A/N: Okay so the prologue's a bit weird but it's not like this the whole time I promise. Please review, I've been writing this for so long and I will kill for feedback. ForeverThankingNicki for being my beta (ForeverShippingJohnlock) (see what I did there) !

Prologue

Let's set the scene, shall we?

A busy London street. Usual kind of day; occasional cloud in the sky, frequent winds, a little edge to the curt breeze. People walk around, holding shopping bags and phones and each other. I survey my targets: a jogger passes me by. Oh, yeah. Perfect cover. I shove myself into her mouth. Slim, strong build. She flexes (I flex) her arms. Perfect.

I've already observed that they're heading my way, so she ducks (I duck) into a storefront and drink from her water bottle. A child walks by. I blink. He cries. Excellent.

A few minutes later, she hears (I hear) him talking like a madman. His voice floats to her ears above the crowd. Ridiculous.

"...so I told Cleopatra, I've never seen you before in my life! And she said, 'yes, you were here last week!' Then she started to describe a man who called himself the Doctor, with a bow tie and a tweed jacket and I stopped her 'cause she must have been describing my next regeneration. Imagine that! A bowtie!"

They come into view now, walking so quickly that jogging behind them won't appear suspicious. The blonde girl shoves chips into her mouth, licking at her fingers while glancing frequently up at the man, who gestures so wildly with his hands it's a miracle he doesn't hit a passerby.

She sets (I set) off, keeping a few metres behind them. I assume this man is the Doctor. The girl must be Rose Tyler. It was surprisingly easy to find them; they're very loud.

I listen closely. Yes, there it is. The faint buzz of his psychic paper. Humans must be rubbing off on him – doesn't he realise that if a signal can be sent to the paper, it can be tracked? Well, I can track it. But he's never met someone like me before.

Really, Doctor. You need to pay more attention when you come to Earth.

The Doctor and Rose Tyler turn a corner into a small, uninhabited alleyway. She waits (I wait) by its entrance, looking in.

Oh, Lucifer. There it is.

I've been hearing it for so long now, from miles away, even through time. The low music of the TARDIS. Oh, how I'd love to sink my teeth into that sexy thing. But there are more important matters at hand.

He fishes out his keys, still yammering on about something or other. Rose still stares at him, hardly blinking, offering a witty quip every now and then. It's time. I do as I've always been planning.

"Wait!" she calls (I call) out as she runs (I run) towards the blue box and the human and the Time Lord.

They both turn around. "Hello," says the Doctor, grinning. She hunches (I hunch) over as if she's (I've) been running for a while. "Psychic paper," she wheezes (I wheeze).

The Doctor's face immediately becomes serious, handing her (me) the small leather wallet. "What, you're just gonna give it to her?" asks Rose in disbelief.

"I think she needs help," murmurs the Doctor. She nods (I nod) as she places (I place) her thumb against the surface of the paper. I transfer the address and timestamp onto the page, watching as it appears in black capital letters. She shoves (I shove) the wallet back into the Doctor's hands, saying, "Please help," as she looks (I look) into his eyes, pleading. He frowns, beginning to say something, before she runs (I run) off. Perfect. Well done.

I leave the jogger. She collapses, hits her head hard on the pavement. Blood pools. I'd laugh, if I were currently capable. That's one for the scrapbook.

One out of three.

Across the pond, now. Same day. Sioux Falls, South Dakota, United States, America, Earth, the Solar System, etc. An old house. It smells weird.

I've been following the boys for weeks now, I know their routine. They cry a lot. It's rather pathetic. If I get a hold of Sam, I'll cut his hair, among other things. I'd be smiling if I had a mouth. I'm excited.

I'm a woman again. Annoying. She runs (I run) quickly to the house, seeing as she's (I'm) about a mile out. Smack the old drunk on the head in his sleep, burn off his tattoo, climb on in. The woman wakes up. He slits (I slit) her throat quickly.

Bobby Singer picks (I pick) up the phone and hits (hit) speed dial 1 – direct line to all that's left of the Winchester family. I can laugh now. He does (I do).

"Hey, Bobby, what's up?" asks Sam, voice loud and irritating. I do my best Bobby Singer impression.

"You boys working a case?" he says (I say). I throw enough quiet desperation and muted intoxication in to make it believable.

"Nah, just finished one up." I knew that. Bobby does not. Hey, now he does. Everybody wins. "Why, you got something for us?"

"Well I got a call from Rufus this morning, tellin' me to meet him at an address at 9am tomorrow. I won't be able to make it in time, you two mind checkin' it out?"

"Sure, gimme the address." That's it. No hesitation. Immediate compliance. I love my job. He reads (I read) the address to Sam, who thanks me and hangs up.

And that's it. I thank Bobby, who yells the exorcism at me. Not gonna work inside your head, old man. I lock him in his saferoom for good measure, though it's unlikely he'll wake up from that head wound anytime soon. Or the knife wound. Heh, couldn't help myself. He has a lot of flesh.

I (would) smile as I leave, picturing the Winchesters opening a door in one country and shitting themselves in the next.

Two out of three.

Again, London. Same day, forty miles East. I'm glad I saved this one for last. I'm a sucker for detective stories.

They don't go out as much, these two. I observe their flat. I've been aching to go inside for weeks. I bet the air tastes sublime.

I nab a guy out in the street, a businessman who looks like he's late for something. He laughs (I laugh). "Sorry, dear, not your morning," he says (I say) to himself (him). I make my way up the stairs and ring the bell for 221B.

A few minutes later, John Watson opens the door. I swear he only has three interchangeable jumpers – but I guess I'll find out soon. My fingertips tingle with excitement.

"Yes, hello?" John says, looking exhausted.

"I have a case for Mr Holmes." I hate this guy's voice. I tell him so. He prays. I roll my eyes internally at him.

John's eyebrows shoot up. So many emotions. Aw, poor little fool. "Really. You sure?"

He frowns (I frown). "Yes. Everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's just, Sherlock can usually tell with these things." He steps back to allow him (me) in. "Come on in, Mr..."

A social cue. I read the man. "Collins. Jay Collins."

"Mr Collins," John finishes, closing the door behind us. "This way." He leads him (me) up the too-creaky steps and asks me to hold on. He listens (I listen) to their conversation from behind the door.

"Sherlock."

Pause.

"SHERLOCK."

"Hm? What?"

"Client."

"Ha."

"No, there's a client just outside the door."

"Your wit is improving, John. We both know that the ring of the doorbell wasn't right."

"For God's sake, put your shirt on."

"Oh. You're serious." Fabric rustles. "Interesting. Bring the man in."

"How – oh, I give up."

The door opens – John smiles sheepishly. I've seen puppies that are more guarded with their emotions. Worry teems off him in visible lines.

He sits (I sit) on a squidgy armchair. John sits opposite on a hard black one. Really. You'd think the metaphors would be subtler. Oh, I do wonder whose chair is whose! Sherlock paces. He grips (I grip) the arms of the chair in anticipation.

"You're late for your meeting," Sherlock says. He's looked at him (me) exactly once.

"Sorry?"

"It's very important. You might get promoted, and then your wife can afford to furnish the baby's room."

He gapes (I gape). "It's... an urgent matter."

"Obviously." He frowns. "Hm. Go on."

"I received a note in the post last night." He pulls (I pull) it out of his pocket (thin air).

"Post doesn't come at night," John tries.

"It just came through the door." He hands (I hand) John the note. It's pristine, typed in Times New Roman. An address, a timestamp, and an instruction: 'Tell Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to come alone.'

John reads it aloud them holds it behind him; Sherlock snatches it up on his way past. That man. Artwork. He scans it, turns it over. Smiles. Smiles? Wonderful.

"A trap?" muses John, leaning back, obviously uncomfortable in the harsh chair.

"Almost definitely," Sherlock replies, voice throwaway, passive.

"Will you go?" he asks (I ask). I throw in some fear for my own life.

"Of course." Sherlock turns to me, grins. "Love a good trap, haven't had one for years now." John rolls his eyes. He's not so bad.

Sherlock dashes off to the kitchen, begins running tests on the note. John asks him (me) routine questions: where were you last night? what time did it arrive? do you have any enemies? I sigh and access the man's memories. I hate legwork.

"Don't bother John, he's not of use," calls Sherlock amidst a loud clatter. "Except –"

Suddenly he's in front of me. "How did you hear about us?"

"What?" he asks (I ask).

"The man writing the note, he was sure you'd know of us. Didn't even include our address."

He waits impatiently, fingers tapping Bach on his hips.

"The telly," he says (I say), as it's true of the man. "That Reichenbach case last week. Brilliant case. Good work, by the way. Astounding."

At this he appears rather taken aback, an expression which fits him ill. "I – uh. Thank you. You can go. Leave your number with John." He runs off once more, leaving him (me) to give his (Collins's) number to the pet. They (we) shake hands. He leaves (I leave). I leave.

Exhilarating. Orgasmic. I cannot wait to play with that mind further.

Three out of three.

The game's afoot.