Jo was not happy. Sherlock had interrupted her date, again, for this case, and at this point she wasn't sure if she was more upset with Sherlock for doing it or with herself for letting him get away with it; she ignored the part of her that said that the guy had been boring anyway. The fact remained that instead of going to the play she had tickets for, she was standing in the rain at a filthy crime scene down by the river. She wasn't dressed for this type of activity and her light jacket didn't really do much to keep her warm. The wet and the chill made her shoulder ache even more than it had been before; she had been kept up for the past week with nightmares, which had also had the effect of making her shoulder act up. Matters weren't made any better by the fact that the victims were all veterans.

Sherlock had been working on the case for over a week. Originally he had said that it was too simplistic for her to find it interesting and that the only reason he had even taken it was that his mind was rotting with boredom. It hadn't seemed too simplistic to her, but she had had a full schedule at the clinic and wasn't really available anyway. A part of her said that the only reason Sherlock had involved her now was his apparently almost pathological aversion to her dating; her more rational side knew that Sherlock had been getting increasingly frustrated and that the cause of death had been difficult to determine. And so she shoved her hands in her pockets and did her beast to keep her brooding to herself, knowing that most of her bad mood had nothing to do with Sherlock or her ruined date.

After about twenty minutes Sherlock came up to her, looking frustrated. "There's nothing more I can get here. I'm going to go back to Lestrade's office and keep looking at the files; you can come if you want, but you don't have to."

Jo snorted. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

"Jo," he said, looking pained. "I'm really sorry about your date. I wouldn't have called if I didn't need you."

She sighed. "I know. Ignore me; I'm just in a mood. I mean you probably did me a favor; the play was going to be rubbish anyway." She flashed him a smile that she knew looked insincere; Sherlock frowned but didn't say anything.

Sherlock's mood didn't improve once they got to Scotland Yard. He had almost entirely taken over Lestrade's office and was pacing back and forth in front along the length of the room. He had turned the entire wall into a concept web with names and dates and pictures. Jo sat on the couch and watched, not sure what else to do. Sherlock continued to get more and more agitated until JO knew that she had to stop him before he resulted to trying to pull out his own hair.

"Hey, come here," she said, holding her hand out to him. He glared at her for the intrusion into his thoughts, but after a moment he did as he was told. As soon as he was within arms reach, Jo grabbed a hold of his wrist and pulled him down next to her on the couch.

"Alright, talk," she commanded. "You know you think better when you do it out loud, so talk. Tell me what's going on here."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm close, I can feel it, but there's something I'm missing. I'm so close I can feel it, but I can't see what it is."

She nodded. "So tell me about the murders." She still had her hand wrapped around his wrist, and as he began to speak she rubbed soothing circles with her thumb on the underside of his wrist, right above his veins.

"The murders were all very violent - each of the five victims were stabbed between ten and twenty times each - but there was no sign of forced entry. That implies that they knew their attacker, but other than the fact that they all were either military or ex-military, none of the victims knew the same people. It could be someone they all met in the military, but they were in different branches and served in different places; the first victim was Army but never left Britain, the second was RAMC in Iraq, third was Army in Afghanistan, the fourth was Air Force who was stationed in North Africa, and the fifth was Navy on a ship in the Persian Gulf. All of them were either recently discharged or home on leave. They were targeted when they were alone, but these were all well trained men in good shape, it would have taken a lot to overpower them. But there were relatively few defensive wounds, which again points to someone that they were close to. Which brings us back to the fact that there was no one they all knew, let alone someone they all trusted enough to let close enough to do this. I mean, these were all men who wouldn't be likely to trust easily; four of the five were in active war zones, and the first was stationed in Ireland, on the boarder with Northern Ireland and was dealing with IRA. The only way this makes sense is if it was someone they knew and trusted, but there's no way that they all knew and trusted the same person. It's circular, and I can't see the way out of the loop.

"He's building up to something, I know he is. He's leaving messages to someone, but I don't know who, and I don't know what it means. This guy's smart, brilliant, and he has a plan; I just don't know what to do. If I don't catch him, someone else will die, and soon. As much as I enjoy a good murder, I do actually want to stop them. And I don't know if I can stop this one."

"Hey, calm down" Jo said soothingly once he had finished. "I know you'll figure it out. Maybe you just need a fresh pair of eyes. I know the military better than you; maybe I'll see a connection that's not as obvious to a civilian." She finally let go of his wrist as she got up and walked to the board.

A few minutes later she spoke again, her eyes not leaving the wall. "The fifth victim, Adam Walsh, what branch did you say he was in again?"

"Navy," he answered, still sounding frustrated.

She hummed. "What about earlier? He was RAMC wasn't he?" Sherlock jumped up and looked through the files.

"Yes, actually, he switched five years ago," he said, sounding slightly awed. "How did you know that?"

She pointed at the victim's picture. "His tattoo. "In Arduis Fidelis." It's the RAMC motto; there's not many reasons you would get that tattoo." They fell silent for a few moments before Jo spoke again. "Rick Newman, victim number one, before he was transferred to Ireland he spent a long period of time in the same place, right?"

"Yeah, three years in Newcastle upon Tyne," he answered after checking the files again.

She snorted. "His records have been falsified. He was at an Army Medical base in Northumberland. Look at the tattoo on his chest: these flowers are Wolfsbane; the wolf head in the middle and the snake underneath make it very unique. This is the unofficial emblem for a secret RAMC research facility that specializes in Lycan research. You have to have a pretty high security clearance to even know about it, and most of the personnel are medical; he was probably working security. The government doesn't really want to admit that they're doing experiments on Lycans, so they keep the base secret and keep it out of records so that no one without the proper clearance will ask questions after people are transferred out or retire."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "If it's so secret then how do you know about it?"

"How do you think I know about it, genius?" She asked, smirking a bit. "Now Army boy Vince Harris, he was in one of the L97 units, wasn't he?"

There was some more rustling paper. "Yes, but there was no way you could have known that."

She shrugged. "Call it a gut feeling. The L97 Units are experimental all Lycan bases."

"But Harris was human," he interrupted, sounding confused and just a bit lost. Jo took a brief moment to revel in the fact that for once he was the one struggling to keep up.

She nodded. "There's always a few humans, doctors, CO's, and properly trained personnel to try and keep the peace during the full moon. Harris was most likely one of the MP's, and probably also had training as an orderly in the on-base hospital. There are three of these bases total, two in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. The bases are almost completely autonomous and have their own medical units and hospitals. They have limited interactions with other units, and are highly successful. There are different theories about why they're so successful, the most prominent theory is that lycans operate better when they don't have to control their natural antagonistic urges towards humans, but we're not here to discuss bullshit theories about lycan behavior. The point is that these bases are a concept child of the RAMC, and while they are under Army control, most of the officers are medical."

Just as she finished the door opened and Lestrade came in. "I got coffee. Have there been any epiphanies since I left?"

"Jo's made a connection between four of the five victims," Sherlock answered, and Jo didn't think that it was too vain for her to think that she wasn't imagining the bit of pride she heard in his voice. "They all had strong RAMC ties."

Lestrade nodded. "Alright; what about the fifth? Anything in his background?"

"Not that I can see," Sherlock answered, handing the file to Jo. She took it from him but didn't look away from the wall.

She sighed. "Nick Williams doesn't fit, other than that he's recently been discharged. But there's more to the pattern than that… Oh."

"Oh what?" Lestrade asked, stepping closer to the wall.

"Do you see this?" She said, pointing at a piece of paper found near the body at the Williams crime scene. "It's an invitation for the RAMC Veteran's Banquet, but that's strictly for RAMC vets; I mean Rick Newman and Vince Harris wouldn't have even gotten an invite. Did he live alone?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No, he lived with his partner, Matthew Phillips. Poor guy, he was only gone for half an hour to pick up dinner. He's only been back in London for a year; he said that they were really looking forward to finally living in the same place."

"Let me guess, Phillips was RAMC," Jo said, her shoulders slumping.

Lestrade quickly went through his notes before nodding. "Yeah, he was."

She nodded. "So what if Phillips was the intended victim, not Williams."

"That doesn't make sense," Sherlock said, frowning. "The murderer is very precise; he wouldn't just mix up his victims, especially if he's chosen them all for a reason."

"I don't know," Jo said quietly. "You said yourself that this was a message for someone. Maybe they're the person that matters, not the victims."

He nodded. "Alright, but that still doesn't explain how the attacker got close enough to kill them. Why did they let him into their homes? Who would they all have known?"

Jo thought for a moment before speaking up. "Maybe it doesn't have to be someone that they actually knew."

"What do you mean?" He asked, whipping his head around to look at her.

"Well," she continued, trying to ignore his staring, "they're all military, so we've been assuming that they wouldn't just let anyone in. But what if someone showed up in uniform. I mean it would make sense; the victims were all chosen because of their military connection, so it would only be logical that their attacker is also military; that would explain how he was able to get to their records, particularly Newman's. They wouldn't have had to ever met him before; all he would have needed were their records and his uniform. I mean if someone showed up at my door in a uniform saying that they had to talk to me about my pension, I'd let them in and probably make them tea without a second thought."

Lestrade whistled through his teeth. "That's brilliant Jo, really." She shrugged and didn't answer him. Sherlock hummed thoughtfully before turning back to the wall; they all fell silent again.

Jo sighed a few minutes later. "I am starving; someone, and I'm not naming any names, pulled me away from my dinner before I got the chance to eat the appetizer I had ordered. I'll go pick us up something. Who wants what?"

"Indian sounds good to me," Lestrade said. "And it's my turn to buy, so if nobody has any complaints I'll go pick it up. I think I've got everybody's order down by now."

"Thanks," she answered with a smile. "Oh, and get…"

"Extra naan," Lestrade finished for her as he left the room.

Jo took her coffee and walked across the room. She leaned against Lestrade's desk and watched Sherlock. He was staring at the wall, trying to absorb the information that Jo had given him into what he already knew. He held his coffee in his hand, but it was almost like he had forgotten about it.

"Sherlock," she said fondly, "you actually have to drink your coffee. It's caffeine and sugar: it won't slow you down." The only sign he gave that he had heard her was that he took a drink from his cup. A few minutes later he came and leaned against the desk next to her.

He cleared his throat. "You were quite brilliant there. It was, impressive."

She shrugged. "Not really. I just got lucky."

He shook his head. "You shouldn't underestimate yourself; that was truly brilliant. I don't know anyone else who could have done what you did." Jo smiled but didn't say anything. He bumped shoulders with her. "I don't just keep you around for your superb tea making skills you know, and god knows it's not your cooking abilities either."

Jo smirked. "I always thought it was my gun you liked."

"Well, I've always thought that you handle your weapon with remarkable skill." He said with a wink.

There was a long pause before Jo burst out laughing. "Sherlock Holmes resorting to innuendo; this case must be frying your hard drive."

"I told you that I'm lost without my blogger," he said quietly.

She sighed. "You also told me that this case was boring and simplistic, which it obviously isn't."

He shrugged. "You've not been sleeping and your shoulder hurts, which means that something has been bothering you for at least two weeks. I didn't want to make things worse by dragging you into this."

"So you were trying to protect me," she said slowly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I suppose I was," he answered quietly. "Although it's really self preservation. You tend to get grumpy when your shoulder hurts and I'm convinced that you're going to throw something heavy at my head one of these days."

Jo smiled but kept her eyes focused on the floor. "I don't need you to protect me."

"I know," he replied. "That doesn't mean I don't want to." She hummed and they fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Several minutes later Sherlock gasped, startling them both out of their reverie.

"What?" Jo asked, looking over at him.

"You said that Newman and Harris wouldn't have received invitations for the RAMC Banquet." He pushed himself off the desk and walked back to the wall, abandoning his coffee in the process.

She nodded, joining him at the other end of the room. "Yeah, they wouldn't have been eligible since they were never enlisted in the Corps.

"Then why were there invitations for it at their houses?" He asked, his body beginning to thrum with excitement. "Look at these pictures. At each crime scene there's an invitation placed next to the body. I can't believe I missed this!"

"Missed what?" Lestrade asked, having just entered with two bags of delicious smelling Indian food.

"Apparently," Jo said once it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to answer, "the killer left an invitation to the upcoming RAMC Banquet next to each of the bodies."

"That's significant," Lestrade said, going to put the food on his desk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course it's significant! This is his message! He's building up to something, trying to get someone's attention. And he's definitely going to be there; he has to be! I'm going to need an invitation; I suppose I could call Mycroft, but he's bound to demand something insufferable in return…"

He was already pulling out he mobile by the time Jo interrupted his stream of consciousness. "That's not necessary. I have a invitation, and it includes a plus one. It's a bit late to RSVP, but I'm sure I can manage to pull some strings."

Sherlock pocketed his phone and narrowed his eyes at her. "I didn't know you got an invitation. Why didn't you tell me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because it wasn't relevant until just now."

"What do you mean it wasn't relevant?" He asked, sounding progressively agitated. "When did you get the invitation?"

Jo sighed. "I'm not required to tell you when I get mail." Her voice came out harsher than she had intended and she felt a bit guilty when she saw a flicker of hurt cross her friend's face.

"I know," he said quietly. "But you usually tell me when you make plans; that is what friends do, isn't it?" The sincere (and by now she was fully capable of telling the difference with Sherlock) insecurity underlying his question made all the the useless fight over this pointless argument drain out of her.

She sighed again, this time scrubbing her hand over her face. "Yes, that is what friends do. And if I had ever intended on going, then I would have told you, but since I never had any intention to attend I didn't see the point in mentioning it. Now, I have to call in a favor to get us both added to the list on such short notice." Sherlock opened his mouth to ask some further question, but she held up one finger to silence him as she quickly found the contact in her mobile that she was looking for. There were only a few rings before a cheerfully feminine voice picked up.

Sherlock watched his friend shift into a more military stance, but unlike when they were in danger or she was under emotional strain, it wasn't defensive or tense, it was almost easy, as if she was finally comfortable in her skin again. A small smile crossed her face. "Hello, this is Captain Josephine Watson, I'm calling to talk to the General."

There was a slight pause and then she chuckled. "Yes, that Watson. I know it's late, but could you possibly put me through to him; it's important."

The person on the other end said something and Jo nodded. "Right of course; I completely understand. But maybe you can help me." A shorter pause and then she continued. "The thing is, I have an invitation for the RAMC Banquet tomorrow night, but I hadn't planned on going. I just found out that a friend of mine just got back from from deployment and he's going to be there with his girl, whom I've been dying to meet for ages. So I was wondering if the General could get me a last minute RSVP for me and my plus one."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Do you need me to spell that for you?" Another pause and Jo's smile slowly widened. "Oh you are brilliant Angelina. Thank you so much. I'll be to sure send you something nice next week, and you can tell the General that I'll include a bottle of that Scotch he likes so much as a reward for picking such an amazing assistant." She rang off and slipped her phone back into her pocket and let her posture slip almost immediately back into a more civilian posture, her smile fading in the process; it looked like she was folding back in on herself, and Sherlock was almost indescribably sad for a moment because of that.

He cleared his throat. "Hold on, you have the phone number to a general's office just in case you need it?" Jo shrugged but before she could answer she was interrupted by Lestrade, who had remained almost miraculously silent throughout Jo and Sherlock's pseudo argument, recognizing that it was something intensely private (Jo was convinced that Lestrade should be sainted for all that he put up with and understood, and if no one else agreed with her then she would just have to do it herself one day).

"Wait just a second," Lestrade said, waiving a finger at Jo. "You got him to shut up long enough for you to make a phone call, just by holding up a finger?"

Jo nodded, grinning at him. "Yeah."

"How the hell did you manage to get him to do that?" He asked, sounding half incredulous and half awed. "I've been trying for five years, and I've barely been able to get him to stop taking the mobile out of my hand!"

"Have you tried throwing things at him?" She asked, smirking. "I find that it works quite well as a deterrent."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before Lestrade could continue that particular conversation and get any more ideas. "Anyway, back to the case. Is that it? We can both go to the banquet tomorrow night?"

Jo sighed, her smile quickly fading again, but she nodded. "Yes, we've been added to the guest list. I suppose I need to air out my uniform; I'm glad I didn't put it in storage. You do have a tux, right?"

"Of course I have a tux," he answered, narrowly avoiding rolling his eyes, recognizing that this was somehow making Jo very uncomfortable.

She nodded curtly. "Good. And you best behave yourself; I won't have you embarrassing me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Of course; I'm not a child Jo." She nodded and averted her eyes, recognizing that she had hurt him, but was unwilling to apologize for it. She went over to Lestrade's desk and began sorting food out for her and Sherlock. She could see her friend analyzing her, but she ignored him, not wanting to say another hurtful thing that she didn't mean. The knowledge of what she had just agreed to do was fully sinking in and she could feel the knot of panic and dread settling in her stomach. And if her hand shook when she handed a carton of food to the detective, then no one mentioned it.