Whoa, time out there. Very mild M warning throughout and mild spoiler for episode three of series three.

Mark leaned into her with a kiss making her grin as she wrapped her hands around his neck pulling him close. His hands slipped around her waist bringing her in close. Her back hit the wall behind her allowing him to press his body into hers feeling the familiar warmth of

"Jen," he murmured before the grip on her slipped down digging his hands into her hips before biting down onto her shoulder not in a playful way but rather brutally as if he was marking his territory.

"Mark!" she shouted shoving away, but when he faced her with a laugh, she was no longer facing Mark. In front of her Moriarty was grinning at her in some sort of expression of both mischievousness and a promise of future pain. "Not you!" she gasped stumbling sideways into the side table shattering a picture of herself in two. You're dead!"

"What's wrong beautiful? You look scared," he teased grabbing her wrist and twisting it, but she struggled against him.

"Get away from me!" she shouted throwing his hand off her.

"Why should I when you like it?" he sang. "Masochist," he purred tracing her jawline with his thumb.

"Sadist," she snapped throwing his hands off her again, but it just forced him to retaliate. He grabbed her and threw her onto the bed. "Stay away from me! Stay away!" she cried covering her as he moved toward her like a lion toward its pray. She felt his hands force her legs apart, and she tried to find her voice to scream, but all she could do was cry keeping her eyes shut.

"Ginny," a voice uttered forcing her to peek through her fingers to see Sherlock kneeling between her legs looking down at her with an expression of worry.

"Sherlock?" she whimpered sitting up now making the distance between them smaller.

"Ginny," he whispered as they leaned closer to each other before his nose gently skimmed hers as they practically breathed each other in.

"Sherlock," she breathed bringing her body in to meet his.

"My Ginny," he muttered before he dived in bringing her lips to his in a kiss that shamed all others she had ever experienced both in terms of skill and chemistry. His kiss was a drug she would gladly take over and over and over again. "Ginny," he breathed.

"Sherlock," she moaned as he kissed her neck. Their clothes were gone without her caring what had happened to them, and foreplay was over before it began as he moved inside of her slow, rhythmically, and intimately putting his lips to hers more often than not. She breathed out his name over and over again letting it mix with her moans he graciously forced out of her. He breathed her in, his hands running across every sensitive spot making her squirm under his grasp.

Sherlock's phone rang making her groan out and turn to look at him standing in front of the window talking on his phone. She must have fallen asleep on the couch while she was reading; did Sherlock even go to bed? She glanced at the chair and then the kitchen, where an experiment had appeared over night; he must have been unusually quiet last night.

In fact, Sherlock was anything but quiet the previous night; he had spent his time in his mind palace riffling quickly through Jen's and Moriarty's room even turning his eyes to Peter's small closet space. When he had failed to find anything useful, he sought to do something with his hands and started an experiment but found himself unable to complete it having to stop every five minutes to glance at the woman on the couch. Giving up, he went to the window and begin to play his violin, an activity that soothed her sleep rather than agitate it. All the while, he had his eyes transfixed on her feeling lower than he had in a while. He was failing her, and despite being one of the most brilliant minds available, he was losing Jen in Moriarty's unknown game.

"Sherlock?" she called out her voice cracking from having just woken up. He looked to her still on the phone, but her brain wasn't comprehending what he was saying, and before she could manage to make out anything of interest, he hung up the phone and came closer to her as she sat up.

"I have a body," he told her, but it seemed to lack its usually enthusiasm making her eyebrows crease together. "I'm going to look at it with John."

"Oh," she smiled wiping the worry from her features as she stretched. "Okay, have fun, Sherlock. I know how much you love murders." He looked down and smiled fondly at her.

"Ginny," he muttered wanting to say something to reassure her. All the evidence was piling up against her and against him. Moriarty's last game was wearing him down, and his own emotions were pounding against him threatening to flood out. Deny it as much as he would like to, he was worried for her. He wanted to tell her something, anything to let her know she was safe, but she distracted him in way no one else could.

"Yes?" she questioned, and he continued to stare down. Her hair was completely disheveled, and her eyes seemed to be brimming with sexuality, her cheeks flushed. It was possibly he had awoken her out of an erotic dream of some sort. He had no idea.

He could rarely appreciate beauty; he saw the science behind everything, and yet, his inability to deduce Jen allowed him to see passed the science to see what made a human beautiful. Perhaps it never occurred to him before, but if he had to compare someone as beautiful he matched them up to Jen. What did they have similar to her? Though, evolutionarily speaking, she wasn't the ideal mate. She didn't have particularly wide hips or large breasts. In fact, she was so small, he wondered if she could even have children without it being risky. That being said, proportionally with her small body, she did have rather nice assets. He could definitely see the appeal in- what? No. What are you doing? Not now. Don't think about that. You have a superior mind; you don't have time to be thinking about those things.

"Sherlock?" Jen questioned.

"Hm?" he managed to squeak out.

"You've been staring at me for the last ten minutes. You have a body, remember" she reminded him biting her lip not nervously but rather playfully. He seemed incredibly distracted, and admittedly, she was equally distracted trying to shake herself of her dreams.

"Right," he said shaking his head clear of those thoughts. He had to get himself in check, for God's sake. He pulled on his coat and scarf before Jen spoke interrupting his thoughts.

"Are you going to be picking up John?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Would I be terribly bothersome if I asked you to wait five minutes so I can dress. I want to see Mary," she stood waiting for the answer. Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Thanks," she said before quickly running up to her room. She came back within the five minutes in jeans and her green sweater. "Alright," she said happily before the two skipped down the steps together. Sherlock called a cab out on the street, and they headed down Baker Street to pick up John before going to the crime scene. The doctor was a requirement in his investigating, and it just so happened he had the spare time. "So, were you up all night?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered. "You were out early."

"I was exhausted," she admitted. "Peter and Mark are both taking a lot out of me." She wasn't willing to admit that a large part of her exhaustion was her anxiety over Ulmar's death and Moriarty's game.

"But not me?" he asked making her turn her eyes to him with a smile.

"Oh, Sherlock, you always exhaust me, but believe me when I say, it's the best sort of exhaustion," she laughed leaning her head against the window. She took a deep breath in still trying to wake up from sleeping so long.

The remainder of their ride was silent as Jen rested her eyes with her head leaning against the cool window. The cab came to a halt jerking her forward. She yawned before she turned and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

"I'll see you later today," she told him before popping out of the car. She greeted John with a nod and smile before moving passed him to head inside the home him and Mary shared. "Mary," she called out before the blonde popped her head out from the kitchen.

"Jen," she said happily, "I wasn't expecting you."

"It was sort of unsuspected," she admitted stepping into kitchen before collapsing into one of the chairs in front of the round kitchen table.

"Oh?" Mary asked eyeing her. She seemed troubled by something, or at the very least, preoccupied by something. "What brought you along then?"

"I'm sort of panicking," she told her starting off speaking rather quickly as Mary set a cuppa in front of her. "Well, not panicking. Panicking is too heavy of a word. More like... slightly, only very slightly uneasy. Nothing alarming. I mean psychology still can't really tell us what purpose dreams really serve, so the fact that I had a very vivid sex dream about Sherlock really isn't that alarming, and it isn't the first time for that matter either. I just feel like my subconscious decided to throw a big fuck you in my face, and now I have no choice but to be all awkward when Sherlock and Mark are in the same room as me since you know I'm having sex with Mark and apparently in my dreams sex with Sherlock. So I'm not-"

"Whoa, stop," Mary laughed sitting down. "You are panicking. Is there a reason why? It's just a dream unless..." Mary raised her eyebrows and nodded trying to give Jen some sort of expression she wasn't understanding.

"Unless?" Jen asked.

"Unless you have a desire to have sex with-," Mary commented making Jen crinkle her nose before she cut her off.

"No, no, absolutely not. I have no desire whatsoever to-"

"What sort of sex was it?" Mary asked cutting her off willing to use this as a chance to point out the obvious. She had spent years with Jen to pick up enough psychology to play therapist.

"What?" Jen asked surprised by the question.

"Well, you know there's sort of just sex and then there's making love, fooling around, fucking-"

"Does it matter?" Jen questioned, but she knew the answer the that, and Mary knew that causing the woman to raise her eyebrows waiting for the answer. "It was very intimate, loving."

"Has it occurred to you, Jen, that that dream has nothing to do with sex, and everything to the intimacy you shared with Sherlock?" Jen sighed and let her head fall to the table.

"I'm dating, Mark," she whined.

"You are trying to take something and make it yours. You want a family, and with Mark, you get that right away. He's a filler for you, and you know that."

"I care about him."

"But you love, Sherlock."

"But he doesn't love me."

"How many times do you have to tell yourself a day to actually believe that?" Mary asked her causing Jen to look up at her. She seemed to be annoyed by the other woman's assessment.

"He's a sociopath; he can't feel to that extent," she replied coldly.

"Oh, Jen, he's a not a sociopath, and you know that. You've known it for a long time. Maybe at first, you believed that, but you can't read his mental and emotional state like other people. Overtime, though, you've realized it's simply not the case and never has been. Sherlock has made the choice to shut off his emotions; he was not born that way, yet he still struggles with keeping them in control like with you. He loves you, and you-"

"Ah!" she shouted putting her hands over her ears before curling her legs to her chest on the chair and hiding behind them. Mary rolled her eyes before prying her hands from Jen's ears all the while the woman drowned her out with random shouts of pain as if she was being tortured.

"You accuse Sherlock of being scared of love when maybe you're the problem!" Mary shouted over the screams. "You're so scared to love you refuse to see that he loves you, because if you accept he loves you, something has to be done, and you can't handle that! It terrifies you! Everyone you've ever loved in some way has something wrong with them! Your father, your mother, your brothers, your sister, Sherlock, John, Damon, Lucy, and most importantly, the one that makes you terrified to love Sherlock: Christopher." Jen stopped her insistent shouting as she stared up at Mary with a lump in her throat.

"You have no right," Jen snapped at her getting defensive. "Your fucking fiance is a danger magnet. His best friend is a sociopath-"

"Not a sociopath."

"The landlady used to run a cartel and his fiance is a lying, backstabbing former assassin who once tried to put a bullet in my brain. That's a start to a beautiful friendship," she growled, but Mary just shook her head not offended by her comments. She was lashing out as a defense mechanism.

"It's not about me, and you know that. Jen, you gave everything you had to Christopher. He helped you build a life, and in return, he destroyed it. There are alarming similarities between Chris and Sherlock, and that terrifies you so much that you refuse to admit that he loves you, because you can't deny that you love him anymore when you've already caved into those feelings when you though he was dead. Sherlock is difficult, childish man, but... he's not Christopher Black, and you know that. You've chosen Mark, because he is as far away from Chris as possible. He's a normal man and a father. He symbolizes everything Christopher isn't, and you hoped it would help. You hoped you could love him to heal the wounds that man left, but guess what you're attracted to brilliant, emotionally stunted eccentric men. Sherlock loves you, and you love him, and you have to accept that." Jen shook her head and stood.

"I've got to go," she said slipping on her jacket.

"Oh?" Mary asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "I'm having lunch with my boyfriend." Though, of course, that wasn't true. She just wanted out of the conversation. Mary sighed and rolled her eyes as Jen left. Her subconscious was telling her the obvious, but her denial was becoming completely aggravating. It couldn't go on any longer without one of two things happen: they both self-implode or they both cave and start a sudden but illicit affair. Mary was hoping on the latter.

"Morning," John yawned getting in the cab after Jen passed him with a smile and a 'morning.' "What have we got?" he asked shutting the door.

"Murderer placed the body in the middle of Queen Mary's Gardens," Sherlock told him, but still, his all wasn't in the case. He shouldn't be taking a case when he had Ulmar's death to investigate, Moriarty's game to play, and Peter's records to go burning through.

"Ah, pleasant," John said happily not noticing his friends mood, but Sherlock fell silent forcing John to realize something was wrong. "You and Jen have a row or something. Usually you're jumping out of your seat for a murder."

"It's nothing of importance," Sherlock answered, but of course, he didn't mean it, and John wasn't about to let it go that quickly.

"Is it the case? Or the situation with Peter? Or..."

"It's nothing," Sherlock repeated.

"So something to do with Jen then," he mused able to tell the signs of when it was a Jen problem. He always seemed more warn down when the problem involved her.

"It's nothing," Sherlock snapped, but John was still going to pry.

"Look, I understand that it's hard to live with a woman you love when you have Mark there, and-"

"What if Moriarty intends to have her killed, destroyed in the way I was?" Sherlock asked him finally letting Watson know his burden as his guess was far off from the actual reason. He had been thinking about the idea for the last few days.

"Why would he do that?" John asked.

"Because she killed one of his employees," Sherlock began speaking at a rapid pace allowing his worry to take over his logic, "because she prevented Peter from amounting to the serial killer he wanted, because she had ruined his plans countless times, and if that isn't reason enough, she is connected to me. What if he knew I would survive the fall? What if he knew that and set up a plan to win even in death? Moriarty knows that I love her, and he would use that against me. He would destroy her to get to me and right now, I'm starting to think that he's going to win. All I have is speculation, and as we get further and further along, I'm starting to think he planned this, all of it. He intended me to survive the fall; he intended for it to cause a rift in the relationship between Jen and I; he intended me to put every little piece together because in the end, he knows I remain at a complete loss at how to help her. I have never felt more like a failure than I have now; I'm failing her, and I fear there is no out this time." Silence held thick in the cab as John stared at his friend in complete awe of him. Never had Sherlock shared his, well, his feelings with John nor shared his fears of failure. In fact, John was sure, up until that moment, that Sherlock never doubted himself; he was a brilliantly arrogant man, who never let others see the cracks that made him human, yet here he was, looking more than human admitting to his faults and his emotions. However, John focused on a singular admittance in his speak.

"You love her," John mused with a hint of a smile.

"What? Shut up," Sherlock snapped making John laugh.

"Well, it's just, you've never said it aloud," John admitted.

"You're missing the point," Sherlock shouted at him. "What if she is killed because of me!?"

"Sherlock, you need to calm down," John told him as Sherlock attempted to find the lid for these worries. "Everything will work out. You're clever, the cleverest man I know and Jen's clever, and if that's not enough, we have allies. We have Mycroft, Robbie, Damon, Shadow, and a dozen other people who would rather die than watch Jen get hurt."

"I can't depend on them," he ground out, and John shook his head.

"All you can do is wait and prevent," John told him. Sherlock turned his head back to the window wishing to end this conversation. His worries were best left to his own mind, where he can end them. The cab came to a halt in front of the currently closed section of the park allowing them both to get out of the cramped space of the cab and out into the fresh air.

"Glad you're here," Lestrade told them as he walked them through the gardens. He looked more worn down than usually, not a good sign. "It's gruesome."

"Aren't they all?" John asked with a frown wondering what could possibly worse about this one.

"Not like this," Lestrade replied as they walked farther into the gardens until there on the path a body blocked the pathway.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered. The body laid chopped into several rather neat pieces. All the fingers and toes were cut off separate as were any place there was a joint along the arms and legs. The jaw was mostly severed from the head. Each part of the body was marked up what looked to be drawings made with a scalpel or something smaller. They were seemingly random drawings. It was all so familiar.

"John, how did the victim die?" Sherlock asked quickly though he knew the answer. John approached and leaned down to looked at the body, but there wasn't much he could tell given the bodies state.

"I uh… I think it was-"

"Blood loss," Sherlock finished knowing the doctor would find nothing. "The body was strung up in a vacant building where the murderer began their work carving into the victim like they were canvas. The blood that tricked out of them would have been spilled out into a tub of some sort below. The whole while the victim is conscious screaming; they only die when their body goes into shock or from exsanguination, whichever comes first.

"That's… barbaric," John replied standing wanting to throw up his breakfast. "Jesus," he muttered running his fingers through his hair. "They were alive the whole time? Who would do that?" He had seen a lot in the way of terrible deaths and the human capacity to be cruel and sadistic, but this topped all of those experiences.

"Peter Verown, the Carver," Sherlock told him sure that this was the work of Jen's brother. His MO was so exact, and it just couldn't be replicated; he wasn't even remotely surprised for the relapse. It was bound to happen.

"You think it's him again?" Lestrade asked aware of the recently released serial killer. Everyone knew the Carver's name; he scared the hell out of England for years, and when they found out he was just a teenager, it scared people even more.

"Exactly the same as before," Sherlock turned on his heels knowing he needed to confront Peter and Jen about this first. He needed to hear the lie from Peter, and the defense that would surely come from Jen.

"Where were you last night?" Sherlock asked slamming the door to the flat open making Jen jump slightly surprised to see him again so soon; John followed after him. She and Peter were sitting together watching telly as they always did on Sundays.

"I was sleeping," Jen told him with a frown wondering what he could possibly want with her whereabouts.

"Not you," he told her letting his eyes settle on Peter.

"I was here," he told him obviously. "You know that, you were up all night." It wasn't a surprise that Peter had been eavesdropping again even if it was just to know that Sherlock hadn't slept the previous night.

"What's this about?" Jen asked watching him with a frown looking between the two men. She was sure it was too soon for Peter to be dipping back in to the world he once lived in.

"Someone was killed last night-" John told her gently, but she cut him off ready to defend Peter.

"Just because Peter was a serial killer doesn't mean-"

"It matched his MO perfectly," Sherlock told her throwing a file filled with crime scene photos onto the table. Jen flipped open the file and started leafing through the sickening scene. A carved up body laid dismembered in the middle of a very public place; it screamed the Carver all over it. She felt her lungs compress knowing Sherlock was right; he had started again.

"You know I wouldn't, Jenma," he said standing in a flurry fearing that his sister would listen to Sherlock. He was playing with them all, and she knew that immediately. She knew this was him; she knew this would happen, and she was more disappointed in herself than him.

"You'll be called into questioning," Sherlock told him. "You just get out, and these murders start again. Are you an idiot?" The doorbell rang. "That'll be Lestrade," he said turning toward the door.

"Swear to me!" she shouted as soon as Sherlock and John was gone. She grabbed Peter and threw him into a wall in front of her. "Swear to me you aren't the one doing these killings!" She was shaking, and he knew he could lie to her, but he didn't wish to lie to her even if she hated him for it, but he knew she wouldn't.

"I can't," he told her honestly. She felt tears start to burn her eyes knowing that nothing had changed. He was still a serial killer, and she was still going to try and protect him from Sherlock's investigation. She would have to put herself between the man she loved and the brother she had always cared for.

"You need an alibi," she told him with a sigh letting him go ready to make herself Sherlock's enemy. "You were with me and Damon at the fighting ring. Damon will vouch for anything I say, but Sherlock will attempt to disprove that. I'm sure of it. Another murder needs to occur while you're being questioned.

"How?" he asked her innocently, but he knew the answer, and he delighted in. His sister would once again jump the line from angel to demon without a care. It was easy to jump over, but it was nearly impossible to return. "I can't be two places at once."

"I know your MO, Peter," she told him. She sounded worn down already from what she thought she had to do. "Just tell me the name of your next victim, and I'll do the rest."

"Thanks, Jenma," he told her with a smile not at all bothered that his sister would go back to killing for him. "Her name is Katherine Smith," he told her taking a small piece of paper out of his back pocket and handing it to her. Wearily, she took it and slipped it in her own jean pocket as Lestrade entered to read Peter his rights. He smiled at her as he was lead out in handcuffs.

You would think after killing the number of people she had, it would have been easier, but it was worse to go back. It was hell, and somewhere between finding the next victim and killing them, she blacked out. It was a typical case of suppressed memory; she didn't want to remember it, so she wouldn't.

She laid in the middle of a graveyard covered in blood having finished what she had to do for her brother. She held her phone to her ear; it was well past midnight, but she needed someone to talk to. Specifically, she needed him to help her cover what she did.

"Hello?" Damon answered.

"Damon," she cried, "I need you here."

"Where are you?" he asked her worried but without hesitation. He would be there in an instance.

"Saint Mary's Cemetery," she told him. "Bring a change of clothes." She snapped her phone shut and continued laying against the cold dirt. The ground underneath her was solid, yet it had the feel of hollow ground, a feeling that could be described. She yearned to be six feet below with the corpses for what she did, but she did it for her family. The blood on her clothes was starting to dry but still remained sticky allowing Sherlock's favorite green sweater to cling to her. It was now more of a sick dark red color than the original green.

"Lupa, what happened?" Damon asked her with a whisper as he leaned down to her.

"Peter," she choked back her words, but Damon knew without her telling him. He gingerly helped her up before handing her the new set clothes. She changed in the cemetery not wishing to get a single drop of evidence in his car. He had enough crimes pinned on him without needing manslaughter added on the list.

"Lupa, you can't protect him; it nearly destroyed you last time," he told her as she started tearing up the clothes and slowly burning them to nothing but ash. She paused at the green sweater looking at and feeling the fabric between her hands before she shook her head and starting burning Sherlock's favorite sweater. If she had to protect Peter, she would have to go against Sherlock. She couldn't hold onto the both of them; she had to choose.

"What choice do I have, Damon?" she asked him quietly as she watched it go up in flames. "He's my brother."

"He's your demise," he told her gently trying not push her. This was a gentle topic for her.

"Well, you just know everything, don't you?!" she snapped at him; his gentleness did little to help. "At least, I do something from my brother; you let your own sister rot in Rampton." His whole body went rigid at her words, and she immediately regretted them. "I'm so sorry, Damon. I don't know what that was about," she told him trying to shake her head clear

"I think you need to rest, Lupa," he told her as she nodded slowly. He grabbed the last piece of clothing to burn: Moriarty's jacket.

"Not that!" she shouted snatching the jacket it from him. "Take it to your cleaner?" Damon furrowed his eyebrows before he stared at the jacket in his hands. What so special about this jacket?

"Let's um…," he gripped the jacket. "Let's get you back to Baker Street."

"Yeah," she said putting her hand to her head before heading toward the car with Damon. She just wanted to head home; she just wanted to

"Sir?" Donovan said popping her head into the interrogation room. Peter sat calmly speaking to the Detective Inspector not even requesting a lawyer. He was arrogant in his ways; he always had been. "We've got another."

"What do you mean you've got another?" Sherlock demanded whipping around to Sally.

"There's another body; you've got the wrong man," Donovan replied simply.

"I don't have the wrong man," Sherlock snapped at her in irritation. "He is The Carver; these murders are The Carver."

"A copycat maybe," Lestrade suggested making Sherlock give him a look of disgust.

"No!" Sherlock shouted slamming his hands in front of Peter. "It's too perfect! How!? How can someone be killed with you right here!?"

"I didn't do it, Mr. Holmes," Peter told him with a gentle smile. He had maintained his innocence all through the interrogation, and he was playing it right though Sherlock could see the gleam of mischievous in his eyes as if he was mocking him.

"Sherlock, let's head to the body," Lestrade suggested trying to stop Sherlock from attacking their suspect. Sherlock gave him an irked look before turning to follow Lestrade to the new crime scene.

"I know this is you," Sherlock told him as they headed back to Baker Street together; he would be keeping all eyes on him until he had the proof he needed. "I don't know how, but there's no other evidence."

"Your facts aren't adding up," Peter replied arrogantly. "Isn't it you who always says that you're matching some of the facts to fit your conclusion? Well, your facts are not fitting your conclusion, Mr. Holmes. You're being blinded by sentiment."

"Sentiment?" Sherlock hissed. "I'm not a sentimental fool, Verown. I understand this fact is not fitting my consensus that you are the murderer, but I also understand that you are clever, and you got away with killing people for four years despite living in a small town with few suspects. I will not rule you out, and I will be watching every chance I get."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I learned my lesson last time," he informed with a growing smile. "If I'm going to kill you, well, it has to be done quick, efficiently, and quite suddenly." The cab came to a halt, and Peter threw the door open to head upstairs were his sister was likely waiting.

"Morning, Jenma," Peter said cheerfully as she sat at the piano and stared out the window. She said nothing to him as he made his way into the kitchen to look for something to eat. Her eyes were glossed over as if she was in a completely different reality.

"Your brother was released of his charges," Sherlock told her in annoyance as he threw himself in his chair, but she didn't react to that much either. He frowned and turned to her. "Ginny?" he questioned with a frown.

"What?" she asked quietly. Her eyes turned to him, and she seemed a hundred miles away, and if he tried to pull her back, he doubt he would succeed.

"What…" Should he ask what was wrong? Should he bother? She seemed like she in the sort of state that he didn't want to bother with. He changed the subject to a more pleasant conversation. "Are you staying here for Christmas?"

"Of course," she told him with a gentle smile, but her all wasn't in it. "Are we having a Christmas party again? The last one we had was interrupted by Irene."

"If you'd like I suppose, though the flat is getting a bit small as we grow in numbers. It's exhausting," he told her making her laugh.

"I agree, but I like our friends," she replied. "How was the crime scene this morning? Was it that murder you hoped for?" He frowned staring at her slightly perplex. She had watched him come in and have Peter arrested.

"Ginny… that was yesterday. Remember? Peter was arrested under suspicion," Sherlock reminded her. She stared at the wall blinking slowly.

"I... yes," she muttered recalling a few patches missing that day but recalling Sherlock coming in and having Peter arrested. "Sorry… I… I must be tired."

"You can go nap in my room," he told her, but he wasn't sure exhaustion would cause her mind to forget something like that. She nodded as she slowly stood.

"I think I will," she muttered before disappearing into his room. The door shut gently leaving Sherlock to feel a lump in his throat as his worry increased.

A/N: I hurt all over. Ugh. Snowboarding accident, because I'm an idiot. Anyway, so much going on in this chapter! And I've put another road block in the way of their relationship... don't hurt me. It was necessary. Sorry for any mistakes, it's a miracle I got this done on time! Any outstanding ones feel free to point out. Another quick mention, we will continue seeing blank patches of certain events in chapters following this. It will be covered at a certain point; it's not just missing because I was lazy.

Thanks to reviewers: hannahhobnob, zare . downey . okumura, Didi La Maniac, and short-skirtblue scarf. I will see everyone next weekend, and review please!