A/N: It's been far too long since I've updated! Sorry! I'll blame graduation and whatnot.

He has stopped asking whenever Sherlock goes out, such as now. He can see the taller man wordlessly tying a scarf around his neck from the corner of his eye. It's obvious that Sherlock is going to Wren. Whenever he goes out without naming his destination, it is always to her.

John sometimes wonders what she wants with him, but he usually banishes the thought from his mind. As long as Sherlock isn't injured – and he does keep a close eye on the detective to be sure that he has no unexplained bruises or other wounds – there is nothing he can do.

If he interferes, Wren will come after him. He knows this. He hates admitting he's afraid – he is a soldier after all – so he does not admit it.

Sherlock, for his part, never mentions the events that do occur. Instead, both men treat it as though it is not happening.

"I called you as soon as I got here," Lestrade explains, leading the two men through the scene. The ground beneath their feet is wet from recent rain. "There's another piece; how many does this make now anyways?"

"Seven," Sherlock answers plainly. "Who was the victim?" The consulting Detective asks, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

John looks at the face of the man and grimaces. He's seen death many times beforehand, but it never gets any easier to look at someone who died in fear and agony. The murder weapon, a plain red tie, is still wrapped tightly around the victim's neck. The puzzle piece sits beside the man's twisted face.

"Remember that drugs bust I told you about when this whole thing began?" The Detective Inspector reminds him. "This is one of the guys we pulled in. He posted bail."

"Looks like jail would have been safer," John comments, crossing his arms.

Sherlock gets to work, examining every detail of the crime with hawk like precision. Checking through the man's pockets, his fingers brush against something odd. He knows what it is when he encloses his fingers around it to bring it out, but he can't seem to process it.

Lestrade and John lean over to see as well.

"That's a puzzle piece, that's another piece," John stammers. "Do you think it's from the same puzzle?"

Sherlock's expression does not change. "Likely."

"But it's blank. Why would the killer plant a blank piece?" Lestrade asks, motioning for one of his team to come for the new evidence.

Sherlock turns it slowly in his fingers. His lips curl up into a smirk. "I'm betting you'll find the dead man's finger prints on it."

The elder man sighs. Sherlock has a look on his face like he's just realized something wonderful. "Why?"

"Because it wasn't planted."

"Alright, I'll bite," Lestrade relents. "How do you know that?"

"The sides, especially the corners, are frayed. All the pieces we've found so far have been clean and pristine. This one's been handled, turned over repeatedly in a nervous man's hand." Sherlock demonstrates, and John looks at him.

"You think it was sent to the victim, as a warning?" John asks, trying to catch on to the train of thought Sherlock is currently following.

"It's a possibility." He looks over to Lestrade. "Conduct a search of all the other victims' places of residence. If I'm correct, you will find more."

"So you think there hasn't been seven pieces, you think there's been…"

"Fourteen, yes," Sherlock interrupts the Detective Inspector, pulling off his gloves with a loud snap.

"Only another 1986 pieces to go," John comments with a shake of his head.

"We cannot let this develop into 1986 more murders!" Lestrade points out in a frustrated voice. "Sherlock, if you've got any leads, you need to tell me."

"I haven't got anything, yet," Sherlock tells him. "Though I wouldn't worry too much. Two pieces a victim, you'll only have one thousand victims, not two."

Sherlock sits silently in the chair across from John. His eyes are closed, and he has his hands pressed together like a prayer. He's been like this for some time, and John worries the clacking of his laptop keys are distracting. He certainly feels like they are invading the silence, but Sherlock does not move.

John eventually clears his throat. "Finished that book, yet?"

"What book?" Sherlock answers, unchanging.

"Treasure Island," John reminds him. "I have a comment on my blog wondering if you'd finished."

"I have more important matters to deal with than fiction, John," Sherlock replies, and now John knows that he's irritated. But whether it was by him, or by the lack of leads in the case, John's not sure. "Tell Harry that. Better yet, block her IP. Her comments are insulting to the human race."

So that's what irritated him. John had to admit that even he found his sister's grammar a bit annoying at times. "This wasn't from Harry, it was an anonymous one. And you'll be pleased to know it's actually well written."

Just what he needs; idiots on the internet obsessed with what stories he's reading. The sarcasm drips off his tongue effortlessly. "Fascinating."