I think my goal is to make it so you actually get excited when I miss a post-day, because then you get extras. Yes. I am subtly manipulating you. *Jedi hand swish*

"We know who the victim is," Lestrade drawled as they walked into another flat. "He's a bailiff. Name of Thomas Harborson."

"Why do you think it's the same murderer?" John asked, then entered the room and looked at the body. "Oh." He frowned, pursed his lips, then looked over at Sherlock, who was staring at the body, hands in her pockets, without moving.

"Bit of an MO," Greg said with a gesture, and John nodded. The man was face down, so the slice in his neck was clear, the angle eerily familiar. It was so exactly the same, it could almost have been the same body, except this man was a bit more heavyset and his hair was greying, dressed in his pajamas with his slippers still on. Poor sod just wanted some sleep, John thought.

"Don't think I'm of much use on this one, I'm afraid; cause of death is pretty much exactly the same," he said, and Sherlock finally moved, quickly taking in the man's clothes, his position, the wound in his neck.

"You need anything, Greg?" John asked quietly while she worked, and Lestrade looked at him oddly.

"I'm fine, mate. Is this about the other day? Because really, don't worry about it."

John gave the DI a sideways glance. "Really? Because I'm a doctor, and according to my professional opinion, it's likely you still have bruises, and that's my fault."

"Oh, god, did not need to know that," Donovan said, and John winced as he realised she'd been walking by the doorway as he spoke.

"Not like that, Sally, get your mind out of the gutter," Lestrade ordered, and turned back to John. "It's really fine. Know a bloke who was in Iraq. I might not understand, but I get it."

Nodding, John squared his shoulders. "All the same, let me know if you need a pint," he said, and noted Sherlock watching both of them.

"Was there anything left with the body?" she asked, and Lestrade shook his head.

"No abacus, if that's what you're asking. We combed the room for one, too; I was hoping it would get us somewhere." Greg shrugged. "Anderson can't find anything on this guy, either, not even a speck of hair."

"Anderson's an idiot," Sherlock said, and Greg sighed, one hand coming up to rub at his temples.

"Please, don't. I made sure he had a break for breakfast before you came, you owe it to me to be nice," he said in the tone of the long-suffering.

"It's a serial killer," Sherlock proclaimed, standing from her crouch next to the body. "And it's a confident one. Most serial killers can't wait to get caught; this one believes in what he's doing enough that he wants to continue doing it."

"So what is he believing in?" John asked her, and she looked up, putting her hands together in front of her mouth, which smiled, reminding John a bit of the Grinch that Stole Christmas.

"I don't know."

John had time to grab lunch between the crime scene and work, and Sherlock was still in 'thinking' mode, so he directed the cabbie to a cafe to grab a bite. Sherlock followed him out of the car, not paying any attention to her surroundings. It wasn't until John was seated with a sandwich and coffee that he interrupted her thoughts with some questions.

"Any reason to kill the bailiff?" he asked after swallowing his first bite, wanting to know what was going through Sherlock's brain.

Sherlock shook her head. "I doubt it."

"Why?" John prompted before another bite. He never made tuna sandwiches at home, this one was good.

"This killer doesn't care about what his victims have done; if he did he'd be going after people who had done something."

"What if he's mad that they're... nice? They're too good?" John suggested, and Sherlock snorted.

"Unlikely, but in that case, I'd suggest you keep your gun close, as he'd pick you next."

"I'm an ex-soldier, Sherlock, I'm hardly innocent." John said, frowning, and Sherlock blinked at him, focussing on him fully for the first time in the conversation.

"John, you're so utterly decent. Of course he'd go after you next," she said, as if it were obvious, and John's eyebrows drew together as he pursed his lips.

"I wouldn't say-"

"You wear jumpers and knit. You have made attempts to bake and you go out to coffee with your sister," Sherlock interrupted, as if that settled it, and John snorted in laughter. Sherlock's mouth quirked into that half-smile, her eyes crinkling. John realized he knew her well enough to know when she was shamming a smile, now, and that wasn't one. Weird.

"Okay, putting that aside. Why do you think he's killing them, then?" John tried to bring them back onto the subject. Which was murder.

"Don't know, but there's got to be something. There's got to be something - something he left behind, something he's trying to get across, something he's working for..." Sherlock mused, once again looking straight through John.

"So it's a code again," John said before filling his mouth with tuna. Sherlock's eyes flickered over to him.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, and he chewed quickly to swallow and explain.

"Well, it's symbolism. Only instead of numbers it's murders. Or abacuses."

"Abaci," Sherlock corrected automatically this time, but her eyes were dark, and John could practically see the gears turning in that great brain of hers. "But who is he talking to, then, if it's a code?"

John shrugged. "Got me there. God?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and he grinned, taking another bite of his sandwich.