A/N: Hey guys! This is my newest story, a Sherlock (BBC) cross-over with the Layton Brothers: Mystery Room. This chapter starts just after "The Blind Banker" in the Sherlock timeline, and just as Alfendi, Justin, and Hilda are put on the Jigsaw Puzzle Killings case.

There are many callbacks to some of my other stories in the end of this chapter.

1. Flora and Eric (my OC) are married (Flora Reinhold: City of Gold).

2. Luke is not there as he is leading his own successful archeology career and is at a dig in Africa (Many of my stories, starting with The Professor's Apprentice).

3. Mary, Alfendi's mom, is Mary Ledore, younger sister of Henry Ledore, and biological mother of Kat. She's a cultural anthropologist who studies Latin American cultures (Second Chances).

4. Alfendi is adopted; his biological father was a serial killing psychopath. Alfendi himself is a psychopath, undiagnosed because Hershel knew. He didn't need a doctor to tell him that much. He made damn well sure that Alfendi was a high functioning psychopath, at least (Professor Layton and the Seer).

Hm… can't think of anything else. I edited this to add Mary to the chapter, and to better explain the origins of each callback (see above).

Alfendi is 24, Sherlock is 36, and John is 40. Well, here we go!

…

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes was, by no means, a patient man. Most of Scotland Yard knew to get out of his way when he would whisk his way into the squad rooms, trailed by his ever present, and ever faithful companion, Dr. John Watson.

Sherlock didn't care if the person he was determined to see, usually Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, was meeting with an officer. He'd sweep into the man's office all the same, demanding evidence, information, or an interesting case (nothing lower than a seven, of course).

It was one of these times, when Lestrade was in the middle of an extremely important meeting, that Sherlock swept into his office, his mouth already moving.

"Lestrade. I demand to see those files on the Jigsaw Puzzle Killings. How dare you not include me? You're obviously out of your depth here. This is the most interesting thing that happened in a decade. It's practically Christmas!"

John rolled his eyes at the obvious glee in his friend's voice.

"Sherlock, not now. I'm in the middle of a meeting," the long-suffering Detective Inspector replied. Sherlock glanced at the other young man in the room, ready to write him off as another witless rookie, when something about the young man caught his eye.

Basic information about him immediately sprang to Sherlock's mind: 24 years old. Came from an old-fashioned home. Got into a few fights when younger. No mother figure. Two siblings. No pets. Armed, right-hip holster under his suit jacket. Sherlock saw this in a matter of seconds, but it was the man's gold eyes he focused on. They were sharp, taking in everything about Sherlock himself. Observing.

"Detective. Not private. A consulting detective then," the man said. It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Is that the best you can do?" he asked, before glancing at John. "He must read your blog."

"On the contrary," the man said before John could answer, "I've never read it in my life. You come from money. Older sibling. Play the violin." The man sniffed. "And experiment with chemicals and dismembered body parts."

The room was silent. John and Lestrade looked between Sherlock and the young inspector.

"Bloody hell, there's two of them," Lestrade groaned. "They even look similar. Just die his hair black and we'd have another bloody Holmes…"

John smiled sympathetically, slapping the Detective Inspector on the shoulder.

"Good luck, mate. You'll need it."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Sherlock suddenly said. The younger man smirked, holding a hand out. Sherlock shook it.

"Alfendi Layton. Inspector. And the Jigsaw Puzzle Killings are mine." Alfendi's smirk grew into a full blown grin. "My, it really must be Christmas!" he added, before looking over at the dumbfounded Lestrade. "I'll be taking my leave now, sir. Murders to investigate and all that." His hand dropped from Sherlock's, and he swept out of the room, just as dramatically as Sherlock had entered. Sherlock stared after the man, his eyes narrowed slightly, his mouth stretched into a tight, lipless line.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking at his friend.

"I don't know if I like him or despise him," Sherlock admitted, before looking at John. "Either way, at least he's not dull. Or an idiot."

…

Sherlock and Alfendi met for the second time at a crime scene. This one had nothing to do with the Jigsaw Murders, but Alfendi was the only available Inspector at the moment, and Sherlock had been hired by the victim's parents to find her.

"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson," Alfendi said as he stepped out of his car, spotting the two men on the side of the road where a body had been reported only twenty minutes ago. Sherlock stood and spun on his heel to face the young man.

"Inspector. I thought you were busy with the Jigsaw Puzzle Murders?" he asked, still a little rankled at not being brick walled by just this Inspector, but also Interpol. Alfendi shrugged slightly.

"Slow day," he grumbled irritably. Sherlock tipped his head to the side slightly, recognizing something about the young man. Like Sherlock himself, Alfendi Layton got bored. Today seemed to be one of those days.

John seemed to notice it too, but didn't mention it. Instead, he focused on their victim.

"She died of asphyxiation. She was drunk, collapsed, and choked on her own vomit," he announced, standing. The two geniuses looked at the doctor for a moment, before he sighed and stepped away, letting them take a look.

"Early twenties," Sherlock immediately observed.

"Hasn't showered in two days," Alfendi added.

"Rope marks on her wrists. Too dark to be recreational."

"No blood under her nails. Tied up until she was already dead."

"Mud on her shoes doesn't match that of around here. Clearly she didn't walk here then."

"Tire tracks on the road that swerve towards here. You two arrive by taxi?"

"Yes, but I made him stop at the corner. I assure you, Inspector, no car other than yours has parked here since the murderer's."

"A kill and drop then."

"Look at the tire prints. The rear passenger wheel is new, the rest old."

"I see. The front driver's could do with a little more air."

"So, a car with a new wheel and a slightly flat wheel. Not the most systematic killer."

"Well, that's no fun at all."

John's head turned from one man to the other as each spoke rapidly.

"I agree," Sherlock sighed. "Incredibly dull, actually. John and I had already discovered that she was sleeping over her boyfriend's the past week and a half after arguing with her father. Do you remember the car, John?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow at the doctor.

"Er…" John mumbled, trying to think back. Try as he might, he couldn't remember the wheels. He realized he'd probably never even looked at them. "Not exactly."

"Of course," Alfendi snapped. Sherlock whipped out his phone and brought up a picture of the car, showing it to the two men.

"Back passenger tire is brand new. Front driver's tire is slightly flat. Inspector, I believe we have found your killer," Sherlock said. Alfendi's mouth quirked, and the two detectives quickly exchanged numbers so that Sherlock could send Alfendi the pictures.

"I don't say this often, but thank you for not being completely useless," Alfendi said. Sherlock smirked, pushing in hands into his pockets and pulling his long coat more around himself.

"I could say the same to you. Come along, John. We have to meet with our client. I believe you should tell her what we discovered," he said, whipping around and striding off.

"Er, right," John muttered, nodding to Alfendi before hurrying to catch up to his taller friend's long strides.

…

Since that day, Alfendi and Sherlock consulted each other quite a bit. Despite Alfendi staking a claim on the Jigsaw Puzzle killings, he would talk to Sherlock about the more bizarre, seemingly unrelated killings, while Alfendi acted as a liaison into New Scotland Yard when Lestrade was busy or annoyed with Sherlock.

When they weren't working on a case, they found enjoyment in simply talking to each other. Alfendi, of course, never took John's place in Sherlock's eyes (after all, John is the only person Sherlock would ever entrust his life with), but the two geniuses had found a kindred spirit in the other. One was a self-identified, high-functioning scociopath, the other an undiagnosed, high-functioning psychopath.

They understood the plights of each other's intelligence when it came to boredom, found pleasure in comparing some of their favorite, more gruesome crimes, and delighted in making a fool of Anderson.

John and Greg weren't entirely sure it was the healthiest relationship for either man, but neither had the heart (or power) to end it. And if Sherlock's all-knowing brother, or Alfendi's well-meaning father, thought it was bad, neither made a move to stop it.

…

Lestrade slowly walked up the seventeen steps that lead to 221B Baker Street, his heart heavy. This was his third stop of the same business. First to his father's, then to his sister's. This stop wasn't exactly required, but he knew he should be the one to tell Sherlock before the Consulting Detective found out a different way.

"Come in, Lestrade," Sherlock's deep baritone called before the man could fully reach the slightly open door. He sighed and gently pushed open the door. John sat in his normal armchair, pounding away at the keyboard, no doubt typing his latest blog post, while Sherlock stood on top of the coffee table, studying a web of pictures that was posted to the wall above the couch. He made sure, of course, to keep the spray painted and bullet formed smiley face free of papers. John glanced up at the detective, curious.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, his voice heavy. Sherlock looked over, his eyebrows drawing together.

"What's happened?" he demanded, hopping down from the coffee table. John put his laptop aside and stood.

"Well, Layton did it. He solved the Jigsaw Puzzle killings," the detective started, crossing his arms and looking away.

"Yes, we discussed it earlier. Keelan Makepeace. He was holed up at Forbodium Castle. Al called his partners and went on ahead," Sherlock explained. Lestrade shook his head. This was going to be harder then he thought, if these two were close enough for Layton to tell an unofficial that much.

"That's the thing. Lawson and Pertinax got there… too late," Lestrade sighed. Sherlock stiffened. John stood.

"Too late?" Sherlock demanded, his voice lower than normal.

"Lawson found them on the roof. Both had drawn their guns. Makepeace was dead," Layton explained.

"And Alfendi?" John asked. Lestrade sighed.

"Unconscious, in a coma. One bullet to the stomach. Lawson, Pertinax, and… the commissioner are convinced that Alfendi shot Makepeace, even before Makepeace turned his gun on him. Pertinax heard Lawson yelling at him to not shoot. Unfortunately, there's no way of knowing that until Layton wakes up. If… he wakes up." Lestrade realized he was rambling and fell quiet, watching the young man in front of him. Alfendi and Sherlock had become something akin to a friends. But now there was no way of knowing if the younger Inspector would ever open his eyes again.

Sherlock's face was impassive. Expressionless. John glanced at Lestrade.

"We'll go visit him later. Thank you, Lestrade."

"Er, right. I'll be off then," the man said self-consciously, stepping out of the room. John watched him go, before turning to Sherlock. The expressionless mask stayed frozen on his face as he turned briskly on his heel and scooped up his violin. He sawed away at it, creating a chaotic, sad song.

…

Sherlock had visited Alfendi once when he was investigating Makepeace's 'murder,' but all evidence, both on Alfendi and on that roof, had been destroyed (how odd, he thought). He questioned Hilda and the Commissioner (a kind old man, a bit of a fool, but wise enough to know when someone was smarter then himself), and attempted to question Justin, but something always came up.

It was now eight months later. Sherlock leaned against the frame of the window, a small smile playing on his lips as he remembered his most recent adventure: rescuing The Woman from a particularly nasty beheading in some Middle East country. He flipped her now blank mobile around in his fingers before placing it in the drawer of his desk.

Suddenly, his phone beeped. Sherlock scooped it up, quickly checking the message. It was from his brother, and it was short, but it caused the detective to freeze.

'He's awake.' – MH

Sherlock stuffed the mobile into his pocket and fairly flew down the steps, snatching his jacket and scarf from the knobs next to the door and bursting out into the rain. John, who was just exiting Speedy's Café, caught sight of the detective as he hailed a cab.

"Sherlock?" he called, jogging after the man. "Is there a case?" he asked. Sherlock simply looked at him, holding the door open to the taxi that had just magically appeared at his summons.

"No case. He's awake. Get in."

"He's—Alfendi!?" John gasped before quickly scurrying into the taxi. Sherlock folded himself gracefully into the car, slammed the door shut, and announced that the driver was to take them to St. Bart's.

John fidgeted the entire drive. Sherlock immediately noticed, but stared out the window.

"What?"

"Well, it's just, he's been in a coma for eight months."

"And sixteen hours."

"Er, right. It's just, that's a long time, y'know?"

"Yes. Point?"

"Sherlock, what if he's not the same? He went through a traumatic experience. A lot of people who wake up from comas are… different. He might not be the same Alfendi Layton we met at the start of the whole Jigsaw Puzzle mess," John explained. Sherlock turned and looked at his friend, knowing he was worried about his reaction. And John had the distinct advantage of medical training and knowledge to back up this claim. Sherlock had, of course, made his peace with the fact that Alfendi might not wake up after all and had moved on with his life. Yes, he had been disappointed that the young, bright man who had been so much like himself, and good, had been lost, but caring, as he had very recently learned from The Woman, was not an advantage.

And yet, when he received that text from Mycroft, Sherlock experienced a strange sensation. His heart lifted in hope. It had soared.

"We cross that bridge when we reach it," Sherlock finally said, opening the door and escaping as the taxi stopped in front of the hospital. John sighed, paid the cab fare, and followed the taller man.

…

Alfendi's room was somewhat crowded. His father, Hershel, sat at the young man's right, while his sisters, Flora and Kat, as well as Flora's husband, Eric, stood around the aged professor. His mom, Mary, had her arm wrapped around Kat, talking quietly to Alfendi. Violet, Alfendi's four-year-old niece, sat in Hershel's lap. Hilda and Justin were in the corner, while a doctor checked on Alfendi.

Sherlock froze in the door, taking in Alfendi's appearance. The man was, of course, even skinnier then the last time Sherlock had seen him. Both his hair and eyes seemed to have dulled in color, and rather than the tight-as-a-spring way he had held himself, the man's posture was as loose as cooked spaghetti. He just woke up. He's weak. He'll be back to himself in no time, Sherlock thought firmly, taking a step forward.

"Alfendi. It's good to see you awake," Sherlock said with a nod to the young man. Alfendi looked up at Sherlock and gave him a languid smile that was completely different from the sharp smirks he wore before.

"It's good to be awake, Sherlock," Alfendi agreed. Sherlock noticed the different people in the room exchange worried looks, including John. However, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"I attempted to mount an investigation into the incident at Forbodium. Care to fill me in?" he said.

"Is this really the time—" Flora began, but Alfendi held up a hand.

"No, it's alright. Honestly, Sherlock, I'm surprised at you. I thought you would have figured it out by now."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at Alfendi's words.

"I shot first. Twenty-six murders is nothing to sneeze at. I let hot-headedness get the better of me, and…" Alfendi shrugged. "I shot first. Then again when he shot me. I'm not sure if it was my first or second shot that killed him, but it could have only been me, right?"

It was like the room had shattered. Alfendi's family was, obviously, quite upset at this, although little Violet had no clue what was happening. Sherlock dully noted disbelief on the adults' faces. Hilda was positively beside herself, while John had gasped softly. Even Alfendi's doctor seemed disturbed by this confession. The only three who didn't react to these words were Sherlock, Justin, and Alfendi himself.

At least, not visibly. Because, while Sherlock remained impassive on the outside, he was tearing apart the room dedicated to this mystery in his mind palace, searching for something, anything to prove Alfendi wrong and to bring back the brash, energetic man he had once been.

John was right. Alfendi was different.

…

A/N: And here you have it!