Author's note: Hi, there! I'm back now after some wrenching over this chapter. Thanks again to Eiko-chan for betareading this chapter and assured me it is rather fine. Please read and tell me what you think.

And thank you for fav and alert from some of my dear readers. Review would be nice, too.

Anyway, please enjoy.

Part 7: Unfamiliar Normality

If there was any word to summarize John's week, it would be 'awkward'.

John was very self-conscious right from when he set foot out of the flat. Despite him walking around London with Sherlock numerous times before, it felt very different that morning. Sherlock was not leading the way like he used to. He was strolling beside John barely a step behind and letting John set the pace and the route. John never had that kind of control when he was around Sherlock; it was strange but not entirely unpleasant. He tried to enjoy that peculiar moment, but found himself unable to for a reason he couldn't quite grasp. He dismissed it, of course, feeling settled with the notion that it just simply never occurred before and leave it at that.

They walked in silence until they reached the surgery. Sherlock announced then that he wanted to have a look inside just in case the place had been tampered. That was when John had to put his foot down. It had really become awkward for him now that Sherlock announced he wanted to intrude this one and only Sherlock-free space. John didn't know why he was very keen in preserving it, but he insisted that they parted right there – a few meters away from the door – and forbade Sherlock from ever attempting to sneak in. He would not let his flatmate horrify the entire staff over a bomb that might not exist, or a madman who was capable of planting one.

After over ten minutes of arguing on the busy sidewalk and earning suspicious looks from passersby, Sherlock gave in. John had no idea what make the detective agree, but seeing John's reason did not seem like one. Nonetheless, John was satisfied. He took his leave and headed for the door. As he turned to say goodbye, he stopped at the sight of Sherlock looking somewhat wistfully at him. Those pale lips were pressed thinly together as he was thinking. John wasn't sure if he was actually watching him or already lost in his thoughts. He really didn't know what those thoughts might be given the unacquainted situation they were in. He suddenly felt awful about the fight despite himself not being wrong – no one was wrong, actually – and attempted a smile of reconciliation. Sherlock seemed a bit surprised by that. Nevertheless, the detective smiled gently back.

When John walked past the door, he literally felt like he just landed from outer space.

Everything after that was, of course, normal and mundane, and, well, good. He could almost forget Moriarty and the bomb and late night escape from an empty house except for when he recounted the incident to Sarah over lunch. She didn't say much aside from a comment of how lucky he wasn't strapped to a bomb again. He was grateful of that. He didn't want to dwell on it either.

He was thinking of taking her out that evening, but nothing ever went as planned for John because the first thing, or rather person, he saw as he walked out of his office was Sherlock sitting in the waiting room. The doctor basically gaped like a dying fish standing dumbfounded in the hallway.

The detective swept up to him as soon as their eyes met and flashed what could be interpreted as a subtly forced smile, "Shall we go now, John?"

John gaped for a few more seconds before he managed to say something intellectual, "What are you doing here?"

"Picking you up, of course," Sherlock replied casually. John could sense eyes, multiple pair of eyes, watching them.

"Well…that's very thoughtful of you, but you really don't have to. I actually have some other plans," he said and stole a quick glance at Sarah who was obviously observing from the reception desk.

If Sherlock had followed his gaze, if Sherlock had known what he was implying, that man, like always, was not bothered. "Now, John, you know we have to meet Lestrade this evening, and I would rather have you fed before that. How about Angelo's?"

"Sherlock," he hissed and rubbed his eyes; "Can we talk somewhere else?"

"That is what I am proposing," replied the man. He proceeded to drag John out of the surgery right then. John barely had a chance to say goodbye to Sarah before they were out on the street and headed for Northumberland Street.

But John didn't wait until they got to Angelo's to start talking. He needed to draw a line so things wouldn't get too uncomfortable for him or his flatmate. He voiced his disapproval of Sherlock walking him around, taking him places, and picking him up, in which the detective replied with a huff and again said it was a necessity, that it is better for them to be cautious than to let Moriarty have his way.

"Look, Sherlock, I managed Afghanistan. Why do you think I won't be able to manage this?" John asked.

"You were not alone in Afghanistan," the detective replied without as much as looking at him.

"Mycroft has surveillance teams looking out for us."

"Which are useless by the way. Even you can break loose from them if you try."

"Well, thank you," John replied, irritated. Sherlock was not listening to him at all.

And he knew Sherlock could hear it. The detective grumbled, "What exactly is your problem, John?" he asked.

"I have already explained my problem a couple of times today."

"No, you haven't. You are just being resistive and try to talk me out of doing it," replied Sherlock, looking rather annoyed; "You don't mind accompanying me on cases or going out for meals. I fail to see why I accompanying you to work would be any different."

"Well, it is, you see, because I don't want you to."

At this Sherlock turned around and stopped them both on the track. He took a glance at John before he asked with low and emotionless tone, "Are you ashamed of me?"

John's jaw dropped. "Fu- god, NO! Sherlock, where did you get that idea from?" How the hell did they get there anyway?

The detective didn't look directly at him as he answered, "All the people I know know about you. I'm not reluctant in introducing you to anyone. You, however, have a certain circle you don't want me to mingle with. I can only assume that it was because you found me unacceptable in some aspects-"

"Sherlock, no. No! That's not it. Now look at me!" John said as he pulled Sherlock's arm and faced him. "I'm not ashamed of you," he said now in a much gentler voice, "I wouldn't have gone with you on cases if I was ashamed of knowing you, would I?"

John swallowed hard as he waited for a reply, a reaction, but Sherlock simply diverted his gaze from him without a faintest glimpse of what he was thinking. It frustrated John to not be able to read what was on his friend's mind especially at a time like this.

"Sally warned you, didn't she? I'm not normal," Sherlock muttered at last.

"No, you aren't," John replied, "But I don't need you to be normal. I would rather not have you normal." At that, Sherlock stared at him like he was trying to discern the meaning behind those words. It was rather intimidating, but John stood his ground. He stared back.

"I really mean it. I don't want you to be anything but Sherlock Holmes."

A moment passed as they just stood on a pavement among the crowd walking back and forth staring at each other. John firmly held Sherlock's gaze as his flatmate held his. Eventually, Sherlock asked, "What is it then?"

At this, John swallowed. He didn't know himself why he was very self-conscious and sometimes even uncomfortable about the idea of Sherlock walking with him. Well, they had walked together before. Sherlock was right in saying that now shouldn't be any different. Somehow, it just didn't feel the same. He wouldn't call their usual nightly strolls 'walking together' either. He was always chasing Sherlock, keeping up with him, watching his back. This was the first time the role was reverse and Sherlock was the one looking after him. It felt wrong somehow, and he still could not come up with a good reason as to why.

"Look, I really don't have an explanation for it. I just know how I feel, and I know it's not even logical. I feel like you are invading the last shred of privacy that I had left. But it's not like work is a private thing. Or maybe I'm just too used to looking at your back…" He gave a groan as a furrow formed on his flatmate's forehead, "Right, forget it. I'm hungry. Let's go."

Now he was the one dragging Sherlock to Angelo's. The detective seemed to be contemplating deeply on what he had just heard. The way he eyed John at time made him nervous and gave Angelo an even faultier idea about their relationship in which John was hopeless in correcting. He simply ate his meal in silence as Sherlock nipped his pasta, lost to the world. John wondered what Sherlock understood from that short, spontaneous burst of confusion that made him so quiet, but he was too afraid of the answer to actually ask.

Why? He didn't know himself.

They finished their meals and headed for Scotland Yard soon after to find a nasty surprise waiting for them. "What do you mean by handing over all the evidence?" Sherlock snarled at the DI who remained cold as ice as he watched the detective fumed with rage.

"I got a direct order," replied Lestrade, "This is not my case anymore."

"Well, yes, then whose is it?" Sherlock asked, frustrated. He hated being held back, especially when it seemed to involve some kind of politics or hidden agenda.

Lestrade shook his head. "No idea. It's getting fishier all the time. He's obviously up to something."

"I thought that should be obvious a long time ago," replied Sherlock angrily; "Where's Sergeant Donovan?"

Both John and the Detective Inspector knew it was not a mere remark or a friendly interest when Sherlock asked this kind of question. Yet they had no idea what that question was supposed to lead to. Lestrade simply resigned to the fact that he might never know. "Off looking for something. She lost something this morning – a bracelet I think – and been asking around for it. But, Sherlock, why are you asking?"

But Sherlock ignored him. "What was she doing this morning?" he asked.

"Taking the evidence to the archive."

"Good, then. She has been doing her job," uttered Sherlock with the lack of his usual sarcasm. John eyed him curiously as the detective went on, "Now, what have you got?"

The DI sighed again before he answered, "Well, we ran the number on the gun John gave us. It's stolen, as expected, from a military base. We're still running the fingerprints on the thing. Looks like our friend has been consulting for illicit arm trade."

"Which is not at all surprising. What else did you learn?"

"The bomb was not at the pub."

At this, Sherlock jerked forward. "What do you mean it was not at the pub?" he demanded.

"It was at the back of the pub in the alleyway. The building was not extensively damaged because of that. Nobody was hurt."

"But that's not right," protested Sherlock even as John sighed in relief, "Moriarty wouldn't plant a bomb in a place like that. It has to be moved there for some reason."

"Maybe that's why it blew up," John suggested.

"No casualties, remember? The person carrying the bomb would have died. It would have been so messy even the most imbecile would notice. No, it blew up after it was placed there and the person was out of the area. It's a time bomb, isn't it? So the clock was set to midnight, but why would it blew up hours before that, unless…" Sherlock froze, his eyes widened. "Someone was there to dismantle the bomb."

"But who?" asked Lestrade, "We were on a cab and no other knew about it but us."

"Maybe one of Moriarty's men felt guilty and decided to go against his order?" John offered.

"Very unlikely but most probable at the moment. He would be killed by now if that's the case. But it exploded, so we know the person is not involved with assembling the bomb – he didn't know about its structure and ended up blowing it – therefore a possibility of him being a third party. Someone who knew about the bomb, but not directly associated with Moriarty."

"Right," replied the DI thoughtfully as he noted it down, "Invisible third party. That complicates things."

"Just keep your eyes out for any sign of someone else intervening. If he's against Moriarty, he shouldn't be a problem for us. For now we can work on the assumption that there is likely none," Sherlock added. "Anything else?"

"Ms. Jenkins just checked into a rehab this afternoon," said Lestrade out of the blue. "Not case related, but I thought you might want to know."

"Not particularly interested," replied Sherlock casually. John, however, noticed his flatmate stiffened a bit at the mention of her. "Anything else?"

There wasn't anything of great importance after that, just paper work and all things mundane and boring. Sherlock became impatient after a while, and they took their leave. As they were going back, however, Lestrade pulled John aside and stuffed the pink phone into his hand.

"It'll be safer with you," the DI whispered. "I can't keep it, nor do I trust Sherlock with it. You're the only person I trust to hold on to it. Text me if anything comes up."

"Will do," John replied. He placed it in his pocket and nodded to Lestrade before he set off after Sherlock who has been waiting for him outside the office.

"You know I can pickpocket that from you," his flatmate muttered on their way out.

"Yes, you can," said John; "But you won't do it."

Sherlock eyed him sternly but John simply glanced back with a smirk. "There's no need to steal something you'll always have access to, isn't it? I'll tell you immediately if something comes up."

Sherlock still eyed him as he said, "That would mean you'll always be involved."

"I never intend to back out, not when we're both this deep in it," replied John. Although his flatmate seemed as apathetic as ever, John knew this sociopath was actually able to care. "If Moriarty won't leave me alone, then it's better for me to be all up on him, isn't it? There's no point running or hiding anyway."

At this, Sherlock agreed albeit somewhat reluctantly. They knew there was no other way around it, but John could accept the fact more readily than Sherlock because he was a soldier. He understood very well that sometimes the only thing you could do was plunge into the battle and hoped you would survive. Moreover, he wasn't going to let Sherlock face this alone by himself. What kind of friend would he be if he did?

The result of his declaration, however, seemed to set Sherlock onto a new direction. The detective decided to integrate John as a part of his life now, although the change came rather subtly. It was in the attention Sherlock gave him, John Watson his dull normal friend, as if trying to wreck John's thought to the last brain cell. He was asking more about John even though he was rarely one to start the conversation. And when he thought John was feeling put-off by his poking questions, he told the doctor about himself in amendment. John probably learnt more about Sherlock in that week than in the past months since they became flatmates. John would be lying if he said he wasn't flattered by the depth of Sherlock's trust.

John reciprocated by being less resistant about their walks and tried to be of some assistance about Moriarty. Sherlock, however, did not quite let him in on that. John knew that Sherlock saw something in the great pattern of their game but would not speak or decided that it was not the time, so John didn't push it.

But John being more accepting did not stop Sherlock from asking for a view in the surgery for the fear of a trap being set overnight for John. John countered him with the argument that if Moriarty really wanted to play a game with them, he wouldn't kill John that easily. And there were too many people there to abduct the doctor out the backdoor without being noticed. Sherlock pondered over his statement and nodded, agreeing that he wouldn't need a thorough check of the place. John later realized that it was more likely because they were already in front of the door which allowed Sherlock a view of the waiting room. If there was any drawback, it was the exposure of their morning routine to entire staffs. And trust people to talk.

It didn't take long to get the rumour going, especially with Sherlock texting him or even calling him to see what he was doing and where he was. He heard about it from Sarah who asked if he and Sherlock were really together. The answer, of course, was no. But only to Sarah did he ever explain why he had to keep his mouth shut and let others talk. Sarah nodded silently, taking everything he said. Somehow, John felt sorry for her. He hadn't seen her outside the hours since he got back, and she didn't say a word about it. She was just being too damn understanding that it hurt. But he didn't know what to do. God. He had really tried his best to make her happy, but everything seemed to be going downhill.

And Sarah knew. She had tried to be cheerful in front of John, not letting her worries on. John appreciated that, but he never thought how it would spur his misery. By the end of the week, he wanted his normal life back. He wanted to be running after Sherlock on cases and came to work the next morning with a story of their little misadventure tailored to make Sarah laugh. He wanted a date with her at the cinema (No more circus, please. Thank you). He wanted whatever he had before Moriarty came along.

But normal was the last thing on the list when one evening he came out of his shift to find the waiting room devoid of the tall lean figure of his flatmate.

His foot stumbled to a stop. His eyes darted about. He checked his phone. The time was right, and Sherlock was never late. They just texted a couple of hours ago about getting the grocery on the way back. He texted again, but received no immediate reply. He didn't know what to make of it.

"I'm sure he's fine, Dr. Watson," One of the nurse replied with a knowing grin. She obviously spotted John in panic. "It's raining cats and dogs outside. He probably got stuck somewhere in the traffic."

"Right," John muttered under his breath. Of course it was the traffic. What else could it be in this kind of weather? Cabs were probably all occupied and Sherlock probably had to take a bus or a tube that was by now jam-packed with people trying to get away from the rain. He might not be able to reach for his phone. There was nothing to worry about.

So John reached for his umbrella, said good-bye to the nurse, and walked out onto the street. In this kind of situation, it would be best for him to get the grocery himself and go home. He didn't know where Sherlock was; the man could be half the city away for all he knew. He texted Sherlock again and headed for the tube station. He would have to settle with a store near the flat for today. He never liked the chip-and-pin machine anyway.

There was a pleasant surprise for him on his way home however. He was walking back from the grocer when he spotted a figure standing alone under a small awning in front of a café already closed for the day. It took him no time to recognize that it was Ciel Phantomhive looking grumpy and miserable.

"Hullo," he greeted, a bit too enthusiastically perhaps. He was relieved that the young man looked rather fine.

Ciel turned around and seemed surprised to see him. The young man cracked a smile and greeted him. "Hello, John. How have you been?"

"Well, things have been normal," the doctor replied, "as in no more bombs or disturbing messages. How about you? I haven't heard anything from you since that night."

"Fine, thank you" the young man answered sardonically, "God hates me as usual." His eyes darted up to the sky with clear disgust.

"You got stuck here?" John asked.

"Yes, I was out here working over a late lunch and the rain decided to pour down on me just as the café closed."

"Sebastian can't pick you up?" John suggested. Remembering vaguely that the man had a car and he was supposedly Ciel's assistant.

"Away on a business trip so I can stay here and study in peace," the young man replied, "That's his job anyway."

"Right…well, are you in a hurry?" he asked, "I mean, it's going to rain for a while and you might as well come over to my flat and wait there instead. It wasn't far off."

Ciel looked utterly surprised. He seemed at a lost with words for a good few seconds before he remembered to reply, "I'm… thank you, but there's no need, really."

"Or I can hold this umbrella for you until you get a cab," said John with a smile on his face.

Both of them knew it would take god-knows-how-long to find an empty cab in this weather, and Ciel was left with no other option but to accept John's invitation. They started their short walk to 221B Baker Street with a warning from the young man. "I'll be an awkward guest."

"You'll be fine. We have far worse."

"What about your flatmate?"

That was the first time John wished the traffic would jam for a bit longer. "He's not in. Don't worry."

"On another case?" the young man asked.

"Yeah, something he mentioned to be rather dull. He took those kinds of things these days. His mind was preoccupied."

"Moriarty?"

John swallowed. The tightening of his jaw was enough. And Ciel saw it.

"Any news since that night?" he asked.

"Nothing in particular. Nothing really." John replied. "The police traced the gun and the fingerprint on it and found it to be stolen from South America. The man was listed as a mercenary last known to operate in the Middle East."

"That's where they are needed these days," muttered Ciel to himself as they walked up the steps of 221 B. John unlocked the door and led them upstairs where the door was already opened. It set off the alarm in John, and he quickly darted up the seventeen steps in mere seconds. It was not good. It couldn't be an evil crime organization's doing, but it was still not good.

He stumbled on something lying across the front door and almost fell if not for Ciel steadying him from behind. He thanked the young man when his eyes spotted the objects on the floor – it was Sherlock's shoes and socks all soaking wet. The detective's coat was on the back of his chair dripping water all over the floor. And in the kitchen was Sherlock washing his hand at the sink. His soaking wet clothes were hugging his thin frame tightly.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John as he strode over to his flatmate. He spotted, then, the first aid kit and a cloth damped with reddish fluid. It didn't take long for John to see the bruised knuckles and a trail of blood streaming down Sherlock's temple. "Good Lord, what happened?"

"A fight, nothing special," replied the detective, but John forced him to go change into his dressing gown, and fast.

If Sherlock had noticed a guest, he didn't mention it. He was back within minutes in a dressing gown and slippers as John boiled the water and started examining his flatmate. The doctor found a cut just above the end of his brow that needed some stitching, a few bruises on his shoulder and arms, and wounds on the knuckles. Fist fight, then. Probably a brawl out in the goddamned rain.

He was so concentrated on treating Sherlock that he, for a moment, had forgotten Ciel completely. He remembered the young man again when he finished patching up Sherlock, and a steaming mug was set on the table in front of him. John startled and blushed with embarrassment when he realized that his guest had just made them tea.

"I'm sorry for going through your cupboard. You were very focused," said the young man as he found himself a seat opposite of John, and right beside Sherlock who didn't seemed to be bothered by his presence.

"Umm, thanks for the tea," the doctor replied; "By the way this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is-"

"Ciel Phantomhive. Yes, I know who he is," replied the detective. He sipped from his cupped before he turned to the young man. "How's your leg?" asked Sherlock, and the doctor stared at him with wide eyes.

"Quite fine, thank you," replied Ciel. He didn't seem surprise or put off by the bizarre choice of pleasantry at all. "It hadn't acted up for a while. Thought you wouldn't notice."

"It's hard to notice, actually," replied Sherlock. "If not for the folded cane, I don't think I'd consider it a problem."

"How? What?" John gaped while looking back and forth between the two, especially at Ciel who seemed more than fine with the question, earning a look from both of them as if he was the densest person in the room.

"Oh, never mind. Anyway, what happened to you?" he asked, addressing his flatmate who seemed bemused by the fact that the guest seemed entirely comfortable with the conversation, not something that happened often. John had to clear his throat and asked again to get his attention, "Did you step on someone's foot again?"

Sherlock laid back against the chair and gave a dramatic sigh. "That's a regular occurrence, John. Why else would Moriarty want me done with?" his flatmate replied.

John blinked and gave his flatmate one of his disconcerted smiles. He asked, "So who's the next person to go after you now?"

"There's no second one, John."

That answer was enough. John lunged forward, as if he was attacked with a sudden realization. "So you are taking cases that might link to Moriarty. Is that what you are doing?"

"Better than waiting," replied his flatmate flatly.

John shut his loosened jaw before he managed a word. "Sherlock," he paused. He didn't really know what was happening with his feeling at the moment. "You're saying you're stamping his foot on purpose now."

"Why not? It's sooner or later. I'm just giving him an incentive."

"To kill you, for god's sake!" John was almost shouting now. He was angry. Really, really angry. "I know you're an idiot, but I didn't know you are this hopeless, Sherlock. Who in the right mind-"

"It's the right move, John," interjected Ciel calmly. It startled John more than he would admit. Even Sherlock turned sharply to the young man. But Ciel still gazed at John, his face rested in his hand as he explained. "If you simply wait, you will just be attacked from the dark. Better way to do it is to pressure him to take a move. You might manage to coax his direction of attack that way."

"Will not work with Moriarty. He's too clever," muttered Sherlock.

The young man shifted his gaze to Sherlock with a smirk on his face. "Why, that's something coming from you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," said the detective as he turned toward the young man with a grin John was hopeless to read. "Is that what you intend to do for your parent's murderers as well? Lure them out?"

"Sherlock," John warned sternly under his breath, but the question didn't seem to bother Ciel at all.

"I would do what it takes to get to the truth," said the young man, still holding Sherlock's gaze; "I will be the bait if that means they will come into the open. I'll have them all on me."

"Seems like you have an opinion about your parents' murder," remarked the detective.

Ciel smirked with a tinge of melancholy in his eye, "What do you think? I've read a lot about you from John's blog. You truly are amazing. I bet you have an opinion, too."

"I have a few, actually," replied the detective. "It's an organized crime. Not just random robbery or simple homicide. They wouldn't have kidnapped you if that were the case nor have killed your parents if the intention were the other way. So, there had to be something else, something about your parents that the public did not know. Some kind of connection to the underworld, perhaps, or else they wouldn't be killed like crime lords. But why burn down the house? Why was killing them not enough? There must be something in the house they wanted to destroy. They might have tried to find it, but failed, thus burning the place down to complete destruction to ensure that whatever there was, it was gone for good. But they didn't touch you. They would have and should have killed you to eliminate all witnesses, but they didn't. They wanted to get rid of you eventually, but they also had a special intention for you. They sold you-"

"SHERLOCK!"

There was a moment of dreadful silence afterwards. Sherlock wasn't even looking at John. His eyes set straight at the young man leaving John to regain his breath after the outburst. The doctor just couldn't have it. Sherlock was saying too much, and touching too close to Ciel's hurt. The young man's expression hadn't changed. He was still looking into Sherlock's eyes without so much as flinching. But John was able to tell that the sadness was there. It was clogging up the room like smoke.

"You really are brilliant," said Ciel softly at last. There was barely emotion in those four words he had spoken, as if he feared he would crumble if he ever let on more than a subdued admiration of the man's talent. John knew it was about time to change the subject.

"Biscuits, anyone?" he asked.

There was a "no, thank you" from Sherlock and "yes, please," from Ciel, so John got up and fetched a box. He allowed himself a brief rub on the bridge of his nose before returning to the table and offered the biscuits to the young man.

It was then that John noticed something unsettling: Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off Ciel the entire time. Sherlock didn't care when the young man first set foot in 221B, but now he had become the subject of the detective's attention. Ciel, however, disregarded Sherlock's rather intimidating interest and continued their conversation with lighter air than it had previously become. As a soldier, John had met many people both before and after a battlefield. He rarely met anyone who took such emotional attack with this great a nerve.

John wasn't going to try those nerves. He purposefully steered the conversation away to lighter topics like the young man's current interest or subjects at school. The closest they ever got to the horrific subject was about Sherlock's cases. Ciel seemed genuinely interested in Sherlock's working on the case, and the detective was well distracted in explaining the deductions, and sometimes complaining of John's tendency to omit it, that he never mentioned a word about the Phantomhives again. His brain was busy enough with Ciel's questions that he didn't pull his concentrated stare for the rest of their conversation. And John was thankful for it.

They didn't realize when the rain stopped. They only notice the change in weather when Ciel's phone rang. At the glance of the caller, he excused himself and rushed to the hall.

"Hi, Sugar," he started cooing softly behind the half-closed door "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was this late. I forgot to call."

On the other end of the line came a deep smooth voice of a man, "You're at the flat, I see. Do you need more time?"

"No, I'm just hanging out at a friend's place. He's keeping me sheltered from the bloody rain," he poked his head into the door and stole a glance at the window. "No, I'll be there. But we'll have to change plans. How about we meet at Oxford Circus? Would that be okay?"

The reply was "Certainly. At what time?"

"In about fifteen minutes top. Are you done for the day?"

"All done," was the reply.

Ciel smirked a little and nodded, "See you then. Bye, bye." Then he hung up and rushed back in. "Sorry, I forgot the time. I have an appointment. Gotta dash," he said while grabbing his things and told both men goodbye, and that he didn't need to be seen out.

The flat door was barely closed when Sherlock muttered, "He's already figured that out."

That took John by surprise. "Figure what out," he asked.

"About his parents' death," the detective elaborated, "He wasn't surprised at all. He knows that was the only satisfying explanation."

The doctor was perplexed by this. "Then why did he ask for your opinion?"

The detective shook his head. "He doesn't want my opinion, John. He wants Moriarty's head."

TBC.

Author's note: Next chapter will be Ciel in all his glory. So, stay tune. :D