After calling a taxi, we found ourselves outside the home of the man who had discovered the body. He was already waiting outside, looking disturbed and quite out of sorts.

"Very sorry to bother you, Officer Rance. This shouldn't take long."

The man shook his head.

"I can't believe Lestrade is willing to go along with this again. Turning to children for answers, we will be the laughing stock of the police force!" He was clearly upset with the whole setup.

"Pleasure to meet you as well. Lestrade said you were the man who discovered the late Enoch Drebber?" The way Sherlock overlooked the officer's mockery seemed rehearsed, and I couldn't help but smile at my roommate's ability to simply walk over protocol without consequence.

The man sighed before confirming. We didn't enter the house as I'm sure he wanted as little to do with us as possible. He paid me no attention or heed throughout the entire conversation, not that I wanted it.

"There isn't much to tell. I was patrolling the area, a rather rowdy stag do was going on at the pub down the street, and Lauriston Gardens was just as rotten as ever. I noticed the door unlocked and thought I'd make sure the residents were alright. It's a dodgy area."

Sherlock shot me a glance.

"No doubt your actions were purely of the altruistic type."

"Are you denying my professionalism, boy!?"

"Not at all. Though the last case I was involved in did star a rather promiscuous officer, and a missing broach. Though how the woman's earring got in his pocket was a real mystery, one that her husband found very upsetting."

I failed to hold back a chuckle and it came out like a quiet yelp.

"Be that as it may, I take my job seriously."

"Of course, there is no denying that. What did you find?"

He frowned.

"What do you think, boy? A body and no sign of a killer. I called it in and that was all I had to do with the affair."

I watched Sherlock study the man for a moment, his blank expression giving nothing away.

"Anything strange occur afterwards?"

The officer rolled his eyes.

"Like I said, there was a stag do and a couple of drunkards came by. One passed the house and I helped him up after he fell by the garden wall. He was on his way after. That's all I had to do with it."

That peeked Sherlock's interest.

"What did this chap look like?"

"Does it matter? He was tallish, had a waistcoat on, dirty fingernails."

"That will do. Come on Watson!"

It was a sudden end to the matter. I walked back to the taxi alongside my companion.

"Thank you for the information, Officer Rance. Most enlightening." Sherlock took his seat in the back of the cab.

The evening was becoming a whirlwind of events. I felt exhausted. Maybe I wouldn't need my pills after all if this was to be our life. I sat beside him and without further ado we were heading back to Baker Street.

"What nonsense that must go through the head of Scotland Yard these days?" Sherlock muttered.

"Beg your pardon?"

"That officer could well have thrown away a promotion. That 'drunkard' from the stag do didn't even attend it, nor was he drunk" Sherlock began.

"Then what was he doing there? Some nutter?" I interrupted.

Sherlock showed me the wedding ring.

"This Watson, is why he was there. It didn't belong to the victim, so it must belong to someone they knew, or someone close to the murderer," It was astounding. I hadn't even notice Sherlock walk out with it. "He returned to the scene to retrieve it. You know how the old saying goes, only this time the culprit was unable to enter due to our new friend Mr John Rance, so he pretended to be drunk as an alibi for his presence."

I sat back in my seat and tried to piece it all together. I had never been so happy to be so wrong. I began the evening wanting to show up my liar of a roommate, but instead he had proven to be what he claimed to be and more. How he had gone under the radar could only have been Scotland Yard covering there embarrassed tracks. What a strange thing to walk into. My life had suddenly become much more interesting.

"There is much left to discover," he began to monologue. "The blood must have belonged to the killer, but without a suspect it is useless. The identity of this strange drunken figure is what we need to find out." He analyzed the ring in the light.

"How do we do that?"

"It's been a long night. I think we should retire." He closed his eyes and let the taxi take us on.

Visions of the victim's face echoed in my head as I lay in my bed that night. It still didn't feel like home, and the night's festivities only added to that anxiety. Why it was keeping me up made it all the worse. That look of shock, or fear, or something I couldn't decipher on his face was trapped in my mind. Did my father have that same look as he lay dying? Was the man that had raised me reduced to a still of terror by someone that knew nothing of him? War seemingly blurs out every face and makes them a number. The truth is more startling. Widows and heartbroken families are what are left when the smoke clears and the guns stop. Part of me wanted to continue on this trail of murder, but deep down I knew I couldn't go on with dreams like this every night. I let myself cry that night for the first time, my father's cane in my clutches.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of a violin. My younger self would have protested, but this was like a siren's call. The manner with which Sherlock played was entrancing, as each chord flowed from calm to utter madness. I got dressed in a half-awake state and said good morning to my roommate. Sherlock continued to play, saying nothing but nodding to acknowledge my presence. I listened as I made myself a cup of coffee. The kettle stopped and Sherlock ceased at the same moment. I'm sure he had timed it.

"Ah, that was the one! Mendelssohn, you promised much, and you delivered! Surely there is no better music to be heard than that from Germany!"

"I'm sure a few countries would want 'Rache' for that remark." I said as a stirred my coffee.

My joke went unnoticed, as Sherlock went about putting his violin away in silence. He looked startled when I put the television on. I really was starting to think that he had never used the thing. I sipped at my morning drink and proceeded to watch on in awe as the very case we were now a part of was broadcasted.

"News travels fast. This is not the days of telegrams and street rumours. If you want to remain in the dark, you have to be more than discreet." My roommate said.

Lestrade gave a short account of the investigation, leaving out both Sherlock's and my own involvement in the affair.

"What did I tell you? We have no place in their glory, Watson."

"And yet you still have the case purring away in your head, don't you?" I asked.

He smiled.

"Oh, when I have hold, I don't let go. It seems you share that trait."

I looked away, not believing his comment.

"It takes a great level of personal strength and ability to become a doctor, especially given your family's circumstances. It is because of your father that you are in this very room," He was prying again, but I couldn't bring the strength to argue against it. "To honour a loved one, it isn't a strange motivation, or an uncommon one. Neither is revenge."

The last remark confused me somewhat.

"What do you mean, revenge?"

Sherlock was gazing at the wedding ring again.

"It is most curious. Motivation is a powerful force to reckon with. It can topple empires and bring men to walk on the moon… or drive one to murder. Or indeed, drive a person's future career. Admit it, you enjoyed every moment of last night's events."

"Now that's complete crap." I scoffed at him.

"You can't hide it from me. You seem so reserved and straight, but that body drew you in, I saw it in your eyes. You couldn't help but search for answers. We are alike."

"We are not!" I shouted. "You get excited about seeing people be murdered. I want to help save lives."

"You think you're calling more important than mine because it saves lives rather than avenges them?" he smiled. "See? We are similar," I rolled my eyes and sat in the armchair. "A doctor cures disease, but what is criminality but a cancer in the streets? This city is my patient, and I have the same roaring fire in me to cure it as you do."

"I'm not having anything else to do with this case!" I said in a quick outburst.

He looked disappointed. I had thought about it. It wasn't my place to jump into such a dangerous world. I was there to study and get my degree, and hopefully move on to achieve a doctorate. Running around solving murders wasn't on the agenda. We were young adults, and at this rate Sherlock would end up getting himself killed. I couldn't put myself in the same risk. I couldn't do that to my mother.

"If that is the way you feel, then so be it. I have no power over you. Do as you wish." He began to look outside the window.

That aura of unfamiliarity had returned. I was feeling roped in. I didn't care if this was his own desperate way of trying to make a friend, or just use me for his cases, either way I would have nothing to do with it. I couldn't live my life being haunted by dead men. I didn't need a horde of them when I already had one.

I listened to the news for a bit. I listened to Lestrade hark on about how they were doing everything they could to find the murderer and that they already had a strong lead. Sherlock probably had the culprit in his head already. I gave the occasional bitter glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I was quick to snap, as much as I hated it. I hadn't been like that before. I would keep quiet and let others shadow me, desperate to get me to speak. I was glad that they had not spoken as brazen as Sherlock, or I may have snapped at someone that didn't deserve it.

Did Sherlock deserve it?

I risked a longer look at him. His eyes were closed and his hands were behind is back. I could see him frowning occasionally, and his eyes moved behind their lids as if he were reading something tattooed on the inside. I felt pathetic. Much of what he had said was true. I wanted to shut myself out of the affair and not look back, but my curious roommate and his antics had truly gotten to me.

"What are you doing?" I asked half-heartedly.

"Tidying things away."

I had no answer to that. It was ridiculous and nonsensical.

"This room is a state, so I doubt that." I chose to speak sarcastically.

"Not furniture Watson, thoughts. A man only has a finite space in his mind."

"I thought you were meant to be a genius." My tone had taken a dip into a similar realm as the one my mood was in.

"The richest man on Earth still has a finite space, and so a genius suffers the same way up here," He tapped the side of his head. "I don't like to worry myself with unnecessary facts. I like to keep my mind organised and stocked only with what I need. A brain-attic, if you will."

It sounded like more nonsense, but the way he went about the case so far had me doubting my original thoughts about him.

"So what don't you know?"

He opened his eyes and paced closer.

"Modern films and Hollywood antics don't hold much interest for me. Neither does astronomy, nor politics."

I didn't care much for politics myself. Astronomy though, I found that fascinating to a degree.

"Do you know the planets in our solar system?" I asked him.

"Is there likely to be a crime committed on any other than ours?"

I ignored him and carried on.

"Mars, Venus?"

"Greek Gods, yes?"

I was sure he was mocking the subject.

"Do you know what the Earth revolves around!?" I shouted.

"If it went around the moon, would it be of any relevance to the field I hope to join? I'm sure no werewolves will be involved."

I sat back in my chair, dumbfounded by his ignorance.

"You probably think it goes around a giant turtle." I remarked.

"Hmm?" His knowledge didn't stretch to literature either.

I shook my head and that was the end of the matter.

"I don't expect you to find my methods agreeable. No one does, but they are effective. You must forgive my ignorance."

I was taken aback by how sincere his apology was. Had I hurt his feelings, I wondered.

"I didn't mean-"

"It's no bother. Nothing I haven't come across. Nothing strange at all."

I heard his bedroom door close. I was left alone in the room, feeling guilty all of a sudden. My father's cane was still resting against the kitchen counter. I'd forgotten about it for a moment, but there it was again, back in my head as if calling to me. No. It would sit there. It wouldn't force me to move just so I could feel less insecure.

My eye twitched. My hand came to my mouth as I let out a frustrated sigh.

"Bollocks…"

I stood up and reached out for the cane. I sat down in a huff with it resting beside me. I let my head fall into my hands. It wasn't until my forehead was pressed against my fingers that I noticed how much they were shaking. I reached out for the cane in an instant, only to stop myself. What kind of person was I to rely on a family heirloom just to keep myself calm? It had become another appendage, and I hadn't thought it strange until that day. Sherlock, through arrogance or will, had the strength to hunt a murderer. I couldn't even leave the building without a wooden stick by my side. I couldn't even remember how I had managed without it during my stay at the hotel.

"We have had a breakthrough in the Brixton mystery. Rest assured, it will not be long before our streets are safe again." I heard Lestrade announce on the news.

A breakthrough. Had they found a suspect per chance? That would disappoint Sherlock, I thought, assuming it was the right person. As for the streets being safe, even I thought that was a long shot.

"Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire."

I hadn't heard Sherlock re-enter the room through my blurred concentration.

"What?" I asked.

"A fool always finds a greater fool to admire. They will take the credit, whether I solve this case or not. Perhaps I have been way over my head."

I hadn't heard him speak so solemnly before. Was it my fault?

"Foreign languages not a weak spot then?" I asked.

"Not at all."

He gazed back and forth between the television, me, and the cane.

"Not to coerce you, or consider myself in any place worthy of your trust for such matters, but there are support groups. The University offers a group of councilors. Take their advice or not. Either way, hearing it can stir the cogs if nothing else."

Was this an actual piece of advice from Sherlock Holmes? I'd seen most of his comments about my father, and myself, as jabs. Looking back, I think I had blamed Sherlock for thoughts that I'd formed about myself.

"Ah, that blasted thing!" Sherlock exclaimed upon hearing whimpering outside the door.

"The neighbour's dog still unwell?" I asked him. I hadn't heard it myself but it looked in a right state.

"Unwell? The fact that it lives is a disease for it. It is old and should have been blessed with a calm ending ages ago. Poor, suffering mutt."

I laughed. I actually laughed, and forgot about my thoughts for the time being.

"You not fond of dogs, Sherlock?"

"Not ones that howl and yap in pain when you are trying to think." His pacing increased.

"I don't mind dogs myself. I was considering getting one actually."

He looked at me as if I'd just slapped him.

"No?" I asked him subtlety.

"No!" he barked.

A phone rang.

It was the standard mobile ringtone for its make. I guess it was another thing Sherlock cared little for. He reached into his pocket and answered it with a grin.

"Hello?"

I tried to listen in on what the person on the line was saying but only got half of the conversation.

"Splendid! I hoped that someone would see the advert! I can imagine how dreadful it must be to lose a wedding ring. Yes… okay. Do you know a small coffee shop about ten minutes from Baker Street, the Boscombe Valley Café? Great. Is half an hour alright? Alright, see you then."

He'd spoken in a northern accent. It was actually amusing to listen to, regardless of my suspicion.

"A lost wedding ring… Sherlock… you haven't?"

"Haven't what? Just conversed with a murderer? Perhaps."

He was rushing around in a hurry. He retrieved his coat and anxiously checked his watch.

"What excellent timing. Let's see how far off Scotland Yard's lead was."

"Sherlock! Stop!" I stood up and yelled. "You aren't seriously doing this!? You can't go to a coffee shop and talk to a murderer! What do you expect to do? Ask him to turn himself in politely?"

"You are concerned with my safety. How touching. No need to worry. I used your name in the advert."

My mouth was wide open.

"You what!?"

"It will be me there, but my name has started going around. I don't want Scotland Yard ruining this." There wasn't a speck of fear in his eyes.

"This is completely insane! You can't confront a dangerous murderer."

"If worst comes to worst, I do have backup."

I followed him into his room. He reached under the bed and pulled out a dust-coated wooden box.

"Christ Sherlock! Where did you get that from!?"

He revealed a pistol.

"That Watson is a Mark three Adams Revolver."

"I know what the damn thing is. What I don't know is how you have one!"

He rubbed the dust off of the side of box with one finger. There was a name engraved on the side.

"You're not the only one with a military history in your family, John. This belonged to my grandfather."

My nerves were hitting me. My hands were shaking again. I couldn't help but imagine gunshots in my head.

"Are you actually insane? Why have you brought that here?"

He looked at me with a stern face.

"For the same reason you brought yours."

"I… err…"

How? How did the devil know? My father's pistol. It was left to me along with his medals. It was decommissioned, but to the naked eye it was still a weapon.

"The one under your bed isn't just for sentimental value. You brought it with you because it makes you feel like your father. Academic qualities or not, you crave adventure just as if you were him, and his father before. I can give it to you. Trust me Watson, what may happen today, we might need this."

I thought I might snap my father's cane how hard I was squeezing it.

"You're wrong about me. I… I don't want this."

I left his room and lent against the sitting room window. I was regretting ever going there. I should have commuted, or at the very least found somewhere else, but I couldn't. I was ensnared.

"You can lean on that cane, you can deny how you feel, but you can't hide what you are." I heard him prattle on.

"You don't know who I am! You've known me, what, two weeks? You don't know everything!"

I threw the morning newspaper at him. The papers scattered throughout the room, knocking Sherlock's own writing off of the desk. He let it all fall rather than attempt to catch it. There was no anger on his face as I tried to calm down. He left the newspaper around him and went for his work. He straightened the paper and placed it down carefully, adjusting it so that it was straight on the desk.

"I don't know everything… but I see it."

He left the room, entered the stairway and took a hat off of the pegs.

"A deerstalker?" I looked at him as he put it on.

"Not much of a disguise but it will do in this instance." He straightened the hat.

"This is all a big game to you, isn't it!?"

I saw a smile appear on his face.

"I hadn't thought of it like that. There is excitement in it. You may not want a part in this world Watson, but I can't resist its call. I must be off. The game is afoot!"