No Warnings-except colorful language and bawdy, low-class humor. Oh, and the horrid lavender jumper makes a cameo appearance.

Previously-Standing in the rain and squaring his shoulders, John Watson raised his chin defiantly and then raised his hand. Finally, John knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street.

Chapter 15

John waited at the door and gathered his courage, meanwhile the rain beat down on his head. He noticed the large number of parked cars, some of them double-parked in front of the apartment building.

He looked harder, although it was difficult to see anything in the pouring rain. Stupid, bloody rain. Yep, that one was an unmarked police car. So was the black one. In fact several of them were. John had a funny feeling about all this.

The lock turned. Although John fully intended to bid Sherlock good-bye forever, he automatically smiled, expecting to see the consulting detective when the door to 221B opened wide. His smile fell, upon seeing an older woman, somewhat shorter than him. She wore a purple dress and a frown, which deepened as she beheld the soaking wet gentleman on the stoop.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry; I must have the wrong address," said John beginning to back away.

"Oh, of course, you must be Doctor Watson. I'm Mrs. Hudson; you've come about the flat then," she said with a kind smile, which disappeared as two men trotted down the steps and out the front door. Oddly, thought John, both men wore blue latex gloves and cheap off the rack suits. What was almost as odd, John actually noticed the cut of their suits and the quality of the material. He certainly hadn't noticed that kind of thing before he started hanging out with these well-dressed but crazy geniuses.

"Oh dear, I am sorry, Doctor,"said Mrs. Hudson, after another man and two women and brushed past, "you just missed him, Sherlock I mean. He dashed out just a few minutes ago. That's Sherlock, always dashing about…My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type; I can tell."

"No, not really," said John, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

"And he was so looking forward to showing you the flat; he's already moved in," continued the kind lady in purple. "Shall we go up? Only the police haven't quite finished…"

"Police? Um, I think it's best, if I just leave Mrs. Hudson,' said John, back toward the door. "I'm sorry to have been a bother…"

"Oh no, Watson, you don't want to leave now," said Detective Inspector Lestrade, in a falsely cheery voice. "Come on up. I insist!"

"Since Mr. Holmes is not here, I really don't think it's appropriate," said John stiffly. He briefly toyed with the idea of running.

"Oh, you might as well," said Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock won't mind; just be sure not to touch his experiments."

"Oh God, no. I wouldn't dream of it," said John decidedly. His face creased with concern; unluckily, he'd been introduced to one of Sherlock's experiments last night and he certainly wouldn't touch any of them. That of course was before the snogging; John's frown twitched into a smirk. He slowly followed the lady in purple up to the second floor landing.

Lestrade ushered them into the flat. Sergeant Donovan was in the kitchen with that forensics idiot, Anderson plus a couple more police-types. "There's hands, human hands, in bowls in the cabinets and under the sink. What kind of creepy psychopath collects hands?" asked Donovan.

John sucked in a breath. This was none of his business. The less said, the sooner he could leave.

"It's a sign of criminal insanity,"answered the weasel-faced forensics specialist."That man is a clear threat to society…"

"They're for an experiment," John swallowed, as all eyes turned to him. So much for minding his own business. "The hands are for an experiment. He explained it to me. He got the hands from some bloke at St. Barts."

"Not a bloke, a woman, a Doctor Hooper, actually," said Lestrade, staring at John like a suspicious drill sergeant. John half expected Lestrade to order John to 'drop and give me fifty pushups'.

"OK, so he got them from Doctor Hooper," agreed the ex-soldier. "Nevertheless, he's trying to determine the rate of decay for human skin in various concentrations of chlorinated water and also unchlorinated water. He said a case depends on it."

"Well, that brings us to my first question. Since when did you become such good friends with Sherlock Holmes, that he'd discuss his experiments with you?"asked the detective inspector.

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of you business," said John, his voice frigid.

"It could be," said Lestrade

" It really couldn't," said John, taking his ready-stance, feet spread slightly apart, limbs loose, back straight and chin extended. "And perhaps you could explain why you're here, in Mr. Holmes' flat," demanded Captain John Hamish Watson, RAMC. "D'you have a warrant?"

"Not exactly," said Lestrade with a smile at John's challenge. "It's a drugs bust." The greying detective leaned back comfortably into his chair.

"Seriously?, Holmes-a junkie?" asked John. " I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"Watson, you probably want to shut up now," said Lestrade."

"Yeah, but come on," scoffed Captain Watson.

Lestrade gave the former soldier a wry smile.

"No." John chewed his lip uncertainly. Of course, if they'd found something, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to dash off. "You didn't find anything, did you?" he asked, his confidence returning.

"We found human eyes, in the microwave," called out Sally Donovan.

"It's an experiment," asserted John, exuding false bravado. He was reasonably certain that they were an experiment. "Please put them back, Sergeant Donovan. So, Detective Inspector, can you tell me what is this really about?"

"First, you tell me why you're really here," Countered DI Lestrade

"I was invited," said John. "Sherlock sought me out yesterday, and we discussed a case that we have common interest in. It also turns out that he was looking for a flat mate, and I'm looking for a new flat. He invited me to consider sharing this flat."

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Lestrade, concerned for Sherlock's safety.

"Again, none of your concern. As it happens, I've pretty much decided against the flat share… for reasons that do not concern you," he said repressively, as if Lestrade were an errant corporal.

"Oh, but Doctor Watson, there's another bedroom upstairs...if you'll be needing two bedrooms," chimed in Mrs. Hudson.

"Of course we'll be needing two," said John. He worried that the seemingly omniscient Jim Mor-whatever might catch wind of John and Sherlock's almost-relationship. "Well, we would be needing two, if I was staying. You know, I'm not actually gay,"' he added, trying to sink that ship once and for all.

"Okay, Detective Inspector, if there's no drugs, why are you still here?" asked John again.

"Sherlock is helping us on a case, actually," said DI Lestrade, giving in, "four apparent serial suicides. You must have heard about it on the news?"

"Yeah, they all took the same poison, and none of them seemed to have had any reason to want to kill themselves," said John. This was an unexpected complication. Well it shouldn't have been unexpected, John thought rather crossly. After all, Sherlock called himself, a consulting detective. This is what Sherlock did; he was a detective.

John was soaked to the bone and chilled. This was really too confusing, on top of his psuedo-date with Jim the madman. It was as if John had been magically transported into an alternate universe. Oh God, I better stop watching the telly, thought John. He bit his lip, trying very hard to think rationally, like a soldier, like a professional. "Right," continued John, "So you lot had no clue where to go with this case, and then you called in Mr. Holmes."

"Right,"the detective inspector quickly answered, before Donovan could protest. "You have managed to spend some time with Sherlock; haven't you?. Anyway, I had Sherlock out to the crime scene, and then he ran off, yelling about a case, a little pink case. Well, he found it, of course; he's Sherlock. He found it in a skip, and brought the pink case back to his flat.,"

Watson's brows furrowed in concentration. What was significance of the pink case, he wondered,?

"The case belonged to our most recent victim,"Lestrade explained further, upon seeing John's confusion.. "Somehow, Sherlock knew it was missing from our crime scene. And he knew it was pink, because, he said, she dressed in that 'alarming shade of pink'. Don't ask; it's a Sherlock thing. The problem is that he didn't tell us when he found this case. I knew he'd find it. I'm not stupid, and I knew he wouldn't tell us. But that's illegal, withholding evidence."

"O-Kay? But a drugs bust…"

"That got us in the door," sniffed Donovan. The last of the Yarders were leaving, a couple of them sniggering at something they'd seen in the cluttered flat. John was left with Lestrade, Donovan and the forensics weasel.

"Right. And the victim's case told him something important?" asked John, beginning to pace.

"Oh yeah, somehow it told him that she lost her phone," John looked up questioningly, and Sally continued, "then he went on about Jennifer Wilson's still-born daughter, Rachel. As always, he was an insensitive prat. He kept on about the baby's name, Rachel. He said that the murderer still had Wilson's phone on him…"

"Murderer? Wait, I thought these were suicides," said John, stopping in his tracks to face the Detective Inspector. "You said, suicides. The paper…I read it this morning. It said, suicides…

"Well, Sherlock thinks they're murders, and I have to agree with him, God help me," said Lestrade, ruefully.

"And then he used GPS," continued the earnest, dark-haired sergeant. "Then he punched in the e-mail address,"

"which he found on Wilson's case," said Anderson, who was feeling left out.

"Yeah, so he typed it onto his laptop," said Donovan, "and used the password which was…"

"Rachel?" said John.

"And, according to the GPS, the phone was right here, in this flat, which just happens to belong to our favorite psychopath," said Anderson, chiming back in.

"He's not a psychopath,"said John, standing at parade rest. He was deep in thought, his blue eyes distant.

"And how would you know he's not a psychopath?" challenged Anderson.

"Hmmm? The MD after m'name. MD-me doctor?" he said, with a fake smile. "Not to mention, I know some psychopaths, and Mr. Holmes is not like them. Okay, he's solving the mystery; everything's going well. So, then why did he leave; where did he go?"

"He got in a cab. He just drove off in a cab," said Mrs. Hudson, who had been forgotten by the others. She wrung her hands. Now that Sherlock was gone, why didn't the police leave too. What if they searched her flat? Would they confront her about those herbal soothers?

"He leaves. He does that," said Donovan. "He bloody leaves. We're wasting our time. He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let everyone down. And now, you're wasting your time too, Dr. Watson. Don't try to be his friend; he doesn't have friends. I'm warning you; he'll let you down."

"Okay, Donovan, Anderson…we're done here," said Lestrade. Watson certainly wasn't involved in these serial suicides, and apparently Sherlock had lost interest in the soldier already. Besides, Doctor Watson was quite right; it wasn't Lestrade's business anyway. The detective inspector stood and looked around the room for a last helpful clue. He didn't find one. Sergeant Donovan and the forensics expert left the room, clomping loudly down the steps.

"But the phone?" asked John. "Did you ever find the phone? You said it was here?"

Lestrade seemed to deflate, "Nah. We can't find it. Damn GPS must be malfunctioning." The exhausted detective inspector dry scrubbed his face in frustration. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" he asked John.

"You know him better than I do," said John, looking up from the quiescent laptop on the desk.

"I've known him for five years, and, no, I don't," said Lestrade.

"So why do you put up with him?" asked John.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." Lestrade sighed and left.

John looked at the dark, resting computer screen. He fiddled with the mouse. The screen re-set, and he got a map. The GPS still showed the victim's phone was at 221B. But there was a circle thing, and that, according to friends who had tried to teach John to use computers, usually meant that the computer was thinking, or something along those lines. Maybe they needed to re-boot it? Unfortunately, John's computer skills were rudimentary at best. He scratched his head.

"I'm sure you're disappointed that he's not here, Doctor Watson," said Mrs. Hudson coming into the sitting room from the kitchen. "Sherlock, I mean. It was that cabbie. He showed up out of the blue; he must have given Sherlock an idea, and then off he dashed! Now don't get discouraged, that's just Sherlock's way. He does get excited about his murder cases, it's not decent," said Mrs Hudson, fondly. "I wish you'd give the flat share a chance, Doctor Watson. You'd be so good for Sherlock. He needs a friend. I think he might be good for you too," she added archly.

John blushed and raised his eyebrows, looking around the very cluttered, very odd room. There was a human skull on the mantle and beakers and test tubes in the kitchen. It was a disaster, and he liked it. It was comfortable. Somehow, it looked like home,. "Mrs. Hudson, in all honesty, I'd like to try it, but I'm afraid it's just not feasible right now," said John sadly.

"Well you can't leave, just now," said Mrs. Hudson, unwilling to let this ship sail, "You're all over wet; you'll get a chill, if you're not careful. Why don't you sit and rest, while I get you a cuppa?"

John froze. He was dripping wet. Good God, what if he soiled the rug? Fortunately, the rug was dark and not all that clean really. Besides, Mrs. Hudson was probably not the type to shoot people over dirty rugs. He hoped not, anyway.

"Thank you, a cup of tea would be lovely; you're very kind," John said relaxing just a bit when she smiled blandly and did not brandish a handgun at him.

"Just this once, dear, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper," said the lady in purple turning to go back to her flat

"Couple of biscuit's too, if you've got them,' said John absently. Why wouldn't the GPS give the right location of the lady in pink's phone.

"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson called out, as she descended the steps.

The purple lady had left to put on a kettle in her own flat. Probably wise what with the hands and eyeballs in this kitchen, considered John. He removed his very damp leather jacket. The Easter-egg-lavender jumper hurt his eyes, but he was, in fact, chilled and decided to leave the jumper on.

John paced and pondered the mystery. Like I can do anything about the pink lady's death. John snorted derisively at the very idea.

Still, four serial murders, which looked like suicides. It was weird.

And one of the victims, poor Jennifer Wilson who had had a stillborn babe, had planted her phone on the murderer. He looked at the phone number on the screen. Using his own phone, John tried to call the pink lady's mobile; it rang out. But it didn't ring here in the flat.

And somehow, Sherlock got inspired just as a cabbie showed up out of the blue.

Weird. The thinking circle, as John called that round symbol on the computer screen, was still there. Maybe the phone wasn't here; maybe the GPS couldn't get a lock on the phone, because, maybe, the phone was in motion.

And just who was the cabbie? There were lots of cabbies in London. Must be hundreds, maybe thousands. There was no reason that the cabbie would be that psychopathic cabbie who worked for Jim. No reason at all.

"Mrs. Hudson," called John. A sick feeling settled in his stomach, as he trotted down the stairs, "Mrs. Hudson!" She appeared at the bottom of the steps, looking up curiously. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the cabbie, what did he look like?"

"Oh just a normal little man, grayish hair I think," she said, raising her hand to her lips and thinking.

"Anything else? Anything? Clothes, glasses, hat, his voice, a name,?" He prompted desperately.

"Well, he had on a little hat, a cap, a nice little cap. He needs it in this weather. And he wore an old, jumper, bit worn, really. He was very insistent, came right up the stairs. But still, he was a nice, polite, soft-spoken little man…"

John pivoted and pounded back up the stairs. He had to get his jacket; he had to get his phone that was in the jacket. As he entered the sitting room of Sherlock's flat, John heard beep, beep, beep, beep... Like a heart monitor, or a sonar device. He dashed over to the desk; the thinking circle was gone. The pink lady's phone wasn't moving anymore. The GPS locked on the Roland-Kerr Further Education College.

He shoved his arms into his jacket, grabbed Sherlock's laptop and ran to the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson, I have to go. Sherlock, he's in danger,"

"Oh, no, not again! But, but that's Sherlock's laptop," murmured the purple lady.

"He's. In. Danger!" said John. "Look, I'm good for the laptop. I promise," John called out over his shoulder as he dashed out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Oh dear. John Watson wasn't the sitting down type after all, thought Mrs. Hudson. He was the dashing around type, just like Sherlock.

And he had seemed like such a nice young man too! But now the young ruffian had just stolen Sherlock's laptop. Well no dou Sherlock could sort that out when he got back.

But John Watson said Sherlock was in danger; oh dear, Sherlock was always in danger. This, on top of that horrible drugs bust was just too much! Mrs. Hudson went in search of her herbal soothers.

John kept loosing signal as the taxi sped to the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, so the former soldier could not reach Detective Inspector Lestrade on his mobile.

He was certain that Sherlock had left with that psycho-cabbie, Jefferson Hope. John tried to control his nervous agitation with slow, controlled breathing.

John's taxi pulled into a poorly lit car park. The rain had finally stopped, but a fine mist drifted down, softening the edges of the stark, utilitarian school buildings. The mist also left the car park glistening, with an ugly, oily sheen. Nasty, uncomfortable-looking place, thought John opening the door before the cab came to a stop.

John shoved some bills at the cabbie and took off across the lot past an empty taxi. Not Good. He ran to the nearest building. It was like one of his nightmares. He couldn't move fast enough; he would be too late.

John burst though the door. Then he stopped to take stock of his situation. Breathing heavily, he pulled out the gun given to him by his unwanted psycho-boyfriend from hell.

The handgun was a Browning L9A1; how did Jim know that the Browning was John's favorite? God, it was so creepy!

He checked the magazine…standard 9mm cartridges…he slammed it back on, flipped off the safety. OK, time for search and rescue. He was already running and peering into the classrooms, as he chambered the first round.

"….Come on! Play the game," urged the grey haired cabbie.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and strode back to the table. He snatched up the bottle containing a single pink-specked capsule.

'Ohhh," cooed the taxi driver. Interesting. SO what do you think? Shall we? Really…what do you think?" he smiled mischievously. "Can you beat me?"…

His wet shoes squeaked on the waxed lino, and John gave up any pretense at stealth. There were too many rooms, and there were more floors and another whole building.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, his desperation echoed hollowly, mocking him...

" ...Are you clever enough to bet your life?" asked the cabbie, taunting his prey. He knew how people thought. He knew how this genius thought. And he had him, right in the palm of his hand. It was too easy; not even a challenge, thought Jeff Hope with contempt.

Sherlock held up the bottle. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was absolutely certain that he was right. He was always right.

"I bet you get bored, don't you?" the cabbie continued, " A man like you. So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?..."

John reached the large room and the end of the long hall and barged through the double-doors. The ex-soldier panted and glanced through the window. Diamond-like water droplets scattered the light coming from the study hall across the way. John stared aghast; he saw Sherlock in the other building.

Sherlock, his hair brunet again, Sherlock wearing that long, wool coat, Sherlock facing that psychotic cabbie, Hope, and holding something tiny in his long fingers.

A pill? A poison?

"Sherlock!" his voice rang out impotently.

This cannot be happening, thought John, in a panic. He cannot take that pill. I have to stop this, but there's no time to get over to that room. There was only one way to stop this.

Breathe in. He cannot die. John raised his gun steadying it with both hands, his legs automatically spread apart for stability. Breathe out… His mind focused. John's universe narrowed to the two men the other room. Breathe in… His target was blocked. The men across the way shifted incrementally.

Breathe out… now Sherlock completely blocked the sniper's shot…a gentle pull on the trigger was all it would take… Breathe in. He couldn't hit the cabbie without hitting the tall detective. So wait for it; you know how to wait... Breathe in…

Sherlock held the pill up, studying it; then he shifted to the side by inches. John's finger moved by a millimeter… and the cabbie had shifted with him…John gently touched the trigger, he caressed it as softly as the touch of a butterfly's wing… Wait for the shot and breathe in…Sweat tricked down the snipers face and neck. Unimportant…. Idiot! Don't take that damn pill!

Captain Watson, wait for your target…John was on fire; he couldn't breathe…Wrong. John was trained. He kept breathing. Just breathe …Only an inch, that was all he needed. If one of them moves an inch… his finger gently, lovingly began pulling…just a fraction of an inch…

"…you're still the addict" crooned the cabbie. "But this…this is what you're really addicted to. You'll do anything, anything at all…to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are ya?"

Sherlock turned slightly raising his hand up, his face eager. He would prove that he was right.

The cabbie smirked, "Isn't it good…" An explosion choked off his words. Pain exploded in his shoulder, throwing him backwards and onto the floor.

Sherlock Holmes whirled around; he found a tiny, neat hole in the window. Most likely from a handgun. No one visible in the windows across the way. No one on the grounds or on the roof…wrong angle anyway. He'd been so close, it had been almost like taking a hit or reaching an orgasm. Sherlock was thwarted, and it infuriated him.

The cabbie lay on the floor bleeding out. It was a mortal wound, but the man was still conscious.

"Was I right? I was, wasn't I?" demanded the consulting detective. The cabbie looked up at him with contempt. He was the one dying, and he dared look at Sherlock with contempt!

"Did I get it right?" His own face suffused with anger and frustration, the dark detective flung the pill into the dying man's grey face.

"Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor, who was it? I want a name!" demanded the tall, man looming over the cabbie like an angel of death.

"No!," gasped Jeff Hope.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give. Me. A name!" The dark angel pushed his foot into the bubbling wound, and the cabbie screamed in anguish.

"A name! Now!" The detective ground his foot into the wound, harder. "THE NAME!"

"Mor-i-ar-ty!" screamed Jeff. He couldn't see his children. He wanted to see his children. All he saw, before the rushing darkness engulfed him, was the dark angel mouthing the cursed name, Moriarty.

It was foggy; the flashing police lamps lit up the night with bursts of red, blue and white. Another emergency vehicle flashed orange in glaring contrast.

Police and medics swarmed the area. Sherlock sat on the back on the ambulance. "Why have I got this blanket?" he fingered the thick orange blanket. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock," explained Lestrade.

"I'm not in shock," complained the pale detective.

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs," said Lestrade, shrugging his shoulders. The detective inspector had already taken a photo with his own mobile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust at the inanity of it all.

"So the shooter-no sign?" Sherlock asked carefully; he already knew who it was, of course. The only question was, how? Sherlock's mind sifted through the possibilities. Choosing and discarding scenarios as he conversed with Lestrade. He required more data to complete the analysis.

"Cleared off before we got here. A guy like that would have had enemies I suppose," Lestrade riposted. Naturally, he had his own suspicions.

"The bullet they've just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. Handguns are woefully commonplace, despite the dedicated efforts of you Yarders. It could have been anyone…" said the consulting detective trying to distract, misdirect.

"But it wasn't, Lestrade spat out. "A kill shot, over that distance, from that kind of weapon? That's a crack shot. Sherlock, I've already sent a team over to his flat, and you are staying here."

Sherlock got up.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded Lestrade angrily.

"I just need to…I need to go home," said younger man. I need to locate John Watson, thought Sherlock, his mind racing with plans, with possible alibis. John just killed a man for me. I need to warn John…

"But I've still got questions for you," insisted detective inspector.

"Oh what now? Look, I'm in shock! I've got a blanket," said Sherlock raising the edge of his orange cloak as proof. "I think I should return to my flat…"

"Fine, I'll take you," said Lestrade. Until they rounded up Watson, the older detective needed to keep an eye on the genius. "Now sit! Donovan, come here for a mo."

"We'll return to my flat, by way of St. Bart's" added Sherlock helpfully, while he typed into his phone.

As the adrenalin died down, John felt the chill settle in. If he'd gone for a swim in the bloody Thames, he couldn't be any wetter than he was now.

He looked around at the half empty bus. He dripped water on the floor. No one seemed to care if John Watson got the floor wet. It wasn't even a carpet. Nevertheless, it made him uncomfortable.

And then too, thought John, the gun didn't help. He kept thinking that everyone on the bus knew that he had an illegal handgun stuck in his waistband. A handgun used in a fatal shooting. What a God awful mess.

He jumped when his pocket vibrated.

His mobile. Oh yeah, Jim gave it back to me. Shite! It was probably the police trying to track him down for murder. Or worse, it could be that psychopathic Irishman, Mor-whatever.

Where are you? SH

SH? SH? Sherlock Holmes. Well, that didn't take long.

I'm at my flat. It's late. I was sleeping.

No- you aren't. Where are you? SH

Okay...thought John.

On a bus, heading back to my flat.

Bad idea. Police already waiting there. Go at once to 221B Baker. Mrs. Hudson is waiting for you. At the back door. SH

Remember- the BACK DOOR. SH

And sign your posts. SH

I don't understand. JW

Yes you do. Get to 221 B now. SH

And John-use the back door. SH

Arrogant bugger. I can't go back there. Jim, the Demon-Psychopath, will find out.

God, the police already know it was me. They'll charge me with murder. God, I am not, not, not going to prison. I should jump in the bloody Thames and get it over with.

And why the hell is Sherlock dragging in poor old Mrs Hudson. She won't have a clue what's going on. But what if something happened to her. Maybe she needs help. Fine. I'll go. but I won't stay.

John got off two stops later and began running to Baker Street, trying to stick to the alleyways. Nevertheless, John caught a camera tracking him at least once.

Slogging through mud and rubbish, John finally found the back of 221B. A yellowish lamp, haloed in the mist, shone over the door. Mrs. Hudson, wearing a pink and purple flower-print dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers, ripped open the door.

"Come along, John dear," she called, "Stop dawdling."

John dear? When did I become John dear, wondered John? He tripped up the back steps and into her small, cozy kitchen still panting from his jog.

"Shoes and jacket off, young man," she ordered. Without hesitation, the soldier followed the command. He untied his laces and struggled to pull off the wet shoes. "That's right, dear, leave them on the mat and your jacket on the chair."

"Look Mrs. Hudson, here's Sherlock's laptop," said John, setting it on the table. "I can't stay. I don't want you to get into, um, any, um trouble and…"

"We really don't have time, John. You took much too long getting her," she did not let him get a word in edgewise. "Drop your gun in the towel."

John's eyes bugged out. "Just make sure the safety's on, dear," she insisted, holding out her hand, which was draped in an old tea towel

John sighed. He pulled out the browning and removed the magazine, making sure the chamber was empty. He checked the safety was on and dropped the gun and the magazine carefully into her tea towel.

"That's right, John dear. Now drink some tea," she shoved a mug at him. It was lukewarm and full of sugar. He pulled a face but drank it quickly, as she meticulously cleaned the gun, removing any fingerprints.

"Yes, well thank you Mrs…"

"Right-o," clothes off and into the washer, everything, now." She pointed to the washer in the alcove next to her kitchen.

"What? I can't take them off here," protested the former soldier, his voice squeaking ignominiously.

"Men!" she huffed, rolling her eyes. "John dear, the police will be here any minute. Sherlock can only stall for so long. Now, clothes off and into that washer!"

Sherlock! Well, that explained everything. Sort of. John pulled off his Easter-egg lavender jumper. "Um, I think it's made of some special wool and can't be washed," he muttered, glowering. He held the lavender horror out at arm's length, as if it offended him. It did offend him.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Mrs Hudson snatched the jumper and dropped it into the washer. "Strip, John Watson! Now!"

With shaking hands, John removed his clothes handing his phone, keys and cash roll to the drill sergeant, who was disguised as a kindly old lady, dressed in a floral nightmare.

"Now quickly, run upstairs to your flat, John, and into the shower. A nice hot shower will do you the world of good. I don't like your color at all. I do believe you're in shock, dear. I'll make you some more tea too, with plenty of sugar." She seemed like such a nice woman, in her garish flower-print robe.

John followed his orders and trotted up the stairs, his face as red as his pants.

"John dear?" she called.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, ma'am" responded the soldier, stopping on the landing.

"Thank you for saving Sherlock, dear, and remember to scrub your hands well, use lots of soap."

"Yes, ma'am,' said the soldier biting his lip. He turned to go look for the washroom.

"John dear, I'm waiting for your pants. Just toss them down here."

John didn't even pause; after all, it was a direct order. He stripped, hiding behind the turn of the stairs and threw the pants down before he charged up the remaining stairs and into Sherlock's flat.

A/N Thank you to everyone who is reading this fic. I am sorry for the long delay in posting Chapter 15. At least it's not a real short one. And Chapter 16 is almost ready too. It should be up soon-depending on the internet while I am on vacation.

Thank you to everyone who encouraged me with your wonderful reviews especially EJ 12212012, Kyuubigurl74, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, anyrei1, power0girl, AiLoveS, SamuelE8688, Berylbatch, stringed deducer, Charles Lee Ray and sasodei-iz-awesome.

Disclaimer-You've probably all noticed that I don't have any claims or rights to Sherlock, and this is hardly a serious work of fiction, and so, won't be earning any money. It's just for fun, yeah?