This time there were four men in the flat, the two she already knew – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, whose names were easy to remember because one was so unusual and one was so typical in comparison – and two others whom she didn't know.

One of them was older, fairly tall, not quite as tall as Sherlock but close, with greying hair and sharp blue eyes that were narrowed at her not quite suspiciously, more as though they were evaluating her. The other was younger, taller than John but not as tall as the older man, with light brown hair and green eyes that were a shocking hue and were probably that color because of colored contacts, she decided. He was grinning at her, as though laughing at some private joke.

The flat smelled very faintly of cigarettes, but some of the windows were open, even though it was late November, as if to chase out the scent.

"Brilliant, you've come," Sherlock said after John had let her in and led her upstairs. He looked different than the last time she'd seen him, but she couldn't quite peg how. Less – focused somehow. If that made sense. More, she realized, like the first time she'd seen him, at Angelo's. Almost three weeks ago.

The flat was still just as much of a disaster as it had been the last time she'd been there, only now there was a mess of pillows on the couch and some blankets that hadn't been there last time. She noted this because it seemed like it was the only surface not littered with papers or files. And those scarves were still out, and the photographs.

And the mirror was marked up with permanent ink. Someone had written on it:

"Is anyone listening?"

"What's that?" she demanded, momentarily forgetting about the other two men, pointing at the mirror. "Was that the message?"

Sherlock laughed and her eyes snapped back to him. He looked positively gleeful as he nodded.

"Well done!" he said, although it really hadn't been that hard.

"What kind of bloody message is that?" she snapped. "It's mad! Who would kill a bunch of people to ask if anyone is listening? Couldn't he just make a bloody phone call or send letters?"

At this, Sherlock smirked and the younger man, with the fake green eyes, grinned at her. John looked surprised and exchanged a glance with the older man.

"He's a psychopath," Sherlock said, as if this was some sort of valid reason to run about like a mad man murdering innocent people and leaving a message in different shades of blue in scarves. Holly stared at him, disbelieving. "Of course it's mad. Although for a psychopath, it's probably quite reasonable."

"You would know," the older man muttered, but there was no bite in his voice, almost a resigned humor.

"Sociopath, there's a difference!" Sherlock snapped and Holly started. He was a sociopath? What was going on here?

If he noted her reaction, he ignored it, gesturing her to come in further. She did, reluctantly, John closing the door behind her.

"Come on, they don't bite. Nor do I. Well, sometimes, but only John."

"Sherlock!" John snapped, suddenly red in the face, and the green-eyed man started laughing, pressing a fist against his lips, shoulders shaking. Holly noted that Sherlock and John were wearing matching wedding bands, which she had not noticed last time, but probably because the whole situation had been so strange.

Not that this wasn't strange. But it was the same sort of strange as the previous visit, so it was almost becoming – familiar.

"Holly Adams, this," Sherlock gestured at the older man who had "cop" written all over him, if she was any judge, "Is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And this is Agent Samuel Dimmock, from Interpol. Incidentally, yes, that is really his eye color and he's not wearing contacts."

Holly started at this, uncertain what was surprising to her – the fact that there was a high ranking police officer and an Interpol agent in the flat or the fact that Sherlock had guessed about what she thought about the agent's eyes.

"Not guessed, deduced. You kept looking at him, trying to puzzle something out, but not if you'd seen him before or knew him or anything of that type. And he does have unusual colored eyes. But not contacts."

"Nope," the Interpol man, Dimmock, agreed. Interpol people said "nope"?

It doesn't half whiff of testosterone in here, does it? she asked herself. But really, it didn't. She would have expected four cops – well three cops and one Interpol agent – to be jockeying with each other for who was in charge. Even though it was Sherlock and John's flat, it seemed that the older man was the one everyone was going to defer to, somehow.

"And where did you dig her up?" the older man, Lestrade, asked.

"I didn't 'dig her up', Lestrade, show some respect, please. I met her at Angelo's almost three weeks ago. I told you, she's an artist. And she saw the killer, too."

"What?" Holly nearly yelled and Sherlock and Lestrade turned to look at her, Sherlock looking utterly surprised, Lestrade looking surprised and annoyed. She barely noticed this for the cold shock that went through her. "What are you talking about, I saw the killer? Where! What?"

"Do keep up," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed and gave Sherlock a look that Sherlock knew all too well .

"What?" Sherlock retorted and Lestrade raised his hands in a exasperated gesture. Holly looked between them, clutching her shoulder bag's straps tightly in one fist. Sam stepped forward, holding up a hand to her in a conciliatory or reassuring gesture.

"What he is trying to say and as usual, failing, the man you saw at Angelo's when you saw Sherlock there, the cellist who came in to play, he's the man we're looking for."

She stared at him, stunned, then at Sherlock, then Lestrade, then John.

"What?" she asked again. "Wait– that's– what? That's insane! He was just– he was just playing! Like a normal person! Then you're telling me he just went off and killed a bunch of people?"

"Well he waited two days, so it wasn't 'just'," Sherlock said.

Holly stared at him, her mouth dropping open.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she demanded.

He blinked, looking surprised.

"No, it's just factual," he said. Beside her, John sighed, a weary, put upon sigh.

"Sherlock, stop. You're scaring the hell out of her," he admonished and, astonishingly, Sherlock pulled a face at him, which John ignored. "Holly, I'm sorry, it's a bit of a shock, I know. Yes, I know he was just playing and seemed normal. That's how psychopaths are. On the surface, at least."

"So, what, is he going to come round and murder me next?" she demanded.

Lestrade shook his head.

"We don't think you're in any danger, because he seems to be targeting couples that may have attended performances he was giving. But we could use your help in finding him. Sherlock says you're a gifted artist and that you drew him once before. Is that right?"

She nodded, feeling somewhat less nervous but by no means unconcerned. There was, apparently, a mad man running about killing people and she'd drawn a sketch of him.

"Oh. You want me to sketch him now," she said.

"Yes!" Sherlock said, actually clapping his hands together like some excited child. "See, I told you she was intelligent!"

"I didn't say I didn't believe you," Lestrade said. "I just pointed out we have our own sketch artists that you could have described him to."

"She'll remember better than I," Sherlock said, scowling slightly as he said this. "Since she didn't take any recent knocks to the head."

Holly gave him a puzzled look but he waved it off. Had he been hit on the head? Maybe that explained the less focused look he had right now.

"This is not standard police procedure," Lestrade admonished.

"Well, I'm not standard police," Sherlock replied.

"Yes, I know. And I'll have my badge back that you nicked, again, thank you very much."

"Wait, you're not a cop?" she asked Sherlock.

"Consulting Detective," Sherlock sniffed in reply.

"Detectives can consult?"

"Only me."

Holly blinked, then turned to John.

"Doctor," he said, looking apologetic. "Sorry."

She turned to Dimmock, who grinned.

"Really an Interpol agent. I've a badge, and I'd show it to you, but I appreciate you might not believe in badges right now."

Grumbling under his breath, the consulting detective – really? – fished for something in his coat and returned it to Lestrade, who gave him a meaningful glare. Holly shook her head, feeling more than a little out of her depth.

"Well, okay, I can draw him. I'll need somewhere to sit and some space to work. And some tea."

"John, tea," Sherlock said, and John rolled his eyes but went into the kitchen and Holly got the feeling that this wasn't the first time he'd been sent to make tea for an odd group of people. With Sam's help, Sherlock busied himself clearing some space on the overrun desk.

"Is this going to get me into any trouble?" Holly asked Lestrade, who gave her a quick, rueful smile.

"You, not at all. Him," he pointed at Sherlock, who waved a dismissive hand without looking up from the table, "Definitely. Although it never seems to stick. If you can give us an accurate sketch, it might help us actually identify this man and catch him. And that, believe me, will not get you into trouble."

"Well I can definitely give you an accurate sketch," Holly said, feeling certain about at least this one thing.

When a space had been cleared for her and John had brought her tea, for which she thanked him, she pulled out her sketchbook and pencils and set them in front of her.

"You," John said, pointing to Sherlock, "Need to sit down."

This was not explained any further, and Sherlock pulled another face but settled into an armchair after dislodging a stack of files and plopping them on his lap, flipping open the top one. John went into the kitchen to make more tea and Sam went with him, bringing out two mugs a few minutes later. Lestrade settled himself at the other end of the table from Holly, watching vaguely, but this did not bother her.

She thought for a moment, bringing him up in her memory, which wasn't too difficult, because she'd been watching him and drawing him the whole time he'd been playing.

And he was such a good looking bloke, too, she thought with some regret. Bit on the old side for her, though, because he'd looked at least in his thirties. And, apparently, bit on the psychotic-mass-murderer side, too, come to think of it.

Holly let her hand do most of the work, not really thinking, not paying attention to the sounds around her. Occasionally, she'd pick up her tea with her right hand while her left kept up with the lines and the strokes and the fine smears of shading.

It seemed to take almost no time at all, but it always felt that way when she really focused, and she looked up and checked her watch, almost forty minutes had passed. It was a quite good representation of how she remembered the man, she thought, seeing as she hadn't really given him much consideration after that day. Sherlock stood from underneath his pile of files and came to look at it, frowning pensively, then nodding.

"Yes, precisely," he said and gestured for her to pass off her sketchbook, which she did. He held it up for Lestrade, who raised his eyebrows in appreciation of her talents – but she knew she was good – and then for Dimmock.

"Recognize him from any Interpol shots?" Sherlock asked.

"What am I, some sort of walking database of mug shots for international criminals? No, I do not recognize him, but give me a copy and I'll run it."

"I'll need to take the original of that," Lestrade said. "Can you tear it out for me?"

She did so, passing it off, and he thanked her, then gave her one of his business cards.

"If you even think you see him again, call me immediately. On that number. No matter what time, even the middle of the night. Straight away. Understand?"

Holly nodded, feeling a bit nervous again.

"Can I go now?" she asked, suddenly wanting to get home to her mum and dad and Fudge, their corgi, where things felt normal again and she wasn't surrounded by cops and consulting cops and doctors and creepy messages from serial killers.

"I need your number first," Lestrade said and she gave it to him. Sherlock paid her again and she tried to refuse, but he wouldn't hear it, and Holly ended up taking the money eventually. It was always good to have for art supplies. And she was, after all, now responsible for drawing the portrait of a murderer so the police could catch him. Probably the murderer wouldn't be too keen on that. She deserved some compensation, she decided.

She left the three cop-types bickering about the killer and where he might be and what their next logical course of action was – which seemed somehow inappropriate because it was so amiable in tone – and John let her out, giving her a sympathetic smile.

"It takes some getting used to," he admitted as he waited with her on the sidewalk while she tried to hail a cab.

Holly gave him a shocked look.

"I don't have any plans of getting used to it," she said.

"Right," John said, giving her a cryptic smile. Before she could ask what he meant, a cab had pulled up and John had opened the door for her, thanking her for her time and bidding her good-bye.

"Where are we going?" John asked as Sherlock tossed him his coat once Lestrade and Dimmock had left.

"Out," Sherlock said.

"Oh yes, I couldn't actually deduce that one on my own," John said, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Out where, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock didn't deign to answer, twisting his scarf round his neck and shouldering on his long coat before fishing around in his pockets for his gloves. John sighed, putting on his own scarf and zipping up his jacket. Of course Sherlock's first venture out of the flat since he'd been attacked would be to try and track down information on the same man who attacked him.

The hard look of purpose in Sherlock's eyes told John he was not to be detracted from this, no matter what the doctor might want or think is best or say or do. John supposed he could throw himself bodily in front of the door and Sherlock would just climb out the bedroom window and down the fire escape.

It was best, he considered with resignation, to just go along. After all, he was well versed in emergency care, should it come to that.

Sherlock had taken a copy of the picture Holly had drawn before Lestrade had left with it. John wondered who among the detective's myriad and not so surprising contacts they were going to see and if he'd get any sleep that night.

They took their guns, for good measure, and John silently prayed for an excuse to use it against the man, if they found him. He knew he shouldn't – this sort of vigilante justice was what the law was set up against. But he itched to take a shot at the man who had attacked his genius and left him in an unoccupied symphony hall where, if someone hadn't come to his rescue, Sherlock might easily have died.

The thought made him cold and he shuddered, even though they were still inside.

"But I didn't," Sherlock said and John didn't bother pointing out that he hadn't said this out loud.

"You could have," the doctor replied shortly, his words clipped.

"But I didn't. There is no 'what if', John."

"Still," John muttered, finding his keys as Sherlock unlocked the door. The detective raised an eyebrow but said nothing, which was as good as an admission of understanding as John was likely to get in any circumstance.

They left the flat and made their way to Angelo's, which surprised John. He knew that Sherlock wasn't there for a meal, although Angelo, ever hopeful, snagged two menus when they walked in.

"Do you remember the cellist who was here three weeks ago?" Sherlock asked without preamble, waving away the gesture toward a table.

"'Course I do," Angelo replied. "Want to take him up on his offer, do you?"

John frowned in surprise and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, you remember, Sherlock. He said something about starting a duo. I told you that you could play here."

"No," Sherlock said, his voice cool. "I need to know if you've seen him lately."

Angelo looked surprised.

"Well, yes," he said. "Came around two days ago, looking for you, actually. Told him I hadn't seen you in awhile, but that wasn't surprising, because you'd been laid into by some bloke while you were on the job. Well, told him you were on the job, at least."

John froze and Sherlock favored him with a particularly icy glare.

Had to write about that, didn't I? John thought, wanting to kick himself for it. But of course, they hadn't know then that the killer and the attacker were one and the same and that Sherlock had actually met him – even if only by chance – once before. And John had been desperately hoping that someone out there among Sherlock's homeless network would have seen something or know someone who'd seen something. Anything that would lead to the arrest of an unknown attacker who had smashed another man's head repeatedly against a hard armrest.

"What did you tell him about me?" Sherlock demanded.

"Gave him your name and number."

"Oh, brilliant," Sherlock muttered.

John sighed and rolled his eyes and Sherlock redirected his attention to Angelo.

"At least tell me that you didn't provide him with any information on Holly Adams," he said.

The restaurateur looked surprised.

"No, why would I?" he asked.

"See that you don't," Sherlock snapped. He turned to leave, then spun back, pointing a gloved finger at the other man. "In fact, if he comes back, call the police as soon as you can. And don't mention that I've been here!"

He stalked out, leaving John to tidy up the mess, as per usual.

"What–" Angelo started.

"He's the man who attacked him," John sighed. "And a killer. So really, do call the police if you see him."

With that, he darted out, jogging down the block after Sherlock, whose long legs swallowed the distance too quickly. John slowed down once he'd caught up and shot a glance at the stony features which shifted from anger to irritation. On almost anyone else, John thought, this would look the same, but it was a noticeable difference on Sherlock.

"Shouldn't we be trying to find out how all the victims are connected?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock replied. "The police can do that, as can Dimmock. It's scarcely relevant any more. We know he found them at performances."

"No, you think he did."

"It's the same thing."

John repressed a sigh, but got a pointed glare aimed his way anyway, and it was made worse by the fact that Sherlock was right.

"So, what, we're going to tear about London all night looking for him?"

"No, that would be pointless and unproductive. We're going to see if we can't find some people who've seen him."

"Should I point out that the people who seem him end up dead?"

Sherlock stopped abruptly and spun round to face John, grey eyes blazing in the dusky light and the streetlamps.

"Yes. Some people who have seen him end up dead. I am not dead, despite your little 'what if' scenarios, Holly Adams is not dead, Angelo is not dead, and a host of other people who must have seen him perform are not dead, or else we'd have a larger number of bodies on our hands."

"We don't even know his name," John pointed out.

"No, but we know what he looks like, which is, at present, better than knowing his name. John, think! He went round to Angelo's asking about me because he gathered from our interaction that Angelo and I know one another. He knows from Angelo, who knows from your newspaper work, that I am not dead nor am I hospitalized and am actually recovering. What he doesn't know is how much I remember nor if I remember him. Given the severity of the concussions he inflicted upon me, he may be safely assuming that I cannot remember, and I wouldn't, if Dimmock hadn't bought those cigarettes – and don't think I didn't notice you bin them when we left the flat. Also since he knows I'm alive and not suffering from any serious damage, he knows he's at risk of being caught. But he won't run, because he's also just landed himself a steady job as a musician, which is what he wants."

"How do you know that?" John demanded.

"Remembered it," Sherlock said shortly. "Right before we got to Angelo's."

"Anything else you want to share with me that you remember?" John asked.

"Not right now, no," Sherlock replied. "If he's working in the city as a musician, he can be tracked down via other local musicians. It's not so small a community that I think we'll stumble upon someone who knows him quickly, and he'll have altered his looks by now, but there will be people who have seen him before this and will recognize him. And who will know his name."

"So we're going to go round to what – all the local bands and performances?"

"No, just the pertinent ones, where Clayworth and Assad and the Gordon's went to see the live local shows. That's where we'll find people who recognize him. But it may take some time."

Brilliant, John thought, but refrained from saying it.

"What is he, invisible?"

Sherlock sighed, but the sound was lost in the noise from the crowd and the music bleeding out from the entrance to the small club.

Hadn't he said this would take time? What did John think "time" meant? Half an hour?

He recognized that John was running low on patience because he was tired, but the cause of that fatigue made no sense – John had got in a good several hours earlier that day and shouldn't be feeling tired, even if they had been at this going on three hours now.

"If you'd like to go back home, you're more than welcome to," Sherlock said calmly, walking toward the alley and stepping into the shadows, pausing a moment to give his eyes some time to adjust.

Behind him, unseen but not unfelt, John gave him a look that bordered on disbelief.

"And leave you on your own to pass out in a darkened alley somewhere?"

"I'm not going to pass out in a darkened alley. Or on a lit street. Or anywhere, John. I feel fine."

"Looked at yourself in a mirror lately?" John snapped.

Sherlock sighed again, rolling his eyes.

"Of course not, John. I haven't been near any mirrors lately."

"Tell me about it," John muttered. "Could we at least go inside one of these places instead of skulking around the back? I could use some food. And something to drink."

Sherlock spun on the spot, stopping so abruptly that John nearly collided with him, giving a reflexive curse. Sherlock held his silence until John was paying full attention to him and narrowed his eyes in the low lighting.

"Do you imagine I am not as invested in apprehending this man as you are?" he asked, his words clipped. "You run through your 'he might have died' scenarios but you seem to forget that I have spent the past nine days either in the hospital or at home on the sofa with no memory of what happened and unable to work or even think quite clearly and it is only because our killer happens to be a smoker that I was able to regain any of those memories at all. Nine days in which he could be anywhere by now, only we can be fairly certain he's still in London because of Angelo's inability to pick up on anything odd about him."

He ignored the fact that he was fairly certain he hadn't noticed anything that had raised alarms in his own mind as well.

"As for what we're doing, skulking around the back, as you put it, since our killer is a smoker, he will therefore spend at least some of his time at performances smoking, which is not allowed inside any establishments anymore. Given that employees tend to congregate behind these buildings to smoke, and the volume inside these places, our best chance of finding someone who recognizes this man is not inside, but outside. If you dislike the sulking, you are welcome to wait out front and see if you can't spot him or something else that might be useful. And if you're hungry, you need only have said; we passed a fish and chips stand only a block back, but you didn't ask to stop. I know you enjoy thinking it, but I cannot read your mind and I am not interested in eating anything."

He waited while John worked his way through his surprised expression then sighed.

"Sorry," John muttered, bundling his hands into his coat pocket, hunching his shoulders somewhat, but not out of any sense of feeling abashed, not really.

"If you're cold, you could go wait inside," Sherlock pointed out.

"Again, not leaving you on your own," the doctor replied and Sherlock knew that was accurate – it was very much the doctor in John making that decision.

"Then don't waste anymore time complaining," Sherlock said and turned round again, making his way through the alley to the back of the club, where a darkly-painted door was propped open with a cinder brick and two young women were sitting on similar bricks just outside the patch of light, one of them smoking, one of them not, but both of them chatting with one another.

They looked up hurriedly at the deliberate noise Sherlock made as he stepped toward them, John in his shadow. The non-smoker half rose, extending a protective arm out in front of the smoker, who had frozen, her face a mask of shock and trepidation.

"Quite all right," he assured them. "Police. I need to know if you've seen this man."

He pulled the sketch his pocket, making sure to stay several steps away and not move forward as he held out the piece of paper. The non-smoker glared at him suspiciously but he held his ground and she moved forward warily, snagging the paper from his hand, glancing back at the door. Sherlock did not have to be told that assistance in the form of some very large and burly men was only a shout away. He dropped his hand and took a step back for good measure.

The non-smoker glanced at the picture, frowning, then shook her head, passing it down to her companion.

"Cass?" she asked.

The smoking woman shifted her cigarette to her other hand and took the paper, contemplating the sketch.

"No, never– wait. Yeah, I have seen him."

"Where?" Sherlock demanded. "And when?"

"Um, two, three nights ago, maybe. Three, yes. At a club, over in Earl's Court. The Troubadour. He was playing with some other blokes and one woman. A string quartet. Not my normal cup of tea, but they were good. They had a few of them, maybe four, actually, that evening."

"Do you remember the name of his ensemble?"

"No, like I said, there were a few of them."

She handed the paper back.

"What's this all about, then?" she asked.

"Were you paying attention to his music?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring her question.

"Well, yeah, that's why I go. And I did say they were quite good, didn't I?"

"Who were you with?"

"What? With some mates from school from way back. What does that matter?"

"I need the names of your friends who saw him, too."

"What, is he in some kind of trouble?"

"You might say that. Police business."

"Always bloody the same. All right." She gave him the names and Sherlock entered them down in his notebook as contacts, ignoring the pointed look he could feel John giving him from behind.

Sherlock nodded a thanks, slipping the sketch and notebook in his pocket, ignoring a second exasperated look from John – he seemed full of those tonight – and walked back down the alley.

They emerged back onto the street, with the lights and the music from the club and the milling crowd outside, and Sherlock stopped in front of a wall of bills and posters. Most people ignored these, cataloging them as only background information, and most of the postings were outdated, but that didn't matter. He scanned them anyway, looking for some mention of string quartets playing in the area or in nearby venues, but if there were any, they'd been plastered over by other things. He looked for mentions of the Troubadour, which he hadn't heard of before, but refrained from mentioning because John would probably be appalled by what he considered Sherlock's continuing ignorance about all things pop-culture.

He found a couple of likely looking flyers and pulled them down, folding them carefully and slipping them into his pocket.

"What are those for?" John asked.

"Later," Sherlock answered vaguely.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a slightly disapproving look when he swept into the workroom that had been taken over by files, boxes, uniformed officers and a general police mess of coffee mugs and take away. Tables were also displaying various files, one of them Holly's sketch, the other, beside it, the photograph of the same man, only younger, six to eight years by Sherlock's quick but accurate estimation.

He ignored the look, because Lestrade appeared more tired than Sherlock himself felt, and everyone was looking tired, so it wasn't as though he had some monopoly on fatigue, which he was barely even feeling, no matter what the faint aches in his lower left leg were telling him.

He made rapid assessments of all the officers in the room, out of habit, but ignored this as background noise in his mind, because it wasn't entirely relevant, but could become so later.

"His name is Thomas Michael Bainbridge," Lestrade said as Sherlock shucked his gloves and John half-collapsed into a chair, a bit over-dramatically, Sherlock thought.

"Yes, I see that," the detective replied coolly. He took a moment to evaluate the picture – a fairly ordinary looking man, good bone structure, attractive features, sharp, intelligent brown eyes that were not entirely revealing the extent of that intelligence and not at all revealing the stark madness that lay behind them. So, sometime after he'd started killing then, although Sherlock suspected that Bainbridge had never really let that show as an adult. Probably as a child, before he learned to move through the world unremarked upon.

He wondered suddenly who had taught this man to play the cello. He'd said something at Angelo's about his mother teaching him, but it could well have been a lie. It sat ill with Sherlock, making a chill course down his spine, that they might share something so personal with each other.

The photograph was not a police mug shot, so Bainbridge had never been arrested, at least not as an adult. Most likely, Sherlock thought, he'd run into troubles with the law prior to turning eighteen, but for minor things, vandalism, fights that would have involved excessive ferocity but in which the other fighter – victim – would not want to press charges, that sort of thing. Nothing that would pin anything too damning on him, which would allow him to navigate a system not at all designed to catch people like him before they moved up to murder.

It looked more like some sort of work photograph, perhaps for an ID badge, indicating that some of the trouble had traced him back at least to a former employer, but probably not while Bainbridge had still been working there.

"Odd jobs for someone of his intelligence," Sherlock observed. "But perhaps not for a musician. Not janitorial work, because that would damage his hands, nor anything involving lifting, for the same reason. Security for the most part, I expect."

Lestrade gave him a surprised look, but nodded.

"Not for some time, though. At least not the past year, but probably longer. He's been travelling until recently, playing where he could find jobs, which is why we have a string of murders from here to Sheffield."

"Right," Lestrade agreed. "His last permanent employment was as a part-time night watchman at a storage facility. That was seven years ago. He's thirty-two now, and there's been nothing on his National Insurance number since."

"Then he's got at least one alias," Sherlock said curtly. "Because he told me he recently found a steady job. And travelling to perform might result in some payment under the table, but there's no guarantee of that, and we can safely assume some of this would have been properly recorded for tax purposes."

"You're right," Donovan said, coming into the room, holding up a file as if to offer proof.

"I'm always right," Sherlock replied smoothly.

He shot him a glare without much bite in it, which he ignored. When was the last time he'd seen him? He couldn't properly remember – it must have been after decoding the killer's message, but pieces of the days immediately preceding the attack were missing or choppy or perhaps even invented.

He raised an eyebrow at him – he looked sharper than usual, better dressed, which was saying something, since he'd always taken care of his appearance, his hair was shorter, recently cut, not by much, but enough, and he smelled subtly different. New scent, different cologne. He appeared less tired, too, at least compared to the last time he thought he'd seen him.

"This just came back from Sheffield," he said, ignoring Sherlock in favor of Lestrade, which seemed somewhat unnecessary, even if Lestrade was his boss. "They did some digging after we sent up the sketch and it turns out that yes, someone does remember hiring him for a performance, a local art coffee house. Under the name of Brian Davidson. Still waiting on anything from Codnor and Bicester."

"Good work. Sherlock, care to fill us in on what you've been up to?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sarcasm but provided Lestrade and the other officers with a brief synopsis of what he'd found.

"Brilliant," Lestrade said, blue eyes gleaming with that familiar look that indicated someone had been cornered. "Jameson, get on it, check with the club, find out who was performing three nights ago and how to contact them. If we're lucky, someone will have seen him even more recently than three days ago, or the club will have some sort of contact information for him."

A constable nodded and rose to leave, stepping around Sam coming in, looking tired as well, Sherlock noted, as though it were contagious. He deposited his hands unceremoniously on the table, dislodging some files as he did so, and listened to the conversation.

"It could be falsified, couldn't it?" John asked. "I mean, if I were running about murdering people, I wouldn't want to leave my number just lying about for anyone to reach me."

"He's using aliases," Sherlock said. "And he wants to get paid. Without being in contact, he can't get work, and he wants to work. It's what he, for lack of a better word, loves, and it's also how he found his victims. And he doesn't leave living victims behind, nor does he ever have any witnesses, insofar as we can establish."

"Actually he had one," Sam said. "I got in contact with some colleagues with the sketch and someone actually did recognize him. Yes, don't say it, I know I didn't, but I've never dealt with him before. He's wanted in Ireland, on a break-and-enter charge in Dublin. He broke into a flat, although the only reason we know this is because the young woman who occupied the flat was home sleeping and he made a run for it when she woke up and started yelling. Wasn't expecting her. But the locks were picked so expertly that they weren't damaged at all. So we know how he gets into his victims' homes now."

"Lock picking, identify forging and getting away with murder," Sherlock mused. "No wonder he's not even been on anyone's radar until he put himself there. And on his own. How does a man like this not get picked up by a criminal organization? Or perhaps," he added, shooting a look at Sam, "by Interpol?"

"Oh, please," Sam said. "Robbing a convenience store at fifteen is hardly on par with this. I never hurt anyone, let alone went on a killing spree."

"Six stores, Sam. In two different countries."

Sherlock grinned at Lestrade and Donovan's shocked looks as they stared at the Interpol agent. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, but his lips twitched into a grin and Sherlock was glad to see a smile touch John's face again, given how tired and tense he'd been lately.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Sam said pointedly. "I didn't make a life's hobby out of it. As Bainbridge seems to have with the murders, you know."

"It's not as though you're alone," Sherlock said, taking a moment to enjoy this. "Sergeant Donovan was apprehended twice for shoplifting as a teenager and Lestrade –"

"Enough!" the DI interjected forcefully, shooting a very pointed glare at Sherlock. Donovan shook off his shock and pursed his lips. "I could draw up a pretty good list of your offences, sunshine, even the ones Mycroft and John don't know about. Need I remind you we have an actual murderer on the loose?"

"I haven't forgotten," Sherlock said. "But it can't fall to me to apprehend him. He's met me and will likely be surprised to see me up and about, but it won't last long. And he has no interest in me as a victim – again – because I don't fit his profile. The only reason he attacked me at all was because I recognized and cornered him."

"Right, you're going nowhere near the scene when we track him," Lestrade said, with which Sherlock privately disagreed, "But we need to know why he's targeting his victims. Why them? Why these couples?"

"Because they weren't listening," Sherlock said simply.

"What do you mean?"

"The woman who recognized him, she said that she was listening to him play because that's why she'd gone. But she's a musician herself, so she would naturally be more inclined to listen to others' music. By all accounts, all five couples who make up his recent string of victims were happily married. When you go out with your wife, do you pay more attention to each other, or what's happening around you?"

"Depends," Lestrade said. "Could be either."

Sherlock nodded; he was a little bit astonished to realize that because he and John did this, they had something in common with other couples, as though they were normal, but he kept this to himself because it wouldn't do for that to get around.

"Exactly. So he was choosing couples who were paying more attention to each other the particular nights on which he saw them than they were to him. Hence the message."

"That's mad," Donovan interjected. "There would have been any number of other people watching him!"

"Of course it's mad," Sherlock sighed. "He's a psychopath. Probably this resonated poorly with him and he didn't focus on who was listening, but who wasn't listening."

"All right," he conceded, and Sherlock could tell he believed him, understood, because he dealt with the results of this sort of madness – as well as many other types – every day. "But even if we catch him, we've got nothing to link him to these murders. Even if he was performing in all of these places and the victims attended his shows, it's circumstantial."

"Quite right, but you can arrest him for attacking me. I can identify him and he will be on the security footage from the Barbican somewhere. And you have the identification from Dublin, which I realize you can't prosecute here, but it should be enough for a search warrant. And he's a serial killer. He will have kept trophies."

"The crown prosecutors can worry about making the charges stick once we get there," Lestrade interrupted. "First, we have to catch him. We know who his target victims are, so once we've been able to track him down, we can get him there. Because I'm not holding my breath that he'll be living at the residence he lists on his employment forms. Or he'll have a post office box. They always do."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Sam.

"What? Not a chance! I'm done with under cover operations and I don't have any authority to arrest anyone, so fat lot of good that would do us, and he's a nurse, not a cop, so there's no way in hell I'm dragging him into this! Not me."

"He? He who?" Lestrade demanded.

"Never mind," Sam snapped.

"Fine, Donovan's newest friend," Sherlock said. "He's a police officer."

"What?" Donovan demanded. "How the hell –" He clamped his mouth shut then, glaring at him.

"You're taking more care with your appearance and you look a far sight better than you have in some years – getting rid of Anderson's done you a world of good. You don't look tired, but you also don't look bothered by being here or guilty at the fact that you had to leave someone behind, nor are you on the phone every chance you get, so this is someone who both understands the hours and the demands and works them himself. You don't feel the need to explain or justify yourself and the necessities of the job. But he's not here, or people would know and have already begun talking. Another station, probably not too far, one of the others in Central London I'd guess, and at least your rank, if not higher, I think detective, but possibly also a sergeant, not someone too high ranking, since you're only irritated that I've figured it out, not desperately hoping I'll shut up and not spill some big secret."

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but looked, of all things, slightly pleased.

Jameson chose this time to come back and glanced around in mild confusion at the tableau of expressions – most of them amused, Donovan's still somewhat annoyed – around him.

"Got them, sir. They're a string quartet, three men and two women. I ran all of them down, one of the NINs came back as belonging to someone who died fourteen years ago. Brian Davidson. He's got one that works. No address though, only a PO box."

"Bloody knew it, didn't I?" Lestrade muttered. "Give me some good news, Constable."

"Yes, sir. They're playing tomorrow night, same place. Eight o'clock start."

Lestrade turned to Donovan.

"Well, Sergeant, who is he?"

Sherlock grinned and Donovan sighed.

"Detective Sean Hillary, sir. At the Paddington Green station."

"Good," Lestrade said. "He's just come up for temporary reassignment."

They had been sent home, Lestrade treating them like disobedient little children – again! Sherlock was fairly certain he'd done this recently, although the memory was a bit hazy. Nonetheless, he felt indignant despite the fact that he actually strongly disliked the tedious planning and had nothing to do with ensuring the temporary transfer of a detective from another station to Scotland Yard. Even Sam had left, since the preparation did not necessitate Interpol's presence and he'd done what his job required of him.

"Look, you decoded his message and identified him," Lestrade had said. "And got yourself badly injured in the process. And, like you said, he'll recognize you, and despite what you and others may think, you're not an actual police officer, so your ability to arrest him is non-existent. You've done the puzzling work, Sherlock. That's what you do. Go home and get some sleep."

So Sherlock sat in the cab, slouched down, arms crossed, fuming silently because Lestrade had had the gall to be right and Sherlock knew it. He muttered unhappily to himself – he couldn't mutter unhappily to John, because the doctor had dozed off in the seat beside him, head nodding toward his right shoulder, jerking automatically back up at intervals.

Sherlock stared at him, then sighed pointedly, but John failed to wake up. So he spent the cab ride in silence, glaring out the window, becoming increasingly irritated that he was, in fact, feeling tired, and that John would probably gloat about this or lecture him on the benefits of a regular sleep pattern or just force him into bed and handcuff him to the bedposts.

"John, wake up," he said shortly when they arrived back at the flat. He paid the cabbie as John raised his head groggily and looked around. Sherlock rolled his eyes. How had he functioned in Afghanistan if he was always disoriented when he woke up? Never mind that he was waking up in the back of a cab and probably hadn't intended to fall asleep.

When they got inside 221B, John shed his jacket gratefully and sagged onto the sofa, leaning his head back and sighing.

"If you're so tired, you should to bed," Sherlock said.

John raised his head again, giving Sherlock a rueful look. The detective removed his coat with a little more decorum and hung it with his scarf, tucking his gloves into his pockets.

"What, and let you figure out what disguise you're going to wear tomorrow and how you're going to get in all by yourself?"

Sherlock turned away from his coat, and stared.

"I may not know what you're planning to wear or do, Sherlock, but I know you. Give me at least a little credit."

Sherlock started to protest the last statement, but there was a light in John's eye that told him that the doctor did not feel slighted. He gave a quick, almost pensive sigh and cocked an eyebrow at John.

"Besides, do you think I'd let you go on your own?" John asked.

"Yes, I mustn't forget my physician," Sherlock commented dryly.

"Not that," John said. "Not fair if you get a go at this guy and I don't. Why do you look so surprised? You can snip at me about my 'he might have died' scenarios if you want, but it's true. And he hurt you."

And you want to hurt him back.

"How very primal of you, John."

John shrugged, spreading his hands, unapologetic about it. He had, after all, shot and killed a murdering cabbie the first case they'd worked on, barely knowing Sherlock at all.

Murdering cabbie, murdering acrobat, murdering consulting criminal, murdering cellist, Sherlock mused. At least they all had jobs as well.

He recognized that thought as absurd, which probably indicated he needed to sleep, and shook it away, crossing the room to perch on the back of his armchair, facing John.

"I have no intentions of going into the club," he said.

John blinked, surprised.

"What?" he asked.

"He's managed to murder at least ten people without anyone so much as spotting him and noting that he seemed out of place. He alone knows how many more people he's killed. He managed to attack me without drawing any attention to himself whatsoever despite the fact that there was an entire symphony orchestra practicing not a hundred meters away from us. He's only be seen once, because he misjudged whether someone was home or not. He's an expert lock picker, and he broke into the homes of his latest victims while they were there, indicating he can do this without being detected as well."

"You think he's going to run."

"Of course he's going to run," Sherlock rejoined. "He's not the 'come along quietly' type, John. He's been successful with this his entire adult life up until this point, so why should he quit now? He knows his way in and out of places. For every place he goes, he will have at least one escape route."

"It will be surrounded by police," John pointed out.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And it may be that he'll take our bait with Donovan and Detective Hillary, although it may also be he identifies them as police officers. What is the term that the detectives in your American crime drama books use? They will be 'made'? If he's avoided the law this long, he's got good instincts for doing so. No need for him to stop using them, especially now."

"And, so, what, we're going to catch him when they can't?"

"If they can't," Sherlock admitted. "I will give them at least some credit for being able to apprehend criminals, or else we would have empty prisons."

John's lips twitched into a smile.

"If you want to help, we need to look at the lay out of the building for service entrances, emergency exits, windows, et cetera."

"And where are we going to find all of that for a music club?" John asked.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied, as though it was obvious, because it was obvious.

"Oh and we can just access building blueprints that way, eh?"

"Yes."

"All right, fine," John said. "But I need some sleep first, Sherlock, I'm shattered. And you do, too."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively; he'd been expecting precisely this, of course.

"I meant it when I asked you if you'd looked at yourself in a mirror lately. And that was what? Two hours ago. Go do it."

"How I look is hardly important."

"It is to me," John said. "And not just because I enjoy looking at you. The doctor bit of me is raising his voice rather loudly inside my head, so just humor me and do it, will you?"

Sherlock considered resisting but sighed and rolled his eyes, pushing himself from his chair instead. He went into the bathroom and heard John's footsteps behind him a moment later.

He was used to looking pale, he'd always been pale, particularly because his hair contrasted so sharply with his skin tone. And he'd seen himself following previous injuries, like the crash, where he hadn't been pale, but an interesting patchwork of blues and reds and purples and blacks and browns.

Ashen was not a term he'd ever applied to himself before. But the image staring back at him was definitely grey. There was no getting around it.

John stood in the doorway, leaning against the door-frame, arms crossed with what Sherlock considered somewhat of a smug and superior look on his face.

"Sometimes I am right," John said. "And just earlier today– sorry, yesterday now, you were complaining that you don't get to sleep with me anymore. Well, now you can. Because if I stay up for any more than two minutes at this point, I'm going to fall asleep standing up. Give yourself a few good hours, Sherlock, and then you'll do even better at finding the building's weak spots. You want to catch him? This is the best way to do it."

Sherlock huffed, turning away from his far-too-pale reflection.

"Oh, fine," he said. "But don't let this go to your head. I'm only doing this because of the concussions, not because I have any faith in your sleep-is-brilliant notions."

"Against you?" John said, a wry chuckle in his voice, "I just take my victories when I can."

"I don't like you like that," John said.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

John felt jumpy, and had done all day. This was absolutely absurd and ridiculous. What were they doing? They were planning on hanging about, looking for the man who had assaulted Sherlock, who was responsible for ten murders that they knew about and Lord only knew what else. Some niggling little voice at the back of his mind suggested that this was a matter best left to the police.

Amazing, after all this time, that he could still manage to think that, even despite himself.

But a larger, more conscious part of him didn't want to just sit back and wait. He wanted to help. He wanted to be there.

He understood perfectly that this was precisely the same vigilante justice he wanted to avoid, but couldn't help it.

And, frankly, there was no stopping Sherlock, so it was also a matter of ensuring that he wasn't attacked or injured yet again. And, he reminded himself many times, if the police were able to apprehend this killer who had proven to be slippery as an eel, then all the better. If they weren't, John was certain Sherlock could.

He wasn't very happy about that, but he was certain.

So he'd spent the day arguing with himself over his own lack of responsible behavior while simultaneously poring over blueprints of the club and looking for possible ways of escape.

Sherlock had ruled out fire escapes, because they were alarmed, which would only draw attention. Bainbridge, Sherlock had pointed out, would try and slip away unnoticed if he could, rather than just make a run for it when approached by the police. John didn't like that, and wondered how many officers would actually be outside the building. He wished he could call Lestrade, but that would alert the DI as to what they were up to, and would probably result in some hurried if not entirely legal house arrest.

There was a problem with three major roads in the immediate area, although thankfully not particularly close tube stations. Sherlock had ruled out Bainbridge going for the tube to begin with anyway, because they were monitored and the fares would slow him down, and had settled on cabs, or on foot. Or a mix of both, then perhaps the tube. After all, the man did like to think in puzzles.

He had that in common with Sherlock, it seemed.

"It hardly matters if you like it or not," Sherlock replied.

"I know," John muttered. "I just don't."

And he didn't. He was used to Sherlock in his fine wool suits and silk shirts, which suited him so well, although occasionally he got lucky and Sherlock wore other things, but they were always obviously expensive and may well have been tailor-made for him. He was not used to the faded trousers with the scuffed cuffs, what looked like some unknown department store brand, the grey jumper, the bomber jacket over top, the glasses – which were, as far as John could tell, just glass, no prescription – and the cap. Sherlock tucked his dark hair into the cap so that only a few wispy curls escaped from the back. The wincing as he did so told John the fit of the hat was bothering his injuries, but John didn't comment.

He stole one of John's black scarves and wound it absently around his neck, foregoing his usual crisp way of wearing it.

"Where do you get all this stuff anyway?"

"My network," Sherlock replied. "I store it upstairs. It's not my fault you don't go through anything up there, you know."

John just rolled his eyes, shouldering his jacket and putting on his newest scarf. It was hard to completely disguise a six-foot-two plus man who was all pale angles, but it worked well enough. Although the killer was likely to see through the guise quickly enough, if only because he was unnecessarily bright in John's opinion.

They took the tube down to the club, and John was thankful it was dark, because they'd be less easily spotted that way. Sherlock kept their pace slow as they walked from the nearest tube station, as though they had nowhere to go and weren't concerned about anything, and John tried to pretend that his tension was actually cold, bundling his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders somewhat. It helped that he was actually cold and wondered how Sherlock wasn't, for all his acting that he was. John knew the difference, with Sherlock.

"Stop here," the detective said quietly just up the block from the club, putting a hand lightly on John's arm. John stepped aside, toward the building they had stopped in front of, letting another group of pedestrians go past, the four of them talking and laughing. Sherlock leaned up against the sandstone façade and looked around, adopting a bored expression and John checked his watch.

"Almost eight," he said.

"I know," Sherlock replied and John rolled his eyes. Of course he knew. "Quiet, let me pick out the plain clothes."

John nodded and tried to do the same, and he thought maybe he spotted one or two.

"Five," Sherlock said under his breath. "Four men, one woman." He pointed them out quietly, one at a time. An off-duty cabbie eating a sandwich in his car, seat leaned back slightly. A man sitting at a bus station, tapping his foot impatiently. A woman looking very annoyed. Two other men taking refuge in a doorway, smoking, shoulders hunched against the cold like John's.

"We'll go back up the block and come round back," Sherlock said.

"And won't they have people back there?"

"Of course. We'll just engage in some typical behind-a-club behavior," Sherlock said, turning to walk away, John following quickly.

"You'd better not be talking about smoking, because a: you really, really don't need that right now and bee: I'm not doing it."

"No, of course not, John. I don't even have any cigarettes."

John stopped up short and Sherlock paused, then turned back to him curiously.

"Well come on, we haven't got all night!"

"I am not messing around with you in a back alley while waiting for a serial killer to escape the police!" he hissed.

Sherlock stared at him, then grinned.

"No, John, that was not was I was suggesting. You underestimate your own abilities if you think that would not distract me."

"Oh, well, in that case," John said and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but a smile still twitched at his lips. The problem with Sherlock, John thought –one of the problems with Sherlock – is that he could do that on a case and still manage to think. It didn't do wonders for John's ability to string a coherent thought together.

"You can either come with me, or stay here," Sherlock said with an amused look. "It will probably be more rewarding for you if you join me."

John took a turn rolling his eyes, but fell into step with his husband again, shaking his head, ignoring Sherlock's grin in the light from the streetlamps.

"How bloody long do you think this will take?" John hissed, shifting back and forth from foot to foot, trying not to feel the cold he felt sure was taking up residence in his bones.

"Will you hush up? It's only been twelve minutes. I'm estimating an hour."

"An hour?" John whispered, then muttered a curse.

"Did the last ten minutes fail to warm you up?" Sherlock said with an evil smile.

They'd installed themselves behind the club, in the alley, near enough to see the service entrance and the fire escape for the floors above, and to have picked out the police office who was covering back here. They'd eliminated themselves from her sharp and suspicious gaze when Sherlock had pushed John up against a wall.

"I need a few minutes to cool down," John said.

"I thought being cold was the problem."

John just sighed, rolling his eyes and huddled against the wall, against Sherlock, and waited.

People came and went from the back, mostly smokers, and John wondered if maybe the police inside had just arrested him and the woman outback hadn't been told, or was waiting on something else. Then Sherlock stiffened and hissed, nodding toward the building in the darkness.

A blond man in a sharp suit holding a martini stepped out. He scarcely glanced at the policewoman, who had been maintaining her cover by occasionally taking a slow drag of the cigarette that burned between her fingers, replacing it as needed.

"That's him," Sherlock said.

John blinked, and saw the policewoman realize it at the same time. The blond hair, actually almost the same shade as his own, John thought, was distracting enough, but so was the suit, the glasses – Sherlock not being the only one who had thought of it, apparently – and the distracted conversation and the martini glass.

Without even looking as if he was thinking about it, the man dropped the glass from his right hand and slugged the police officer. She went down hard, so much so that John winced, and Sherlock was pushing himself away from the wall, running toward the building.

Bainbridge looked up toward the sounds in the darkness and seemed, if anything, mildly surprised, not at all panicked.

And when he saw Sherlock, he actually grinned.

"Knew you'd be listening!" he shouted and John cursed, as Sherlock was clattering onto the trash bins and clearing the fence.

Why couldn't they ever just give up and come quietly?

Sherlock didn't even hesitate, following the man's lead, and John scrambled to keep up, hindered somewhat by his height, but helped by his military experience. He'd wondered, all those years ago, why having to scale a wall had been part of the training. He'd used the skill in Afghanistan. He'd just never imagined it would be helpful to him in the alleys in London.

He gained Sherlock fast, feeling his adrenaline spike and course through his system, bright and hot, bringing back all of the instincts he'd honed over years in the army and years working with Sherlock. Compared to Afghanistan, the mazes of alleys in London were actually quite tame.

Bainbridge was running toward a main road, but not, John realized, the one onto which the club fronted. No, he'd know not to go there, if he knew there was a police officer waiting for him out back. Now John wished they had told Lestrade that they were there, so as to call in their location.

Bainbridge had a decent lead on them and was dodging his way through the alleys expertly, despite the shadows that were thicker in some places, thinner in others. Not looking back, John noticed. He wasn't an amateur at this, he wasn't increasing his drag by turning his head, having to slow his speed to keep from stumbling up. He was listening to where they were, and keeping his eyes on where he was going.

What, does he practice for this? John snapped to himself as the man scrambled almost too easily over another fence, dropping out of sight. John was hauling himself up before Sherlock, damned if he was going to let his height slow him down and heard Sherlock land running behind him.

They wove and dodged their way through alleys, startling one other couple who had the same thing in mind that Sherlock had, except without the police chase element to it, getting hissed at by a couple of feral cats. Bainbridge tipped a trash bin once as he went by it, but John had noticed the movement when it had started and cleared it easily, Sherlock right beside him.

They burst onto Finborough Road, John breathing hard, while Sherlock's breathing barely seemed strained, he noticed. Bainbridge dodged a walking couple, who stopped and turned to stare after him, startled, and John cursed, putting on extra speed, calling up the reserves from the adrenaline he could feel speeding his heart.

There were too many people here. Each one of them a potential hostage. They knew Bainbridge had a least one gun, and that he was expert at using it. John's army training took over, backed by his old rugby experience and for a moment, he drew past Sherlock, who gave a grunt but only redoubled his own speed.

Too many people, too many cabs. John kept his eyes on Bainbridge, who was weaving between pedestrians gracefully, still not looking back at them, not even bothering to check if he was still being pursued. His dyed hair was highlighted by the pools of street lamps, darker when he crossed the brief shadows and brighter again when he was running beneath the lights.

John growled when he saw a cab pull up and a young woman got out, apparently not even noticing the chase, because Bainbridge had redirected his attention to it momentarily with a quick, hard look on his face.

No! John thought, putting on the last burst of speed he could manage. Bainbridge dodged another couple with a pram and then a man walking a large dog, and headed for the edge of the pavement. The cab began to pull away, and John felt a flash of relief, but it stopped again a few feet up when Bainbridge raised a hand urgently.

John was steps behind him, so close he could reach out, just grab him, almost. He could jump and tackle from here, he thought, but it would land them in the road. He was close enough to jump for the cab door, though, if he had to.

Bainbridge dodged again, startling John by not going for the cab, but darting into the street. John cursed, barely slowing, then started when the man turned to face him, a broad grin on his face, a knowing glint in his eyes. John got ready to leap, all the small actions of bracing himself and tensing his muscles so familiar from the long ago years of rugby.

They had him.

"JOHN! NO!"

And he was yanked off of his feet, two strong arms around his waist, the sudden, forceful grip knocking the air out of him so that he huffed and gasped, falling back hard against Sherlock, toppling both of them back onto the sidewalk, into the man with the dog, and there was the unmistakable sound of a horn blaring and something very large and metallic hitting something smaller and human.

It was several agonizing, crushing seconds before he could breathe again, then he sucked in a gasp, which sent spasms through the muscles in his chest and stomach, and John gasped again, this time unintentionally, trying to sit up, to roll himself into a ball, but he was tangled in Sherlock's arms and definitely not in a good way.

He registered the sounds of screams and horns and some squealing tires and tried to sit up fast, then remembered again that he was tangled, and dislodged himself. Sherlock was sitting up as well, looking stunned, one hand on his head, his fake glasses knocked off and askew on the concrete, his ridiculous cap on the ground a foot or so away, his hair taking the opportunity to curl all over the place. He blinked a few times, grey eyes a bit unfocused and John felt his blood go cold. He pushed himself to his feet fast, ignoring the chaos behind him with only a little effort, because although he'd trained to respond to that kind of thing in Afghanistan, his brain also knew the sound he'd just heard very clearly indicated death. And Sherlock was looking too glassy-eyed for someone who had just had two concussions.

"You bloody idiot, let me see–" John started and Sherlock's expression cleared.

"I didn't hit my head!" the detective snapped. "You knocked the wind out of me."

"And you did the same to me! What the hell–"

Sherlock clambered to his feet, features blazing now.

"What the hell, John?" he demanded, jabbing a finger toward the road, where pedestrians were flocking and motorists were either getting out of their cars to gawk or honking impatiently. "What the hell? There was a bloody bus! Don't you pay attention to anything? He was going for the bus, not the cab! He knew he wasn't getting away, but he wasn't getting caught! You could have been killed!"

John knew he shouldn't, really shouldn't, not here, not now, but couldn't stop himself.

"Could have?" he yelled back, not even attempting to control his volume. "Could have! That sounds exactly like a 'what if', Sherlock! Do you mean, what if you hadn't grabbed me? Do you mean, what if I'd been just a bit too far ahead for you to catch me? Do you mean, what if that had been me?"

Sherlock started, shocked by either the words or the force of John's voice, or both, took a step back and stared.

"Yes! Yes! See, now I know you get it! He could have bloody killed you, Sherlock, just like if someone hadn't found you, you might have just passed out and bloody well died in a symphony hall where you weren't supposed to be! That's your 'you could have been killed'! What, do you think I don't know what I was getting into? That doesn't mean I have to like it, and good God, even though you didn't die, it could have been anything – brain damage! How would you like that? Hearing problems? Blindness? Memory problems? Any of it? Swelling in your brain that also could have killed you! So next time you want to lecture me on the 'what ifs' and the so-called over protectiveness and the trying just to get you to bloody slow down when you've been knocked about, remember this! In fact, I'm going to just keep reminding you about it in case you decide it isn't important enough for that hard drive of yours to retain! And, actually I'm going to–"

"I'm not going to forget you were almost hit by a bus," Sherlock said softly, and the low tone brought John up short. He stopped, breathing hard, and managed a glare, feeling unbalanced. Then annoyed that Sherlock could still do that to him when he was pumped full of adrenaline and anger and indignation.

He stared at John a moment, fighting for some words.

"Right," John said. "See that you don't."

He raked a hand through his hair then turned, in part just to have something else to do, in part because he was a former army surgeon and there was a pretty unpleasant scene in front of them. Most of the passengers and the bus driver were off the bus, yelling, but seemed unharmed, and, ah yes, there were the police heading toward the scene through the press of onlookers, and sirens in the distance.

He shouldered through the crowd, confident Sherlock would follow him if only to keep tabs on him, ignoring muttered protests and people craning to see what had happened, ignoring the slight discomfort he always felt at seeing this kind of carnage.

Bainbridge was definitely dead. No one's spine should twist that way while they were alive. He'd probably died instantly, John assessed quickly, clinically. He pushed his way to the body, which was surrounded by morbid gawkers, and crouched down, rounding his glare on them, directing all the frustrated relief and now-useless adrenaline intensity at them.

"Right, back off!" he snapped. "Back off! I'm a doctor!"

"I don't think that'll help, mate," someone commented from the crowd.

Audience, John thought vaguely and almost smirked, then felt sort of ill.

He had almost been hit by a bus.

He glanced back at the bus, which was stopped now, and saw the faint dents in the front. Hadn't done much damage to the vehicle, but Bainbridge had been banking on the weight and speed doing damage to him.

And how many people did he kill that we'll never know about? John thought. No wonder he did this. We'll never have him. He's won. In his own mind, at least.

"You two!" a familiar voice snapped. "I should have known!"

John looked up at the ring of strangers' faces, and Sherlock's, and then met Lestrade's eyes, which were a bright blue in the street lamps and particularly blazing.

"What the hell did you do?" the DI demanded, then angrily ordered some of the onlookers to back off even more before barking a command at any of the police officers nearby to get people out of there.

"We–" Sherlock started, but John cut him off, pointing a finger at him.

"Shut up," he said and, for once, Sherlock did, looking so startled that he cut himself off in mid sentence. "We were waiting for him, round back, with your policewoman. Whom he punched, by the way, and so she's probably in need of some medical attention."

"Are you going to tell me why you were waiting round back for him?"

"Because," John said shortly.

"Because?" Lestrade said. "That's not an explanation, John! Not for anyone over the age of three!"

"Because he was going to see you and realize he was caught," John said and Sherlock scowled at having the spotlight stolen from him. John gauged that he'd run out of shut-up-by-shock and turned back to the body, fairly uselessly, since it was not going to stop being a body anytime soon.

"And you just bloody knew that, did you?" Lestrade snapped.

"No, I didn't 'just bloody know that', I deduced it," Sherlock replied in his obvious-isn't-it voice. "He's an expert and getting in and out unseen, Lestrade! And at not getting caught! I had a personal interest in seeing him apprehended."

"Well, that won't happen now, he's bloody dead!"

"Yes, that's rather evident."

"Dead criminals don't do me any good!"

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, and John rolled his eyes at the actual curiosity in Sherlock's voice. "It must be less paperwork. Certainly less taxpayer money."

"No, it is not less paperwork, and I am not standing here arguing with you about it! Why did he run into a bus?"

"He let a bus run into him," Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever!"

"So he'd not be caught. He spent his whole life not being caught. Why start now? It was the end of the line and he was aware of it. He chose to make it permanent."

"And if you hadn't–"

"If we hadn't been there, he'd have slipped through your grasp again and he'd be gone," Sherlock sighed. "At least ten murders, three sets of which went cold. And if you find and search his flat, I'm sure you'll find evidence tying them to him, as well as older ones. If you want to put some cases to rest, that is."

"If I want to put some cases to rest, that is," Lestrade muttered and John bit down on a smile at the sarcasm and weariness in the DI's voice. He heard Lestrade sigh and looked up, watching as the DI turned away from Sherlock for a moment.

"Right, can we have some order here, please? Everyone back off! Back off! You! Constable! Whatever your name is! Call this in and get some traffic control going! Donovan! Is there an ambulance on the way? Good! Hillary, make yourself useful other than being a plant and see to the bus passengers! You three, what are you gawking at! There must be a cruiser around here with some police tape, or something! Move the crowds back!"

He turned back to John and Sherlock.

"And you two! Don't think I'm letting you off the hook. When it comes down on me, I'm dragging you into it with me!"

Like always, John thought with a wry smile while Sherlock protested and complained and Lestrade argued. John sat back on his haunches and listened with half an ear, then got up to help with the mangled body when the ambulance finally arrived through the crowd.

Lestrade was right. This was too much bloody paperwork. He'd forgotten about that. It had been the same when he'd shot Moriarty. Well, perhaps that had been slightly worse, because in this case, the – ahem – victim had thrown himself in front of a bus.

Hardly my fault, Sherlock thought with an inward scowl, but try telling that to the Crown Prosecutors, who wanted someone to take the blame. Why not the corpse? It was simple, accurate, and let absolutely everyone else off the hook to return to their lives and important things, such as not dealing with lawyers.

He fiddled with the idea of ringing Mycroft and having some expensive lawyers of his own sent around. But no, his brother would only want to interfere and make matters a lot more worse than they needed to be.

However Sherlock resolved to take John up to the manor in Sussex once this had all been sorted out and have a quiet weekend away. It would hopefully ease the anger and frustration Sherlock knew John was still holding and it would make him appreciate the city all the much more when he returned, too. And he did miss playing violin out there among the calm and quiet just as John missed listening to him doing so.

He met Sam going into Scotland Yard and the younger man appraised him approvingly.

"You look better," he said.

"I am," Sherlock replied. "Come to listen to Lestrade reprimand me a bit more? Or to add Interpol's contribution?"

Sam snorted derisively.

"Hardly," he said. "Interpol's well out of this. Not much you can do to prosecute someone in two different countries when he's a corpse. Not even a very pretty one, I might add. I'm supposed to meet with the brass about some weapons smuggling problems between here and France and Germany. Not that you should know that."

"Ah, liaising," Sherlock said.

"That is my job," Sam replied. "Although, I will probably have do some work on getting some of the departments across the country and in Wales and Scotland to talk to one another about the Bainbridge cases. There was a lot in his flat, Sherlock. A lot to track down."

"Hmm," Sherlock said noncommittally. "I suspected as much."

"I'm sure you did," Sam said, opening one of the main doors and letting Sherlock in. The detective slipped his hands into his coat pockets and nodded, then remembered something.

"Oh," he said, pulling out the two fliers he'd taken several days ago and had left carefully folded in his pocket. "I've these for you."

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"Advertisements for local shows in the area," Sherlock said. "Given your taste in music, I thought perhaps you'd like to take Jane? It's quite safe now that no couples-murderers are running about on the loose."

Sam rolled his eyes at the last comment but unfolded the fliers, looking surprised, then grinned, shaking his head and looked up.

"Thank you," he said, folding them again and slipping them into his own pocket. "I might just do that."

Sherlock grinned back, falling into step beside Sam as they entered the building.

"Look, how many more times do I have to tell you?" Sherlock snapped.

"It's not me, Sherlock. It's everyone above me."

"But he's dead. What difference does it make?"

"It's because he's dead that it's such a process! I did warn you, didn't I? Besides, you know this from last time."

"You're acting like I pulled a gun on him."

"No, I'm very lucky you didn't," Lestrade sighed, folding his hands on his desk. "And so are you."

He gave Sherlock one of his world-weary detective looks, which Sherlock ignored completely. He saw these so often he suspected they were Lestrade's default expressions.

"You're a police officer," Sherlock said, leaning back somewhat in his chair, sitting his right knee crossed over his left, tapping his right foot absently and impatiently in the air. "Can't you make this all just disappear?"

"This is me making it disappear," Lestrade said. "Believe me, it would be much worse for you without me."

"I can hardly see how," Sherlock commented.

"No, you can't. And you're lucky you can't. Another thing–"

He was cut off by his phone ringing and answered it while keeping an eye on Sherlock.

"It's your artist friend, Holly Adams," he said, turning the phone so Sherlock could hear as well.

Sherlock grinned.

He did so enjoy being right.

"DI Lestrade," Lestrade answered.

"Oh, Inspector? It's Holly Adams, I did the sketch for that killer you caught last week?"

Lestrade shot a pointed look at Sherlock over the 'caught' comment and Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

"Yes, Holly, I remember you. Is everything all right? You've not been having any problems with the media, have you? We don't release our artists' names."

"No, no, nothing like that," the girl said, then hesitated and Sherlock grinned again, raising his eyebrows at Lestrade's puzzled and suspicious look. "I was just wondering– I know you must be really busy and all, but I was wondering if you had some time to meet with me? I wanted to ask you about what I have to do to become a full-time police sketch artist."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and Sherlock gave him a not so innocent smirk in return.