The mobile set on the wooden table buzzed to announce an incoming text. The man next to it, lying on the couch with his hands folded, ignored it. The phone buzzed again.

"John! I need you to do something," the man said, not moving from his position.

Another man stepped into the room, regarding the summoner suspiciously. "If it involves the fingers in the fridge, I'm not doing it."

"Answer the phone, will you?" the other ordered.

John sighed and flipped open the mobile. "It's from Lestrade. Someone's been murdered in Queen Mary's Gardens… severed carotid artery… apparently this is the third death like this in the past three weeks…"

"Tell him we'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You could ask me if I have plans, Sherlock," John said, though he was already typing out the reply.

"You don't have any. You haven't worked up the nerve to ask out Aliyah, so you're free." Sherlock swung his coat over his shoulders and walked down the stairs.

"It's still polite to ask!" John yelled, following him to the front door.

"What's the point of asking, I already know the answer. We're going out Mrs. Hudson," he called over his shoulder.

"Don't get into any trouble, boys," came the answer from a kindly older woman.

The two men left the building, one tall with dark, curly hair, the other shorter with a sandy head. Sherlock flagged down a cab, and they got in.

"Queen Mary's Gardens," Sherlock told him, leaning back in his seat and staring out the window.

John, however, was not letting go of his earlier argument. "You've got to learn how to be polite, Sherlock! Even if you know the answer, you've got to ask."

"That would be a waste of my time and energy. Now shut up, I'm trying to go to my Mind Palace."

John dropped it, knowing that the insufferable detective wouldn't budge, especially when he was traveling to his "Mind Palace," the place he stored all of the details he deemed important. He resigned himself to spending the trip in silence.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was treading through the palace, looking for the two previous murders. Ah, here it is. He'd caught a few glances at John's paper over the past two weeks. Murder one was Wednesday, October second. The only thing said about the victim was that she was nineteen years old. He carefully filed that away, turning his mind to the second murder. This one he had slightly more information on. Six days later, on Tuesday, another victim had been found. This one had been twenty-two, found in the bed of an abandoned truck. No more information was given. The police didn't have much information to give to the press. Took them long enough to ask for his help.

The cab stopped. "Highbury Fields," the driver announced. "That's £17.22."

Sherlock made no move to pay. John was not pleased. "I suppose you haven't got any money on you?"

"This one's on you."

John sighed in annoyance, handing the cabbie the money. "You owe me that money," he said reproachfully to Sherlock. "I'll remember that."

"You'll have forgotten by the time we get back," Sherlock stated calmly, getting out of the car.

"No, I'm going to remember this," John argued, also exiting. "And you will pay me back, with interest~" He broke off. "We're in the right place," he said, staring at the scene before them.

Sherlock was already striding towards the crime scene. Donovan came out to greet him. "What are you doing here, freak?" she asked aggressively.

"Lestrade asked me for help on this one. And it's too bad Anderson's wife was home last night." Sherlock ducked under the tape and headed towards the mass of blood, John following behind him.

Female. Young, approximately 28. Fair complexion from lack of sun, mark on inside of wrist from keyboard, quite heavy - desk job. Sherlock knelt next to her, inspecting the wound on her neck. Small, neat - a sharp knife. The width is equal to a standard pocket knife, but obviously much sharper than normal. Non-serrated blade. Sherlock cast his eyes down her body, noting the amount of blood. Smaller cuts along the arms and legs. Small protrusion from front pocket from folded paper - He pulled on his gloves and pulled it out.

Sports can be dangerous. -S

"What have you got?" Lestrade asked, striding up behind Sherlock.

"28 years old, worked a desk job, probably a secretary. She was killed by an overly sharpened pocket knife, but was tortured before that. There was also a note in her front pocket." Sherlock handed the paper to Lestrade. "Unmarried, but one daughter."

"Sports can be dangerous. S," Lestrade read. "Any ideas on what this means?"

Sherlock straightened up. "What did the other notes say?"

Lestrade didn't bother asking how he knew there were other notes. "'Public transportation is hazardous to your health' and 'No seatbelts are risky,' both signed 'S'."

"A serial killer."

Lestrade groaned. "You have a habit of finding these crazies."

"I'll examine the other bodies."

"I'll drive you there."

Lestrade, Sherlock, and John walked to one of the police cars.

"You're quiet, John. You've slept and eaten, so exhaustion is not an excuse. It's not the death, you've seen it before. You're still mad at me for earlier."

"Maybe I am, Sherlock!" John burst out angrily. "I can't believe you'd just disregard me like that!"

"I'm not disregarding you. You had nothing going on, so you were free to come."

"But even when I'm not free, you still somehow manage to ruin things for me! Just wait, someday you'll be doing something with someone, and then I'll mess it up for you, let you know how it feels."

"I haven't got time to 'do something with someone'."

A/N: I promise promise promise that I will finish this story if it kills me! I will! Please believe me...

Me gusta Sherlock, so I'm making this new story. My character isn't in yet, but rest assured it will happen in the next chapter!

Please let me know how you feel about this! Like it, love it, don't like it, loathe it from the very core of your being, write it down there in the little review box! They make me feel all warm and snuggly and write-y inside.