AN: "lowers a chapter down from a window and scurries back inside"

Did you miss me?

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

The suitcase flew unceremoniously in John's general direction. John caught it with both hands, startled, and the dark haired man popped up from the depths of the dumpster. "Oh, good reflexes." He clambered out, long legged but agile, and took the suitcase back. Quickly setting it on the ground, he unzipped it and riffled through the clothes, toothbrush, and other items. After a moment, he grinned. "Phone. She doesn't have a phone in here. But she wouldn't have left it. No, she even thought to bring floss. You don't remember to bring floss and forget your phone. Especially if she was in the media business. Which she was. So where's the phone…?"

"Could she have dropped it?" John asked, slightly confused. Why was this important?

"Perhaps." The man's eyes glazed over as the thought. He stood to his feet suddenly. "I need to use your phone," he said.

John blinked at him. "Can't you use yours?"

"No."

Frowning, John fished in the pocket of his jacket and brought out his cellphone. The man took it quickly, texted something, and handed John back the phone. John looked at the screen. What happened last night? I think I blacked out. I'm at _. It said.

John glanced up and down between the phone and the man. "You blacked out?"

"No," the man muttered, irritated. He zipped up the suitcase and deposited it on John. "Say she just dropped her phone... someone picks it up, the text means nothing. But if the murderer sees it." The man's eyes sparkled, and he threw his hands in the air. "He panics. His victim didn't die. If anything, he'd take a look at the address."

The man began jogging hastily out of the alleyway, and John was left with an open mouth. "Genius," he murmured after the man's retreating form. And then, "Wait! Wait a minute." He set off after the man. "You just texted a murderer. With my phone."

"Yes, didn't I make that clear?" He didn't seem to find his actions strange in the least. John stared at him, and then shook his head. He had to walk very fast to keep up with the man. "Where are we going?"

"I'm going to the address obviously. You're... following, I suppose. And you're probably only half an idiot, since you managed to remember the suitcase, so that's fine."

John rolled his eyes. "Glad to have your permission." The man didn't appear to hear him. They jogged in silence for several minutes, twisting and turning between streets. The figure before John never once hesitated. Finally, the man came to a stop, holding up a hand for John to do so as well. They were in an alleyway behind what smelled like an Italian restaurant. John pressed his back against the brick wall, waiting for the man to make a move. "What are we waiting for?"

"Shh."

John frowned. He had the suitcase hanging awkwardly in his hands. John peered over the man's shoulder. There was nothing unusual. A busy street. People walking back, cars zooming. Everything was moving except...

"That was fast," John murmured. The murderer must have been nearby to get here so quickly. Then again, he had a car while John and the man were foot bound.

The man looked back at him in surprize. "The taxi, you see it? Just waiting there. That's our guy."

John nodded. "Right. Obviously." It was pleasurable to see the man wrinkle his nose at the word. He didn't seem used to being told that something was obvious. Breathing in the musty air of the night mixed with the sharp smell of Italy, John looked around the man again. The car eased its way into the flow of traffic. "He's moving."

The man cursed under his breath. "Let's go. Follow me. Leave the suitcase here." John followed all three orders easily and soon they raced along, running as fast as they could.

"Do you know where we're going?"

"Short cut!" the man shouted back, not slowing in the least. "We'll cut him off if we..." Suddenly, he dove to the side and pulled himself over a chainlink fence. John stopped, startled, and then did the same.

Closer and closer they raced, closing in on the car. Finally, they burst out of the alleyways and into the blurs of a busy intersection. Without regard to the cars, the dark coated man raced around them. John was just behind. His heart raced faster than it had since Afghanistan, and he smiled.

"There!" the man shouted. His momentum bowled him into the window of one of the taxi's, and John quickly caught up. The man opened the door, and John heard him speaking in a low voice, and then curse monumentally.

"Apologies," he said loudly. "Wrong car. Welcome to London." He slammed the door shut and backed up a few steps so that he was in line with John, who looked at him with wide eyes.

"What just happened?"

The man was seething with irritation. "Wasn't him. American. Just off the plane." He scowled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. John didn't have time nor the energy to ask him how he knew this. He was breathing too hard to get out more than a few words. Gasping, they caught their breath for just a moment before John saw the man from the taxi pointing a policeman in their direction. He backed away hastily, pulling his companion along with him. "There's-"

"I see them. Let's get the suitcase."

They jogged back to the restaurant, got the case, and then began walking again. John followed without much thought. He was still breathing heavily and grinning. Walking into vaguely familiar street, John stopped for a moment to catch his breath once more and suddenly laughed.

"Welcome to London." He snorted.

The man stopped, turned, and grinned at him. "Was a bit ridiculous, wasn't it?"

John raised an eyebrow. "That was by far the most ridiculous thing I have ever done." He fell back against a wall on the side of the street and stayed there, hands on his knees. The man did the same.

"And you invaded Middle East."

John gave a wheezing sort of laugh. It truly was ridiculous. He hadn't had fun like this... such exhilaration, since Afghanistan. But he could hardly call being shot at, or sewing up wounds 'fun' without getting strange looks. This though? This was worth every stitch piercing his abdomen. After a moment, John's chuckled petered to a stop, and he glanced at his companion curiously. The man had gone eerily quiet. After a moment, John rubbed his eyes. Afghanistan? "How'd you know that, then?" he asked, registering the man's earlier words. "Afghanistan, I mean." Had he told him he was a soldier?

The man seemed perplexed as well. "I suppose it was your cane and..." He frowned, looked John over again, and, all at once, took a step back.

And another.

"Oh," he said softly. Then again: "Oh." They were standing in a halo of light cast by a street lamp, and the man paled considerably beneath the radiance.

John cautiously straightened. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." He did not look fine. An irritated glare flashed through his eyes, and he ground his teeth. "Should have been paying attention. Getting relaxed."

John blinked. What? "Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing." He licked his lips nervously. "Your name," He demanded. "What's your name?"

John cocked his head. "John," he said slowly. "John Watson. But what does that have to do with… with- are you sure you're alright?"

The man looked halfway between running away or collapsing, and John didn't know what he'd do if the man did either.

The man ran a hand through his hair agitatedly instead and paced. "It can't possibly be. I should have... You're- you're... How did you...?" He didn't give John anytime to respond. He met John's eyes. Stopped pacing. "One way to be sure, right?" Glanced at his hands.

John just stared at him, confused. "I don't unders- Ow!" John jumped away suddenly, pain throbbing through his knuckles. The man had rammed John's fist into the wall beside-

Wait.

The man was hardly daring to breathe, eyes wide and focused on John. He shook his hand to rid it of the pain. John stood stalk still, feeling for the first time that he could not trust his eyes.

John's fist hit the wall. Right?

But it was the man's hand that had actually moved.

Like gears in a ticking clock, John's mind made the connections. He had forgotten all about his search for Sherlock in his mad race around London with this stranger.

This stranger who really did not feel like a stranger at all.

This stranger who was looking for a murderer. Like a detective.

This stranger who was taking him to Bakers street. They were standing in Bakers street.

Sherlock was a detective at the crime scene.

John screwed his eyes shut and then opened them again, feeling a headache coming on. Looking at the man in a new light, John wasn't sure how he'd missed it. The way he held himself and how he moved. The shadows under his eyes.

Despite that John had never set eyes on him before, it was obvious who he was.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock gave a weary sort of smile. "The one and only."

'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'

If Mrs. Hudson had not called out into the night at that very moment, Sherlock thought he might have stood there, frozen, forever. He glanced away and then back again. Still there.

Still John.

And it was most definitely him. Even if he hadn't responded to Sherlock's self-inflicted pain, Sherlock would still have recognised him.

Recognition. An odd thing in this case.

For a second, Sherlock was very sure that if he made any sudden movements, John would run away. To be honest, he was on the verge of such a cowardly escape himself. John kept staring at him as if he had sprouted fangs, and Sherlock figured his face probably mirrored that expression. They were both waiting for the other to move; to solidify their relationship in reality when it had for so long only existed inside their minds. This is impossibly strange.

John finally let out a small, strangled sounding laugh. "You're Sherlock? You?" He laughed again, sounding less fearful this time. "Course it's you."

Sherlock did not have time to respond (thankfully) to that statement (what would he have said anyway?) because a few houses down, a door opened and a rectangle of light flickered across the sidewalk. "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called from the doorstep of 221B. "Is that you?"

Reluctant to turn his back, Sherlock shouted over his shoulder. "It's me."

"You really ought to come inside! The boys are doing a- a bust."

That brought Sherlock back to reality, glad for the distraction. He turned toward Mrs. Hudson and frowned. "Again?" he barked irritably.

He could sense John just behind him. Tense. Don't run away, Sherlock thought desperately. How would he find him again if he dashed off? But Sherlock said nothing of this sort. It would look far too sentimental for his tastes.

"I should go," John said softly. He had a quiet voice, with a bit of raspiness in the back due to a sore throat Sherlock knew he'd been nursing for a few days.

"No," came Sherlock's instant response. Too quick? Maybe.

"Sherlock!" Oh, go away, Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm coming!" He spun back around to face John. "Don't. Leave, that is." He searched for a reason hastily. "You... you found the suitcase. You can vouch for me."

John blinked, confused. "Why would I have to do that?"

Ah, yes. "So that they don't think I'm the murderer, obviously." With deliberation, Sherlock began walking toward his flat. For a moment, there was only silence behind him.

And then the quick footsteps as John hurried to catch up. Sherlock suppressed a smile. "Do they often think that?" John asked as they neared the door. "I mean, think you're the murderer?"

"Yes. Now and again." They were in the rectangle of light now. The blue door hung open, waiting, and Mrs. Hudson gave a relieved smile at the sight of them. "Oh!" she said. "I see Mr. Watson caught up to you, Sherlock."

"Please, call me John."

Inclining her head in acknowledgement, Mrs. Hudson budged out of the doorway. Sherlock swept past her without a word. His chest was still clutching nervously, like a snake around his waist. Don't think right now. He had to take care of the idiots in his flat. "Sometimes they think I'm witholding evidence," he said idly to John, who followed close at his heels. The stairs creaked beneath his feet. He skipped the first and the fourth out of habit. "So they do a drug bust to try and find it."

"Do they find it?"

"Course not."

"... Have you had evidence?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock smirked and offered no more, glancing back and seeing that his response had amused John. Good.

It hit him again that this was John. His John.

Quickly, Sherlock entered his flat, pushing away the sentimental and slightly overwhelming thought. He stuffed it in a corner to deal with later.

"Hello," said a nasally voice the moment he stepped inside. Sherlock glowered at him. Anderson. There were about half a dozen officers roaming around the room, not including Lestrade, who had a resigned glaze to his eyes.

Sherlock shifted his glare toward Lestrade now, still feeling John just at his back. Now that he was aware of him, it was impossible to ignore. "Got here quick." he said boredly. "You shouldn't have bothered."

Lestrade looked pained. "Thought it would be better to come here instead of hanging around the crime scene after you left. Not much else we could do without you. Knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid." Sherlock saw the veiled compliment within the statement, and his ire cooled slightly.

"So you stage a drug bust."

"I volunteered," Anderson piped, smirking as he passed. He opened up a microwave in the cluttered kitchen and startled back. "Are those human hearts?"

"An experiment," Sherlock muttered. He turned his attention back to Lestrade, who cast an amused glance at Anderson before refocusing on Sherlock. "Well, as I said, you shouldn't have bothered," Sherlock said. "We only just found the suitcase ourselves."

Lestrade frowned. "We? Oh." He only just noticed John, who shifted awkwardly and held the suitcase up. "Keep running into you, don't I?" Lestrade said with a surprised smile.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You know each other?"

John nodded. "Sort of. Met him this morning at the hospital and then at the station looking for… well, you."

Lestrade nodded. "Glad you caught up to him." Sherlock noticed the questioning light cast his way but ignored Lestrade's curiosity. He obviously wanted to know John's significance. Sherlock didn't just drag around anyone.

But that was a conversation for a time when he wasn't solving someone's murder. For the first time, Sherlock wished it was over already.

"So that's the victim's suitcase?" Anderson said, popping into the room once more.

Here it comes, Sherlock thought. He suppressed a sigh. "You are like acid reflux, Anderson. Always popping back up at the most inconvenient times." Taking the suitcase from John, Sherlock cleared away a space and set it down on the table.

"And I suppose you just happened to find it laying around?" Anderson's voice dripped with accusation.

"John here- can I call you John?"

John gave him a look. "What else you would you call me?"

"Yes… I suppose that's-"

"You were saying, Sherlock?" Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right. Anyhow, John noticed it as he drove past. And yes, we found it laying around."

Anderson sniffed. His hair had an oily, slicked look, and Sherlock wondered if he used hair gel or he just ended up that way naturally. "Anyway, who are you?" Anderson said to John.

John shifted his weight nervously, shifting the suitcase from hand to hand. "John Watson."

"Yeah, but who are-"

"Should I mention," Sherlock spoke up loudly, snatching up the suitcase and opening it up on the table. Lestrade watched, slightly amused. "neither of us are the murderers."

"I never said-"

"Do shut up now, Anderson. The adults have work to do." Sherlock turned his back, catching a glimpse of the man's outrage. Always nice working with you.

Now. The case. The murder. John.

"So… we found Rachel."

AN: I am so sorry it took so long to update and I left you on a horrible cliff hanger and everything! But I'm back now! Please leave review! Thanks for being so patient and reading for so long! See you next week!