John wondered about Sherlock's uncanny ability to predict the police as he opened the door to let in the female officer that had been so astounded by Sherlock's work. John led her to the kitchen where the entire family sat around the table, finishing the last bits of breakfast. Alistair stared at her over the top of his newspaper. Elise's eyes widened with curiosity.

"There's been another murder," she told them before anyone could make any assumptions as to her reason for being there. "So don't look so excited. We haven't caught the murderer yet. We think it was the same person though."

"Are you positive?" Sherlock appeared next to her, clad in his fitted black trousers and his purple button-up shirt that John couldn't deny he found completely arousing. His trench coat was draped over his arm.

"Well, you see, that's what I'm here for," the woman fidgeted. "We decided it would be better to work with you, since you seem to know what you are doing."

Sherlock smirked. John rolled his eyes. It astounded John how quickly his arrogance returned to him. But at the same time – no, it didn't. Not at all.

"Let's be on our way, then, shall we?"

It seemed John would be skipping breakfast, per usual when they were on a case.

Elise had practically jumped on the opportunity to join them on another case, volunteering immediately to drive them to the crime scene.

This one was closer into town. A small alley behind the bakery. Sherlock held up the cautionary tape for John as he ducked under it.

A young man, mid-twenties perhaps, had been impaled onto a wooden electrical post, the hilt of a sword protruding from his abdomen. He had almost black hair and extremely pale skin. He was wearing black slacks, an apron, and a white button up shirt with a maroon tie. He was lean with muscular arms and hands. Physically nothing connected this man to the nurse. Except that his shirt had been torn open and, in the same scrawling handwriting, was SH carved into his chest.

"Cause of death?" John asked to no one in particular, hoping to somewhat diminish the intense aura of incompetency Sherlock so easily caused them to feel.

"I don't know, the bloody sword in his stomach?" Officer McConnell piped up.

"Bloody hell," John muttered to himself.

"Wrong," Sherlock said, just loud enough for McConnell to hear.

McConnell's face twitched and he turned away. Elise gasped when she saw the man from the other side of the tape.

"Oh, no." She whispered. "I knew him. He was sweet. A waiter at this restaurant we used to go to. Sherlock would remember him. Poor boy."

John squeezed her shoulder and she shooed him away to help Sherlock. He joined Sherlock at the end of the alley, where the man hung slack jawed on the post.

"What do you know?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't even look up to him when he answered, "Waiter. He was poisoned. He was stabbed post mortem. See this bruising here?" He gestured around the man's abdomen, where the hilt of the sword protruded. "It was caused by blunt force – definitely a person's fist."

John examined the wound closer and confirmed Sherlock's statement. "Is it safe to assume that this blood was taken from the hospital as well?"

Sherlock nodded and opened one of the man's green eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He leaned in closely to the man's face. He opened his other eye and examined it as well. He squinted as he stared at both the man's eyes together. Sherlock held open the other's right eye and reached his hand to it. He slid a gloved finger across the man's iris and came away with a small, green contact lens.

"Bag, John," he said as he held it close to his face.

John hurriedly retrieved an evidence bag and returned to Sherlock.

"Isn't there another?" John stared quizzically at the single contact in the bag.

"Hm? No. Heterochromia. One blue eye, one green. But not proud of it apparently."

Sherlock took the hilt in his hands and leaned toward the man, acting as though he were the one doing the stabbing. He crouched and repeated the process. He slowly shifted up with each repetition. He measured the length of the blade and the width of the pole. He took a sample of the wood after much poking and prodding.

He ran the numbers over and over. It wasn't adding up.

"No. No. No." Sherlock muttered to himself.

"What is it?"

But he didn't answer John.

Measuring and re-measuring. Calculating and recalculating. It wasn't the same person. But it was. The handwriting on his chest was precisely the same. It wasn't possible. There weren't two killers, that much he was certain of. So what, then?

Sherlock scribbled the new measurements of the man and handed it to John as he stalked past the police back to Elise's car. John handled the police – as he had always done for Sherlock – and followed him back.

Sherlock went straight to the library when they returned home. John checked on him some hours later. He carried a tray in his hands and gently tapped on the door.

"Sherlock?" he called.

The room was extremely dark, despite the sun still being up. Sherlock must have shut the heavy curtains at some point. He cracked the door open and found Sherlock on the floor, laying parallel to the sofa.

"Sherlock, I've brought some tea, would you like some?" he offered.

He hoped Sherlock wasn't flustered today by knowing the man. He never had before, but Sherlock had been out of the business for a long while. And the killer was clearly trying to rattle him.

"John, come lay with me." He patted the floor next to him.

John set the tray on the coffee table next to the couch. He lay next to Sherlock on the floor, staring at the ceiling, hoping maybe he could see what Sherlock saw.

But no one saw how Sherlock saw. His vision – the way he worked – was a mystery to all who knew him.

"So, what are we looking at?" John pondered.

Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth to shush him. Apparently he was just there for company. When Sherlock was sure John would be quiet he removed his hand and held John's in his own, rubbing his thumb along John's knuckle. Every once in a while he would throw his hands in the air and wave them around as though erasing something. Sometimes he'd hook his hands around some invisible object and shift them around or latch on to something and hold it very still then toss it to the side.

John wondered if Sherlock counted it as a blessing or a curse to see like he did. John thought it was beautiful.

Eventually he moved to the sofa, dragging John along with him. Sherlock sat on the back of the couch while John took a seat between his legs, sitting on the couch like a normal person. Sherlock rested his elbows on John's shoulders and steepled his fingers above John's head as he stared at the wall contemplatively.

Sherlock ran the numbers through again and again. He calculated every possibility as to why the man's measurements were different this time around when clearly it was the same person who killed both people.

All John could think about was all that wasted tea.

Sherlock spoke even less than usual in the following days. He got like this when something truly puzzled him about a case. If he didn't think he had the answer (or was at least close to it) he refused to speak any of his theories aloud.

Every once in a while John would catch him muttering something like "nothing is what it seems" but that was all he heard from him.

John worried about how distant Sherlock was becoming from even him. The last time he acted this way was with Moriarty, and wasn't that a lovely thought?

It wasn't long before he started getting restless – as though he were waiting for something to happen. Something unpleasant.

Sherlock had been staring at the ceiling of the study for hours. He watched the shadows on the ceiling move as night turned into day and tiny rays of sunlight danced into the room. The inactivity of just lying on the floor caused him to grow cold, despite the heat of the warm embers in the fireplace at his feet, left from a fire John had built for him Sherlock didn't know how many hours ago. He couldn't seem to bring himself to get up and get a blanket or stoke the small fire no matter how cold he got.

And here they came. The cavalry of a single police car had arrived, armed with what Sherlock knew was safe to assume grim news.

"Elise!" Sherlock yelled from where he lay on the floor, "Elise, the door!" It was the first he'd spoken in a while.

Sherlock didn't move a muscle to retrieve it for her. He wasn't anxious to see who it was this time. If he had inferred correctly, each person was going to be someone he knew more intimately each time. First someone he'd never come into contact with, then a mere acquaintance, now… he didn't want to guess. He could only imagine the killer's endgame.

Elise answered the door just as the man behind it reached to knock.

"Oh! Fergus! What are you doing here?" Elise said to the Superintendent of the local police precinct.

The large man was dressed in full uniform. Although he had graying hair, his beard and moustache were flaming orange to make up for it.

He removed his hat and stared at Elise solemnly. "Elise, may I come in?"

She noted he was wearing his uniform and her breathing increased. She swallowed hard. "I take it this isn't just a casual visit, then?"

He was silent.

"Right. Come in then."

Elise opened the door wider and gestured for Fergus to step inside. She shivered, not sure if it was from the crispness of the outside air or the fact that the Superintendent was making a house call when he rarely left for even murders.

She shut the door but the chilling sensation didn't leave her. Hm. Must have been the latter.

Elise wrapped her arms around herself. She rubbed, trying to cause friction to bring the warmth back to her.

Her heart beat faster as she offered him tea, "It's so cold this morning, I have something warm in the kitchen I could make up if you like?"

He shook his head, "No, thank you," he said gruffly. "Is there somewhere we… might be able to talk?"

She sighed. So much for prolonging the inevitable.

"Can't we talk here?" She pleaded.

"Elise," he put a hand on her shoulder, "you may want to sit down."

Shit. She was afraid of that.

He followed her to the front sitting room where he watched her pace the length of the room multiple times before she finally sat down. Fergus remained standing. She crossed her arms tightly in front of her, and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths.

It couldn't have been the kids or Alistair, she'd seen them off to school and work personally. But Elise was close to most everyone in the town, so it could have been anyone really.

Elise wished Alistair hadn't left for work this morning. She desperately wished he could have been there with her receiving the news beside her. He was the best at comforting her. She wanted him there with her, letting her squeeze his hand so tightly it stopped the blood flow, and giving her a gentle squeeze of support in return. She settled for digging her fingernails into her palms instead.

Finally she nodded at Fergus.

"I'm sorry to have to give you the news, Elise," he took a deep breath, "Last night, Kristov was murdered."