A/N: Good uh...morning all! Thank you for reading my first chapter! I would like to present to you my second chapter of what I affectionately refer to as FIPN. If you like what I've got going here, let me know. Positive feedback and constructive criticism are always wonderful. Thanks again and please enjoy chapter two!

It was a fitful night of restless sleep for Doctor John Hamish Watson. Muzzle flashes and hot blood spray in the night intermingled with ringlets of wavy hair and a commanding tone he could not ignore and he was waking in sweat-dampened sheets, jerking upright with the sudden jolt of adrenaline. It was around three in the morning that he finally gave up; sleep would not come that night.

Wrapped in his comforter, kettle heating on his stovetop, John curled up at the tiny desk in front of his window and booted up the laptop for the first time in almost a week. By the time the computer had gone through what seemed like an eon's worth of updates and was settling in at the home screen the kettle was boiling. Herbal tea, caffeine free, chamomile…and because he was feeling particularly adventurous, chamomile with a dash of VANILLA; he contemplated adding something not quite leaf based to the brew, but decided against it. John had always been aware of Harry's addiction; he looked down on her dependence on the substance with great disdain. She was predisposed to addictions and to become addicted to anything would not be out of the question. And while John himself did not have an addictive personality, he DID look for methods to cope; case in point, his limp. Regardless, he'd never been fond of alcohol.

Sipping his steaming cup of tea, John made himself comfortable before the glowing screen of his laptop. Said glowing screen, his window to all things current and dated, served as his haven when his own world grew to be too much. Too much pity in the glances of passerby, too much skepticism from those he tried to help and sometimes it became overwhelming.

There was time enough before the world around him woke and for a moment he allowed himself this peace. He wrapped his hands around the scalding cup of tea at his desk and allowed the silence to reign. His studio apartment, the cheapest thing he could afford, was chilly. He'd discovered some time ago, as the weather had begun to cool, that the heating unit was broken. Though he'd left numerous messages with his landlord John had not been surprised to be ignored, especially after hearing quite clearly that veterans were not a group of people the landlord was fond of. While this vaguely insulted him, he did not have it left in him to argue such petty matters with even pettier people. If him being a veteran meant that his single was icy in the early hours then he supposed there were worse things in life.

Though if things were indeed progressing the way they seemed to be, he wouldn't be in this apartment for much longer. The look on his face was a dark look, cynical, and he was altogether unaware of it as he edged his laptop's mouse towards the Internet and proceeded to search. It had seemed, from the way Mike and the lovely miss Molly had spoken about the curious man in the morgue, that Sherlock was a name he should recognize. Or at least be aware of. Considering that he'd only been vaguely amused by the man's name, John guessed he was missing something. His assumption proved to be quite true; typing in "Sherlock Holmes" produced an extensive amount of responses from the Internet. The seconds crept into minutes, which rolled into hours and STILL the articles continued. Articles upon articles…each detailing Holmes' feats and adventures, stories which, as they culminated under the doctor's keen eyes, became all the more fantastic and unbelievable. In the end, John was not sure what amused him more; the scathingly hateful crowd who denied his abilities and proclaimed him a fraud, or the fan club which seemed to consist almost entirely of a single group of four young women who seemed to take delight in squawking their superficial love all over the Internet.

Time passed too quickly for his tastes and before long John was replacing the laptop in his desk drawer and doing what he could to hide his somewhat haggard appearance. A splash of water, a change of clothes, another cup of caffeinated tea…and he looked precisely like a man who had had no sleep. There was, unfortunately, nothing to be done about it; shrugging on his coat and grabbing up his umbrella and his cane, John exited his tiny, chilly, apartment for lands unknown.

OoOoOoO

It was just drizzling when John made it to 221B Baker's Street. The drizzle had not stopped, nor had it gotten worse and this was just as well, John though, as he knocked hesitatingly on the door to the flat. He huffed, the chilled air of the early afternoon gusting out between parted lips, eyes wandering as he waited.

"Coming, coming! Just hold on a moment, would you… Sherlock! I think it's for you!" John had not expected to hear a woman. Though, he supposed after a moment of thought, the building had to be owned by SOMEBODY. Closing his eyes he could imagine the movements of those within; scuffing feet against stairs as someone made their way down, a door shutting, the unbolting of a door's heavy lock and the sound a hand makes at it lights on a slightly loose handle. If his ears were not deceiving him it would not be the woman opening the door. Though he kept his eyes lightly closed, John sensed more than heard Sherlock fling the door open and, after allowing his other senses to acknowledge his presence (heartbeat erratic, smells good, clean, breathing slightly heavy) the doctor slowly opened his eyes. He was greeted with the sight of a flushed Sherlock, bright spots of color on his cheeks indicating the speed with which he had made it to the door, curls just out of place and the urge to run his own fingers through them was startlingly sudden and overwhelming and gone before John had time to acknowledge it.

For nearly a minute they simply stared at each other; John could feel Sherlock's eyes roving over him, calculating, assessing…and suddenly John wondered if Sherlock had any idea that he, John, was different from most people; that they had more in common than a possible shared habitat. That they were…similar, if not the same.

He struggled with this, jaw working as he attempted whether or not to be amused or upset with this.

"Well, come inside then. I'll show you the place." Aloof, so very aloof this man was. As though everything were beneath him. But could John really fault him this? Had the good doctor not shared such similar thoughts on more than one occasion? Some dark, hateful corner of his mind was insisting and sheering that this man was on a level entirely his own and to assume any sort of closeness to him was childish and unlikely and inside he was feeling that rush to defend himself against an unspoken rightness in his thoughts. Again he said nothing as he followed along behind the infamous detective who was already halfway up the stairs. John grimaced as he shut the door behind him, offering a nod to the woman sitting in the room just beyond the door on the bottom level of the building.

"Hello there, dear. You must be here to check out the flat?" John blinked in mild surprise, turning back towards the small room just off the landing. He nodded and, working his tongue free from the roof of his mouth, he offered up his own introduction.

"Err, hello. Yes, I'm uh, I'm John. John Watson." He seemed to find nothing more to say as his eyes roved over her and he saw the blooming petals of what would one day become cancer. If he stayed, he would have to convince her to see a doctor before she passed the stage of no return. She was also, if he was reading her fingernails correctly, extremely deficient in both iron and vitamin B6, both of which he would do what he could to introduce to her diet.

"Ohhh, so YOU'RE John. Sherlock was going on about you earlier; seemed pretty excited about your coming today. To be honest, I had sort of thought you were-,"

"Mrs. Hudson, you can talk to him later." John could barely keep the smile from his face as Sherlock's exasperated tone floated down the stairs. "Do me a favor and make us some tea, would you?" Mrs. Hudson, the woman John assumed he was speaking with, let out a hefty sigh, shaking her head as she waved off John's help.

"Go on up, dear. He's going to keep that pacing up if you don't. But just so you know, I'm NOT your housekeeper."

He accepted this as well as any confused man might, smiling awkwardly as he watched Mrs. Hudson bustle out of sight. Once she had left he turned, leaning heavily on his cane, and began the trek up the stairs, cursing himself and his shoddy coping mechanisms as phantom pains shot through his knee. He took great pains to take it easy, despite his curiosity surrounding both the apartment and the man waiting for him upstairs. By the time he reached the small landing he was only just out of breath. It took his eyes a moment to adjust and when he did he could not help but blanch. For some apparently insane reason, John had come to the apartment with the assumption that it was bare and unfurnished. Perhaps, he reflected briefly as he stared about in awe, it had something to do with the fact that every single he'd ever lived in had followed that belief.

What he found, as he'd ascended the steps into the apartment proper, was a well lived in, very much occupied, messy space that might once have been an apartment. The detective was rummaging around and through a stack of books seemingly oblivious to John. It gave him a few moments to stare in confused wonder about the place, lips parted into an 'O' of mild shock. John wondered if there were, perhaps, a hint of sense to the mess the detective had created around himself.

Something about this, the room and the mess and the detective, made him smile.

When it seemed that the detective would not respond to his presence, John cleared his throat once. Then twice...then once more as the man continued rifling through a stack of papers before finally John spoke.

"Umm, Sherlock, what-," Sherlock whipped around, hair flinging free from his face so violently that John had a brief, absurd image of his hair flying free from his head.

"Ah, Doctor Watson." John tried to remember again how it was he'd come to know both of those things but ceased trying when the man trained his sharp eyes on him. Quite suddenly John wished to dissect this man. And he was not just referring to an in-depth conversation. The inner workings of this brilliant man, this man who was so suffering from anemia that "vampire" might have been a better designation than man, this man who had not eaten anything in nearly forty-eight hours and who it seemed had an allergy to dust…oh, how he'd love to see what made him tick.

"John?" He snapped back, a light flush on his cheeks; wishing to literally dissect a man just because he seemed interesting was probably the sign of a psychopath but, really, who was there to judge him? A smile touched on his lips and his eyes, wary and aware, turned once more to meet the detective's equally aware gaze and he realized, quite suddenly, that the man would lose his eyesight. His grin faltered, hiccupped, and though it was unusual for him to respond so visibly to something he had diagnosed John could not replace his carefree smile. A smile, so fake he could feel it stretching his cheeks and forcing his eyes into slits, struggled up from his go-to "Happy Doctor" place. The place he reached into when he knew he was in danger of letting himself be found out to someone new.

"Err, sorry Sherlock. I was just… a little surprised I guess? Did all of this…," John waved vaguely around the room. "Belong to the uh…previous tenants?" Sherlock's eyes seemed to bore into his own for a moment and briefly the good doctor broke out in a light sheen of sweat. It was as though every muscle were thrumming beneath his too tight skin; his everything felt stretched out and ready to pop. He could still see it, too, and that was the worst part. His eyes kept slipping back to the detective's, hoping that he had been wrong. Hoping he wasn't seeing what he knew he was. It had not progressed far enough for Sherlock to notice the signs of the muscular degeneration which would, inevitably, rob him of his sight in its' entirety. Perhaps he would begin to notice the blurring in another couple of years. The blind spots shortly after. John was also at a loss as to how the disease could be advancing as rapidly as it seemed to be. All of this was considered and filed away for further examination in the couple of moments it took Sherlock to respond.

"Well, not exactly no, I just…" He shrugged and waved a hand in John's direction, indicating not only that everything in the flat was his but that he had been moved in for some time and had, in fact, already assumed that John would be joining him.

There was something about this that made John feel…well, he wasn't quite sure how he felt. A tiny smile tugged his lips up and it was genuine this time. John was about to make a comment about the bucket of what appeared to be maggots on the kitchen table when, from behind, the door was flung violently open. A man, with salt and pepper hair and gray coat, very nearly toppled him over in his rush to enter the flat. Instincts honed to a fine point, sent John whirling away from the door and against the nearest wall. The intruder paused for a moment, gathering himself and regaining his equilibrium.

"Sherlock, we-"

"Inspector Lestrade, so nice of you to join us! Please, let yourself in and feel free to get comfortable." John could not hide his look of amusement but he DID manage to twist it into something closer to confusion as he regarded his soon to be roommate. Despite his witty response, Sherlock seemed to know why the inspector had come.

"Um…yes… I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to just…burst in but Sherlock we need you. There's been-,"

"Another ACCIDENT, right? Another completely random death that has absolutely NOTHING to do with the other string of completely random…," He paused in his satiric reference to the mystifying so-called suicides which had been so prominent in the papers, eyes wide and assessing as they took in Lestrade's appearance. "But there was something different… Something you need ME for, hmmm?"

In all of his years of life, all of his military life, John had never met someone quite so excited over a death. But that wasn't it was it? Though John did not usually analyze in this manner, he could see it as clear as day. Sherlock NEEDED this. It was not so simple a thing as being delighted that someone was dead; there was EXCITEMENT to be had. It took only a few seconds for John to understand that this was one of the ways Sherlock lived.

More than anything he wished to be there while Sherlock was working.

"Um…excuse me." John interjected, interrupting the inspector. "But who are you and what's going on?" Sherlock waved his hand vaguely in John's direction, indicating both that whatever the inspector had to say could be said in front of John and that John should shut up. It was remarkable, John reflected as he stared with renewed interested at the salt and peppered man, how quickly he was starting to pick up on Sherlock's gestures.

"Something's different, John. Those murders-,"

"SUICIDES, Sherlock."

"Those MURDERS were all connected but they kept me off the scenes… For you to ask for my help means that something is different." Sherlock mused, tapping one long finger against his lips as he paced about the room. Movement, there was always some sort of movement with Sherlock. John wondered what it was like inside that head of his. The thought of it, the thought of knowing just how those gears were whirring, gave the good doctor a bit of a chill. Before much more thought could be given, the detective spun on the spot, freezing in his pacing to turn back towards them; his eyes were blazing beneath his fringe of curls.

"The scene's getting cold, let's GO." And with that, they were gone, the detective trailing behind the consulting detective as he whisked himself away. The flat, John realized as he limped his way over to the great big easy chair in the center of the room, was unbelievably quiet.

Rolling his cane between his hands, John stared about in mild interest; the beakers on the kitchen table…the piles of books filling up the empty spaces in this room…and yes, if he was not mistaken, a skull. Fascinating, really, looking at the spines it appeared as though Sherlock organized the whole stacks not just by color of book but topic, author's MIDDLE name, and the year of publication. He tilted his head and examined the ones in the stack closest to him and was only slightly surprised to see titles that he had read long ago. In medical school.

"John, what are you waiting for? A written invitation? I thought you wanted to see more." John would have been lying if he'd said that the consulting detective's sudden reappearance had not sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. Surprised nearly out of the chair, John twisted his torso around to stare incredulously at the impatient looking Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what-,"

"John. The scene is getting cold, didn't you hear me?" And, really, what could John say to that?

OoOoOoO

They arrived at what appeared to be something like an apartment complex (tall building…lots and lots of stairs) after an interesting drive (during which Sherlock deduced and explained the majority of his time in Iraq and the relevance of his sister to both his phone and his life and was wrong only on the account of Harry's gender). It would have been a lie if John had said he'd not been impressed by Sherlock's show of observational skills. He wondered, as they freed themselves from the cab and made their way to the police blockade, if Sherlock would appreciate his talents as much as John appreciated his. After a brief and uncomfortable encounter with far too many officers, two of whom appeared to be involved in some sort of romantic tryst, John followed Sherlock into the building.

He was breathing heavily by the time he made it to the room where the woman lay dead on the floor; twelve flights…no working elevator…and now John was fairly certain that his knee was on fire. He was, in fact, terrified of looking because he was absolutely sure that his knee was LITERALLY on fire. Huffing and puffing, he glanced down at his heaving chest, hating how out of shape he felt and how exhausted that climb had made him.

The inspector, Lestrade…Greg, if John had heard the other detectives correctly, was waiting for him just outside the room. John missed neither the pity in his eyes as the man glanced down at John's leg, nor the looming heart attack the man would experience if he didn't get his stress and poor eating habits out of the way. Words of helpful warning jumped to his lips, swallowed back before they could be spoken; he didn't yet know the inspector well enough. He could not explain how he knew the exact depth of plaque build up around the man's arteries due to the consistency of his breathing, nor could he have told the man that he knew the exact date he would experience said heart attack should his habits not be brought under control.

"John." John blinked himself out of his thoughts and into the room where death had taken up residence. He had smelled it the few steps before he'd entered the room and now his eyes lit on the woman, lying face down on the floor. His gaze remained trained on her for some time; mind whirring as he inadvertently ignored the man who had initially pulled him from his thoughts.

"John, what do you see?"

"Sherlock I see a dead woman; what do you think I see?" His words were harsh, clipped and dark in the dingy room.

"Clearly, John. But is that all?" Sherlock had been in the room a full four minutes before John had arrived and had, with those four minutes, likely determined her cause of death and a whole other multitude of personal facts. It was clear, as well, that Sherlock expected more of John here. It was why, in essence, he had brought John along with him.

"Sherlock I don't even want him in this ROOM, let alone near-,"

"Lestrade if I am to assist you then consider him… my personal assistant. If you want my help, then you accept his as well." John glanced up in time to see the dirty look Sherlock shot towards Lestrade, mindful of the consulting detective's words. The doctor limped slowly over to the woman on the floor. A brief, telling glance at the looming man and he knew that it was okay to know that she had been poisoned. He was not, however, supposed to know what had taken her life. He knelt down beside the woman, wincing in pain that was both wholly real and entirely imagined, and took far longer than he needed to examine her, taking care to sniff her lips and check her arms. After what seemed to be an appropriate length of time, he sat back on his haunches and turned his attention back to Sherlock who, it seemed, had been watching him the whole time. Heat spread along the back of the doctor's neck.

"What do you see, John?" Doctor Watson cleared his throat. He paused, eyes flicking over her body to double-check for the signs that he'd seen the first time.

"This woman has been poisoned." He pointed to her lips, her half-lidded eyes. "Blue lips, and her pupils are nearly nonexistent. I'd say it was fairly recently, likely within a couple of hours. Rigor mortis has yet to set and her eyes haven't clouded over." He paused, glancing up and down her body, his own eyes dark and heavy with a far too familiar sadness. Death of any kind always hit him hard but murder was what really shook him, sickened him deep down in his core. To take the life of another…it was disgusting. John realized he was clenching his hand, his knuckles standing out in stark white contrast against his skin, until he felt his nails break the skin of his palm. Slowly, focusing on the task, John loosened his fist and resisted the urge to glance down even as a hand was thrust into his field of vision. Blinking owlishly, John tilted his head up and was surprised to see Sherlock staring almost impassively down at him, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. A moment passed before he accepted the silent offer, trying his best to pretend he didn't feel the shock of electricity as their skin touched.

And if he removed himself from the detective, took a few steps away and cleared his throat and leaned against his cane as though he were exhausted, well, there had been far too many stairs up here weren't there?

What happened next was nothing short of beautiful; Sherlock agreed that she had been poisoned, determining that the letters scratched into the floor were meant to be "Rachel," despite the huffs and irritated snorts of the derisive officers at the scene. He determined that she had just been picked up at the airport (mud spatters on her legs), and that the luggage was missing… John could not help but continue to be fascinated by the man's mental processes. John had been able to tell from the moment he'd smelled her body, shortly before actually seeing her. What had killed her was a highly volatile, highly toxic medication given only to patients suffering from a brain aneurism. Any breath could literally be his last so why not take the breath of those around them?

John frowned, eyes glazing over as he considered this. It wasn't quite right but, he supposed, it was closer to the truth and really he ought to at least hint towards what he thought to Sherlock-

Except the man was gone. In the span of perhaps three minutes both the inspector and Sherlock had vacated the room, leaving him behind with the woman the…the body. He swallowed hard, hating that transition in one's mind that always followed death, as he glanced down once more at the body. A chilly veil swept over his mind and he allowed it, watching impassively as the techs began their work, carefully stripping the body of all possible pieces of evidence. John Watson was gone, and it was Doctor John Hamish Watson who exited the room, irritation filling his eyes as he continued to not see the man he'd arrived with. Ignoring the curious stares of the techs on the staircase, John limped his way down and out of the building, unable to keep the wince from his face as he crossed the last step.

"Leave you behind, did he?" His head snapped up, wavering attention brought back into sharp focus at the sound of a female voice addressing him. He turned to see a woman with curls and mocha colored skin, hip hocked and arms crossed over her chest; the same one Sherlock had said was in an affair with the one called Anderson. Hers was a look of amusement bordering on pity, neither of which were expressions he was unaccustomed to and were, in fact, looks he was not fond of.

"And you are…?"

"Detective sergeant Sally Donovan and you must be his new pet project, am I right?" John bristled, resisting the urge to curl his lip in disgust as she chuckled. Heavy drinker, like his sister; John could already tell that he did not wish to know her. He could see it in the whites of her eyes, the lines in her face. She was suffering near constant symptoms of anxiety, and though he could see just as clearly that the majority of it stemmed from a severe chemical imbalance John did not feel that urge to rid her of her troubles. Some part of him would likely feel the guilt over that at a later time but, in that moment, he could do little more then barely contain his disgust.

"Did you see him or not?" He snapped. She snorted, uncrossing her arms as she sauntered towards him.

"Yeah, I did as a matter of fact. Nearly bolted out of that building like his coat was on fire." She sniffed, glancing off towards the street. "He had that LOOK in his eyes. I doubt you'll be seeing him any time soon." John rolled this around in his head for a moment, absorbing it, but said nothing in response.

"You do understand that he's a psychopath, right? You know why he comes around here? Sherlock gets off on it, lives for it. He doesn't give a shit about that poor woman upstairs…he just wants something new and exciting. And you know what? One of these days solving the murders here won't be enough. No, Sherlock will-,"

"Do you think you could call me a cab?" He interjected. "Bum knee and all; makes it difficult to stand around in the rain like this." Curt and straight to the point, the only way he felt himself capable of responding. Fury was turning his vision red and all at once he was reliving grade school. Junior high. High school. The military; his first ward and all the men he helped and saved…all the men who turned on him. Called him a fraud and spat on him for doing everything in his power to… No. He would not revisit that dark, dark place. Detective Donovan was still there, staring at him not only like he was an alien, but like he was an alien that had just told her to shut up.

"You know what? Don't bother. I doubt you'd even manage that without fucking something up, especially with that wicked hangover of yours." John's lips curled up into a smile and, ignoring the look of huffy indignation and hurt now plastered over the lovely young alcoholic's face, John limped his way towards the street. Yes it had been cruel, to stab where she was most vulnerable, but he was only leveling the playing field, wasn't he? And if he felt some remorse, any guilt over using his skills to hurt another, the doctor buried it, shoved it into a distant corner as he turned onto the street and continued away from the building. He was fairly certain he no longer required her assistance.

OoOoOoO

The return to the apartment should have been quick and without incident. He'd attempted to hail a cab and had had no luck right off the bat. He blamed it on the rain and was beginning to believe he would make the entire trek back to the flat on foot. He got nearly four blocks listening to the incessant ringing of phones following him before he finally answered a payphone. Subsequently, he was whisked away by a nondescript black limousine and blindfolded by a beautiful woman who proceeded to reject his request for a date. Some time later and John was walking through an empty warehouse, directed by the woman to enter. In this manner, John Watson became acquainted with Mycroft Holmes, brother to Sherlock Holmes, although introductions were not quite so forthcoming.

"Ahhh, Doctor John Watson. So lovely that you could join me; I hope the ride wasn't too difficult on that knee of yours? I've heard that sitting for long periods of time, especially in cramped quarters, can cause-,"

"You clearly know who I am, sir, so let's stop with the games, shall we? This might be a shot in the dark, but I'm guessing you must be related to Sherlock. Considering your age, I would say…his brother?" He tried to sound blasé, bored, despite the fact that Sherlock's brother had essentially kidnapped him. Simultaneously, John thanked his insomnia for the hours he'd spent researching Sherlock the night prior. He was also having difficulty unseeing the fact that Mycroft was suffering from some rather severe impotency after having just gone out with a woman (literally, it could have been no more than an hour that he had left a woman bereft and likely wanting in a motel room). He found this amusing only because the problems were, much like his knee, in Mycroft's own head. He was also infected with some nasty variation of flu, the symptoms of which would become apparent within a few hours. For some inexplicable reason, the thought of this rich and refined government employee bent over the toilet relinquishing everything he'd eaten over the past few hours left the doctor bemused. Something else he wondered if he would feel guilt over later.

"I'm afraid so. I'm also afraid that you sharing a flat with my brother is neither in his best interests, nor yours, Doctor." John bristled. There were too many possibilities in that statement. It spoke of things kept hidden. It spoke of things long since buried.

"And why is that, Mycroft?" He said, emphasizing the fact that the man had yet to properly introduce himself.

"Because, John, there are far too many people out there who would willingly and happily use that connection for their own benefit. I care too much to allow this to happen."

"Listen, I don't know who you think I am," John had finished with this conversation sentences ago and was now barely containing the fire Donovan had stoked. He could not, however, contain his delight as the elder Holmes brother blanched, visibly jolting at John's sudden and enraged response. "But I have no intention of doing anything other than renting a flat with your brother and, perhaps, offering a bit of help when needed. You have no idea who I am, where I have come from, what I have gone through or what I am still dealing with. And how DARE-"

"Does your therapist believe your intermittent tremor and limp are caused by PTSD? Does she say that you are incapable of coping with life outside of war because the war was just too terrible?" And now it was John's turn to be stunned. He was not sure whether to be angry or surprised; those were indeed the reasons his therapist had provided early on in their therapy. Mycroft seemed to take his disbelief as a reason for him to continue and, with a tiny smug little smile, did just that.

"You ought to tell her to explore different possibilities in the future. You've been under an undue amount of stress from the second you stepped inside my limousine to this very second and it seems that your shakes have abandoned you." John's retort, despite being witty and perfect in that moment, escaped him as he glanced down to his fists and saw that they were clenched not in fear but in rage. As annoying and presumptuous as the elder Holmes' brother was, the man was also right. The tension between them was palpable and not for the first time in that evening John found himself wondering just what it was about these Holmes' men. As quickly as that tension had seemed to build it dissipated suddenly, leaving John feeling little more than bone-crushing exhaustion.

His knee was on fire again.

"I'm pretty certain there's nothing left to say here. Unless you wish to further demonstrate your psychiatric prowess, I would appreciate it if your man over there would remove his hand from his weapon and take me to Baker Street." Mycroft blinked, a moment of surprise flashing in his eyes before a smile crossed his face and his gaze filled with mirth.

"Of course."

A slight head nod, some shuffles and fifteen minutes of blindfolded driving later (the drive broken only by a requested stop to his original single) found John outside the flat at Baker Street. Laden with his weapon, he glanced back at the vehicle, smirking slightly as the woman who had turned him down (twice now…John was nothing if not tenacious) rolled her eyes, and then the windows, up. A light rain had begun to fall and combined with the chill of the night John was ready for a hot cup of tea. He paused only momentarily as he realized he had not been given a key to the flat and was only vaguely surprised to find that one had been slipped onto his person along with a note:

Thought you might be needing this.

-SH

John was not quite sure how to feel about this. When had Sherlock gotten close enough to slip this into his pocket?

The thought sent goose bumps racing along his skin.

Ignoring this, John tromped his way into the flat, up the stairs and into the living room. He frowned as he removed his coat, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor and allowing his scarf and hat to join the coat moments later. Sinking down into the chair, the only things on his mind were the headlines from the past several months. The apparent suicides…the lack of leads and the confusion and terror running rampant in London… Sherlock was right. If they were connected then these suicides were definitely murders; John could tell that by the caliber of poison that had taken that woman's life.

He stood, rubbing away the wince on his face with his left hand as he made his way into the kitchen with the intention of making tea. He supposed, as he set the water boiling, that he was the only one who knew what the apparent poison actually was. This was due in large part to the fact that this medication was only a prototype. An experimental drug used to treat aneurisms which posed too much of a risk to operate, the prototype was like a refined cocktail. Anti-seizure medication (valproic acid seemed to have the most consistent results), calcium channel blockers, heavy pain medication and (this was the real kicker) a very new, very volatile form of radiation treatment. Meant to both decrease the size of the aneurism and aide in a safe removal, the translation of radioactive chemicals into a pill meant to aide one with a deadly condition was new on this frontier. It was also incredibly dangerous and highly toxic in its' maximum dosage; the dosage would have to had begun small and been increased consistently over time.

The doctor snorted as he sipped his chamomile tea, grateful as the familiar taste soothed his spirits and warmed his belly. It was a familiar feeling, one he welcomed with open arms as he began considering turning in (ignoring, of course, the fact that he was not even remotely moved in, had none of his belongings there nor had any idea of where he would sleep)-

"Oh, John, I was hoping you'd made it back before I did. Quickly, take this case, it's hers, and follow me."

"Sherlock, this that woman's suitcase? The woman in pink from the building?" Already John was starting to understand the curious combination of exhaustion and exhilaration that seemed to consistently accompany the detective whenever he entered a room. Still sitting, John twisted his torso around to watch as Sherlock swept into the room and tossed the equally pink case onto the table where, moments prior, there had been a stack of novels.

"Keep up, John. I found this in a dumpster, only a couple blocks from where the woman was found. I need you to text this message," John glanced down at Sherlock's proffered hand from where he sat and, once he realized that Sherlock would not bring the note to him, pushed himself to his feet and limped over to take it. "To the number just below it. If I'm right…" There were the sounds of locks snapping and then the case was open. John's quick fingers tapped out the message ("What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland St. Please Come") and set the phone down on the table. Sherlock's search through the case produced lingerie, a change of clothing, toiletries and…

Nothing. Even John, whose mind was better suited to see the strains of a cold just now settling into Sherlock's immune system, could tell that something was missing. Something significant. Almost simultaneously as John reached this conclusion the phone on the table started to ring. Sherlock, whose head had been buried in the case, jerked upright with a triumphant smile stretching across his face.

"Only the murderer would have answered that text, John. He took her phone. And now he isn't sure what happened to her when he left her." He shut the case with a definitive snap and turned to John.

"John…are you hungry?" The doctor in question could do little more than blink for a few beats. He could scarcely follow where the conversation had left them and, after a brief self-introspection, found himself nodding his assent.

"Yeah I could eat, I s'pose. Why?" Already Sherlock had found and donned his coat, collar turned up in preparation against the chill outside, and was tossing John his.

"Hurry up John. We'll miss our reservation if we don't leave now." Not quite knowing what to say, John shrugged on his coat and snatched up his cane, limping quickly to catch up with the detective who was already out the door.

OoOoOoO

"Try the chicken-alfredo or…" From across the small booth-set table John watched as Sherlock browsed the wine list. John, on the other hand, hadn't yet bothered to pick up his menu. This was the second time within only three hours that they were sitting in the same restaurant and this time he hoped to actually partake of his meal. He felt…winded. Dizzy and shell-shocked and so utterly sure he had never endured so much change in a single evening in his entire life. He was only mildly surprised when he came out of his thoughts to find a plate of steaming tortellini and a glass of red wine placed before him.

Ordering for him. Now Sherlock was ordering for him.

John tried to remind himself that this was a negative thing and that the warm and fuzzies should not accompany the sweet taste of the wine as it slid down his throat. He also tried to remind himself that he had known this man less than three days and should not feel as comfortable with him as he did. Still…

His gaze flitted to his side, searching for the cane he knew he had left here hours prior. He supposed he would need to reflect on what had happened; an adrenaline rush he hadn't experienced since the war as they raced through the streets of London. Chasing, of all things, a cab. Sherlock had been so sure when it pulled up in front of the restaurant and even now John felt himself toying with the idea the detective had so latched on to. His eyes grew hazy and he could not help the exhausted smile that slowly spread across his features as he recalled their initial arrival at the restaurant.

OoOoOoO

"Ahhh, Sherlock!" For a man many seemed to find difficult, Sherlock made many a close friend with the strangest people. The warm greeting was followed by a mostly one-sided hug from an overweight mustachioed gentleman whom Sherlock introduced as the manager of the tiny Italian bistro.

"Hello, Rory, so wonderful to see you again-,"

"Yes, yes and who is this? Must be quite an interesting person to have snared our Sherlock!" The man chuckled and John blinked owlishly in response, gears grinding to a halt as his mind fought to keep up with the conversation and its' implications.

"But never mind me, let's get you settled at a table. And I'll go ahead and say up front that your money is no good here, Sherlock. So you and your date can just enjoy dinner!" Finally John balked, pulling away from Sherlock as a fierce flush raced across his cheeks.

"Ah, no no. Sherlock and I, we're not, I mean." The doctor cleared his throat. "We're not on a DATE, sir, I'm not GAY." Both men stared curiously at him and his flushed skin darkened under their scrutiny. A moment or two passed and the man whom Sherlock had referred to as Rory chuckled and continued to usher them into their seats as though John's little outburst had not occurred. With a flourish their menus were placed in front of them and Rory left the two of them alone.

"Sherlock I'm not gay." It seemed important, somehow, to reiterate this.

"It doesn't matter to ME, John. I'm married to my work. A relationship has no place in my life." Eyebrow raised, the detective picked up his menu-

And froze, gaze directed out the window. A moment later John mirrored the man's look, focusing outside until his eyes lit on a cab that had pulled up just outside the restaurant. No movement inside the cab and when, nearly a minute later, it began to pull away from the curb, Sherlock bolted out of his seat and immediately dashed from the building, calling for John to hurry up behind him.

Sudden twists and turns, gasping breath and pounding blood; the duo had chased the cab as though lives depended on it. In the end, the doctor mused in his plastic coated bench, nothing had come from it. The man had been an American; a mystified gentleman just arrived from the airport, bags held carefully between his legs. Sherlock had been quiet the rest of the walk back through the downtown London traffic and to the restaurant they'd abandoned earlier, clearly contemplative as they slid back into their seats amidst the confused looks Rory gave them.

OoOoOoO

Now, sitting back at the table, knee no longer burning with pain, John had yet to bring up the fact that whoever was attacking these people was suffering from a terminal affliction and was (due to the strength and the dosage of the medication) a man. He was also smart, very smart, or at least he believed himself to be. He swallowed a bite with difficulty, grimacing as he reflected on the audacity of the murderer. Sure he believed himself smart…but the real question, the doctor mused as he poked at his dish, was how the murderer convinced these people to take something that would kill them.

"John. I have been speaking to you for at least two minutes and have yet to receive any sort of verbal or nonverbal response. You also appear to be disgusted by your food and, considering I ordered the best tortellini dish in London, I know that to be false." John turned away from the window he'd been loosely staring out of and forced a smile. He was still finding it difficult to meet the detective's gaze; the disease he could see building behind those striking pair of blues was more than disorienting.

"Err, sorry Sherlock… I just," He trailed off, shrugging as he felt his gaze slipping microscopically down to the detective's cheek even as his mind slipped back to the chase through London's streets. Oh that rush…

"John if you leave me again I'm going to-,"

"Hey, hey, hey, I'm still here. So what now?" John had to keep his amusement from his face as Sherlock visibly relaxed; the man liked his attention.

"Well… We go back to the flat, obviously. Now finish your food; you're going to offend Rory." An order and an obvious statement rolled all together into one flat phrase; John could not help but be impressed. A few bites and a delicate sip of wine as the consulting detective dug into his meal and John could do little more than stare. His jaw worked, words scrambling in his mouth and mind as he ran through various possible sentences and topics… none of which seemed the right way to tell the detective that he was going to lose his sight. Beyond that the doctor was lost, incapable of bringing any other thoughts up in his mind. Incapable of informing the detective who it was they were looking for. Incapable of breaking this sudden and curious level of friendship that had bloomed between them in only a couple of days; John could do little more, it seemed, than eat his tortellini.

Their meal concluded enveloped in a companionable silence, despite John's inability to meet Sherlock's gaze.

OoOoOoO

John wasn't sure how he had not made the connection before now. He raced through the night, a light sheen of sweat standing out on his brow, lungs expanding and contracting rapidly in time to the pounding of his feet on the pavement. Panic, hot and tight in his chest, pushed him far beyond his body's limits; Sherlock had been gone for almost twenty minutes now. There was no time to find a car, no car in the damp, dark night to find. The GPS in the phone had told him exactly where to go; side streets and shortcuts would get him there faster than any vehicle if he could only push himself hard enough. The doctor turned a corner and then another, legs trembling and slipping out from beneath him on the wet pavement as he nearly wiped himself out with the inertia of the turn. He scrambled to his feet and pushed on, time pressing in on him as heavily as the chilly evening air. Every second was a stab, an ache, a jolt to his heart and each was undeniable.

Breath puffing out in a cloud around his face, he skidded to a stop between two buildings; he was here. Sherlock and the man were here, somewhere… John's eyes flicked between the two identical buildings, forcibly shoving his panic down. His fault. It was his fault because he had withheld information; he had kept Sherlock from the truth, and if he didn't fix this… A deep breath and he was bolting towards the one on the left, knowing that his fifty/fifty shot of choosing the right building did not leave much room for error.

OoOoOoO

They'd arrived back at the apartment after their meal to a very upset Mrs. Hudson and the officers John had met earlier that evening; she was downstairs waiting for them while upstairs they were tearing the flat apart. Anger flew through the flat, bouncing from person to person as easily as their fluid accusations. All the while Mrs. Hudson, standing off to the side and clearly distressed, trying her hardest to take Sherlock's attention, rambling about some cabbie…

The next thing John knew, Sherlock had disappeared. Everyone was scrambling, throwing the disarray of the flat into downright chaos as everyone searched for clues as to where Holmes might have disappeared. In the end it was John, using the wonders of the Internet and an intelligence no one else believed existed, to fit the last pieces of the puzzle together. It was the cabbie it had ALWAYS been the cabbie.

Ignoring the cries of the officers of the law, John slipped away, running with a renewed vigor towards a goal only he could achieve.

OoOoOoO

Inside the building it was colder somehow. John could hear his breath, reverberating off the stark hallways plastered with gentle yet firm reminders to never do drugs and that auditions for Romeo and Juliet would be held in the auditorium-

There.

He turned, sliding on the slick linoleum flooring as he pressed his face against the classroom window. The door was locked, the doctor's hands slipping as he tried to turn the knob, but none of that mattered as his eyes, his sharp eyes, saw the scene from the other building. His subconscious registered books, low tables… a library, most likely, while his conscious mind registered the great detective, face to face with the murderer. All of the blood drained from John's face leaving him pale and nearly glowing in the gloom. Before thought could enter the equation he took a few paces away from the door, gathered some momentum…and burst through it with enough force to send him into the lab table nearest the door. He righted himself quickly, only vaguely surprised to find his gun in his hand.

"SHERLOCK!" He cried, only just aware of the stupidity of yelling when it was physically impossible to be heard. Across the way, Sherlock was raising his hand towards his mouth, mimicking the movement of the man whose back was to him.

He'd never survive that pill.

Fury and something he'd felt only in the war overcame the good doctor then, and before he was aware of what he was doing, the smell of gunpowder filled the air and the sharp report of the gun was ringing in his ears. Some soothing, twisted version of shock swept through him as he watched the cab driver fall to the ground and Sherlock rush to the man's side. Even from this distance he could see Sherlock's lips moving, knew he was asking the cab driver why he'd done it. Relief washed over him, then. Sherlock had not taken the pill. The detective was not dead due to his actions.

Letting out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding, John slipped first from the room and then the building; the police sirens were close now and being caught with a recently fired firearm would be quite bad.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Chaos erupted around John; the police arrived, and he was lost in the flurry of activity. It took far longer than he had hoped to find Sherlock and, when he did, John could feel the smile stretching easily across his face; the detective was huddled in the back of an ambulance, a bright orange shock blanket draped about his shoulders. He was speaking to Lestrade, disinterest and irritation plain as daylight on his sharply angled face. For a moment John toyed with the idea of disappearing into the crowd, fading away into the darkness of the evening-

"John." The doctor blanched, cheeks flushing as he realized that Sherlock's intense gaze was directed entirely on him. Slipping past the officers was easy and he arrived at the ambulance just in time to see the detective slip free and directly to his side. John fell into the man's stride easily and together they walked free.

"You alright, Sherlock?"

"If I wasn't alright would I be here? I'm just in SHOCK is all." The words implied irritation yet his tone suggested warmth, humor dancing through the sentence in a way that John was coming to recognize.

John smiled. Something told him that whatever the future might hold, it certainly wouldn't be…boring.

"No, Sherlock… I suppose you wouldn't be."