AN: I'm amazed by the amount of followers this has, being my first fic and all :) I would really love to hear from you guys, I'm open to constructive criticism but please be gentle. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

The ride to wherever the hell we were going was pretty long, and quiet. I tapped my thumbnail against my tooth while Sherlock texted almost frantically.

"Speedy's sandwiches, Baker Street," the cabbie, a funny man in a flat cap, turned and before I could get my purse Sherlock had paid him.

He stepped out and I followed, feeling ungainly next to him with his fluid movements, and we headed in.

"You know this place?" I asked as we stepped into the small sandwich shop. It was cramped, but cosy, with a few tables scattered in the front and a counter in the back.

Sherlock looked at me for a second, "No, worked in the area though. Is it ok?"

I nodded, "It's fine, looks nice."

We went straight to the counter. After looking at the boards for a moment I ordered a bacon, brie and cranberry baguette and Sherlock had the tuna mayonnaise.

"Go and grab a table and we'll be right over with your lunch," the smiling lady behind the counter said.

Sherlock made his way towards a table and I awkwardly sat across from him.

"So…" I said after a long silence with him tapping away on his phone.

"Why did your boyfriend hang himself?" he asked, looking up at me suddenly.

I sat back in my seat, surprised by his openness. "He battled depression for a long time. It was hard to keep him alive most days when we lived together, but when he was alone he just had episode after episode until his dad died. That night he hung himself."

The last sentence came out just as the woman put our plates in front of us. She raised her eyebrows and I felt myself go pink.

"Why are you interested?" I asked him as I lifted half of the sandwich to my mouth.

He nibbled at his, "I'm interested in all mysteries, and I couldn't figure out why he would kill himself. Sometimes it's easier just to ask."

"Wait, you asked why he hung himself. I never told you how he did it," I said, a familiar pang of pain and guilt going through me when I said the words.

"It was obvious how he did it," he looked at me like I was genuinely stupid for not knowing that.

"What is it like in that brain of yours?" I asked, more to myself than anything else.

He kept his gaze on mine, "I ask myself the same question about everyone. Must be boring."

I snorted, "Yeah. You could call it that."

"Your case then," he switched the topic of conversation.

"Gregs case," I reminded him again, "I don't have cases, I help occasionally."

He scrunched up his nose, "THE case then. Thoughts?"

"It's Arenaviridae, most likely Lassa Fever. What I don't understand is how or why," I mused as I ate my surprisingly tasty lunch.

"That's always been my job," Sherlock looked at me with the hint of a smirk.

"Are you always this cocky?"

"Cocky?"

"Yes, cocky."

"I know I'm always right, about almost everything, does that make me cocky?" he looked genuinely perplexed.

"That makes you exceptionally cocky."

"Then I'm cocky, but either way we know what, now we need why, who and how."

"It's not something a biology student could just cook up," I pointed out.

He nodded, "We're looking for a doctor of biology, at least," and pulled his phone out again, texting rapidly.

I looked at him with an eyebrow cocked, "Is that phone surgically attached to you?"

"No, but that would be helpful," he didn't look up.

"Why are you always on it?"

"I prefer to text, it's quick," he replied.

I shrugged and carried on with my lunch, not focussing. My job on this case was done, I found out what disease was being used, so why should I be involved in this, which was what I asked Sherlock next.

"I like to have someone to bounce ideas off. Especially someone with expertise in the field. And my skull attracts too much attention in public," his ice blue eyes ran over my face, taking in all details.

"What's wrong with your skull?" I asked, now looking at his head questioningly.

He gave a twist of the mouth, almost like a smile, "Not my own personal skull. One I keep at home for chats."

I opened my mouth to ask about it but he jumped up suddenly, tightening his coat and tapping on his phone more frantically than before.

"I have to go, case," he said without looking at me and hurried out of the door.

The whole café turned to stare at me, like he'd stormed out over something I'd said. I watched after him in sheer dumb confusion. How can one person be so rude, and yet you want to spend more time with them to try and understand the way they are? Deciding it was probably best to just forget about it, I went back to my lunch, looking distastefully at his half-finished tuna. I hate tuna.