A/N: So here's a new story I am hoping will drag me kicking and screaming back to writing:D And my writerly friends can then stop listening to me complain about writer's block:P Thank you guys – you are the best:D

Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over.

This is based on the song Closing Time by Semisonic.

I own nothing but my ideas and the computer this was written on – that's at least is paid for!

1. Every New Beginning

It was half an hour until closing and there had been no progress made with the case. It was quiet and hatefully serene. It was possible although highly unlikely he had made an error in judgement and this was not the location the murderer was using to scout out his victims.

It was the third night running observing the clientele. At first he had refused the case as it had appeared to be uninteresting, but when the last body turned up, he became intrigued. Now he was beginning to believe that he would have to change tactics. This was not getting him any closer to the murderer.

Tedious. Utterly, completely tedious. Not for the first time he wished something would happen, anything to relieve the unrelenting monotony.

They say be careful what you wish for, but what he was about to receive from the universe would be so much better than anything he could have contemplated in any musing. Almost as if someone had handpicked a gift and tailor made it to his personality. Something most would believe to be impossible. Funnily enough here he stood leaning against the bar, one who did not consider luck to be real or, in fact anything that spoke of the mystical. It was all ridiculous and specious to suppose a greater power or a presence could send someone to change their life in an instant. There was no such thing as preordained happenings. All could be proved scientifically and was quantifiable. Fate did not saunter in on a whim.

Idle thoughts when he couldn't afford them did not aid in solving a murder, but it also did not help that at that precise moment the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Goosebumps appeared on his skin and his heart rate, for unknown reasons, quickened.

Which, of course, was the moment the door to the pub swung open. A chilly blast of cold air followed in on the heels of the man who came through. The wind whistling between the cracks and the sounds of traffic momentarily competed with the noise of the telly as it blasted in the background.

The man, short, blonde to grey hair, stood preternaturally still, not leaning on the cane in his hand, as his gaze swept around the room, lips pursed. Not as if he was looking for someone specifically but as if he were checking for threats, almost as an automatic response.

Not unlike the man beside the bar. He was there to check the custom for hidden evidence, for secrets, which only he could see. The new patron surveyed his surroundings as if he were used to a quiet and peaceful setting erupting into violence in an instance.

Rag in hand, the burly barman wiped up the spills left behind on the dark wood, the smell of beer wafted up, played on his senses as he noted every detail. He could not help but perceive them. He almost dismissed the man as soon as he had catalogued him. Almost. His first thought had been ordinary, but his next eight said intriguing. The man who headed toward the counter of the bar screamed paradox.

A small sound brushed the edge of his consciousness and caused him to refocus. A quiet, pleasant voice said, "Beck's, please."

The barman bent over and reached round and he placed the green bottle in front of the man.

"Ta," the shorter man said, as he fished out his money.

Possibly it was boredom, possibly something else, it didn't matter it. Maybe it was just the way the man stood there, but he felt the words slip out of his mouth,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Startled, bemused, perhaps a touch offended, colours of which painted the tone of the shorter man's next word.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" impatience jarred the edge of his voice.

The other almost choked on the mouthful he had started to swallow. "Afghanistan. Sorry how did you…?"

"I know you're an army doctor. You've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid."

"Hang on? Who are you? How do you know?" although he could see the other man was drawing back a little, possibly straightening his stance more, he held himself and drew up as if to give the appearance of greater height, he became even more military in his bearing. There was an unmistakable gleam in the startlingly navy eyes that were reflections of limitless pools of curiosity and intelligence. Surprisingly, the offended tone dropped out and clearly the other man was intrigued by the start of this conversation. Which was just as well as he was on a role and since he had an audience that met with some approval he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried.

"Your haircut and stance say military. You observe the room as if looking for hidden threats which could suggest police but unlikely. You're tanned, but not above the wrist which says you've been abroad but not for pleasure. You use a cane when you walk but not when you stand suggesting you have forgotten about your leg. Psychosomatic. You are wearing the shoes of a doctor and the corner of your ID badge is showing. You work at St. Mary's, which is just across the street. Considering the time it suggests you are coming off of a shift."

The other man's eyes blinked for a minute and then broke into a grin, his eyes twinkled merrily as if he were suppressing the desire to laugh out loud, not at the first man, but rather in delight, as if he recognized his cleverness. An odd sensation entered the taller man's chest, for it was rather like basking in the rays of a new sun, the way the smile lit up the other's face.

"That was brilliant! That was amazing!"

"That's not what most people say," he almost mumbled under his breath, once more the man beside him surprising words out of his mouth.

"Well they should be. How did you know all that?"

"I simply observe."

The shorter man held out a hand, "John. John Watson."

The other blinked looked down at the proffered hand and then slowly clasped it and shook. "Holmes," his rich baritone rumbled through his chest. "Sherlock Homes."

"So Mr. Holmes, do you often stand around in pubs on a cold night and observe people who come in after a days work?" Watson took a swig from the bottle, set it down and leaned against the rail, the gleam in his eye still glimmering brightly up at him.

Sherlock tilted his head. He wasn't sure what it was about this doctor standing in front of him but a sense of unexpected trust welled up and he found himself wanting to tell him everything, starting with "Sherlock, please. I am looking for a serial killer."

"Oh? Police are you?"

"No. Definitely not. I consult for the police. Consulting detective."

"What would a consultant for the police be doing tracking down a serial killer on his own? Bit dangerous that, yeah?"

"Dangerous?" he noted the way the other man's eyes burned even brighter when he said danger. "Possibly. The police are often incapable of solving a crime like this on their own. I merely point them in the right direction. Sometimes I have to put my hand in more directly."

"So this serial killer. He comes into this pub looking for a victim, perhaps? Do you think you'd spot him then? And what would you do next?"

"I would inform my contact at the Met and that would be that." Watson was watching his face closely. He noted the way the bright eyes tracked over his mouth and back to his eyes.

"Does this have anything to do with those suicides mentioned in the paper? Serial suicides they were saying. It seems odd. I mean you get copycat suicides sometimes but that's usually young people in school or at uni, not like this. Mix of ages and professions. Seems like their deaths are their only connection." Watson took another swig.

The tall detective was impressed at how quickly he grasped the situation. He had a momentary thrill that perhaps this was the killer, but no there seemed to be too much morality emanating from the man. Yes there were murdering doctors and he was a soldier home from the war, horrors playing upon his psyche but no, this was not the man he was looking for. He did feel a pull starting in the region of his navel that was most disconcerting.

He continued to watch the doctor carefully, trying to pinpoint what it was about him. Watson's tongue brushed his lips quickly and he reached for his beer and swallowed quickly, his Adam's apple catching his eye. Sherlock found his mouth became dry suddenly. A rush of heat seemed to flow through him, threatening to melt his limbs. It had been a long time since he'd been interested in anyone on a physical level and he didn't usually feel this level of attraction for another person advance so rapidly. There was definitely something increasing between them beyond the curiosity about the case.

Just then the sound of a bell and the barman called out "Last orders, please!" Closing time. Another night had come and gone. He would not catch the killer tonight.

"Well, I really must be on my way. It's been a long day. I hope you catch your killer." Watson paused as if he were going to say something and then changed direction. The unspoken words hung between them, charging the air. Sherlock was certain he knew what those words were going to be, but perhaps the moment had passed.

Blue eyes softened with concern. "Please be careful. I'd hate to see you in A & E."

A strange feeling of loss for what he could not name entered his chest. He didn't want this man to leave. There was a fascination that permeated and coursed down his spine. His molecules sang and vibrated. This was a turning point. He could feel it, tangible and thick. If they each walked out the door they would not see the other again. He once more felt the words shaping in his mouth and they were out on the air between them before he could change his mind.

"John, would you like to come home with me?"