I was left alone in the apartment again. I'd taken the chance to tidy the place a bit, placing the scattered pages of the day's newspaper back on the desk. The Brixton mystery was in the papers. It left a few details out, most noticeably those discovered by Sherlock. There was no mention of the message written in blood, or the ring. I felt foolish thinking about my outburst, but Sherlock Holmes was someone that had confronted me about my past in a way no one else had dared to do. I didn't want to hear it - it made it too real.

I found myself staring at the wall, my eyes trailing along the white patterns upon the wallpaper. The mystery of murder had no escape from my head, and I no escape from it. We had an American man who had died by poisoning without a struggle, a German message written on the wall that didn't belong to the victim, and a ring that seemingly had no connection to them. No wonder Scotland Yard was in circles over it. I certainly was.

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the front door unlock. True enough my roommate had returned, the deerstalker no longer on his head.

"That blasted dog is still whimpering. Now where did I put my revolver?"

"Sherlock! Don't you dare!" I shouted.

He put his hands up as if I was about to shoot him.

"It was only a thought," He said weakly. "I've confirmed my suspicions, if you are interested."

"I am. So, no old woman at Houndstitch?"

He shook his head.

"You doubt my judgement? There was never any old crone at Duncan Street, but there was an informative painter and decorator called Keswick. Not a single person called Dennis in sight, unless he was hiding behind the wallpaper."

Sherlock had no chance to take off his jacket before his phone rang. He barely said a word on his end, but I saw his eyes roll.

"Now that is interesting. Won't be long," He hung up. "That was Gregson. Apparently he has a discovery for us."

He was back out the door in seconds.

"To Scotland Yard then?" I asked while retrieving my own jacket.

"The very same. You will find this job costs a fortune in cab fairs."

I could tell that Sherlock's head was whirring away beside me as the taxi sped towards Scotland Yard. He stared intently out of his side window, His fingers occasionally tapping the knuckles on his other hand.

"Any leads after the ring fiasco?" I broke his concentration.

"Now, now. No need to rush things."

I took it as his way of saying no.

"What does Gregson want anyway?"

"He apparently has the culprit under lock and key."

I was stunned.

"Really? Well, so much for you."

"Ha! You think Gregson has beaten me, do you? No. The poor chap he has incarcerated is innocent. I'm sure of that."

I'd started to ignore his arrogance. I did hope inside that it was an end to the matter, though Sherlock didn't seem to agree.

"I still stand by what I said. I don't want anything to do with your life." I brought up the touchy subject in hope I could keep to it.

He brought his gaze back to the passing buildings.

"Then why are you here?" He asked, no longer focused on me.

"I'll see the end of this case, but that's it, Sherlock. No more."

I could see the small grin in the corner of his mouth. The devil didn't believe me.

"I mean it! I don't want to end up dead before I can pass my degree. You're still mad to go running after murderers."

His hands came together and rested against his lower lip.

"Madness. A subjective term from outside viewers. It's not the first time I've been accused, but I don't listen to the ignorant."

"Oh, cheers." I answered sarcastically.

"You call me mad, yet you lean against a cane you don't need."

"I told you to s-"

The cab slowed and Sherlock was out the door before it had even stopped. A number of notes landed on the chair next to me.

"Be a friend and pay the man his due, would you?"

I wanted to punch him there and then, but an assault outside Scotland Yard really would have branded me with the title of mad. I handed the notes forward and watched the driver reach back. He grasped them with an unsteady hand and grunted a quiet thanks. Clearly he was in a mood that matched my own.

It was a sight to see, the outside of the building. It was one of the many landmarks I knew about but had never expected to see myself visiting. Police officers in full uniform were around the place, as well as a man in a light brown jacket enjoying a smoke. I'd lost sight of Sherlock so I decided to hurry along, cane in hand. The bright lobby brought with it a fuller sense of the unknown. This was not the profession I had planned to become a part of, but I was intrigued nonetheless. Across the lobby, standing out from the crowd, was Sherlock, sitting on a couch, looking quite at home and with a grin on his face.

"Have you come here before?" I asked as a joined him with the cane on my lap.

"I had some fleeting visits. Since then I have found myself here more and more as my use has come to light for them. Sadly, the gratitude for it is still slacking behind."

A familiar looking detective approached with a grin as great as Sherlock's.

"Brace yourself John, we are about to hear some news with a vengeance!"

Sherlock immediately rose and ensured that his clothes looked presentable. Anyone would have thought it normal but I was starting to learn his mannerisms. He wasn't standing out of courtesy, he was doing it to be on the same level as the detective.

"You look almost halve as excited as you sounded on the phone, Tobias." Sherlock said with a hint of mockery.

"That's still detective Gregson to you, but I can't help but feel that way. Lestrade is off on some witch hunt, yet I'm the one with the culprit!"

I stood up and lent on my father's cane.

"Are you certain? It isn't a woman named Rachel, is it?" I said, trying to make myself part of the situation. If I was going to be there I might as well be of use, even if it was just to try and match Sherlock's wit.

"Are you alright, son? You had that cane before."

He completely bypassed my comment and went straight for my weak spot, either deliberately or not.

"His leg is fine Detective. It's something else that's injured." Sherlock gave me a fleeting glance before putting his hands behind his back.

"Right. I'll explain it in my office."

We were lead further into the building. The hustle and bustle of the day was well in swing. Crime waits for no man, and no one was getting a rest that Sunday. I took a glimpse through some office windows as we passed. Each ranged from officers looking frantically at a wall covered in a spider's web of photographs and locations, to lone men and women tapping away on their computers. I couldn't imagine Sherlock wanting the office life. He seemed more alive when on the scene.

Gregson's office was quite small, though the sheer amount of furniture, desks and filing cabinets could have made that an illusion. A cold cup of coffee was on his desk with his name printed on it. I noticed a small chip in the corner. I blinked hard, realizing that Sherlock's antics were starting to rub off on me.

"Fire away, Gregson. Tell it all." Sherlock lent back in his chair, his leg resting on his knee and his fingers locked together. Anyone giving a quick glance would assume the office belonged to him.

"I followed up on our victim, Mr Enoch Drebber and discovered where he has been staying for the last few weeks," The detective's voice was quick, the excitement clearly driving him on much faster than he intended. "He is in fact a doctor by trade from New York. I'm not sure why he was over here, but that's beside the point. I found out that he has been staying in a boarding house called Charpentier's Boarding Establishment."

"Fascinating. How on earth did you discover this?" Sherlock spoke, hiding his condemnation, but I was sure it was there.

"We discovered a rental receipt for the place tucked into the back of his wallet. It was recent."

I hadn't looked in the wallet and hadn't noticed a receipt on the bench at the crime scene, but the lack of change in Sherlock's expression hinted towards him knowing it was there. My companion made his way over to a water cooler by the door and helped himself.

"Do go on, don't mind me."

Gregson cleared his throat.

"I checked out the place, and spoke with the proprietress, Madame Charpentier. Her daughter was there as well, a fine looking girl she was."

Sherlock stared at him. The detective cleared his throat again, louder this time, and tried to hide the redness appearing on his face.

"Anyway. The daughter looked upset, and that's when I caught the scent."

"A bloodhound on the trail. Sharp as ever, Gregson." Sherlock humoured him.

"I brought up our victim and asked if they had heard of the affair. As soon as I asked, the girl burst into tears."

"How suspicious." Sherlock said with an exaggerated demeanour.

"Well, it turns out that our victim had come back drunk one night and made the moves on the poor girl, even going as far as to try and drag her away. Her brother was heard threatening to kill him over it. Strange that we should find the man dead just hours later, eh?"

Sherlock's eyes fell to the plastic cup in his hands, as if there was some clue inside.

"And it is this brother that you have under lock and key?"

"Arthur Charpentier, our culprit."

Sherlock scrunched the cup and tossed it into the waste basket before clapping.

"I must congratulate you, Detective. Finding our culprit so quickly must have been no easy feat."

"It was not. I thought you would appreciate it, being a thinking boy… man," He quickly corrected himself. Sherlock's lip twitched slightly. Did being called a boy sting, I wondered? "Arthur has confessed to following Drebber during the night," Gregson continued. "But he won't admit to murdering him. He was a member of his majesty's navy, and had connections to the pharmaceutical industry through family ties. It wouldn't be too much of a jump to assume he knew his stuff about poisoning."

With every word, I could see Sherlock's eyes moving about the room as he took it all in. It did make sense. Charpentier was enraged at the man Drebber for continuously treating his sister in such a way, he followed him and then poisoned the man. Some things didn't match up however.

"Excellent work Detective, most excellent. There are some missing details though, and Watson here is sure to fill you in."

"Oh, God…" I whispered. He was doing it again.

"What do you mean missing details?" Gregson asked sharply as he stood out of his chair." I can assure you that it all fits!"

Gregson was not having it, and I was most disappointed that there was more to it, and at the same time, intrigued as to where it would go.

"It does fit, but it only draws half of the picture." Sherlock looked at me with an encouraging smile.

There was no way I was going to get out of it, so I thought hard.

"Well… the blood? Why was there a message on the wall written in German that wasn't the victim's?" I began.

"Obviously it was the killer's blood." Gregson answered without hesitation.

"Then why was the situation so civil if both men were at each other's throats? Why walk together into an abandoned house with someone who had harassed your sister, going as far as to light a candle and leave no sign of a struggle on the victim? Why would Drebber take the poison in the first place?"

I surprised myself. Suddenly it was all flowing out.

"My companion is right, Detective. These are some outliers that disagree with your assessment. No sign was present of the poison being forced down the victim's throat, and there was no reason that Drebber would follow the man into an abandoned house."

Gregson looked most disappointed.

"I had considered what you've brought up, but nothing points to anyone else having any reason to kill the man."

The whole thing seemed rushed to me, and I was appalled at how Gregson had jumped at the chance to assume the case closed. I was getting more of a flavour for the rivalry between him and Lestrade. Judging by Sherlock's way of going round the office and only half listening to the detective, he was completely unconvinced by any of it.

"There is one person you are overlooking-"

"Don't you dare say it!" Gregson cut him off. "It is not to do with Stangerson. Lestrade has already fallen down that rabbit hole."

Sherlock laughed loudly, filling the office with his amusement.

"And what a large rabbit hole it must be! Has he had any luck finding this man?"

I'd already forgotten the name, though it rang a bell. I'd looked fleetingly over the particulars discovered in Drebber's wallet. A business card for a Doctor Stangerson was inside.

"He hasn't found him, no. Not that it will do him any good. So they were both doctors, so what? It doesn't mean he was murdered by the man."

He was writing the idea off so quickly that I was starting to doubt the man's capabilities as a detective. It must have been how Sherlock felt most of the time. He had referred to them as 'bumbling plods' after all.

"I would be careful Tobias. Your rivalry with Lestrade could well be the end of your career." Sherlock said as he span round in his chair to face the door.

"I don't see you with any culprit for someone so cocky!"

"Time and tide! Come on Watson, you have some studying to catch up on, correct?"

He opened the office door and put out a courteous hand for me to walk past. I did so without saying a word, hoping not to light Gregson's temper.

"Goodbye Tobias."

"Gregson!" He roared back.

The door closed shut behind us. Sherlock marched at a hefty pace towards the exit with his hands firmly in his pockets. His eyes showed a powerful focus that ignored their surroundings.

"You have had a glimpse of blind ambition, John. It's a detriment to the truth. So often a person will latch onto what they want to be real, and forsake all else, regardless of evidence to the contrary. Politics, religion, careers, it plagues them all! That's why I have little to do with it."

It wasn't a common occurrence, but deep down I agreed with him. As weird as Sherlock's ways were, he did take the effort to not plunge into the 'filth' so to speak and stay well on the side-lines where he could watch it all unfold. It was something I had once condemned about him that I came to admire.

"So that's it? Are we done with it all?"

His smile shot my hopes down with startling efficiency.

"Neither men have any idea about the truth of it all, but I have a suspicion that Lestrade has at least spotted the track," He hailed a cabby as he spoke. "I would like a word with this Stangerson."

"But we don't know where he is. Christ, Scotland Yard doesn't know! How can you find out?"

He gave me a toothy grin.

"Because Scotland Yard lacks my resources." He chuckled.

It was less than half an hour later that we were traversing the underbelly of London's urban street. I had no idea where I was but Sherlock seemed to know it like the back of his hand. We had stopped off to buy some snacks on the way, though Sherlock had stocked up a little too much and was now carrying two bags full of sandwiches and drink. We traveled down a flight of stone steps, down into the subways.

"Is there any point in me asking why we are here?" I felt like a dog on a leash.

"Because I want to introduce you to my friends."

He placed the plastic bags down and whistled with both hands to his mouth. Nothing happened at first, but then out of the dark came a group of young children rushing towards us. I stepped back, keeping my cane firmly in hand.

Sherlock fell to one knee and braced himself as a number of the kids took hold of him. They were hugging him from every angle. It was the most surreal sight I had seen all year.

"Mr Sherlock!" One cried out.

"My, my. You are getting tall, aren't you, Jared? And Lucinda, you still have a radiant smile."

I had no words to say. I simply groaned in confusion.

"This is my friend, John Watson."

My eyes came up to meet his and in a flash a kid was wrapping his arms around me.

"Are you a bad man catcher too!?" he asked enthusiastically.

"Err… yeah, I guess."

While I was waiting for the boy to let go, I watched the children ravage the plastic bags and tuck into the food. It hadn't been for us after all.

"Sometimes my casual walks have more of a purpose, John."

I was blown away.

"You do this for the homeless kids? Sherlock… that's…"

"Oh, don't worry. There is reason. Like I said, Scotland Yard has its methods. I have mine."

He sat down beside one of the girls who was scoffing a sandwich so quick I thought she might choke.

"Now, have any of you managed to come across this bad man?"

Most of them came up blank, but one did come forth quite excitedly.

"Mr Sherlock! I founded out-"

"Found out." Sherlock corrected him politely.

"I found out that the bad man goes to a haldays hotel!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Sherlock, he doesn't mean Stangerson, does he?" I asked in a daze.

"And you thought Scotland Yard was superior. Well done Barry!"

Sherlock took a chocolate bar out of his pocket and handed it to him after playfully tapping it on his head. The boy laughed and tore at the wrapper as soon as he could.

"I will be back tomorrow guys. Don't get into too much mischief!"

His hands were back in his pockets and his professional demeanour had returned. The kids were waving. I did so back, feeling compelled to. I rushed after my companion who was taking large strides back to the taxi.

"What the hell, Sherlock!? You use kids as spies!?"

"Most of these children have lost their families. They have no one and nothing left. In return for food and comfort, they are given a purpose. They help me find those that wish not to be found. No one pays attention to children scuttling around. A police officer is a warning sign, but a child is an invisible set of eyes. I've had them search for him ever since Scotland Yard proved itself incapable. Rest assured Watson, Stangerson will not hide for long."

We were back in the taxi before I could think of anything else to say.

"Halliday's private hotel, driver. Poor child, still can't pronounce very well. Soon enough, I'll change that."

I'd learnt something new about my roommate. I didn't know if I liked it or not.