Author's note: Finally, after over half a year of trying I managed to write something. I still can't really believe it.

Okay, I know not many people read Author's notes, but whatever. I need to thank Benfan for inspiring me to try writing on my own. All these exchanges we had were a fantastic encouragement. Thank you, dear ;)

Now, mind that English is not my first language and I have no idea about the rules of proper writing, so don't expect too much. Corrections are welcome, of course!

This story isn't actually a case fic, and Sherlock's brilliance doesn't play the key role here. It's more about friendship and . . . okay, I'm not going to say more :D You'll have to read it to find out.

Anybody, enjoy!

I don't own 'Sherlock' and let's just leave it here, you know everything.

It was their work; they were there to offer comfort, guidance. Every call was different, for no two incidents are ever identical and neither are people's reactions. Sometimes it was just about a harmless quarrel, other times it was blood-chilling, real-life horror stories. No matter what happened, they had to keep their heads clear, which was something they learnt throughout years of practice.

When phone number 5 started ringing it was only a matter of seconds before the steady hand of a dispatcher picked up the receiver. For that woman it was just another call, one among thousands; for those on the other end it was the beginning of a drama that was going to haunt them for the rest of their lives. But if shelet her herself think about that, she would not be able to provide help.

Her voice was determined and calm when she spoke.

"911 Emergency Centre, how can I help you?

Rustling and frantic voices echoed in the phone, and few seconds later a shaking male voice resounded.

"Hello?! I need an ambulance right know, my neighbour's wife has been attacked!" the man yelled.

"Okay, please stay calm sir. I need you to tell me what happened exactly."

"I don't know, I . . . There is blood everywhere . . . . He is with her, I heard him from my flat and just came to see what happened. Oh God, I think she's . . . " His voice broke suddenly and he only breathed soundly into the phone. The dispatcher could also hear a muffled voice from nearby.

"Okay, sir what is the address?'

"It's, um . . .Cavers' Street 11. Hurry up! Jesus . . . ."

"It's okay sir, the ambulance will be there in a few minutes," said she, already alerting the police and the nearest hospital.

She heard him move the phone away from his ear to tell the husband of the victim about the upcoming ambulance. When he placed the receiver back to his ear she spoke again.

"Can you tell me your name? And the name of the attacked woman?"

If possible, the man's voice became even more shaky.

"M-my name is Robert Jenson. I . . . I don't know her name, I've only just moved in, should I ask him? He's . . . resuscitating her. Please, you have to hurry up!"

"No, do not disturb him. I am going to hang up now and I want you to be outside when the police and the ambulance get there, okay? But before they do, you'll need to stay with your neighbour and help him if he needs you."

"Alr-alright. Thank you!" he breathed, calming down just a bit.

"Okay, Robert. Everything will be fine, just do what I asked of you."

Soon, the call was disconnected.

And that was it for her. She wasn't indifferent, no, but years of dealing with similar calls would harden anyone. It was necessary if one didn't want to lose their mind.

.

Cold, piercing wind that still carried winter tore its way through upper branches of the shyly greening trees, severing some of the most fragile buds, and thus ending their short lives. After a few moments of a chaotic dance between massive trunks, the roguish breeze abandoned the patient trees and headed where it could cause a bigger fuss - towards a group of apparently displeased people gathered in the middle of the park.

Ah, people were always a great target of teasing, particularly when they were on edge; it was so easy to further anger them and incite the unleashing of that anger on whatever or whoever was at hand. Forces of nature didn't need to pay any heed to men's wrath, however; only other men did.

The frigid blast went right through the middle of the crime scene, tugging at police tapes and coat lapels, ruffling hair and eliciting hisses and curses from the gathered of people.

Detective Inspector Lestrade shivered and hid his hands in his pockets, inwardly cursing the atrocious weather. He glanced at the man beside him who was apparently unaffected by the wind. Only his curls and billowing coat gave an indicator that he was experiencing the aura's antics too.

The DI looked at him expectantly, wanting to hear the brilliant deductions and the standard batch of insults of his intelligence as soon as possible, so that he could hide in his cosy car. Sherlock Holmes ignored him, and annoyingly slowly crouched in front of the body. He tilted his head from side to side and changed position multiple times to observe the cadaver from various points. Finally, he rose and sighed heavily.

"Well, it was a waste of time, as expected. Nothing out of ordinary here," he said in a bored tone, not looking at the body or the inspector, who frowned. Greg was well used to Sherlock's arrogance, but he was feeling really cold and his patience was wearing thin.

"Care to elaborate?" he asked, straining to keep his voice mild.

The other man gave him a reluctant glare, and after a dramatically sharp inhale he granted him with a response.

"It only takes one look to realise that she was murdered somewhere else. Whoever brought her here was most certainly of athletic build - she wasn't dragged but carried," Sherlock recited lazily, gesturing to the ground."You're looking for a person, a man most likely, who . . ."

Suddenly, the sound of his phone ringing interrupted him. A deep frown crossed his features as he angrily fished the device out of his pocket. He gave it a disdainful glare, looked at the screen and his frown deepened. Lestrade was quite surprised to see the lanky detective answer the call; the greeting he gave, however, was not surprising at all.

"What?" Sherlock threw out.

The DI rolled his eyes and smiled with a corner of his lips, but the smile died on his face when he saw the expression on Sherlock's. The younger man seemed to be very far away for a moment. Wind played in his hair, as if it was trying to tease him.

He closed his eyes and stood in silence, not even once interrupting the speaker. When he did speak, his voice was unnaturally small.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Lestrade felt an uncomfortable weight in his stomach, for seeing the perky genius taken aback so quickly could not mean anything good.

"What happened? Is something wrong?" he asked concernedly.

The young detective didn't say anything, just opened his eyes, turned abruptly and marched away, leaving the policeman flabbergasted. Greg called out after him, but received no reply. He was about to follow the other man when an officer with some urgent questions stopped him.

Lestrade cast a look after Sherlock, feeling that he should go after him, demand answers. Alas, he couldn't abandon the crime scene at the moment, so he just sighed with resignation and turned to the officer. Such strange episodes occurred in the past - Sherlock would suddenly leave the scene for no apparent reason, annoying the hell out of everyone. The DI prayed that it was one of those cases, but deep down he knew it wasn't.

Sherlock made his way through the crowd of policemen and onlookers, ignoring the glares and occasional calls for his name. Everything seemed so distant, unimportant, even more than usual. He unconsciously broke into a run.

It's short, I know. The next chapter won't be much longer, but the following ones will, I promise.

I would be most grateful if you left a word or two, it would mean a lot to me ;)