This idea started off really sweet, and quickly became a bit dark. Warnings for very brief descriptions of gore and a panic attack within the first couple of paragraphs. Also, please note the Wiggins in this story is not the one that appears in the series. I've based him off the one from the novels, a homeless child and leader of the "Baker Street Irregulars" i.e. the homeless network.

I know this is all very unlikely to happen, but go with me.

As a surgeon and a soldier John was no stranger to blood and gore, but the sight that greeted him churned his stomach and brought a cold sweat over his skin. The lady John had kindly helped carry her shopping home when her bags had broken now lay face up in a pool of her own blood. Her skin was icy white with the dark purple patches of lividity beginning to appear on her legs. The blood had long since congealed, with a tacky quality and a darker brown edge where it had begun to dry.

She starred unseeingly upwards, dark eyes clouded over and bloodshot. Her chest had been neatly sliced open, the flap of skin and breast tissue hanging over her side. Her heart had been carved out and lay next to her in its own puddle of blood.

A thick metallic smell permeated the room clogging John's nose and filling his lungs to such an extent he could almost taste the iron on his tongue.

A shock of pain ran down John's leg and very suddenly it was no longer iron he could taste but sand. His vision narrowed and his heart pounded. His breath came in short gasps, his lungs no longer cooperating, and in that moment he felt like he was going to die.

Stumbling backwards John ran from the flat and then through the street, uncaring of the pain in his leg. He finally paused in an alleyway, sinking to the ground, a hand gripped in his hair. Logically John knew he had experienced a flashback, but the anxiety and fear coursing through him was very much real.

He struggled for several minutes to force air into his lungs, to put out the fire that had begun in his chest. He tried to focus on regaining a regular rhythm and, although difficult, eventually he felt his chest unclench and he could breathe again, his heart no longer trying to beat its way out his chest.

John grit his teeth. He was sweaty and ill and bone tired but more than anything he was irritated with himself. He had been doing so well but the scene he had walked in on was vaguely similar to one he experienced in Afghanistan and it cut right through his defences.

He sighed heavily and thunked his head against the wall behind him, staring upwards. Now that he had mostly recovered he knew he had to go back to call the police. There was no getting around that.

John got shakily to his feet, the tremor in his hand in full force along with the pain in his leg. His cane was still gripped in his hand and he leant on it heavily, limping his way back towards the building he had fled.

When John got closer however, it became clear that someone had already done the job. Several flashing police cars and an ambulance stood outside, police officers already cornering off the area with yellow tape.

A small weight seemed to lift off his shoulders and he was glad to turn around and walk away. It wasn't until he was halfway back to his recent sleeping place that a thought caught him off guard.

They would think it was him.

Not only was he in the flat just before the time of death but he had also returned and was most likely seen running away.

His blood ran cold for the second time that day and John cursed whatever deity he had managed to piss off. Being accused of murder was really the last thing he needed. The worry ate at him as he walked the rest of the way back. When he reached the familiar tunnel he had been using for the past several days dropped to the ground and buried his face in his hands.

The killer hand probably left some of their own evidence but John would definitely be their first port of call. A strange homeless man seen running away from the scene of the crime? Suspicious didn't half cover it.

John pressed the palm of his hands into his eyelids until he saw stars. Who knows, they might bloody well be able to pin the whole thing on him.

"Oi, what's up Doc?" A voice called from in front of him. John raised his head and narrowed his eyes. He was very much not in the mood for whatever Wiggins wanted to joke around about now.

Wiggins held out his hands, placating. He knew what John was capable of when angry, especially with that cane of his. No one messed with the homeless when John Watson was about.

"Ah. Serious is it?" He took a seat next to John, "You tell me what's the matter and I'll see if I can 'elp."

John sighed. The whole situation was ridiculous. There was no doubt in his mind that his life had gone absolutely to shit since the army.

"I'm probably going to get done for murder."

Wiggins' eyes opened comically and his mouth dropped open. "You didn't actually go kill one o' those guys from before did ya?"

John rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I was just there right before the murder."

"And the police'll think it was you?"

John shrugged. Wiggins 'hm'ed and rubbed the scruff on his chin thoughtfully.

Wiggins was one of the youngest John had met sleeping rough, he'd met him after he'd got a few good cuts and scrapes falling down some stairs drunk. John had obviously patched him up and somehow gained an annoying presence that wouldn't leave him alone like the others.

With the NHS it wasn't strictly necessary to carry around a first aid kit but in John's experience people were often too stubborn or mentally unstable to seek out help. So he did what he could, making sure his kit was always fully stocked.

"I might know a bloke that could 'elp. Names Sherlock 'olmes. You 'eard of him?"

John made a face. He had heard several people talk about this 'Sherlock Holmes' but he seemed more like a fictional character than a real life person.

"Kind of."

Wiggins grinned, tapping the side of his nose and pointing towards John, "Don't you worry Doc, he'll 'ave this mess sorted in no time."

While getting the man's address was simple, Wiggins having been here several times, locating the man himself was more of a challenge. He was supposedly 'on a case' which apparently meant he could be anywhere in London at any given moment.

After talking to several people in Wiggins' 'network', they eventually found the address of the crime scene he was attending. At this point Wiggins left John to it, sending him off with a smile and a clap on the back. Sometimes John really resented his height.

Armed with only the vague description of 'tall, posh, with a long coat' John was incredibly thankful when he heard a voice shouting "Sherlock! Sherlock, wait! Come back here!" as he approached the scene, a tall figure quickly striding away.

"Excuse me!" John called, limping quickly after his retreating back. "Excuse me! Sherlock Holmes?"

The man didn't turn around but stopped at the main road to hail a taxi and John managed to catch up. He was indeed dressed in clothes worth a hundred times John's own person, and clad in a long blue great coat.

"Sherlock Holmes? Sorry, I…uh, wa-"

"I don't have time for your idiotic stuttering." He said, cutting John off. A taxi pulled up next to them and the man leapt inside, closing the door on John. The car pulled away, leaving John standing dumbfounded on the pavement.

"Right." Well, that was a complete waste of time.

Having been on the streets for a couple months now, John was fairly used to the bad reactions people can have towards the homeless, but he had really started to place a lot of hope in this 'Sherlock Holmes' and his reaction was really quite disheartening.

John took a deep breath.

"Right."

He tapped his cane on the ground a few times and walked down the road. Usually he would have gone back or sat somewhere to collect some money, but both of those increased his chance of running into Wiggins and that wasn't something he really felt like doing. He had quite enough on his mind without someone else hanging around and questioning how meeting Sherlock Holmes had gone.

He walked at a quick pace. He was still in the same situation he was in several hours ago with no clue what to do. There wasn't much he could do, John had to admit, other than to just wait and see what happened, but it was the helplessness that frustrated him the most.

He could always go to Harry, who was a fairly decent lawyer when she wasn't drunk off her arse, but that was a spectacularly bad idea. Not only had they not seen each other since he had first arrived back, she had no idea that John was not currently still living in a bedsit, or any kind of house really.

Partially it was due to stubbornness that he hadn't gone to her at first, that and her drinking problem which he had no desire to deal with. John wasn't safe to be around other people for extended periods of time. He felt more comfortable living the way he was. He felt less isolated, didn't pose a threat to anyone he cared about, and he was in control of where his life was heading. Which considering was nowhere, it wasn't that hard.

Everything was a bit less dull and grey, and he felt like he had a purpose, helping out those he met when he could.

It took John awhile to realise just how long he had been walking. It was now dark, his leg pained him considerably and the weight of his rucksack seemed to have increased by a few stone.

He shifted his bag a bit and changed his grip on his cane, slowing down his pace. The evening crowd was in full force, the streets heaving with commuters and last minute shoppers. The dirty smell of London and exhaust fumes was overwhelmed by the smells of high end restaurants and greasy kebab shops wafting through the air as most began to think about dinner. John's stomach grumbled and he made the executive decision to return for the small stash of things he had hidden.

He took a shortcut, branching off the main road and walking through a maze of side streets in a residential area. He was just passing through a small alleyway next to a set of houses when two men ran past in front of him. It seemed that one had been chasing the other and had manged to corner him against a fence nearby.

The cornered man flashed a wicked grin and there was a glint of a knife, and John was moving. Using his cane he knocked the feet out from under the taller one, sending him crashing to the ground and the knife stabbed the air instead of his middle. John quickly got to work on the one with the knife who now looked a bit stunned and confused, knocking the weapon out his hands and bringing him down next to the first man, although a bit harder than planned, knocking him out.

John dusted himself off a bit and turned to the man who he had saved. He was still sitting on his arse, staring at John with a look of rapt fascination.

John offered him his hand.

"Sorry about that mate. Thought it better than a knife to the gut."

"Quite" was the deep baritone reply. He blinked and seemed to collect himself, taking John's hand and helping himself up. "Odd to find someone such as yourself in this part of London. Afghanistan?...Or was it Iraq?"

"What?"

The man grinned, shaking John's hand that was still in his grasp.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John froze. What? The man he had met earlier had been wearing a bespoke suit and was immaculately groomed, but the man before him now…looked homeless. His clothes were ratty and old, his hands and face covered in dirt and his hair a mess. But if John looked closely his face still had the same sharp cheekbones from before. And he was still bloody tall.

"John Watson." He replied automatically, letting the man's hand go. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, I've actually been meaning to talk to you."

"Sherlock, please." He replied, pulling out a mobile from somewhere, and began to text furiously.

It was like night and day comparing this meeting to their last and John didn't really know how to respond. He had so rarely had a regular conversation with someone who wasn't homeless these last few months and he was a bit dazed.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, glancing up at John from his phone.

"Well what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Clearly you wanted to consult me for a reason. What is it?"

"Oh. Oh! I...might get accused for a murder I didn't commit. I was told you may be able to help me out."

"Hm. I don't have time for that now" he said, pocketing his phone. "It seems there was a second culprit I was previously unaware of and I need to locate him before he does something dramatic like flee the country."

Well, that was just John's luck.

"But if you wait at 23 Montagu Street I will see what I can do after I finish this case. Provided of course the murder isn't too pedestrian."

Did people usually describe murder as pedestrian?

"Alright." John replied, it wasn't like he had much else to do.

Sherlock span around and began walking away, leaving John with his unconscious would-be-attacker. He got a few strides in before he turned back.

"Thanks for that by the way" he said, gesturing to the man at John's feet. "It was…well, good."

John felt a grin tug at his lips.

"No problem. You just going to leave him here?"

"Someone will be round shortly to collect him." He waved dismissively and carried on walking.

John shook his head and glanced down at the body. He should probably check the man for a concussion, but if someone was coming soon he didn't have much motivation to.

He sighed, adjusting his bag and cane again in preparation for the long trek to Montagu Street.