A/N- So like, don't hate me for this chapter. Also, I feel obligated to tell you that my writing isn't normally this depressing. Normally I like writing humor. Humor! Like this story will eventually get to be. Don't look at me that way; it's possible. Oh, and please ignore typos, proof reading was limited because I wanted to get this out here for you guys. It'll get corrected as I reading back through it. Anyways, I wanted to thank Chrissy Truman and Shi-Toyu on for their awesome reviews that inspired me to write more on this story. Hope you like it guys! ;) Anyways, it should get happier before the next chapter, so you're not allowed to murder me before then. Well… I hope you actually do enjoy this somewhat… somehow…

He carefully scrutinized the storefront. It had an overall tacky and worn appearance, like most of these places do. The front awning was a deep shade of purple, stretched out in a curve over the dark wooden door. Fading white and colored letters were painted on the window to the left, advertising everything from palm reading and homemade candles to dried herbs. In the center was a depiction of hands clasping a crystal ball. He supposed the overall effect was supposed to be mysterious and old, but to him it just looked rundown and tacky.

Sherlock strode up to the store front and open the door carefully. It was a wise choice to change back into the coat; it would help him blend in with the atmosphere of the store. He yanked up his sleeve to check his watch. Lestrade should be here in a ten minutes. That gave him a reasonable head start and the ability to make good on a threat of backup if the situation called for it.

Sherlock pushed through the door, the coppery sound of a bell ringing accompanying him into the shop. His eyes flickered about, registering details immediately. The shop did not garner much attention from either customers or its owner, judging by the dust piled upon the shelves. The shelves themselves were stacked with strange odds and end that the owner only seemed to organize by putting the shiny and large object near the front. The back wall was filled with hanging bushels of herbs. Pushing by the messy and scattered irrelevant objects, Sherlock followed the worn pattern in the rugs over to what served as a checkout counter. The hunk of dark wood stretched across at least three-thirds of the side wall.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. This area was clean, not intentionally, but it had the kind of organization what comes with frequent use. His eyes darted to the books knocked over at the end of the counter. Leaping over the wood behemoth, Sherlock crouched to inspect the only fallen pile of books. The other here were neatly stacked, one of the only neat things in the room.

Sherlock glanced back at his watch. He only had about three minutes now.

The wood was slightly brighter next to the book, like someone had applied of new coat of polish. Why would someone bother only cleaning one area of shoe scuffs? Unless they were trying to hide something that wasn't from a shoe.

Moving quickly, Sherlock's finger flew over the seams in the wall. He could feel it; the slight breeze and constructed crack in the molding. He only needed to find the right place to press. The latch clicked and the door popped open a bit.

Behind him he heard the opening of another door. Throw open was more accurate- it seemed Lestrade and the crew were finally here.

"Sherlock, wait, this could be a crime scene-"

Obviously it would be if he stood around and waited for them to waste time with all of their useless politics and procedures. If he entered the room now, he could have at least five minutes of time before they found the latch. Plenty of time. Without even turning to acknowledge them, Sherlock grasped the edge of the door and threw it open, slipping in before slamming it behind them.

Sherlock scanned the room, drinking I the sight. The mystic woman was long gone, and there was no point in pursuing her. She had left John behind though; there it only indicated one person had left out the backdoor. Around the corner of the shelf he could see the edge of a large wooden bowl. The scent of blood ash permitted the air. So it was a type of deluded ritual. Interesting.

All of this took Sherlock approximately thirty-four seconds to deduce. It took him less time to run away from the door and round the shelf, where he knew John must be tied.

Everything became slower, and details became so obviously they hurt. Like the scent of blood in the air Sherlock had unintentional ignored when he walked in the door. He footsteps felt so soft so slow. Everything felt inadequate. And it must be, because for the first time in his life his mind rebelled against the logic it had built itself out of his. His carefully constructed and maintained walls disintegrated and crumbled at this sight.

The sight of John's unmoving body lying against the shelf. His empty gaze at the window. The pool of blood forming around him. The blood drying on John's ugly jumper.

"JOHN!" It didn't even feel like a word out of Sherlock's mouth, and it certainly didn't sound like it came from him. His head whirled like it was stuffed with drugs as he collapsed to his knees in front of John, warm blood soaking through his trousers.

His mind could tell him everything. He knew John had died only moments before he had arrived; the temperature of the blood told him that. The sun's reflection in John's glassy eyes could tell him what time it was now. The state of John's jumper told him he had put up a fight, at least until the end, when he had stopped resisting. The wound revealed precise shape of the dagger that killed him; Sherlock could even diagram it. The position of this head and gaze indicated he had said something, just before he died.

What Sherlock's brain couldn't tell him-couldn't comprehend- was why John wasn't still here. Why Sherlock's massive intellect hadn't been quick enough. It seemed impossible.

But when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable; must be the truth.

Sherlock grabbed two fistfuls of John's jumper.

"John." He rasped, quieter now. His eyes staring into John's hazel eyes, which stared back at him, blankly. Lifeless. No reflection of the laughter they had shared, and the wide runs they had taken through London.

He was still staring into the brown-rimmed and blue eyes when his brain sluggishly acknowledged the door opening.

At this time he knew what was coming. So he set himself to the task of deducing every remaining detail of John he possibly could. His gaze search in a way it never could have previously across the distance between them.

By the time he heard Donvan's gasp and Anderson's predictable swears, he already knew every time John had fallen off his bike before he was seven.

When he felt Lestrade's hand on him, he knew the hair color of John's primary school crush.

As they tried to pull him away, Sherlock figured out where John kept his old photographs.

He recalled yanking his arm away and shouting the words, "No, I'm not done yet!"

There was something said about him being sick and twisted and something else unimportant about how: "We couldn't possible understand what it's like for a person like him."

When he was finally forced away, he didn't move much. He just stared at John as he was dragged away. He face felt like it was made of stone, carved forever facing that expression and those once-bright eyes.

By the time they had him out the door, he had deduced perhaps the two most important things of all.

The words light traced in the dust were unconsciously drawn and paired exactly with the last ones John had spoken.

It was his name.

Also, of equal importance.

He knew where she was.

And there was no corner of the world she could go; no place she could find sanctuary in; not pit she would crawl into; where Sherlock wouldn't find her.