YAY! Chapter 3! Yeah, you get to meet the runner today.

I hope you enjoy this chapter. It is longer than the first chapters, but I hope I haven't waffled.

As always, constructive criticism is much appreciated.

xxx :D

We meet the Help

"So, there really was nothing to see?" John asked.

They were now back in their flat and John was leaning against the door way into the kitchen, watching Sherlock pace the room, in a complicated circuit, involving climbing over most of the furniture and strange half pirouettes, to change direction.

Sherlock stared at John for a second, well, it was more like he was looking through John, rather than at him, but the result of John feeling incredibly exposed, was the same. John cleared his throat. Sherlock seemed to click back to reality. He waved his arms in the air, being the drama queen that he is, and turned, striding to the other end of the room.

"Of course there were things to see John. Don't be stupid. I saw the obvious over compensation for a lack of sexual skill, in the man's rather ghastly furnishings. I saw that he was ambidextrous, through the organisation of his desk, and no, before you say, he was the only one to use his desk. He was too proud and jealous a man to share. The problem is that we don't know if what is seen is the truth!"

Sherlock looked at John in the way a dog owner might look to their pedigree, hoping for them to perform a trick. Rolling his eyes, John shook his head. Sherlock lifted his eyes to the ceiling and, in the heat of the moment, spun, staring into the ceiling, searching for the lost hope he had briefly had for John's intelligence.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock, practically panted with excitement, "the crime scene was tampered with John! How can I know that the killer didn't plant these things? These thoughts. Clever, very clever. Ha!"

John raised his eyebrows. The corps had been cleaned. That could mean the rest of the crime scene had as well, but, if the murderer were so skilled, then why not hide it all. They could get away with murder. It was then that John remembered Sherlock telling him that psychopaths liked the attention of the chase. The fun of the game.

"It's a game" whispered John.

Sherlock turned to John, his eyebrow raised.

"Well of course it's a game John!"

Never one for compliments, was Sherlock.

A minute, or so, passed. Sherlock began banging the heel of his hand against his skull, alarmingly.

"Need more!" he yelled "Need more!"

He continued to bang his head and began pacing the room once more.

"Need more, what?" hurried John, grabbing at Sherlock's wrists to end the abuse on his head. "What, Sherlock?"

"Information!" Screamed Sherlock. John took a step back. "I don't have enough. I don't know enough!"

"Enough about what?" inquired John, in, what he hoped were calming tones.

"Politics, John. Political manoeuvring. People. Places. Motive!"

John nodded. Sherlock really didn't know a thing about politics.

"Argh!"

Sherlock stormed to his room. The last John heard of him that day, was the slam of his bedroom door.

The next morning Sherlock was still awake, he never slept on a case anyway, too busy to sleep. He paced his room, his light foot falls on dusty carpet the only sound to breech the concentrated silence that always lay heavy about a thinking Sherlock. He knew out dated names and irrelevant dates. But it was all for nothing. None of it related to the current case and for the second morning in a row, Sherlock gazed out of his window, in a loss.

The runner, the same as the day before, turned the corner at the top of Baker Street. Sherlock watched her for a second. Then he remembered.

Journalist.

Political journalist.

He flung open his window and leaned out as far he could without toppling down, to smash on the street below. The wind blew his curls over his face and stung his eyes. The light rain splattering, feebly on his face.

"Hey!" He shouted. The runner stopped. She peered around for a second, searching for the origin of the shout, when she spotted Sherlock she smiled slightly.

"You're Sherlock Holmes" She shouted in return. Raising her hand to her eyes, to shield them from the sun, shining from above 221B. She had a Cheshire accent and spoke with a certain finesse, attained from a good education.

"Congratulations. You have read the news." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Honestly, why did people feel the need to share their stupidity?

"I am the news, you twit."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, staring down his strong nose at the woman, standing below him.

"Exactly why I need your help. Come on."

The runner goggled at Sherlock, as he turned and closed the window. What was she meant to do now? Just waltz up to the door and saunter in. She considered just leaving, but that wouldn't solve anything. She'd probably just obsess for days and regret missing out on what could be the best thing to ever happen to her. Assist Sherlock Holmes. It was unheard of. The only help Sherlock Holmes needed was from his doctor John Watson.

It could be nothing.

It could be everything.

She nodded in determination and strode to the door. Hesitated, her hand hovering above the door knob. Then she grasped it firmly and the door was pulled away from her. She stumbled forward, but managed to steady herself before she fell, embarrassingly and far too clichéd into Sherlock's chest. He peered down at her, a question in his eyes. He raised his eyebrow and smirked when she straightened to meet his patronising gaze. Her eyes hard and a small smile gracing her lips.

"I'm not one to be easily intimidated, Mr Holmes."

"Oh, I know" He replied.

So, I really hoped you enjoyed that. All support is welcome and does wonders for my ego :D

R&R

3 3 3