Aah! Sorry for the late update. Science got in the way. No, really, it did.

Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.

Warnings: Organs, health code violations, blackmail and stuttering!

Hypothetically

Chapter Five: Anthropophagy

"John, text Lestrade and tell him to reference the last name Moran with Interpol's records, particularly those pertaining to Ireland."

John frowned at the haughty command as he finished pressing a pushpin that secured a red strand of yarn into the corkboard. He did not imagine his first waking hour would be spent connecting photographs of cadavers and crime scenes into a web of crimson string. Of course Sherlock could not be bothered to help; the detective instead elected to remain lazily spread over the sofa tutting whenever John had placed a scrap of paper in a dubious place on the web.

"Why can't you do it yourself?" grumbled John, while placing the business card with the word MORAN at the top of the web.

Sherlock responded with a silence that John interpreted as, Why can't you stop being an idiot and do as I say?

John sighed, turned and found himself momentarily perplexed as he looked upon the sofa and found Sherlock resting against it upside-down. His long legs were crossed over the yellow, spray-painted smiley face and his head hung off the edge of the cushions, his black curls dangling toward the hard floor.

Sherlock's pale green eyes regarded him impatiently. "John. The phone. Text Lestrade."

"Uh, right." Not taking his eyes off Sherlock, he picked up his own mobile from the coffee table and began punching at the keys. For good measure, he was going to threaten the Detective Inspector to take Sherlock's name off the Asbo list. The last thing they needed was another thug recognising them the next time they went to a pub for information. "So this Moran person…you have no idea who this is?"

Sherlock's upside-down lips twitched into a smile. "The number on the card is local, written, and not typed. It would indicate that this isn't the individual's permanent number, nor do they wish to be attached to any mode of contact. No doubt you've noticed that the name Moran is written in red ink rather than the blue colour of the phone digits, unless you are colour-blind, which is a working theory of mine whenever you wear that hideous plaid jumper. The handwriting differs from that of the phone number—so it was the gang leader who wrote his name under the number to remember the contact. Not the brightest bunch under his employ."

John glanced at the white business card that he had just pinned to the corkboard. "Moran employed the Rogues to smuggle heroin from Ireland to London." Sherlock arched an eyebrow, and he quickly added, "But…it wasn't just the heroin, because three of the members wouldn't be dead now. They swallowed something along with the heroin that was equally if not more illegal."

"Which means?" prompted Sherlock.

John puffed out his cheeks at the corkboard and turned back to the upside-down detective. "Which means that this is something bigger than an operation involving hundreds of thousands of quid in smuggled heroin, if it was just a red herring as you've suggested."

"Careful," said Sherlock. "You're beginning to think."

John shrugged away the quip, and he rotated the corkboard on its head so that Sherlock could better view the web from his current position. "One thing, though. I still have this feeling that he's involved somehow. Moriarty."

"Oh?"

John gestured at the corkboard. "Ireland, large sums of money, a minor London gang branching out. Tell me that this doesn't say consulting criminal!"

Sherlock frowned at the web. "Why have you turned it upside-down?"

"What? Because you're hanging—never mind, forget it." John righted the corkboard to its original position and noticed how a flush of pink was pooling against Sherlock's face. "Just how long have you been sitting like that?"

"The increased blood improves my concentration, and it allows me to think clearly."

"So does sleeping," John remarked warily, noting that it was not a good sign that Sherlock had avoided his initial question. Even as the blood coloured his face, Sherlock appeared completely exhausted.

"Dull. Sleep is overrated, besides, I'm—"

"On a case, yes. But Sherlock, you're ready to drop," he scolded. "Have you even eaten?"

"Of course. There was the apple you tossed at my head when we returned to the flat last night." He paused thoughtfully. "There's been a pattern of people throwing bits of food at me this week. I find it disturbing."

"A real meal, Sherlock."

"The Indian take-away. Wednesday, I think."

"That was four days ago. I could feel your ribs last night when I examined you."

"Then you know that they are all present and accounted for."

John wiped off the smirk from Sherlock's face the best way he knew. He snatched the detective's bare ankle and pulled down. With a yelp, Sherlock tumbled forward from the sofa and plummeted all of thirty centimetres to the floor. Disoriented, Sherlock attempted to reclaim an air of dignity about him by straightening his red dressing gown over his ruffled button-up shirt.

John allowed himself a small chuckle at the withering look his flatmate shot him from his place on the floor. "I'm going to fix a breakfast, and you will eat it, Sherlock."

Sherlock childishly huffed and threw himself back onto the sofa, which was enough of an indication to John that he had won the argument. His glow of victory was short-lived when he walked into their kitchen and threw open the refrigerator door.

"Sherlock! What the hell is this!"

"You are right to suggest that there is something more to this case than would meet the eye," remarked Sherlock, while playing with a strip of peeling wallpaper. "Even if your eye is exceptionally blind to the obvious."

John remained aghast at the sight occupying their refrigerator. A long bundle of pinkish brown tissue dangled from the top rack, just below the milk by a sharp metal hook. At the foot of the bundle a shrunken, discoloured sac was suspended in the frigid air. Both were clumsily stitched together with thick, black thread, but that did not contain the stale scent of formaldehyde from wafting past the threshold of the refrigerator. John wrinkled his nose in disgust as words percolated from his astonished throat. "Th-They're ORGANS, Sherlock! This is a stomach and oesophagus! You have them hanging in our refrigerator!"

Sherlock rolled off the sofa. "Good, yes, the organs. You're beginning to understand. The last two victims were cut open for the contents thought present in their digestive organs. But the first victim's demise was premeditated by piercing the rolls of heroin held in his stomach. Who do you suppose did that John? It wasn't his fellow gangsters; their haphazard method of body disposal on the ferry makes that quite obvious. So it was the employer then, this Moran. Why do you think he murdered one of his own mules?"

John hesitantly shifted the contents of the refrigerator around the human tissues, while he searched for anything he would classify as 'still-edible'. It did not aid matters that the stomach was swinging nearly three centimetres away from his jam. "I don't know. Perhaps a message to the others? Perhaps Smallish did something he didn't like, you know, like fill his refrigerator with decomposing organs!" He accidentally brushed the oesophagus while pulling the out the milk and cringed. "Oh god, they're dripping."

"A message, yes. Perhaps it was even to intimidate the gang, if you'd like to believe it's so simple." Sherlock paced by the window. "But Joey Smallish. That was the victim's name on the passport. Rather informal: why not Joseph, or Joe? It says Joey Smallish."

John turned on the electric kettle, while bracing himself for any other nasty surprises as he searched the pantries for two clean teacups. "I don't know where you're going with this. My passport says John. And please tell me that the stomach in our refrigerator didn't come from one of the victims at the morgue, Sherlock. I'd like to go this month without having our door busted in by the Yard for evidence tampering."

"It's hardly tampering when those idiots don't know what to do with it," Sherlock snapped. "How are we supposed to know why they are disembowelling their victims without testing what kind of object becomes entrenched in the digestive organs?"

John blanched. "Oh no, you did, didn't you? You snuck into the morgue and body-snatched! When did you have the time? This wasn't here last night!"

"I harvested organs, John. To body-snatch, I would have required your assistance at Barts, and you have made it abundantly clear that you prefer to waste away the hours between twelve and seven in the morning sleeping instead of more important things," sniffed Sherlock. "So far I have narrowed down the object in question to be larger than a USB drive but slighter in width than a mobile."

John had stilled all his activity in the kitchen and held back a lurch in his stomach. "That's…ghoulish, Sherlock."

"Thank you. Science usually is. But we're digressing from the circumstances of the first murder." He paused in front of the window. "Joey Smallish. Think John, think. Why was this man of all the mules murdered? He was selected to die for a reason!"

The white noise of water boiling against the walls of the electric kettle drowned out the last few words that Sherlock spoke. John turned to switch it off, glad for a distraction from what was becoming a taxing and bizarre conversation for a Sunday morning.

Just as the rush of the boiling water died away, the pitch of shattering glass demolished the silence in their flat. John's eyes darted toward the sound, and he dropped the kettle when he spotted Sherlock lying on the floor beneath the broken window. A red brick with a white sheet of paper roped around it rested a meter from his prone body.

"Sherlock!" He rushed over to his friend, nearly tripping over the brick in the process. "Sherlock, are you hurt?"

"Ungh…John, the note…what does the note say?" groaned Sherlock while feebly raising a hand from the floor.

John descended upon the paper that was attached to the brick. The handwriting was barely legible as he read aloud:

Mister Holmes:

Seeing as you've involved yourself in our bussiness, we'll give you 24 hours to locate and deliver the trigger on our behalf. Or else we gut you and your friend for practise.

The GSRs

John hurried to the broken window, but it was apparent the moment he looked down at the street that whoever had thrown the brick was far away.

Sherlock tilted his head up from the floor. "I bet…they misspelled business…didn't they?"

"Yeah, they did. How did you guess—" A thud interrupted him, and John felt his arteries go cold as he saw Sherlock collapse back onto the floor with a trail of blood seeping from the back of his curls. "Sherl! Sherlock! Open your eyes! Stay with me!"

Sherlock hazily obliged, and his eyelashes fluttered open revealing two slivers of unfocussed green. He winced as John touched the gash on his head. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sherlock blinked. "Severed…or un-severed?"

John tried again. "What day is today?"

"Two."

The third try was the charm. "Who's the prime minister?"

"David Cameron."

John faltered. "Dear god."

"Is everything alright, dear?" Mrs Hudson called from the doorway. "I heard a crash upstairs and—"

"Mrs Hudson, please fetch me my medical kit from the washroom sink! Sherlock's suffering head trauma!"

Their landlady gasped at the sight of Sherlock bleeding on the floor and scurried to the bathroom without another word. He glanced at Sherlock and was puzzled to find the detective smirking.

"Uh, Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Me? John, this is amazing! I can…I can barely think a co-co-coherent thought. Is this what you ordinary p-people think all the t-time? You a-and Le-Lestrade?"

John reminded himself that it was poor bedside manner to smack a patient suffering from a concussion. "You're stuttering, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "N-not g-g-good?"

John smiled and took him by his shoulders. "Come on, let's get you to the sofa so I can bandage your head."

Sherlock compliantly followed, although his movements were stiff and unsure under John's guidance. The moment he settled, Mrs Hudson re-emerged into the sitting room carrying a large black case.

"Here it is. I would have been along sooner, but there was a jar of beetles on top of it. Can you imagine, beetles kept in a jar beneath the sink!"

An innocuous smile flickered across Sherlock's face. "Sc-Sc-Scarab b-beetles, Ma-Ma-Mrs Hudson."

At seeing Sherlock's earnest, somewhat confused expression, her outrage dimmed, and she patted his hand. "Yes, dear. Scarab beetles." She turned to John, who was pulling rolls of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic from his kit. "You mentioned head trauma?"

John nodded solemnly. "It's just a concussion, it ought to sort itself out in a matter of hours. I'll text Lestrade—the DI—about the brick. There's no need to worry."

Mrs Hudson moved toward the kitchen. "Then perhaps I can fix you boys breakfast, under the circumstances, mind you." She reached for the refrigerator door. "But remember, I'm not your—"

"NO!" cried John, while Sherlock grinned stupidly. The landlady took her hand off the refrigerator door and waited for an explanation. "Please, Mrs Hudson, breakfast would be lovely—he hasn't eaten for days—but for your sanity and in the name of several health codes, do not open that refrigerator!"

"It's not sanitary, thumbs, feet, heads…" murmured Mrs Hudson as she ambled out of the kitchen and down the stairs to her own flat.

Sent 10:33 AM

Greg, please come to 221B, ASAP. One of the Rogues tossed a brick through our window and it hit Sherlock. –JW

"D-don't wa-want breakfast," stammered Sherlock as John put aside the mobile and turned to him with the roll of gauze.

"Oh, you're eating whether you like it or not. You're even sleeping once I've determined you're in the clear from anything more serious." John dutifully pressed a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic to the gash hidden in Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock hissed and aimed a full-lipped pout at his doctor. "J-J-John," he whinged.

John fought down a smile with every iota of professionalism that he had been taught in medical school. Without his usual eloquence, Sherlock reminded him of a toddler refusing to eat his vegetables. He mused whether Sherlock had stuttered as a child and if the vicious blow to his head had disabled whatever mental block he had in place. John made a note to himself to ask Mycroft the next time he was being particularly insufferable. In the meantime, it was not useful to think only of how endearing the stutter sounded on Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock, at least have two pieces of toast when Mrs Hudson comes back up with breakfast. I'll even spread jam on them and cut the bread into eighths the way you like. Sherlock, stop that!" John snatched Sherlock's hand, which had been slapping at his progress with the bandage. Sherlock huffed and looked away as John finished wrapping the bandage. "There you go. Now try to lie back and enjoy barely thinking."

Sherlock's unfocussed jade eyes honed on him so that John was certain that even in his wounded state, the detective was attempting to devour him alive with a simple gaze. It was unnerving, particularly because of the ridiculous smirk that was fixed over his face.

When his mobile vibrated, John jumped off the floor.

Sent 10:41 AM

Sunday morning and I'm already swamped. Glad to hear that I'm not alone, but I can't make it out to you lads for another hour. -GL

"J-John!" A shaky baritone voice forced him to divert his attention from the mobile. Sherlock leaned askew on the sofa, and he was in grave danger of falling off the edge as his stare drilled into John. "I-I'd l-like to c-c-cut you into ei-eighths and eat y-you."

John really could not hold it back then, bedside manner be damned—how could he when Sherlock spoke those words with that adorable stutter? The laughter came tumbling out of his mouth before he could raise a hand to stifle it.

A sharp scowl creased over Sherlock's lips and he seized John's arm below the elbow with a crushing grip. "I w-want to eat you J-John." His eyebrows screwed together as he was clearly frustrated with his own voice, but a glint flashed behind his narrowed eyes. "I c-can smell y-your skin. Ma-mango and p-pineapple jam…y-you'd taste delicious."

John's grin plummeted from his face. He did his best to banish the image of the organs currently stored between the milk and jam in their refrigerator from the fore of his mind to no avail. It was not a far stretch of the imagination that they could be sharing space with some cold cuts of John Watson, and with Sherlock treading the deep end of temporary insanity with his concussion, he was not going to take any risks antagonising him. John wordlessly removed his arm from Sherlock's grasp, and lifted his mobile from the floor.

Sent 10:45 AM

Maybe you ought to wait 'till tomorrow to come by, Greg. Sherlock has a concussion and isn't quite right…more than usual. -JW

Sent 10:45 AM

I'll be over in ten. -GL

John sighed at the mobile, but before he could formulate a response, Sherlock impatiently confiscated the phone and tossed it across the sitting room. "Sherlock!" John clapped his hands over Sherlock's shoulders and carefully laid him out on the sofa. "Just lie down, will you?"

Sherlock chuckled and entrenched his long fingers in the collar of John's jumper "I-I'll b-begin b-by eating a d-deltoid. Then wr-wrap the r-rest for l-later in f-foil to s-store in the r-refrigerator."

"Yes, I'm sure you will." He moved to untangle himself from his flatmate, but Sherlock displayed no sign of loosening his grip. He was about to admonish him once more when he felt a slender leg hook around his hips. He looked into Sherlock's amused expression helplessly as his centre of gravity went twisting beneath him. One moment he was standing over his patient; the next he had crashed against him on the sofa.

"Sherlock, let go of me. Let go of me now!" he growled at the giggling madman. "Your head's injured—you're only going to make it worse by—OUCH!" A sharp, wet pain stabbed through his right shoulder.

The bastard actually bit him.

"Mm, J-John…" Another bite. "Y-You taste w-wonderful."

John attempted to squirm out of Sherlock's arms before remembering his concussion, and he begrudgingly halted his efforts. To his relief, Sherlock was not much of a cannibal. While the bites were sure to leave bruises on his formerly unwounded shoulder, it almost tickled to have Sherlock nibbling on him. John groaned to himself and deflected his attention toward the two fresh nicotine patches planted on the detective's forearm, the elevated heartbeat he could feel thrumming against his spine, the small noises of contentment that Sherlock made as his warm mouth closed over his shoulder and—

"This is just wrong!" John moaned.

Inspector Lestrade did not need that reassurance when he appeared through the doorway and found John spooned against Sherlock, who was nipping at his neck like an enthusiastic puppy. He gaped at the two men entangled on the sofa. "I've missed something again, haven't I?"

John felt blood rushing into his face and over his ears. "This isn't what it looks like! He's—it's just—get him off me, will you? Ow, Sherlock!"

"He's m-mine!" Sherlock growled at the intruder in their flat. "J-John, I'm g-going to ch-chew holes in y-your bones and d-drink y-your ma-marrow."

Lestrade nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another, while glancing at the maniacal consulting detective, then meeting the wide, pleading blue eyes of one John Watson. After threading a hand through his silver hair, he sighed, and committed to a plan of action that only a true friend would do. He pulled out his camera phone.

John made a sour face. "Greg, if you turn on that camera, I will email my video of you performing karaoke at that pub last month to the Met."

Lestrade considered this before aiming his mobile in their direction. "It's worth it. I need to get this."

John raised an eyebrow. "You were too drunk to remember that the song was Barbie Girl. You danced a little."

Lestrade unenthusiastically lowered his phone. "You would debase yourself to blackmail, Doctor?"

John winced when Sherlock took another excited nibble from his shoulder. "Yes, I'm capable of quite a lot, actually." And apparently that includes becoming breakfast for the world's only consulting detective, he thought with a bit of self-depreciation.

Greg pocketed his mobile with a frown. "Okay, well, you said he had a concussion, which is why I guess you haven't decked the tosser. Um, let's try this." He bent down and picked up the scarlet ball of yarn that John had left unused after completing his web.

John blanked. "Greg that's string. Sherlock! I mean it, one more bite and—"

"No, trust me on this. I've had two nieces go through teething phases. This gets 'em every time," Lestrade reassured him. He unrolled a fifth of the yarn ball and dangled the end of the string before Sherlock's eyes.

The detective did not look very impressed. "Y-You're a-an idiot, L-Lestrade."

Lestrade's shoulders slumped and he let the string droop to the floor. "Why is he stuttering?"

John, trapped as he was, managed a half-shrug and opened his mouth to ask the Met's finest if he had any more brilliant ideas when he felt Sherlock's mouth vacate his shoulder.

"Just a mo-moment!" Sherlock exclaimed while pushing John off his chest. He pointed an accusing finger at Lestrade. "Y-You w-would have m-me think th-that's only string w-wouldn't y-you, w-when in fact th-that's the p-perfect size for a y-yarn ball to h-hide a p-pack of cigarettes!"

Lestrade paled several shades and dropped the yarn to the floor seconds before Sherlock leapt from the sofa and pounced on top of it. John rubbed his well-bitten shoulder and observed Sherlock pulling fistfuls of red string from the ball. "You mad, concussed idiot," he muttered under his breath. He had not the heart to tell Sherlock that he flushed his cigarettes weeks ago.

While remaining wary that Sherlock might still cause himself further injury, John risked shifting his watchful eyes toward Lestrade, who was becoming increasingly less amused at watching Sherlock roll on the floor. "There was a message attached to the brick that struck him. I can't say I understand it all, except for the obvious when someone throws a brick through your window."

Lestrade cursed under his breath. "We were half a day from rounding up most of that gang. None of this would have happened if he had gone off and—"

"Acted like he always does on a case?" John sighed at the man who was becoming progressively more tangled in red yarn on the floor. "Too late to wish it was any different."

Lestrade answered with his own unconvinced sigh, and he fixed his eyes on the blank white calling card pinned at the top of John's web. "So this is the piece of evidence Sherlock pinched from the gang leader last night? The one you texted me about—this Moran?"

"That's right. I know it's vague but anything you might find about someone named Moran…"

"Already found everything there is—well, everything about the Morans with criminal records. The only one who currently isn't put away made Interpol's wanted list."

John stood from the sofa. "What did you find? Who is he?"

Lestrade held up his mobile, which displayed the picture of a young soldier. The photo must have been taken at least fifteen years ago by the harsh contrast of playing against the man's pale skin. His hair was dark blonde, swept over a smooth forehead that sloped into a narrow nose. He stared, unsmiling, straight past the lens with piercing azure eyes that were haunting a place far away from camera.

"Sebastian Moran. At a time, he was a sniper for SAS, first deployed in Iraq during the Gulf War. He was promoted to Captain for exceptional service following the tour. In '97 he was sent to Northern Ireland in counter-sniper operation where he was subsequently court-martialled for his refusal to obey orders. He disappeared shortly after the trial, and resurfaced now and then for illegal arms charges associated with the IRA. It all makes for an interesting read. You think he could be orchestrating this?"

"Sebastian Moran." John whispered at the austere portrait of the young sniper. It had been less than a year since he had been discharged from the army, and although it had not been under the best circumstances, it disconcerted him that another soldier was behind such a grisly conspiracy of violence. "It's more than possible this is the guy. We'll need to see what Sherlock thinks."

He gestured at the wriggling form of Sherlock Holmes on the floor. He had somehow twisted himself in the yarn so that his arms were restrained at his sides. "Wh-Why did Jo-Joey Smallish have to d-die?" he stammered with a gasp against the floorboards.

John shook his head at his confused, and now ensnared, flatmate. "He was going on about Moran having the first victim murdered before the brick flew through the window, and, you know," he explained.

"Whoo-hoo." chimed in Mrs Hudson as she cleared the doorway carrying a tray. "I've brought us all a nice fry-up, something for the nice Inspector, as well." She scowled at the floor, where Sherlock was tied in red yarn from head to toe. "What the bloody hell is this? Is this how they teach you to treat your patients nowadays! You tie them up?"

"Mrs Hudson, it's not what—he was biting and—" John was effectively silenced as Mrs Hudson thrust the breakfast tray into his arms and hovered over the detective.

Sherlock flopped against his bindings. "Wa-Was l-looking for cigarettes Ma-Mrs Hudson."

She gave him an indulgent smile. "Yes, of course you were. Poor dear, let's get you off the floor and give you something to eat."

As Mrs Hudson busied herself with mothering Sherlock, John caught Lestrade gawping at the three of them with a look of bewilderment that was begging the question, Is this a typical morning for you people?

John found it somewhat depressing that these days the answer was an unfortunate yes.

Sherlock peaked over Mrs Hudson's shoulder while she guided him back to the sofa. His eyebrows furrowed, and he insistently peered at John. "Wh-Why did Jo-Joey Smallish have to die?" He repeated.

Mrs Hudson gave both John and Lestrade an uneasy frown. "Just ignore him, Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock pouted as he was pushed down on the sofa cushions. "Jim s-says hi."

John froze. "Sherlock, what did you say?"

Sherlock leaned forward with a pensive expression. "Jim says hi. Wh-Why did Joey Sm-Smallish have to d-die?"

Lestrade folded his hands atop his head in exasperation. Sherlock was difficult enough to understand when he was not concussed. "What is he talking about? Is it some kind of rhyme or riddle?"

John set down the breakfast tray. "Moriarty. Moriarty is involved, isn't he, Sherlock? That's what you've been trying to say?" The detective looked up at him with the beginnings of a smile fidgeting on his lips. He turned to the web and scrutinised the crime photo of Joey Smallish's bloated corpse. At the top of the photograph he had printed the man's name in large capital letters: JOEY SMALLISH.

A flash went off inside John Watson's head, and as his thoughts raced, he briefly wondered if this was how Sherlock often felt when he was on the precipice of a discovery. He closed in on Lestrade. "Sherlock's been occupied with the victim's first name! Joey Smallish. I should have seen it sooner!"

John snatched his pen off the coffee table. He noted that Sherlock was now beaming at him with encouragement, his unfocused pupils holding steady over his next movement. He flashed him an appreciative smile back. Even when his thoughts were severely muddled with a concussion Sherlock was maddeningly brilliant.

He pressed the tip of his pen below the victim's name. "Why did Joey Smallish have to die? It was a message. An anagram" He capped his pen and stood aside for his now-captive audience to observe his handiwork.

JOEY SMALLISH

JIM SAYS HELLO

Reviews are not only appreciated—they are WORSHIPPED!

Corey 5268:You! Wonderful you! Thank you for taking the time to review all my chapters and fill me with the joy of joyfulness! So happy you like my/Sherlock's murder schemes! Seriously, I appreciate you taking the time to review all of the chapters so f-ing much! TSylvestrisA: I love your description so much of Sherlock as a cat (mine brings me dead things) that it makes me laugh every time I read it. I heart you for that. Kunoichi Umi: I'm going to confess. The line about the puppy in this chapter was pretty much inspired by you, LOL. I think you're influencing me with images of Sherl-puppy just as much…and give him treats when he gives me dead birds as presents. Yes. TheDoctorSherlock: Thanks for the review! I'm happy to hear my insanity is contributing to oxygen deprivation. More Johnlock, yeah? Well this chapter is a step toward that, but that could be a challenge (one I shall accept!) since this is pre-slash. It's-Teatime-Somewhere: Hi brilliant reviewer! Thank you SO much for such a well-thought out review, it really made my day! And no, no, no BDSM sexy times for this particular story, LOL. Your review gave me a lot to think about, and I hope I deliver, but I'm so happy that you seem to enjoy what I've done with the characters/case thus far! Thanks! CharmingKarma: Part of me agrees with you about the nicotine. It really does. I honestly have no idea about the pressure points without the skin—I'm afraid I'm as curious as Sherlock about that one (looks around for flatmate). Thank you always for reviewing, it encourages me to get off my lazy arse and write! Kasia-chan: Thank you, thank you for your kind review! I will certainly update as frequently as I can write new chapters! RedBrickandIvy: Not much Moran in this chapter, but I hope you liked! Thanks for reviewing this again! Chip D: Ah, you like my warnings! Thank you! Glad you find my bizarre humour entertaining, I really am. I shall update as often as long as the fates allow me! meredithriddle: Ah, phosphorus. Now that's an interesting one. I'll have to look that up *for an experiment* Thank you for another wonderful and thoughtful review! laceypinkdream: hahaha so glad you like! Thanks for your review =)