Hey guys,

Merry Christmas! Hope you all are merry and gay *wink wink* :D

I've been unwell, hence this late update. :( But this chapter is a massive one! And my first attempt at writing a case! It's not my cup of tea, clearly, but I tried. There are lots of OCs in this chapter and mentions of murder. I had fun writing them. Hope you'd enjoy them, too.

Hugs and cookies for Nauss, Raven, Sandylee, Jwolf, Amista and TJSC for making my days brighter with your words. You are the best. And a squealing "looooove youuuuu" for all those amazing people who followed/favourited.

Enjoy the read. Leave a word behind if you do.

Have a dazzling and very much Johnlocked New Year!

See you next year!

You're such a beautiful freak
I wish there were more just like you
You're not like
All of the others

But that is why I love you
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak
That is why I love you
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak

Some people say
You have a problem
But that problem
Lies only with them
Just 'cause you are not like
The others

That is why I love you
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak
That is why I love you
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak

Too good for this world
But I hope you will stay
And I'll be there to see
That you don't fade away

You're such a beautiful freak
I bet you are flying inside
Duck down and then go for cover

And know that I
I love you
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak

You know that I

I love you
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak
Beautiful freak

- 'Beautiful Freak' by 'EELS'

(Song suggestion- my dear friend, Su)

Although, he had never been to New Scotland Yard before, John had some ideas about it, or at least he thought he had. He thought it to be a well maintained fancy place with competent people. Oh, how the scene had hit him after entering the Yard. It was a hovel. The cubicles and desks were cluttered with heaps of files; the waste-bins were overflowing with empty crisp bags and Styrofoam cups; the confusion etched on the staff's faces seemed perpetual.

"What the hell are you doing here, freak?"

John's head snapped towards the speaker. It was a dark skinned woman with fuzzy hair and bite-your-head-off kind of expression. And she was addressing Sherlock. Did she just call Sherlock a...freak?

"You still think I am answerable to you? How delusionally optimistic of you, Donovan."

"It's not a freak show where you can come whenever you want to and dance around."

"Bet you have enough experiences, or I dare say personal experiences, to determine that. Come on, John."

"Hey, what are, hey you-"

Sherlock didn't even spare a glance. But John came forward and stood in front this charming woman and smiled serenely. Donovan scowled.

"Who're you?"

John didn't answer, instead he said, "I respect those who are aware of their professional boundary."

The confusion joined the deepened scowled on Donovan's face.

"Good for you."

"Yeah, I bet it is. But it can be bad for you, unfortunately."

"What exactly are you trying to say? Who the hell are you?"

"I have a habit of showing people their rightful places who tend to misuse their professional power."

Donovan opened her mouth but John beat her to it.

"Call him a freak again and I'll prove it to you."

The steel in John's voice was clear even though his tone was amused.

Donovan looked too dumbstruck to yell.

John moved towards where Sherlock was standing in front of a closed door. He knew Sherlock had seen everything, and John wanted to say something but stopped himself. Sherlock was looking at him with a very serious expression and biting his lip. That was something so unusual about him that John took a moment to explore it more, but Sherlock turned abruptly and opened the door without knocking.

John rolled his eyes.

~0~0~0~

"Can't you ever knock? Damnit." Greg spat in between his coughing fit. Apparently, Sherlock's dramatic entrance (with the addition of that loud bang of the door) had forced tea down the wrong pipe of Greg's throat. "It's my office, Sherlock. You can't just come barging in like that."

Sherlock made a show of looking around, and then turned to the DI, arching an eyebrow. He looked so much like Mycroft, at that moment. John shook his head and took a look of the room. And honestly, what a mess it was!

"Um, Greg, how long have you been living here?"

"Piss off."

John snorted. Greg snorted back. Sherlock scowled, and moved closer to John.

"It is eye rottenly good to see you two getting all chummy and everything, but some people do need to work too. So, if you are finished with your snorting session, may I take a look at the case files?"

Greg rolled his eyes, "Here." He handed Sherlock a brown channel file, which he opened promptly. John peeked at it, standing beside him.

Inside, on the front page, was a picture of a man in his early twenties, along with his autopsy report and other forensic details. There were some pictures of the dead body too.

"That's William Bailey. His girlfriend claimed his body. As there was no evidence of any other foul play, the Police Department released the body. But nobody has claimed his brother's body yet. Dead parents with no other close family member. The body was in Westminster PD morgue, but after NSY took over the case, the body has been transferred to Barts. The third body is also there. Molly has done the tests herself. The reports are in that file. And you will share everything you'd-"

Sherlock dashed out of the room.

Greg threw his hands in exasperation. John face-palmed before following the brat, but stopped short at the door.

"Uh, I may have threatened one of your staff, thought you should know."

"What? Which one? What did you say? Why?"

"She called Sherlock a freak, you know." John explained, defending his action.

Greg sighed dejectedly. "Donovan then. What did you say to her?"

"I just, um, told her to back off, otherwise I'd do something unpleasant."

"Jesus, John. You threatened a sergeant, a lady sergeant of NSY?! What's wrong with you?"

"In the Army, we are trained to treat mortal threats with equality. She called Sherlock a fr-"

"I know! I know, Jesus, I am aware of what she calls Sherlock. I have warned her numerous times….. Jesus… You are not going to actually do something, like, punch her, are you?"

"Of course not!" John sounded offended, even though he was the one who made the threat. But he was just trying to scare her off. Surely Greg didn't think that little of him, or did he?
"Um, I should go now."

"Yeah, alright, yes….and, John?"

"Yes?"

"Try not to do something like this again, okay? I seriously can't deal with another Sherlock."

A very diabolical grin appeared on John's face. "Don't worry. You won't have to. I am on a different level than Sherlock."

Greg face-palmed this time.

~0~0~0~

John had never seen someone better fitted for the description of a lovesick puppy than Molly Hooper. The moment Sherlock strode into the lab, it seemed that, the rest of the world disappeared for this young woman. All her attention zoomed onto Sherlock, who for his part, promptly started throwing commands, "I need all the test results of the bodies. Anything and everything you have found, analyzed, or rather failed to analyze, along with the lab reports. "

"Hi." Came the answer to that command.

Though standing behind Sherlock, John could feel Sherlock's deadly glare. He cleared his throat. That seemed to break Molly Hooper's trance, as she looked behind the tall frame of Sherlock and saw John.

"Oh." She exclaimed in a small but shrilly voice and looked at Sherlock questioningly. The Detective blinked and frowned in confusion.

Of course, it would be confusing to Sherlock as to why Molly found it surprising that he had dragged some stranger into her lab. John sighed and came forward.

"Hello, I am John Watson."

"Oh, um, hi. I'm Molly. Hooper. Molly Hooper." She gave John an embarrassed smile, but again looked at Sherlock questioningly.

John bit his lips and hoped for Sherlock not to blurt out, 'mine' again.

"He is with me."

"Oh. But-"

"Molly, the reports and results."

John saw the girl's face fall; she looked at John again and gave a tight smile.

"Um, I should probably go and try to find Mike."

Sherlock whirled towards him with his uncanny vampiric speed.

"Why?"

"I told you that I'm gonna try to find, Mike."

"But we are busy here, in the middle of a case."

John blinked at him in confusion, "Uh, yeah, that's the point."

Sherlock scowled, clearly irritated by John's reply. "We are busy here, John. Me and you, we."

Oh. We.

"Okay, alright. But I don't see how am I…." John trailed off, watching Sherlock, who set his jacket on the back of a chair and started tinkering with the telescope on the desk."

"I need my personal assistant with me at all times." Sherlock drawled without averting his eyes.

"Oh. So, you actually need your personal slave, to bring your phone out of your own pocket, or hand you a pen which is already within your reach, or even scratch your back when you needed him to?"

"Slave? A curious choice of a word, John." Sherlock quipped with a lopsided smirk.

Uh…no, Sherlock could never make an innuendo, nope. So, John retorted back, "Brat."

Sherlock smirked. John smiled an affectionate smile without intending to, and somewhere something fell on the floor.

No, not Molly Hooper. The files she had in her hands.

~0~0~0~

The victim, the second one, white Caucasian male, in his early twenties, had a 'beautiful and neat' bullet wound on his right temple. John was pretty sure no living person held the ability to affect Sherlock enough to use those adjectives while describing them. Not even me, he thought morosely.

"John! What do you think?" Sherlock beamed at him.

"What? Oh, yes, very sad."

That earned him a scowl.

"Sad? This is a fresh murder victim, John!" As if somehow that had escaped John. "A fresh dead body of an ongoing case, well relatively fresh, at least. A case where twins are getting killed. Oh, John, this is Christmas!"

John looked horrified.

"Sherlock! He was killed, and he- could you, could you please stop squealing happily over a dead body? At least not in front of," John made a gesture towards poor sod lying in front of them, "him?"

"He's dead." Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

"Sherlock, people don't usually do that."

"Sentiment?"

"Yes."

"Boring."

John rubbed his hands over his face, and shook his head. Molly Hooper was sitting quietly in one of the corner, and John thought that a bag of popcorn would go brilliantly with her eager and excited expression. John sighed, again.

"Can I sit here while he does his...his happy jive?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure, yeah."

"Thanks."

A few moments passed quietly, but John knew the girl sitting beside him sneaked glances at him every now and then, and he could almost hear the sound of her bubbling questions.

John tuned towards her and smiled. Molly's return smile was shy.

"So, um, you know Sherlock for long?" John decided to be the one to break the silence.

"Oh no, not for long, um, it's been almost three years. It's quite long. No, I mean not loooong long, but long." She smiled with awkward nervousness.

"Yeah, that's long enough, yeah."

"Mr. Watson-"

John interrupted immediately, " Please, call me John."

"Oh, okay, alright, John." She smiled again, "Can I- can I ask you something?"

John knew what she was going to ask, "Yeah, sure."

"Does he- does he really ask you to scratch his back for him?"

Huh? No, this was not the question John was expecting. "Umm, yeah, he does, really."

John watched Molly's face fall a little.

"Oh."

There was silence again. John felt uncomfortable and wanted to ask something, anything, but he knew nothing about this, girl and after that question, he wasn't even sure what he should ask.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Are you two" Molly was clearly struggling with the word, "together?"

John looked closely at Molly. She was clearly head over heels about Sherlock. And seeing John with him today, realizing that there was something more than mere friendship going on in between them, must not have been easy for her. And yet, she was still smiling, trying not to show her disappointment. It was not pity, nor his desire to establish the fact that Sherlock was his, that encouraged John to tell her the truth. He thought that he would want to actually befriend this timid looking girl.

"I- I don't know, Molly. Uh, can I call you Molly? Thanks. We haven't labelled our relationship yet, didn't feel the need to. But for me he's the most important person in world. He's my best friend. I, uh, I hope I am his, too. And I...love him. Very much."

She, not even once, averted her eyes from him during his speech, but at the end of it she turned her sad eyes to Sherlock.

"It's impossible not to love him once you get to know him, isn't it? I don't know why others can't see it."

John was looking at Sherlock too, who was currently sitting in front of a microscope and mumbling God knew what. John's heart swelled with affection at the sight.

"Yes, it is...yes."

John looked at Molly again, who in turn looked at him and broke into an embarrassed giggle.

None of them saw the man sitting across the room narrowed his piercing eyes at them.

~0~0~0~

"John? I need more data."

The voice boomed in the otherwise silent lab, pulling John out of his conversation with Molly.

"What?"

"You are here to assist me. So, it would be helpful if you tried to keep up with me. I said, I need more data." Sherlock bristled.

John frowned, clearly at a loss, "Um, okay. So, where do we need to go?"

Of course the idiot didn't understand. "I need data, John. From you."

It was amusing to see how John's face went from confused to horrified, when the understanding dawned upon him. Finally.

"You- now?"

"Yes."

"Here?"

"Mmhm."

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"We are in the lab."

"Your talent to point out the obvious is commendable, although I fail to understand your point."

"We are in a pub-public place!"

"No, we are in a lab, as you very efficiently pointed out."

"But" John had to lick his dry lips at this point, "but Molly is here!" Why is he doing this?

"Molly, get out."

"Sherlock!" John couldn't believe this was happening.

"Oh, I, um, okay. I need to check some-"

"No, Molly, please. You don't need to go anywhere. We are- I'm sorry. Sherlock?" John threw Sherlock a death glare. In vain.

"Molly, I need John to kiss me now. I presumed that your presence would pose as a hindrance, and also you might not want to be here while that happens. But, John seems reluctant. So, you can stay where you are, if you want to."

"Oh, um-" Molly scurried away from the room as quickly as possible, sporting a crimson face.

John stood there. Too shocked to utter a word.

"Well, I am waiting."

That seemed to break John's shock bubble and he yelled, "The hell you are. What's wrong with you? Why did you do that Molly?"

And of course, Sherlock had the audacity to look obliviously innocent. "Did what?"

"Oh, shut it, Sherlock." John snapped out, but sagged his shoulder in resignation, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That girl is clearly besotted with you. Was that necessary?"

Sherlock frowned and looked away from John, focussing his gaze on his own hands instead. "I thought you would not object socially acknowledging our… whatever this is we have between us."

John could almost pin-point the moment when all his frustration towards Sherlock went away out of the window.

"Sherlock…..no no, that's not what I meant. That's not-" John rounded the table and stood beside Sherlock's chair. Sherlock didn't look up, but started to arrange some slides for the microscope, avoiding John's gaze.

"Sherlock, that's not what I meant. You know how proud I am of you. You're everything to me, and I have absolutely no qualms letting people know that this genius of a mad detective is all mine."

He decided that a pouting Sherlock was the most adorable thing he had ever seen.

"Then why were you yelling at me?"

"Because, Molly likes you. She would feel bad that you dismissed her like that."

"But, wasn't it kinder to let her know the truth rather than misleading her?"

"Well, your intention was good, no doubt, but, uh, the way you said it was…."

"Not good?"

"A bit not, yeah."

"But you are responsible too."

"Me? How?"

"You sat over there with Molly instead of sitting here with me, and giggled like two mindless school girls. I had to do something."

John was speechless for the umpteenth time that day, and then, he cupped Sherlock's face with both hands and leaned forward.

"You are one jealous bastard, aren't you?"

And smashed their lips together.

After kissing, nibbling and tasting each other for few moments- in which John sat down on Sherlock's lap for better angle, and Sherlock tugged at John's hair with all his might- they pulled away, panting and licking their still wet lips.

John was still on Sherlock's lap and tracing circles onto the soft skin behind his ears, when Sherlock spoke.

"John?" voice raspy.

"Yeah?" John replied looking at those swollen red lips.

"I have an erection."

Glazed icy blue met cobalt.

"Me too."

And they giggled, kissing each other till there was a knock and a shrilly, "It's me!"

~0~0~0~

It took exactly five words to change Sherlock's eyes from glazed to manic. It was eerie, really.

"Show me what you've got."

And immediately, John found himself being dragged into the morgue, again. A still blushing Molly accompanied them.

"So, tell me, genius, did you find out anything?"

"Anything? Hmm. Why don't you tell me what you think about his wound?"

John was taken aback completely, "Me? But... Okay, alright. Let's see." He leaned closer to the corpse. "Um, semi-automatic handgun, shot from a close range, died instantly. No apparent bruises on the body, no sign of fighting, hmm….so, the shot came...suddenly?"

John looked up and saw Sherlock beaming with satisfaction. John felt a bit shy suddenly.

"Not bad, John, not bad at all. Well, I didn't expect any less from you, but it was good."

A brilliant smile tore across John's face. "Thanks, now what didn't I get?"

Sherlock looked as if he was waiting to be asked just that. He took a deep breath and started-

"Yes, you are correct about the type of the gun. It was indeed a semi-automatic. More precisely, a Baretta Storm. The shot was a close ranged one, but it wasn't sudden. The bullet wound is on the right side. The shooter was left-handed, obviously. Now, a skilled shooter positioning himself on the victim's right side for better angle...it wasn't sudden."

Sherlock wasn't finished, yet. "Now, look at this one," Sherlock moved to the body of the third victim. Again another male. Early twenties, Caucasian- wait! Wasn't the description similar to the previous one?

"Um, Sherlock? Sorry, it's just-" John apologized immediately as soon as Sherlock scowl at him, being interrupted on mid-speech. "What was the age of the first two victims?"

Sherlock's scowl turned into a pleased smile.

"Ah, finally you have learned to ask the right questions, Watson."

John just arched an amused eyebrow but didn't say anything.

"These murders are not random. These twins are not picked out randomly. There is a link between these four." Sherlock paused, and John guessed it was more for a dramatic effect than the need for drawing air.

Oh, now Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. "Uh, what link?" John realized that he was required to ask that. Sherlock looked like a pleased drama teacher whose student had spoken the right lines at the right moment.

"The link is that they all were born in the month of April, 1992."

John's brows went up to his hairline, "What? So, they are the same age?" It was not really a question, but John could not seem to wrap his mind around it.

Sherlock hummed in response.

"Hang on. W-why on Earth someone wants to kill same aged twins? That's extremely creepy and weird!"

"No, it is not. It is in fact a very poorly executed messy plan. There is an idiot or idiots, waiting somewhere for us to hand them over to the Scotland Yard."

"So, what do we do now?"

"I asked Lestrade to send me the details about the victims' birth records. He is taking ridiculously long to provide the information. Nothing surprising there, let me tell you. But meanwhile, we are going to meet William Bailey's girlfriend." Sherlock informed, checking his phone once again, and turning to leave.

"But didn't you want to show me something about this one?" John asked, pointing at the second corpse.

Sherlock was already on his way out, tapping on his phone. "Hmm? Oh, I'll tell you on the way. Come on, John, chop chop."

The door closed behind Sherlock's retreating back. John turned to Molly.

"So, um, gotta go."

"Yeah, okay."

"It was really nice meeting you, Molly."

"You too, John. I enjoyed talking to you."

"Me too, see you soon."

~0~0~0~

"Sherlock, I swear to God, if you stop cabs like that one more time, I'm gonna kill you myself. And I am NOT bluffing."

Sherlock made a pfft-ing noise, "Of course, you are."

And of course, that went very well with John's rising temper.

"Now, listen you incorrigible brat, you-" he seemed to be struggling with his words.

"I think it was pretty cool, mate. Very James Bond-ish, if you ask me." It was the driver that chirped in.

"Yeah? Well, nobody asked you, so, keep your mouth shut, alright?" John snapped, but then looked a little more closely at the driver, two large warm brown eyes meeting his over the rear view mirror, the dark haired driver was rather good looking. "Hey, how old are you? Are you- are you even eligible to drive a cab? Do you have your licence? What are you, thirteen? Hey hey hey, keep your eyes on the road! Jesus! What's wrong with the kids these days?!" John groaned in annoyance and leaned back dejectedly.

John didn't notice how the driver kept looking at him through the mirror every now and then.

The cab finally stopped in front of an old red-bricked building. Sherlock got out first, and just when John was opening his wallet to pay, he heard the driver telling Sherlock conspiringly, "That one is mental, mate, I tell you."

John bristled. "Oh yeah? Then how about I don't pay you?"

"Oh, come on, I didn't mean it like that."

"Hell you didn't. Here," John handed him the money, "and I still think you don't have a legal licence."

John thought, as the cab sped past him, he heard a distinct, 'See you soon, John.' But that couldn't be. God, he had started hearing things now.

John turned and saw that his git of a detective had already entered the building.

~0~0~0~

"Our condolences, Miss Wright."

"Thank you, but, uh, who are you again?"

"We worked with William."

The woman, a tall red-head with a blotchy red face, frowned and looked Sherlock up and down. "You work at a departmental store?"

"Ah, no actually. When I said 'we', I meant my friend here, John."

The woman's eyes shifted to John, "Oh, I see." And she looked convinced.

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. But before he could say anything, Miss Wright opened the door more widely for them to enter. While they were walking towards the offered couch, Sherlock whispered into John's ears, "Investigate, John. Amaze me."

John froze mid-step. Investigate? What would he investigate? Did Sherlock really want him to ask the questions? But he hadn't any clue what to ask! Bloody hell.

"Er...uh..I am...we are sorry for your loss, Miss Wright. He was a good man." John said aloud. Internally he was chanting, 'calm the fuck down. You can do it. Damn you, Sherlock. Not really.'

Jenny Wright, the young woman, sat opposite them, and sniffled in reply. John looked at Sherlock, who was currently tapping his foot and observing Jenny like a hawk, didn't look back. John gulped.

"So-"

"Would you like something to drink? Tea or-"

"Water, please." John interjected. Beside him, Sherlock chuckled. Git.

"What the hell am I supposed to say?" John gritted his teeth and growled at Sherlock as soon as Jenny left the room.

"Why, John, you were a soldier; you were trained to interrogate."

John gaped. "I was an Army doctor. And they were suspected terrorists, not a bereaved gi- oh, thank you."

The said bereaved girlfriend had returned with two glasses of water.

"So, you had been working with Billy for long?"

"Uh, no, not really. Just a few months. He was a good man. Let me tell you, Miss Wright, how deeply sorry I am for your loss, and how his death has grieved me. But, um, why didn't you demand an autopsy?"

"An autopsy? Why an autopsy? It was a hit and run, wasn't it? Some bastard ran over him... Oh, my poor Billy..." The sniffling renewed full on.

"Of course, yes, of course. But the driver hasn't been arrested yet and…um, so, was there anyone who wasn't that much friendly with him, or...you know, wanted to hurt him? Enemies, maybe?"

"Billy? No, he wasn't that sort of a guy. He was really sweet and helpful. Caring and funny. We were saving for our marriage, you know... Anyway, uh, he had some problems regarding his shifts with that nasty store manager of yours, but it was resolved, and surely you know all about that?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know about that, certainly. But any other incident? Had he ever experienced anything suspicious? You know, like, someone following him, or threat-mails, or, um, or..." John trailed off, clearly at his wit's end.

But Jenny was gaping at him now. " Suspicious people? But Billy never associated himself with that sort, he never- oh! Oh, God! Do you think someone killed him because of that criminal, his brother? I heard that he was killed too, after around a week later. But Scotland Yard assured me that that wasn't the case, but-but...oh..." The girl broke down completely this time.

"No, Miss Wright, I am not trying to imply that, not at all. I was just, it was just-"

"Come on, John, Lestrade has texted the information regarding the birth details."

"What? Now? But-"

"Lestrade? Isn't that the Yard guy? Why is he texting you? Who are you people?" The girl was looking at Sherlock, but now she turned her red-rimmed watery gaze to John, "Aren't you Billy's colleague?"

John wanted to kill Sherlock for his timing. "Erm...the thing is that-"

"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Wright, but we must take our leave now. And you may not want to keep that vase that your neighbour has given you. It's stolen."

With that Sherlock left the room, dragging an exasperated, fuming John with him.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Was that your idea of a joke? Because that was not remotely funny. I lied to the mourning partner of a dead guy! Then left the woman more paranoid and troubled than before. Why, Sherlock? Why?"

"Oh, please. It wasn't that bad. I mean, your interrogation technique was awful, I can give you that, but at least it was amusing." The detective sounded thoroughly amused.

Apparently, that was a very very wrong thing to do.

John looked at him with glacial cold eyes and said, "You go ahead and enjoy your investigation. I am done with it."

Sherlock went from light hearted banter to full alert mode.

"You are serious."

No shit, John thought, but kept quiet.

"But why? I just saved you from dealing with more crying. She was about to snot all over you. I did the logical thing, didn't I?"

John's jaw muscle twitched. "I am going home."

"But we have to go to the hospitals, John. I think I have an idea."

John spun on his heels instantly, "you have solved the case?"

Sherlock looked mildly annoyed, "No, not yet, but soon I will. And I need you for that."

"For comic relief, I presume?"

"I can't function without you."

John never stood a chance, did he? He closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

"Trick me one more time and I'll have nothing to do with it."

"Duly noted."

John licked and chewed his lower lip for a moment, "Okay, now where to?"

The smile Sherlock gave him was worth that shitty trick, John decided.

~0~0~0~

They first went to a private medical facility, called Divine Nursing Home, where the second pair of twins was born.

On their way John got to know that the poison that was found in the third victim's body consisted of a rare Chinese herb, which acted as the poisoning agent. It was not in the report as Molly could not identify it.

"So, how do you know about it?"

"Because, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"And modest, too."

~0~0~0~

The second pair of twins was born under the names of Christopher Harold Hicks and Robert Oscar Hicks. 4 minutes apart. Parents Rita and Emanuel Hicks. No physical deformities detected at the time of birth. No other anomaly. Two perfectly healthy baby boys.

Sherlock copied the address given in the records. There was next to no possibility of finding the remaining family there. They had victim's home address, so it would not be a problem. Sherlock had a theory, and to prove it, he needed to dig up some family history. But that would have to wait for now, as they had two more hospital record rooms to raid. Though Sherlock didn't have to check on the records regarding the Bailey twins, but John chided him for being over confident. It needed not to be told how Sherlock took that, but it was John, and Sherlock was frustratingly compliant when it comes to one John Watson.

So, they ended up in the record room of Sacred Life Hospital, some forty five minutes later.

"We are wasting our time, John." Sherlock was practically whining now.

"But, it is always good to be completely certain, isn't it? No harm in looking."

"My my, didn't take you for someone who enjoys watching, John." A very suggestive look followed that statement.

"I- what?" John was gobsmacked, to say the least. He looked horrified. Did Sherlock just make a very sexual innuendo? Would he demand for data now? Here? Oh God. What had gotten into his Sherlock?

But whatever had gotten into Sherlock chose to hide for now as, John noted, he was, once again, looking through the record and grumbling under his breath. John had to blink several times and shook his head to come back to reality.

"Why are you so reluctant to look through the Bailey records?"

"Why are you so eager?"

John managed to give his stern face in return, and Sherlock scoffed.

"Baileys looked like their parents. I saw the family photos in William Bailey's house."

"O-kay, but aren't kids supposed to look like their biological parents?" John looked utterly confused.

"They generally are. Boring. However, in this case, that doesn't help my theory."

"What's your theory?"

"All in good time, John, all in good time."

"Must you be this dramatically mysterious to me, too?"

"Can't let you be bored of me, now, can I?" Sherlock answered while striding to the exit.

John caught his left arm. Sherlock turned and looked at him questioningly.

"That's my line you are quoting, Sherlock."

For half a second Sherlock looked confused, and then he beamed.

"You are many things, but never boring, John . Not to me."

"The feeling is mutual."

Sherlock looked at John for a moment more, and then exited the hospital. But not before giving a shy peck on John's left cheek, and leaving a momentarily stupefied John behind.

Well, it seemed Sherlock Holmes never did anything half heartedly.

~0~0~0~

A total three sets of twins were born in 1992, and all of them were born in April. It was a rare incident.

They were going to another private medical facility now, St. Teresa's Home. According to Lestrade's information, here they would find the records about the third set of twins. While in the cab, Sherlock's phone chimed, signalling the new incoming text. Sherlock's lips formed a tight thin line upon reading it. He looked away, fist clenched.

John observed it all.

"They found the body of the fourth victim, didn't they?"

No response.

"From where?"

"From a muddy corner of Thames. An usually deserted area."

John clenched, unclenched his jaw. Despite his time as a RAMC in an active battlefield overseas, death was never easy to accept for him, especially if innocents were involved. John just dearly hoped for Sherlock to solve the case before the killer snatched away any more lives.

Because of NSY's special request, they never had to face any problem while surfing through the otherwise confidential data. This time the twins were a girl and a boy, and also non-identical. Anna Natalia Shaw and Fredrick Shaw were born to one Olivia Shaw on 23rd April of 1992. There was no mention of a father.

Sherlock was unusually quite since that text. Now he asked John to note the address, and started to text, John didn't interrupt him.

"So…. Are we going to visit the Hicks now?"

"No. Shaw."

"Oh, alright."

"Let's go then."

"Yeah, let's."

~0~0~0~

The address was not very far from St. Teresa's. They reached it within 20 minutes, but what stood in front of them was a very modern residential apartment building. The chances of their finding the Shaw family here went from small to almost nil.

After coaxing, threatening and pleading the security guard again and again, (the sod was over acting his part, bastard), they came to know that the old landowner, a Mrs. Newby, still resided in the building.

They buzzed her flat from the outside.

A frail old voice greeted them over the speaker after a long moment.

"Who is it?"

"Tell me what you know about the Shaw family."

"What?"

John gave Sherlock a solid shove and stood in front of the speaker.

"Hello ma'am, good evening, uh, we are looking for the Shaw family that used to live here, can you tel-"

"Paw? Whose paw?"

"Not paw, Shaw, Olivia Shaw."

"Saw? Oh, saw whom? Is that you Gerard?"

Damn it. "Olivia Shawwww", John almost screamed.

"Oh, Olivia Shaw? But I am not her. She left a long time ago."

"Can you please tell us about her? We want to talk to you."

"Kettle?"

John banged his head on the side wall, completely defeated. And just when Sherlock was about to screamed through the speaker, the sodding guard took pity on them and came forward.

"Mrs. Newby, you've got visitors, shall I send them to you?"

John frowned. If she couldn't hear a thing when he was practically screaming his lungs out, how could she possibly hear that? As if to mock him, the speaker chirped just then, "Visitors? Why, yes. Send them up, Gerard. I wonder who they are though. The London Knitting Group, maybe….." Her voice trailed off.

"London has a knitting group?" Sherlock glared at John, as if it was somehow his fault that the group existed.

After a few moments, John stood, with a scowling, glaring, grumpy Sherlock, in front of a door that said 24D. The lady, who opened the door after the knock, could have easily been two hundred years old. A little, fragile woman, with a face so wrinkled that it resembled the detailed route map of London. But she had a kind warm smile, and John was immediately reminded of Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh? You are not from the knitting group, are you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, clearly to retort, but John beat him to it.

"No ma'am, we are not. I am John and this is Sherlock. We just wanted to talk to you for a minute."

"Oh, such handsome faces. Come inside, come come."

The flat was very minimally furnished, but was very clean and well kept. A ginger house cat was snoozing off over one of the comfy looking chairs. It opened its eyes, looked at Sherlock and scowled, who scowled back, thus declaring their mutual feeling of hate at first sight. They sat on the sofa.

"Want some tea, gentlemen?"

"No, we're fine, but thank you, Mrs. Newby."

"I don't think you came here to give an old woman like me some company, did you?"

"Why? Is it a common occurrence for you to have strangers coming to you to offer their company?"

John kicked Sherlock under the tea-table. But Mrs. Newby didn't look fazed; she laughed good naturedly, then tutted Sherlock, "Don't underestimate old people, young man. That pretty face will also look like this someday." She pointed at her own face.

But obviously Sherlock had to have the last word, so he replied, "We are not related, and physiologically very different. Therefore, there is absolutely no scientific reason for me to look anything like you in the future."

John aimed another kick but failed. The brat had moved his leg, predicting the coming blow.

Mrs. Newby turned to John with a very amused smile and asked, "Keeps you quite busy, that one?"

John gave a tired but fond smile, despite himself, "All the time."

"What do you know about the Shaw family?" Of course, it was Sherlock.

The old lady looked puzzled for a while, then the memories resurfaced, "Oh, you mean Olivia and her beautiful babies?"

Both of them nodded in reply.

"She was my tenant. A very fine woman. Could have gotten a better job than the one she was doing. Then had her babies- twins, a girl and a boy. Beautiful babies. And suddenly, one day she left with them." Her eyes had become clouded with the memories of the long past.

"Her husband, what about him?"

"I never knew him. I didn't even know she had one. While renting the rooms, she said she was single. Then she became pregnant and told me that her husband worked in a merchant ship, when I asked her about him. But honestly, I believed that she had those babies out of wedlock. I didn't mind though. You see, being childless, I know how to appreciate motherhood. And I liked Olivia very much." She paused to take a break. Her cat was now on her lap, giving Sherlock the evil-eye.

But before she could resume he monologue, Sherlock asked, "You said, she used to work. Where?"

Mrs. Newby seemed to look for that piece of information within her head. "I can't remember much, it's been too long…..but she was a private, um, private secretary of some sort. Of a very rich man."

A vague line was appearing, linking the dots in front of John's eyes. But he decided not to wild guess. Sherlock continued his questioning.

"When did she leave your house?"

"Just a few months after she had her twins. But she came back once."

"She what?" John blurted out.

"Yes, she came back after two or three years. Was looking for a place to stay. So, I let her stay in her old rooms. But she left after a month or so. Or was it four months? I can't remember exactly."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea where did she go, or where is she now?"

Mrs. Newby seemed contemplative, but suddenly she looked at them a bit more sharply. "Why are you asking so much about Olivia? Who are you?"

John was surprised to see that it took this kind lady this long to get suspicious of them. Maybe, it was her loneliness that had clouded her sense of caution, and made her grab any opportunity to have a chat with whomever that might be.

"Mrs. Newby, my friend here is a Consulting Detective. We are investigating a case."

"A consulting..- what does that mean?"

"It means-"

"We are with the New Scotland Yard, ma'am. We are undercover." John could feel Sherlock's scorching glare boring holes into the side of his face, but it was the best thing he could think of at that moment.

On the other hand, Mrs. Newby looked even more puzzled and a bit worried now. "Police? You are police? What case? Is little Annie in trouble? But she is a very good girl, let me tell you. She even-"

Sherlock didn't let her continue. "Annie? Are you talking about Anna Natalia Shaw, Olivia Shaw's daughter?"

"Why, yes! Do you know her? Is she alright?" Her worry was increasing rapidly. But Sherlock had no time or intention to soothe her.

"You had any contact with her recently? Do you know where she lives? Address or contact number? Anything?"

"I have her phone number, yes. I met her by chance, actually." She got up, probably to look for the phone number. The cat came towards John and nuzzled its face into John's jeans clad calf, before leaving the room. Sherlock looked positively blood-thirsty. Mrs. Newby's voice came from the other room, "…was returning home from one of my check-ups that day, and stumbled upon her. She visited me when she first came to London, so I recognized her. She gave me her phone number, saying that I should call her if I ever need anything medical related. She is a nurse now. A pretty young lady, all grown up… Here, it is her number."

Sherlock almost snatched the slip of paper from her hand. And got up to leave. John got up too.

"Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Newby. You helped us a lot. Thank you once again, and take care, alright?"

The old lady smiled, but soon her face became anxious again, "Will you please let me know if Annie is alright? She is a very nice girl, not like someone who may cause trouble."

Sherlock was already holding the door open. But John felt the urge to reassure the lady before dashing off, "Of course, I will. I will ask Annie to call you herself, yeah? And please check before you let strangers into your flat. Goodbye, Mrs. Newby."

John then followed Sherlock, shutting the door close behind him, but not before he heard an enraged cry of a cat.

"Did you just kick her cat?!"

"Merely checking its reflexes."

"Sherlock!"

The detective was already tapping on his phone, the slip of paper clutched in one hand. Once they are outside, standing on a sidewalk, Sherlock dialled the number. John was standing close enough to hear a "Hello" when the call was received.

"May I speak to Miss Anna Natalia Shaw?"

There was a pause before the tinny voice replied, " Who is it?"

John watched Sherlock's brow furrowed before answering, "Are you Miss Shaw?"

Another pause, as if the speaker was considering whether to answer or not. "Yes, I am, but who are you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened considerably, John looked alarmed.

"Natalie?"

~0~0~0~

Don't you think John did the right thing while bashing Donovan? How was the case so far?