Consulting Doctors (Sherlock Holmess/John Hamish Watson)

Sherlock stared out of the taxi's window. In his mind he was recapitulating the whole situation over and over. Searching if he might have missed something, a valuable clue, anything at all. When John's voice reached his ears he got snapped out of his state of mind. Slowly and with a slight smile on his face he turned his head towards the doctor. He had read his website? Sherlock felt himself brighten up at the idea.

"Oh. Did you liked it?" He asked hopefully.

"I am a consultant detective. Only one in the world since I invented the job. The police comes to me when they haven't got much to go on. And sometimes I invite myself over when I'm bored and prove them wrong." He explained.

John couldn't hide the small frown that crossed his face when Sherlock asked him whether he liked his website. Well, like wasn't really the word...

"It was...interesting..." he began cautiously, noticing Sherlock was less than impressed with his choice of words. "I mean...very interesting," he continued, trying to be a bit more positive. "But...can you really do all that stuff? Guess things about people just by looking at them? What can you guess about me?"

Sherlock frowned in disagreement at John's words. "I don't guess things." He huffed. "I deduce things." He said proud and then took a good look at John.

"I can tell you're a soldier. The way you hold up your shoulders and the way you just marched at a faster pace gave that away. Have you even noticed yourself you have left without your stick? You aren't a soldier anymore, obviously. You got injured, but not in your leg, more like the upper torso, on a foreign mission. Either Iraq or Afghanistan, I'm leaving those options open." He said fast.

John gazed in astonishment at the way Sherlock could read him with ease. He could hardly fail to be impressed.

"That's brilliant!" he exclaimed. "Amazing...and you're right. Completely right. I was in Afghanistan. Got shot. In the shoulder. My psychotherapist always told me my limp was psychosomatic." He chuckled to himself. "Can't believe I left my stick at home..."

The taxi pulled up outside Matthew Smith's address where he lived with his wife and two children. It was still very early in the morning so they expected the family to be home, getting ready for school and work. John leaned forward to pay the taxi driver.

Sherlock grinned as he heard John's praising words. Another unusual thing about this man. Other's always told him to piss off, but not John. John was here telling him how brilliant he was and he... He liked it. "Thanks." He mumbled eventually, feeling proud about yet another right deduction.

Once arrived Sherlock had already hopped out of the taxi, leaving John to pay for it. They had no time to lose. Sherlock skipped over to the front door, impatiently ringing the bell once.. twice.. three times in a row. "Come on." He muttered to himself.

As the door swung open Mrs. Smith appeared in the door opening. "Ah. Mrs. Smith." He said confident as he raised a small ID in to the air. "Scotland Yard. We're here to speak to your husband."

John paid off the driver and dashed out after Sherlock, who was already ringing the bell. A woman came to the door whom he assumed was Mrs Smith. John did a double take when Sherlock flashed his ID, introducing them as Scotland Yard. He stood on tip toe slightly trying to see over Sherlock's shoulder and look what he had in his hand. Whatever it was, it obviously worked, as Mrs Smith appeared to believe them.

"Well, I suppose you'd better come in," she replied with a worried expression on his face. "What is it this time? Another drunk and disorderly?" she sighed as she showed them through to the living room. John took a seat on the sofa where a mangy looking cat instantly jumped onto his lap. He tried to casually push it away.

"He didn't come home last night," she continued, almost talking to herself. "Again. Oh. Would you two like a cup of tea?"

"Um..yes...please," replied John with a smile. He was positively gasping for a cup of tea if he was being honest. Didn't have time for one before they left.

Sherlock followed the woman in. He frowned slightly at her comments. He didn't come home? Interesting. Of course he couldn't come home after what he'd done. He'd probably finding out ways to fleet out of the country. Or to take his own life before his disease does. Sherlock couldn't ban much option at this moment so he decided to be straight forward with this woman.

Once he sat down he looked at her, with just a blank stare.

"Drunk and disorderly?" He frowned. "No. Murder." He slight smile appeared on his face. "Last night Dr. Peter Harrison got murdered in his office. Stabbed several times and left to bleed empty. No sign of a weapon nor a sigh of the actual murderer. Until I found this file." He showed her the medical report from his husband. "Dr. Peter Harrison is the same doctor that told your husband he only had a short time to live. Next thing he does is threaten the doctor and a few days later he's found dead and your husband is gone missing? You don't really think that's coincidence do you?"

Sherlock glared at John when he accepted tea.

"Thank you for the offer but we really don't have time for tea."

John was quite surprised about Sherlock's abrupt and straight forward manner. It wasn't exactly the most sensitive way to deal with a potential suspect's wife, he thought. But then, who was he to tell the great detective what to do. This man knew a lot more about the game than he did so John kept his opinions to himself, for now.

He was definitely going to protest about not having time for tea when the woman suddenly started crying. His first instinct then was to stand up and go to comfort her. He wrapped an arm around her and showed her into the chair where he'd previously been sat.

"Ever since the diagnosis...he's been acting strange," she sobbed. "Not himself...he started drinking, got into fights, wouldn't come home at night. He never wants to talk to me about how he's feeling but...I...I never thought he was capable of...." She shook her head, unable to even say the word 'murder', then she stood up and broke away from John's grasp to head to the desk. She got a piece of paper and scribbled something down on it.

"Here," she said, handing the scrap of paper to Sherlock. "The Five Bells. That's his favourite pub. He's there most nights and I should imagine he was there last night. The landlord'll be able to tell you more about his state of mind than I will."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's actions. So sentimental, so caring... Like it was going to help them solve this case. Sherlock frowned as his wife couldn't speak the word. "Murder." He muttered, not seeing the deal in it. The only thing in return was John's glare.

He listened close to everything she said, observing both her and the place. He took in every little detail and almost immediately banned out the useless ones again. Sherlock accepted the small piece of paper, looking at it for a second before getting up himself, putting it in the pocket of his coat.

"Ah! Wonderful." He exclaimed. "Come on, John." He said as he turned around and walked towards the door again.

John glared at Sherlock but he didn't seem to take any notice. It was as if he had no concept of how to behave in society, which comments were acceptable and which weren't. John was amazed he'd lasted this long without someone punching him for his rudeness, but at the same time, there was something about the way Sherlock did things, somehow he always managed to get away with it...

When Sherlock took the piece of paper, John stood up, correctly guessing they'd probably be leaving, but once again he was left trailing behind as Sherlock blazed out of the room, a man on a mission. John turned back to the woman and offered a quick 'thank you' before running out after Sherlock and back onto the street.

"Are we going to that pub now then?" he asked.

Sherlock was already stopping a taxi as he heard John walking out of the door. "She knows he killed this man, John." He replied quick. "Have you seen the empty place between photos on the cupboard? It had 3 pictures of her children and one empty space. You could clearly see it had been removed recently because there was a mark in the dust, meaning it can't be gone for that long. Why else would someone who's about to lose her husband delete his picture before he's even gone?" He frowned at John, looking in his eyes to find any kind of agreement.

"Yes. We're going to the pub." Sherlock hopped into the cab and told him the address. With a little luck they might just find who they're looking for, drinking some beers at the bar. It was the only thing Sherlock had to go on, so there was no chance he was just letting this slip. He took out his phone, typing a quick message of what he'd found so far and reported it to Lestrade. By the time he would read this, Sherlock would probably already solved the case. At least he couldn't say he was doing things behind his back...

John shrugged and frowned. No, he hadn't noticed the pictures, he had to admit. God this man had good observation skills, he marvelled. How could he spot dust like that? Quite incredible.

"Erm...right...yeah...I never thought about that," he replied. "I don't know, maybe they just...had an argument or something?" John jumped into the taxi behind Sherlock and it set off heading towards the pub. As he sat down he felt the gun digging into his ribs and wondered excitedly if he'd get the chance to use it anytime soon.

By the time they arrived the landlord was just opening up, and there were two customers already there, clearly seasoned alcoholics eager to get to the pub early in the morning for their first drink of the day. They walked in through the door and approached the bar. John decided he'd quite like to have a go at making the introductions.

"Hi there," he smiled at the landlord with a small nod. "We're from Scotland Yard investigating a murder. Wondered if we could ask you a few questions?"

Sherlock sighed. "What what they argument about? Which song to play on his funeral?" He scoffed right after he said those words, knowing how silly it sound. "No, they did not just have an argument, this woman knew exactly what her husband has done, she just wants to keep out of it all to protect her kids." he explained.

The taxi was already slowing down and Sherlock felt a new rush of excitement running through his veins as he got out of it. His eyes looked around the place and spotted the two alcoholics as well. Though he had just seen their backs and he needed to see their faces whether to be sure one of them is who they're looking for.

As Sherlock wanted up open his mouth John had already introduces them. His neck rolled to the left and his eyes lingered on John for a few moments. Then he turned back, rolling his eyes but also slightly smiling. He liked the attempt of the other man.

The owner gave them a confused look. "Scotland yard?" he frowned, as if they didn't believe them. "Yes, didn't we just say that." Sherlock held up his ID once more and it seemed to be enough for this man to believe them. "Eh, sure, walk through... How can I help?" the man asked as he walked over to a table somewhere in front of his bar.

Sherlock however did not follow him and left John alone for just a minute. He needed to get a clearer view on the people who just took place at the bar.

John made sure he took a good look at Sherlock's ID this time and noticed that it said Detective Inspector Lestrade. He couldn't help but smirk a little as the landlord moved out from behind the bar and led them to a table.

"It's pretty quiet this time of day, I can spare a few minutes," he offered out a chair and sat down into one himself. John sat into one of the offered chairs then looked around for Sherlock, noticing he was still at the bar getting a good look at the other people in the pub. John turned back to the landlord with a smile.

"Yes, we were wondering what you might be able to tell us about one of your customers. A Matthew Smith? I believe he's one of your regulars...he was...in last night?"

"Yeah, yeah he was," the landlord nodded. "He's in most nights these days. And most days." He chuckled.

"And did you notice anything strange about him last night? Was he acting...weirdly at all?" John glanced over his shoulder to look for Sherlock.

Sherlock roamed around at the bar for a few moments. As he glanced towards the people at the bar. None of them where who they were searching for so he focussed his attention on something different. Last night's bills were pinned to a small block of wood. Sherlock briefly scanned through them. It seemed some customers who attempted nearly daily had their names written down on the paper. Smith was the fist one on the pile, meaning he had left last. Interesting.

Sherlock walked back over towards John and sat down next to him. The landlord had just started to explained how Smith had asked him for new clothes. He had been shirtless by then already. Sherlock frowned at the story. This meant the shirt should be somewhere between the clinic and this bar. And that could be all over London.

"Did he tell you where he went after he'd left?" Sherlock bumped in the middle of the man's explanation.

John was frowning and nodding, trying to concentrate on the landlord's story, but he was speaking quite fast and freely by this point and it was hard to take everything in. He dug into his pocket and managed to find an old receipt and a pen. He began to scribble down a few notes so he wouldn't forget anything. No shirt, he wrote down.

"And he gave no explanation as to where his shirt had got to?" John asked.

"No," he landlord replied. "He wouldn't talk about it. Just ordered his usual drink and sat at the bar silent."

He was quite pleased when Sherlock finally came over and hovered around listening to the conversation. He was clearly more experienced in this area and John was beginning to feel a little out of his depth. He was certainly having fun though. The landlord listened to Sherlock's question and responded.

"I'm not sure where he went," he admitted with a frown. "I remember his wife rang up and was nagging him to come home. They had an argument on the phone, he said he wasn't coming home, that he was going to stay with Jimmy. I don't know who that is sorry. He's never mentioned him before." Then he stood up and moved back towards the bar. "You can check his phone though, he bloody left it here, drunken sod..." And he handed Smith's mobile phone over to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced over to John. Smirking a bit at the fact that John had written things down instead if just remembering them. Quite the opposite of what he usually did. His attention then went back to the landlord. He seemed to be honest, no looking down while thinking, which usually indicated lying.

"Jimmy?" Sherlock repeated quietly, trying to look inside his memory for any mention if that name. However he didn't find anything. Sherlock accepted the phone, turning it around and inspecting it closely.

"Thanks." He said, pushing his chair back and walking towards the door again. On his way there, he opened up the last text messaged.

"I've done something bad. Need your help."
and the reply to that text.
"How can I help? JM."

JM... Jimmy... Sherlock had never seen those initials before. Once John had caught up he turned toward him. "JM.. Jimmy. Does the name ring a bell to you?" He asked, handing John to phone to show the texts.

John thanked the landlord for his help, standing up from the table and offering out his hand to shake. Sherlock had already moved off and was heading for the door.

"Best of luck," the landlord said, "hope I've been of some use to you boys..." John nodded and caught up with Sherlock at the door, leaning over his shoulder slightly.

He took the phone from his outstretched hand and had a quick look at the messages, shaking his head slowly.

"No," he replied. "It doesn't ring a bell," then he quickly thought of an idea and added, "I could check through the list of names at the surgery...see if we have anyone registered named Jimmy, Jim or James with a surname beginning with M. Should be a pretty simple process..."

Sherlock had hoped John knew the name present on the screen. For a moment he thought about their possibilities and an idea popped into his mind. He decided to text the number Matthew had texted before leaving the pub. Sherlock assumed Matthew had called "JM" after he offered his services since he was the last called person and he hadn't answered the text.

"Can I borrow your phone?" He said, looking at John with his head slightly tilted to the right.

John shrugged and took out his phone. He could practically see Sherlock's mind working and knew he must have come up with some sort of plan. He hesitated slightly before handing it over.

"What's wrong with your phone? Or that guy's phone?" he asked, frowning.

Sherlock frowned, not expecting John to ask him any question. This man had been blindly following him all along so Sherlock just assumed he would keep doing that. However, he didn't mind the curiosity.

"Nothing. My number's on my website, people might recognize it. And this phone is lost. Whoever Jimmy is probably knows that." Sherlock explained as he took John's phone.

"Got a new number, you can contact me on here. Can't call, too risky.
MS" Sherlock muttered along with the words he was typing.

Sherlock handed John's phone back as soon as he had send the text.

John accepted Sherlock's explanation with a shrug and allowed him to take the phone from his outstreched hand.

He stood on tip toe to glance over the detective's shoulder, frowning as he watched him type the message, then received the phone back and put it in his pocket. Less than a minute later it bleeped with a response.

John made eye contact with Sherlock before removing his phone again and opening the message. He showed the screen to Sherlock whilst reading it aloud.

"I trust you made it. You owe me a small favour. JM"

Sherlock felt victorious when John's phone rang again. He loved getting approval on his own thoughts. "Ah, this is great. What am I say? This is perfect." He spoke happily.

"Type back these exact words." Sherlock began. "How can I be at your service?" Sherlock looked up. "Are you typing? Have you send it?" He asked eager. This case might turn into something much bigger then he had initially thought and he began to love it more and more with each new feature.

John was surprised at Sherlock for being so happy over all this. A man had been murdered after all. He looked at him a little disapprovingly. He was an odd man, he thought to himself as he hurriedly opened up the text message and began to type.

He listened to the message and was in the middle of it when Sherlock asked whether he'd done it yet, "Yeah OK OK, I'm almost done," he replied, exasperated. God he was so demanding. "Right, I've sent it," he said finally after hitting the send button.

They walked out of the pub and back into the bright sunlight of the day, heading off down the road in search of a cab. The only ones that passed were alll taken however and it was quite a quiet street so they continued walking in the direction of the busier main road at the top. They'd almost reached it when John received a message back. He hurriedly took out his phone and opened up the text, stopping and showing it to Sherlock as they read it out loud.

Rex Cinema. Brixton. It's abandoned. Come round the back. Fire exit. Meet you inside. Thirty minutes. - JM

John glanced up at Sherlock, a little nervous. "Are we...are we going to go?" he asked.

Sherlock paces fast towards the main road. They still hadn't much to hold on to, so a reply of this mysterious JM would at least give him something to do. As he heard John's phone buzz again, his eyes were already tracing sideways.

Sherlock eyes narrowed as he thought. "He's using an abandoned building. Only means one thing." He said, considering John understood what he meant. As he looked up he saw John's confused eyes staring back at him. Clearly he didn't understood.

"Might be dangerous." Sherlock said as a form of explanation.

His heart was racing in his chest and adrenaline had leaked into his blood, making him eager to go on. "Of course we're going. It's the only thing we got." He shrugged, reaching his hand up in the air once more as a taxi passed. It stopped, finally.

Sherlock hopped in and told him the place described in the text received. The driver threw them both a confused look, but decided not to ask questions as he drove off.