Hello, hello. Lovely here to welcome you aboard this venture into the world that is Sherlock. I've been planning this story for awhile now. Many drafts had been written before settling on the current plot line. Clever. will be following the episodes of the show with my character thrown in, just in case any of you are wondering. Well, enough chatter from me. Hope you all in enjoy. ~SxL

-Clever.

-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC

-Rated: T (currently) for language, some suggested violence, and slight adult situations

-TV-based

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle . I only own the OCs introduced.

Chapter One:

"Intro-Deducing"

[Location unknown]

"Deep breath..deep breath.."

The mantra echoed in his head as he stood with the other soldiers. He had to stay calm, stay steady. But that was hard to do once the gunfire and explosions came; mingled with the shouts of his comrades and the enemies. He was an important asset to the team. Without him, more men would probably die. He never thought about how much he was preventing God's natural work until in the field. That was a mistake and when he thought like that, he had to steel himself from religion. He couldn't hesitated, not now. But it was easier done than said. Taking another man's life, even if evil, was difficult but mandatory. It was all together disorienting, overwhelmingly traumatic, almost to the point of snapping..which he did.

[Somewhere in modern-day London, England]

Dr. John Watson jumped from sleep with a terrified shout that echoed in his bedroom..well, if you would call it that. It was more of an open space with his bed in one corner and the doorway to the small kitchen area in another. So basically, he was living in what would have been used as a living room for the diminutive apartment. His frighten, light blue eyes scanned the dim-lit room in search of wartime phantoms. When satisfied his past was just that, he let a sigh escape before flopping back down on his cot.

A smothering and frustrating sadness consumed him that had a sob choked out of his mouth but no tears fell. He was too proud for that. The war veteran tried to sleep again once composed only with zero success. He laid in bed for a few moments staring at the ceiling when a knock made his gaze drift in its direction. There, peeking around the corner leading to the short hallway to the only bedroom in the flat and bathroom, a young Greek woman stood. She was dressed in adorable blue Chinese motif pajamas and reading glasses were perked low on her nose. She looked and spoke with concern.

"I heard you shout. Was it another nightmare?"

John sat up, appearing exhausted. "Uh, yes. Sorry to have woke you."

"It's fine. I was up writing anyway." she shrugged, coming further inside. Watson glanced at the clock on his desk across the room. 3:40 am, it read.

"This late? Sure you don't have insomnia, Marisol?" he asked, worried like any doctor would.

An annoyed expression was given to him. "Yes, for the thousandth time. I was just finishing something up for Mrs. Montgomery. I was about to go to bed when I heard you."

The man looked away, embarrassed. "Oh.." Her dark eyes roamed over him for a moment. Without warning, she sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled him into a hug; his head resting on her chest with hers on top of his own.

"Things will get better..they just have to." He sighed, closing his eyes. She always said that during his rough times since returning. The young woman was so motherly for someone so young and with no children herself. Whenever he noted it, she would simply say it was a common trait for 'Vallas' women.

Marisol Vallas was a pretty as well as smart, twenty-four year old. She was currently studying to become a writer, learning under Professor Agatha Montgomery at Goldsmiths as her assistant. Since a child, she had loved books. She never had many friends growing up because of being a tad timid and introverted. She preferred to stick her nose in a novel and get lost in the world of either fiction or non than conduct and form normal social skills with other children her age. Though at home with family or friends known for a long time, only then, did Marisol come out of her tightly-wrapped cocoon. Then she was witty, adventurous, and playful but ever observant and resolute. The young woman was still the same to this day.

As a pleasant serene enveloped Watson, a feminine hand touched the back of his neck with these blank words following: "Uck, you're sweaty." She released him and stood, leaving to disappear in the hall.

Blue eyes blinked, watching. "Well..goodnight then."

"I'm not going to bed!" came her shout along with the sound of running water.

"Marisol, if you're—" John called, sounding firm.

"Shush, sit on the edge of the bed, and remove your shirt, old man." interrupted her demanding order. He stared after her before complying with rolled eyes.

"Firm like her father.." It wasn't long before she returned, carrying a plastic bowl filled with warm water and a cloth. Sitting beside him, she began gently cleaning his skin of sweat. The two sat in silence until John broke it.

"I'm a thirty-nine year old man yet I feel like I'm eighty with a live in nurse when you do this." the veteran complained, "Just because I have a limp which makes me dependable of a cane and the occasional nightmare doesn't mean I'm helpless."

"I know but there's nothing wrong with a little help." Vallas replied, holding back the rest of what she wanted to add to that response.

He looked at her with his lighter-colored eyes, serious. "But you shouldn't. You're twenty-four with so much still ahead of you. You need to live your life instead of watching out for me." She met his gaze briefly then glanced at the scar on his left shoulder bitterly.

"I know..but it's hard." He nodded in mute understanding.

Michael, Marisol's father, had been his best friend since his beginning days at Barts. John was there for his wedding and the birth of his daughter. So, he had practically seen Marisol grow up. He loved the girl like his own. Her father and him had been in the medical field. Michael knew the risks with joining the war and made Watson promise to look after the young woman if anything happen to him. He died looking out for John during an ambush mission. Marisol was fifteen at the time. Watson, being legally her godfather, got sole custody of her afterwards since her mother had died while she still was a small child and her grandmother being too old to look after her now. It had only been a couple of months since his own discharge and Marisol felt obligated to return the favor. But John, being the proud man he was also, didn't want her wasting her life caring for him.

"After your injury I'm afraid if I take my eyes off you, you'll disappear forever." Marisol whispered, resting her forehead on his bare shoulder.

"Okay, have we been reading Poe again?" John told, teasing. She always brooded after reading his work. "I'll always be here for you. I am now even after everything." A silent nod was given. He patted her short curly chocolate brown hair as he always did when she was upset. Inside, he said the words he couldn't say out loud that moment.

"That's why I think it's best I leave.."

[John & Marisol's flat; 6:45am]

Having been able to get some sleep after talking with Marisol, John had just taken a shower and made some coffee to go with his apple breakfast before easing himself down at his desk. In a side drawer, he removed his laptop which hid his handgun underneath. Upon opening the portable computer, the title 'The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson' was seen on the main page. Said person stared at the screen, not sure what to write. That kind of media wasn't something he had been used to when his therapist suggested it. Luckily for him, he had a tech savvy goddaughter who got him update to the times. But the blog was blank and had been for the past two weeks. The veteran didn't know where to begin.

"..John!"

The man startled and whipped around in his chair. "Ah! Yes?" Marisol stood at the door snugged in her beige trench coat and dark blue and tan slouch backpack slung over one shoulder.

She gave him a slightly annoyed look. "Zoning out again, I see. I said I'm heading off."

"This early?"

"I have a date." the young woman told nonchalantly.

"A date?" John blinked with surprise before becoming stern. "And is this date with a boy?"

"You know you're the only man for me, John Watson." She came over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "And no, it's with a girl." Vallas burst out laughing when her godfather's eyes almost seemed to pop out of his head at that statement. "Kidding! It's a study date with a girl in my linguistics class."

"Oh. Good. No, I mean, that's all right if you were, uh, you know—" Watson rambled, embarrassed.

"How's your blog doing?" Vallas asked, moving on to a different subject when seeing his laptop. He sighed in relief; thankful for the change.

"..Um.." he drawled, unsure how to respond.

"Still nothing, huh?" she deadpanned.

"Yeah, pretty much." John agreed quickly.

"Well, don't tell your shrink that when you see her today. She reprimand you, for sure." Marisol headed back to the door and before leaving, glanced back at him. "Oh, stop by the park afterwards. I'll treat you to a coffee."

"Wouldn't miss it." he smiled warmly, promising.

[Later that day—Therapy session; 11:45am]

"How's your blog going?" John wanted to laugh at being asked almost a similar question twice in one day. But instead, he took the young woman's earlier advice and lied.

"Yeah, good." He cleared his throat. Very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?' his therapist noted correctly, calling him out on his bluff.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." he countered back.

"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean?" The man just briefly smirked in response. "John, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

"..Nothing happens to me." Watson honestly told..or so he believed.

While nothing of interest was happening for John, many others were experiencing a more fascinating and similar occurrence but not one of a pleasant sort. No, it was more sinister than perceived by the average human mind and this is what happen:

[October 12th]

Scenario: A business man is leaving the crowded Heathrow Airport, talking on a cell phone with a woman.

"What do you mean, there's no ruddy car?" A middle-aged woman is seen dressed work-appropriate in a normal glass office, walking around as she talked to a man on the other line. It was his secret lover and both were married.

"He went to Waterloo, I'm sorry. Get a cab!"

"I never get cabs!" said man stated, sounding annoyed.

"..I love you." she whispered with a smile.

"When?" he smirked.

"Get a cab!" the woman ordered playfully. They hanged up then. When the man is next seen, he is unscrewing the cap of a small, clear, pill bottle. Inside were two capsules filled with tiny white and pink specks. He removed one and ate it. Some time after, he laid on his side dying in an abandoned glass building.

2nd scenario: a live press conference addressing the dead business man's apparent suicide.

"My husband was happy man who lived life to the full. He loved his family and his work, and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him." read the man's upset wife from a written statement. The unbeknown lover off to the side, silent and grieving as well.

[November 26th]

Scenario: Two young men are caught in the rain; one with an umbrella and another without.

"Yes, yes! Taxi!" one man tried to hail a cab driving by and was ignored. He turned to his friend before hurrying away. "I'll be back in two minutes, mate."

"What?"

"I'm just going home to get my umbrella."

"You can share mine." his pal offered.

"Two minutes, all right?" he said, not taking his offer and disappeared around the corner. Two minutes came and went and then more passed as well. His impatient mate left in search of him but it was in vain. He was in a closed sports center holding the same bottle as the business man had. The same results happen to him also. A newspaper article was written about his death.

[January 27th]

Scenario: A birthday party in being held for a middle-aged woman by her coworkers. A younger woman and man are talking at a bar.

"She still dancing?"

"Yeah, if you can call it that."

"Did you get the car keys off her?" asked the man.

The woman dangled them in front of him. "Got them out of her bag."

He faced the dancing crowd, not spying her. "Where is she?" The woman they were discussing was the birthday girl herself who had left the party and was by her car. Drunk, she rooted around in her purse finding not car keys. She is then seen somehow having gotten into a storage unit, sobbing loudly. The suicide pills sit in front of her on the floor waiting..

[Scotland Yard's Press Conference room; 11:50am on January 28th]

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London." stated Sergeant Sally Donovan to the press. Behind her on a screen were the three similar suicide victims—Sir Jeffery Patterson, Beth Davenport, and James Phillimore. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." She looked at the older man sitting beside her, handing it over to him.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" asked a male reporter.

"Well, they all took the same poison." he answered, "Um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indication—"

"But you can't have serial suicides."

"Well, apparently you can."

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" queried a black male reporter.

"There's no link we've found yet," told Lestrade, "But we're looking for it—there has to be one." Everyone's phone beeped simultaneously with the same anonymous text message:

Wrong!

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Donovan informed smoothly.

"It just says 'wrong'."

"Yes, well, just ignore that." she said, becoming a bit frazzled. "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"If they're suicides, what are you investigating?" added the black man.

"As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. Um, but it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating." Again, another text.

Wrong!

"Says 'wrong' again." The two officers glanced warily at each other. This was getting somewhat out of hand and needed to end quickly.

"One more question."

A woman reporter spoke then. "Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, poison was clearly self-administered.

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" she persisted.

"Well, don't commit suicide." Lestrade simply replied, not realizing his mistake until Sally whispered subtly.

"Daily Mail." A newspaper which they had a bad run in before with.

"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people," he tried to ease, "But all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." Same text message once more:

Wrong!

Except for Lestrade, who's read:

You know where

to find me.

SH

The conference was ended shortly afterwards. The officers returned to the Homicide department.

"You've got to stop him doing that." the sergeant complained to her superior. "He's making us look like idiots."

"If you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him." the man told her, walking away.

[Hyde Park; 12:17pm on January 28th]

"Geez, she called you out just like that?" Marisol stated, surprised. "She's better than I thought..I mean, your poker face is almost unbreakable."

John glanced at her, incredulous. "Almost?"

She smirked behind her coffee. "Yep, almost." He nudged her shoulder playfully. The two continued walking, chatting idly when she suddenly asked,

"You miss it, don't you?"

"Miss..Miss what?"

"The war..the chaos." the young woman stated softly.

"No, I don't. What gave you that ruddy idea?" the man questioned, baffled.

"You always seem tense when you're out in town..like you can't adjust to regular life anymore."

"That's..That's true. I've been stuck in a battlefield for a long time, so of course it would take me some time to get back to normal." His tone sounded subtly defensive.

"Hmm.." Vallas said, dropping the subject. A silence fell over them until someone called out the man's name.

"John!" He kept walking though the young woman gave him a curious but amused look. "John Watson!" The voice sounded closer, meaning he had to stop and address them. The duo turned to seeing a portly man with glasses.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford." the man reminded, "We were at Barts together. You, me, and Michael."

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello." Watson greeted his old colleague with a handshake.

"Yeah, I know, I got fat." joked Mike.

"No, no." John denied half-heartedly.

"Oh, no.." Vallas suddenly said, glancing at her watch. "I've gotta go catch the Tube if I'm to make in back in time for my next class." She then looked to her friend apologetically, knowing well he didn't really want to be left alone with Mike.

"Go on. It's fine, really." he smiled softly. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way."

"No problem at all." she told, kissing him goodbye on the cheek. She gave a polite nod to Stamford before finally dashing away.

"Girlfriend?" smirked slyly Stamford once she was gone. "Quite young, eh?"

"..Goddaughter." Watson replied with narrowed eyes. "Michael's daughter."

"Oh..Um, so I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at." Mike stated, quickly changing the subject. "What happened?"

"..I got shot."

"Oh..sorry." They sat down on a bench together then.

"Are you still at Barts, then?" the veteran asked him.

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." John chuckled lightly at his honest statement. "What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension."

"You couldn't bear to be anywhere else." Mike said with a smile, "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson.." the doctor said harshly. A small silence fell between them for a moment.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

Watson gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, like that's going to happen."

"I don't know, get a flatshare or something?" Stamford offered helpfully.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" John questioned, incredulous. Mike laughed. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"..Who was the first?"

[Same day—Basement level: Barts' Morgue; 12:18pm]

A tall and oddly striking man with short, curly but almost wavy, dark brown hair and clear blue eyes unzipped a body bag and observed the corpse briefly inside, taking a little sniff. He was dressed immaculately with a long black trench coat with a navy blue scarf. Underneath those were a black suit jacket and pants with a button-down collar dress shirt minus a vest and polished dark dress shoes.

"How fresh?"

"Just in. 67, natural causes." answered sweetly genial Molly Hopper—an employee at Barts and long-time acquaintance of the man. "Used to work here. I knew him, he was nice."

The man zipped the body back up, facing her with tenuous smile. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." A few moments later, Molly watched cringing from the viewing window as he struck the dead body violently with said instrument for a long while. She came back inside once he was finished.

"So..bad day, was it?" she assumed teasingly from his display of vicious eagerness.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes." her acquaintance told indifferently, writing something down in a black hand notebook. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen, I was wondering." Molly suddenly blurted, nervous. "Maybe later, when you're finished—" He glanced at her in brief but looked again but fully the next time, having noticed something different about her.

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before." he interrupted.

"I, er..I refreshed it a bit." the woman smiled, a tad taken off-guard.

"Sorry, you were saying?" He went back to writing.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." she asked with more confidence now; an obvious invitation to a date.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." the man informed, having misinterpreted her. He snapped his book closed and quickly left the room with his things.

"..Okay." Hopper said meekly, getting his request.

[First Level—Barts' Research laboratory; 12:29pm]

In the lab, the eccentric man was working when a knock came at the door. He either addressed it or spoke for whoever it was to enter. The door opened anyway, revealing Mike Stamford and John Watson. He peered away from his work to look at them before proceeding again without a word.

"..Bit different from my day." John noted, observing the place.

His old colleague chuckled. "You've no idea!"

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" the apathetic man asked suddenly, "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" queried the portly man.

"I prefer to text." came his simple reply.

"..Sorry, it's in my coat." Mike said after searching.

"Er, here..use mine." Watson offered politely then, removing his Sidekick.

The dark-haired man addressed him for the first time. "Oh, thank you." He stood then and walked over to take it.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Stamford introduced. The man took the phone with not so much as a 'nice to meet you' or 'I'm..or My name is..' He began texting when questioning,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John blinked, taken back by the out-there question all the while Mike watched with a knowing smirk.

"Sorry?"

Light blue eyes glanced at him."Which was it, in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—"

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." The timid woman came in then with his requested coffee at last. The phone was handed back to John as he took the drink from her.

"What happened to the lipstick?" he pondered to her.

"It wasn't working for me." she stated, smiling lightly.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." The man turned away, returning to his lab station. "Your mouth's too small now."

"Okay." Hopper said quietly before leaving.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Watson glanced at the retreating Molly and then Stamford before realizing he was the one being talked to.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking." he was informed, "And sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" The man looked towards the doctor with a smile. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"You told him about me?" John asked his colleague.

The portly man shook his head. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." the eccentric man declared; now placing on his coat and scarf. "Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" the veteran inquired, serious.

His question went unanswered. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He headed for the door.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" the man turned back to John.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" he blandly stated.

"Problem?" the stranger asked simply.

Watson gave Mike a disbelieving smile before saying, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan." the man rambled quickly off, "I know you've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." His light-colored eyes drifted to his leg and cane. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" John was left speechless.

The man went to leave again before doing so, lastly added, "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked at him. "Afternoon."

The doctor glanced at Stamford. "Yeah. He's always like that." he told before his colleague even asked.

-TBC-

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