a doctor and I am a consulting detective. Admittedly, it is very hard to question her, due to the random nature of the victims. We'd just like to be able to know as much as possible about your life."

Purity sighed. "Well, sit down. It's going to take a while."

2:00pm

Sherlock deeply resented the fact he now had to remember the life story of an emotionally immature teenage girl for a case, but he was forced to. Dear God, people were dull. He, Lestrade and John were now in another cab, moving slowly towards a record shop in central London.

"So Purity works here part time?" said John.

"Apparently so. Lestrade, background checks on her colleagues?"

"They're all clean, except one."

Sherlock looked hopeful. "Oh?"

"Public indecency charges, I'm afraid. And apparently he was very, very drunk, so I doubt he's an agent of Moriarty."

Sherlock sighed. "Well, I suppose this is our best option at the moment. Her life seems to revolve around music and her environmental work, and Moriarty is unlikely to repeat himself there. Her work is a good place to start."

The cab finally made it around the corner, and Sherlock quickly paid the driver instead of waiting for it to pull up outside. The shop wasn't easily recognizable, only by knowing the name of the shop, Syncopation, could Sherlock tell which it was. It was black with silver detailing, intricate paintings on the edges of the wall. Someone could walk straight past the place and not notice the peeling paint, the crack in one of the windows or the battered front door which had seen better days. The shop was clearly on its last legs.

"This is it," Sherlock said, knocking quickly on the door.

After a few moments, a greasy haired twenty something opened the door, a blank and puzzled expression on his face. "Yes?"

"My name is Detective Inspector Lestrade. My colleagues and I believe that Purity Adams works here?"

The young man frowned. "Yeah. She's not in today; she's had a migraine or something. Nothing bad has happened, has it?"

"If you'd let us come inside, we can explain," Sherlock said curtly, in no mood to be kept waiting.

The man nodded, stood aside and gestured for them to come in. It was a tiny shop, made smaller by the sheer volume of shelves that were contained inside. Each was full to the brim with vinyls, layers upon layers of them crammed together to fit. The walls were bare brick and the place was extremely cold, with only a small heater in the corner of the room to keep them warm.

"Do you have anywhere we can sit?" asked Sherlock.

"'Fraid not," he replied.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Ah, it's Darren Andrews, isn't it? The one who exposed himself in Manchester town centre three years ago"

Darren frowned slightly. "Look. I'd had a lot to drink, and it was my mate's stag… Anyway, how do you know that?"

Sherlock's lips twitched "Oh, let's just say you fit my profile."

Darren glowered. "What's happened to Purity?"

"She's been diagnosed with Wilson's disease," John interrupted.

"Is that serious?" Darren sounded aghast.

"It's manageable," John replied kindly. "Are you friends with her?"

Darren blushed scarlet. "Yeah. She's nice."

"As much as I would love to chat about Darren's aching sexual frustration, we need to discuss Purity."

"Wh- I- I am not!" Darren protested.

"Oh please. Don't hide that from me. I can see from the bags under your eyes and the slight incline in your left finger that you were up all night downloading porn from the internet."

Darren blanched. "What- How…"

"You get used to him," John said apologetically. "He's not in the best of moods, sorry."

Darren's voice squeaked when he next spoke. "Would you explain why you're here, please?"

"Purity was involved with a murder case of ours," said Lestrade.

Darren looked weak-kneed. "She wouldn't do anything to harm anyone, I swear."

"We know that, we believe she was targeted as part of the case. We're now looking for any clues as to who else may be at risk."

"None of us are involved with anything like that…"

"We know, we know. We just need to take a look around, is all."

A shrill ring from Sherlock's phone. "Excuse me," he said quickly, and stepped outside the shop.

"You're ringing more and more often. Getting needy?"

"Don't toy with me Sherlock darling. I do the playing around here. Having fun solving the case?"

"If only you'd make it harder for me," Sherlock said dryly.

Moriarty let out a low snarl. "So, how are you getting on?"

"Fine."

"Not going to tell me where you are?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"Oh don't be such a spoil sport. You know that I will tell you if you're on the right track, and I won't change any details of the game. You're just too proud to ask for help," he said gleefully.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "We're at the record shop."

"Good," Moriarty purred, "very good. Now that wasn't so hard, was it? You must learn not to be so proud."

"I am not proud."

"Oh please. Pride can be deadly, Sherlock. It's one of the seven deadly sins, after all. Pride, Envy, Gluttony, Anger, Sloth, Lust…"

Sherlock shivered. He disliked the way he had lingered on the last word. "You missed out Greed. How ironic."

"Did I? Oh, my mistake."

"You still think of yourself as a God, don't you?"

"In a way, yes. I prefer the term "overlord", but I am a whore for dramatics, just like you."

"Don't compare us."

"I'll compare us all I want, thank you very much."

"What does all this have to do with anything?" Sherlock said in a low murmur. "Are you hinting to me? Or just playing with my head?"

"If I told you that, it wouldn't be fun," Moriarty giggled. "Perhaps I am, perhaps I'm not. Just think, Sherlock. Just think."

Sherlock was the one who hung up this time, angrily shoving the phone back into his pocket and walking back inside. Lestrade was asking Darren questions and taking down a statement, whilst John explored the shelves of the shop.

"John, I do wish you'd stay on task."

He put the record down. "Sorry. It's just that is a really well looked after copy of Hunky Dory."

Sherlock sighed. "John, you don't even own a record player!"

"It's not the point!" he protested, rather sullenly.

Sherlock took a look at the shelves. "There must be hundreds of these things. Hundreds and hundreds…"

"Well if you want to buy some, do it now," Darren interrupted from across the room, "it'll be closing in a week."

"Having financial trouble?" asked John.

"No-one wants vinyl anymore, and if they do they'll go to the bigger places in Camden and Portobello road. We're too small to survive."

Sherlock paused. "How many records do you own, here? And do you have any way of keeping track of them?"

Darren nodded. "There's a list of all the records we own here, and they're all listed alphabetically."

Sherlock took the list from him. "These songs. Many of them contain the words "bird". This could mean something."

"You're joking?" Lestrade gaped. "Checking through these will take forever…"

"It'll have to be done. John and I can do it, as he seems to have such a great knowledge of records."

John looked pleased by the compliment. "Well, you know how it is."

"I'm going to kill you if this turns out to be wrong, Sherlock," Lestrade grumbled.

"I'd like to see you try."

And when Gerda had finished her tale, and asked if she had seen little Kay, the woman said that he hadn't yet passed by, but he was sure to come, she was not to worry, but to have a taste of her cherries, and see her flowers, which were more wonderful than any picture book- every one of them had a story to tell. Then she took Gerda into the little house, and locked the door.