Something touched her arm and she was immediately awake, knife in hand and pressing it to the intruder's jugular.

It was then that Vieve realised the intruder was Doctor John Watson. Not a man to break into someone's house unless it was a necessity.

"John?" She asked, pulling the knife away from him and removing her earbuds with the other hand.

She could hear Sherlock and another man in her living room, as well as Mrs Hudson in the hall outside. John looked at her anxiously. She frowned at him and got up following the voices out into the other room.

The other man was a police detective but that didn't draw her eye. What did were the trainers sitting on her arm chair that hadn't been there when she went to bed. Someone had broken in. Someone had broken in to leave Sherlock some kind of clue.

"Sherlock?" This time she said it demanding an answer.

But she didn't get one. A bright pink phone began to ring. Everyone was silent as Sherlock answered it and put it on speakerphone.

"Hello?"

"H...Hello Sss...Sexy." A woman's voice replied, clearly distressed.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

This was a case. Sherlock had a case and it had invaded her Livingroom. Some time in the last hour since she'd gone to bed someone had broken in and left a clue for Sherlock. It had been more than a week since she had hoovered so it was doubtful she'd find a decent shoe print. She stepped past Sherlock and the Detective and hopped up the three steps that lead to her front door.

"I've sent you... a little puzzle... just to say... Hi."

The lock had been picked. By someone with slightly less skill than Sherlock as she could make out the barest of scratches.

Turning back into the room, she hurried past again started pulling off her pyjama shirt and throwing it in the corner of her bedroom. She heard John cough behind her as she kicked her bedroom door to behind her. She had to get changed but she didn't want to miss any of the phone call happening in the other room.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock's baritone easily reaching her ears.

She grabbed a vest top throwing it over her head, quickly followed by a black knit jumper. Pulling open a draw she grabbed clean underwear before kicking off her bottoms. The jeans from yesterday were clean enough so she shimmied into them.

"I'm not... crying... I'm typing. And this stupid... Bitch... Is reading it out." The woman at the other end of the line snuffled clearly trying to hold back tears.

Vieve pulled her bedroom door back open and slipped into the bathroom.

"The curtain rises." She just heard Sherlock murmur.

Vieve frowned in response but hurried through brushing her teeth and throwing some water at her face. Her hair would take too long so she grabbed her brush, intent to give it a proper brush the second she had time. Instead she pulled out the bobble and ran her hands through it so she could scoop it on to the top of her head.

As she entered John was demanding to know what Sherlock meant. Sherlock's only answer was a cryptic line about expecting something like this.

"Twelve hours... To solve my... Puzzle, Sherlock... Or I'm... Going to be naughty." The woman broke into sobs as the call was ended.

Sherlock was already in motion. The phone was slipped into his pocket and he was leaning over the trainers again, swaying slightly to look at them at a different angle. Then, with gloved hands he was pulling out a large evidence bag out of his pocket and putting the trainers inside.

Then he was turning to charge back out of her house with a 'Come on John!' on his lips when she interrupted.

"I'm coming with you." She grabbed her keys and turned back to Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock spluttered coming to a sudden stop.

"Sherlock, I can tell that whatever this is, it's big and it's happening in my living room. I'm coming." Vieve forced herself to hold eye contact with him to show him how serious she was.

He huffed.

"Fine! We don't have time for this."

She smirked at a slightly flabbergasted John and followed him out.

The three of them pilled into the cab. Genevieve had pulled down one of the fold out seats and sat across from them. Sherlock was staring out the window, no doubt reviewing the facts of the case or deducing people as they sped past or updating his map of London. Vieve was brushing her hair.

John couldn't believe Sherlock had just let her come. There was hardly any argument.

And clearly they knew each other better than he would have thought. Sherlock had been in her apartment. Sure he would have known her apartment from sight if he'd only been there once but John knew it was more than that. The way she'd spoke to Sherlock earlier when Mycroft had been there. They were familiar.

Before long they were pulling up outside St Bart's. Genevieve followed Sherlock out and John huffed and rolled his eyes as he paid the cabbie and hurried to catch up with them. Molly okayed there use of one of the labs, giving Vieve old questioning looks the whole time which the pair of them ignored if they noticed them at all. John could only shrug at her. He didn't know what was going on between the two of them either.

Sherlock threw himself into his work, taking evidence from the shoes and looking at it under the microscope. Vieve, on the other hand, settled on one of the tables against the far wall and promptly shut her eyes and tried to get a bit of sleep. John watched her for a while. After fifthteen minutes, she seemed to really be asleep, propped up against the wall, hands shoved firmly in her pockets and the collar of her coat pulled up around her chin.

John didn't think he'd ever since a civilian fall asleep like that.

John shook his head. He shouldn't have been thinking about that. It wasn't important right now.

"Who do you think she is?" He asked instead.

"Who?" Sherlock didn't look up from the microscope.

"The woman on the phone. The crying woman." Shouldn't that have been obvious?

"Oh. She doesn't matter. Just a hostage. No leads there." Sherlock dismissed.

"I wasn't thinking about leads!" He spluttered, not shouting in case he woke up Vieve.

"You're not going to be any use to her then." Sherlock mumbled.

It didn't matter that he'd known Sherlock for months now. It still shocked him that his room mate could be so cavalier about other peoples lives or feelings. John wasn't exactly a bleeding heart, worrying about people all over the place but still. To dismiss that woman all together. To hear her voice shake with fear and shrug it off like it meant nothing.

"Are, Are they trying to trace it, trace the call?" He stuttered.

"The bomber's too smart for that."

Sherlock's phone bleeped.

"Greene!" He shouted making John jump.

"Sir." Vieve answered as she came to all at once and was reaching across herself for a weapon that wasn't there.

She took in her surroundings and John saw her shoulders slump. It was such a textbook army response.

"Wanker. What?" She said without any real heat, as she pushed herself off the table and walked over to them.

"Pass me my phone." Sherlock commanded

She just huffed at him. "Where is it?"

"Jacket."

She just shook her head as she reached into his inside pocket to retrieve his phone. John watched as Sherlock eyed her as she leaned into his personal space without actually touching him. She pulled his phone out unlocking it.

"It's from your brother. Wants a sitrep. Is this about what ever he wanted you to investigate?"

"Delete it." Sherlock switched the slides under the microscope.

Vieve shrugged and John watched her type.

"Delete it?" He couldn't help exclaim.

"Missile plans are out of the country by now. Nothing we can do about it now."

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. Must be important. " He insisted.

"He has texted you eight times. Should I delete all of them?" Vieve asked, scrolling through Sherlock's texts.

Sherlock nodded at her before turning back to John "If it's so important, why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His what?" Sherlock had skipped a step in the conversation again.

Sherlock sighed as though it was obvious

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" He informed John without looking up.

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die." Because he really thought his room mate could stand to be reminded.

"What for? This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

Before he could form a proper response, the computer began beeping

"Ah!" He exclaimed as the door opened behind them and he raced over to the computer followed by a curious looking Vieve.

John turned and saw it was Molly. He gave her friendly smile that she didn't see. Sometimes, with Sherlock in a room, John felt became practically invisible.

"Any luck?" She asked hesitantly her eyes drawn back and forth between Sherlock and Vieve, who were standing quite close together.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock confirmed without looking up from the computer him and Vieve were crowded around.

Knowing him he might not even be aware Molly had entered the room. As he also probably hadn't noticed the man who stuck his head through the door after her. Sherlock was to busy moving between data. He switched out the slides again.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't..." The man stutter, hovering in the doorway as if he didn't know whether to leave or not.

Molly span round and greeted him enthusiastically.

"Jim! Hi! Come in! Come in! " Molly grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah!" He cried in recognition.

Molly turned to him, "And, uh... Sorry?"

John blinked a moment before he recovered. They had been introduced before when Sherlock and him had come to pick up some body parts.

"John Watson. Hi." He shook the guys hand but Jim wasn't very interested either.

"Hi." Jim turned back to give Sherlock a long look. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

Looking up at Sherlock, John caught Vieve watching the interaction. There was a slight smile playing on the edge of her lips.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Molly informed them and Jim chuckled along with her.

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope, looked Jim up and down, before returning to the ever present Work.

"Gay."

John felt the sudden tension in the room as though it were a physical thing. Maybe he should get used to Sherlock just saying things guaranteed to wind everyone in the general vicinity up.

"Sorry, what?" Molly spluttered, cutting the silence.

"Nothing. Um, hey." Sherlock, for once seeming to sense that he'd put his foot in it, tried to recover.

"Hi." Jim just smiled at him and leant on the side, sending a tray clattering to ground, which he quickly replaced. "Sorry. Sorry! Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!" Molly called after him as he made a hasty exit.

"It was nice to meet you." Jim said across the room, clearly aimed at Sherlock but the detective took no notice.

"You too." John replied hoping he'd take the hint.

He finally left. Instantly Molly turned back round to face Sherlock.

"What d'you mean, gay? We're together." She demanded.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you." Sherlock gave a feeble attempt to change the subject.

"Two and a half." She disagreed.

"Nuh, three."

"Sherlock..." John warned because picking on a woman's weight was just not on.

"He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil...? He's not." Molly insisted, clearly hurt.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock questioned in that voice that said he was right and how can't you see it?

As Molly got more visibly upset, John felt the need to defend her in some way. It wasn't her fault.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair." Sherlock looked up at him with frown. "There's a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly asked hesitantly, embarrassed.

John sent a pleading look over to Vieve. But the woman was staring at the computer screen intently and probably doing all she could to stay well out of this.

"Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand." Sherlock turned and lifted the tray Jim had knocked to the floor, revealing the slip of paper with a phone number written quite clearly. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here... and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain.

Molly chocked back tears as she ran out of the room.

"Charming. Well done." John sniped

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" Sherlock turned to him again.

Vieve snorted. "Kind is allowing people to live within their own delusions." She paused a moment as she drew once again to the table Sherlock was working at. "We're not bad people. But we're not particularly good either. That doesn't matter as long as we're kind. That means we don't call people idiots to there faces or mention people's secrets in public."

Sherlock's head tilted as he took in what she'd said. John could only hope it would stick there.

"You were quoting someone." Sherlock left the unasked question hanging between them.

She nodded, the corner of her lips twitched upwards into a smirk. "I was nine and I'd complimented Sgt Bowen's wife clear views on the futileness of monogamy and pointed out her husband's his mistress at a mixer. The affair was all anyone could talk about for six months but I got in lots of trouble for 'getting involved in adult things'. Jerry pulled me aside and told me what the problem actually was."

Sherlock gave a slow nod before turning towards John and shoving the trainers under his nose.

"Go on, then."

"What?" John was jarred at the sudden change of subject.

"You know what I do. Off you go." He insisted, shaking the trainers a little.

"No." he wasn't about to make a fool of himself.

Sherlock sighed and turned waving them at Vieve instead. She just rose an eyebrow at him.

"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me." He cajoled.

She gave a very put upon sigh before pulling on the latex gloves Sherlock offered. She gave them a proper once over, even looking at the sole.

"The wear on the sole is even, suggesting only one owner walking in the same manner. They're big but they've got worn ink where a name was written on the inside so probably a boy between thirteen and sixteen. They're in good condition, he must have cleaned them, probably with a toothbrush as he got right round the eyelets. That's either dedication or obsession. But there is mud on them now so they were left them unexpectantly, definitely against his will, probably because the owner was killed." She looked up at Sherlock then.

"Good." He nodded.

"Umm... From your... Scans?.. Of the pollen in the mud." She pointed to the computer and the results that were still onscreen. "He was in Sussex and London. That's it."

"That's it?"

"Well, Genevieve; really well." He paused and John could sense a But coming along. "I mean, you missed some points of interest that have particular importance, but, um, you know... You got most of it."

John thought that was in fact the 'nicest' he'd ever heard Sherlock be. And he seemed was actually sincere and John could find no way which it could be part of con of some kind.

"The owner loved these." Sherlock carried on. "Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."

"Twenty years?" He interrupted.

"They're not retro, they're original." Sherlock whipped out his phone and showed him a website with a picture of the shoes, the image gone again before he could register much else. "Limited edition - two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine.

"But there's still mud on them. They look new." He insisted, looking at the trainers once again.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it as Miss Greene pointed out." He nodded at her. "South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

He was muttering mostly to himself but as usual John still listened.

So what happened to him?" He asked to draw the detective back to them.

"Something bad." He answered. "He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them behind unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets...Oh."

It was the soft oh of a realisation. It was usually followed by a louder OH! And a swish of the detectives coat as he explained to John the 'obviousness' of what he had worked out. But the second Oh! was absent this time and the detective was as still as a statue.

"What?" He prompted after a moment where it was made clear neither Sherlock or Vieve were going to say anything.

"Carl Powers." He detective answered in almost a whisper.

"Sorry, who?" He had to ask as the name wasn't familiar.

"Carl Powers, John." He insisted a though that would make a difference to John's recollections.

"What is it?" He had to ask because Sherlock was being odd, even for Sherlock.

"It's where I began." Then he did swirl on his heel, flaring his coat in his wake and stormed through Bart's to get them a taxi.

As usual John was left to catch up but, looking over at Vieve who shrugged, at least he had company this time.