The Reality That Doesn't Exist

((Erm...Shoot... Well.... I WAS planning on having Lestrade married like he is in the series, but you know, this could be fun. Like my parody apart from the fanfic. I have EVERY guy falling in love with a certain main character... So, yeah. Go for it. Lestrade can always be married later. And canon??? Ooh... Read post number 96, on this page for that detail. Thank you so much!!!))

Greg took the stairs two at a time after being admitted by the landlady. She had given him an odd look but allowed him upstairs. The door was open so he walked inside. He barely registered the woman in the room, he was more interested in where Sherlock had moved to; admittedly a rather eccentric set of rooms in Baker Street. Better than that ratty flat in Montague Street though. God only knew why the man had ever lived there.

"Where?" Sherlock said, prompting Lestrade to drag his attention back to the task in hand. It was truly amazing how commanding the lanky git could be if he wanted. One word. Not how are you, Lestrade or Hello Inspector. Nothing so time wasting and plebeian for our Consulting Detective. Oh no. Where? Simple, brusk and to the point as always.

"Brixton," Greg said. "Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock demanded to know. "You wouldn't have come to me otherwise."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Oh, Greg was going to enjoy this. Sherlock gave him an affirmative. "This one did. Will you come?"

Sherlock was excited, he could barely hide it, in fact, but he swallowed it down and turned away from the Inspector to look out of the window.

"Who's on Forensics?" He asked casually.

((Just to let you know, in the fanfic I switched around the crime scene and the focus to where it's not about the phone and the suitcase but about the ACTUAL note. When Sherlock examines it closely, he'll see that the A is in red. Scarlet to be precise. The victim's blood. Sound good?))

(( OK. But wasn't all of the "Rache" in the victim's blood? Or in this, is it written in something else and only the 'e' is in blood? ))

"Anderson," Greg said, knowing what the answer would be. However, staffing was at an all-time low, the Met had drawn in its horns with regard to recruitment and Sherlock would just have to put up with it. It wasn't as if Greg had a choice either.

((sounds okay to me))

Sherlock rolled his eyes, inwardly groaning. He hated Anderson. The man was a prick. And he didn't exactly get on with the detective either.

"Anderson won't work with me," he grumbled. "And I need an assistant." He looked away, annoyed, but knowing he would have to make do. He wouldn't pass up a case like this no matter who they had on Forensics.

"I'm not coming in the police car," he muttered. "I'll be right behind." He preferred to get taxis. Much less conspicuous, more time for thinking, didn't have to make small talk with idiotic officers.

"Thank you," Greg said, suddenly seeming to see the woman sitting behind Sherlock. Who was she? A date? Unlikely, knowing Sherlock. Possible client then. Never mind, he hadn't got the time for introductions or discourse. With a nod, Lestrade ducked out and down stairs, letting himself out. He dived in the car and they were off. He hoped sherlock wouldn't take long. Inwardly, Lestrade was not looking forward to this. He knew Anderson and Donovan disliked the man and actively insulted him. Sometime he would have to put a stop to it.

Sherlock waited until Lestrade's steps descended the stairs, until the front door was closed and the car was driving away, before he turned round and, releasing all his pent up energy, leapt into the air in delight.

"Yes! Oh yes, three serial suicides and now a note, ohhh it's Christmas!" He hurriedly grabbed his coat and began to throw it on.

I didn't say anything, I just sat there and watched him about to head out the door. He and Mrs. Hudson bickering a little bit, something about not waiting up. And with that, he was gone. Well. THAT was... I didn't even know what to think about that. It wasn't the fact that I was invisible during the whole of their conversation, no. No, I was used to that. And I didn't mind that he didn't even say a word to me when he left. No, just the conversation in general. It was...interesting. 'Will you come?' Sounds like a job. How did he know there'd been a fourth suicide? Who was Anderson? It wasn't really important to know why Sherlock didn't like him, that was his business. "How's about I just make you a cuppa, dearie? Just this once, I'm NOT your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson asks. "Thank you, that's very kind of you." I say touched by her generosity. Then, I pick up a paper and start to read it. There's a photograph of...the man who just came in and a caption next to it. DI Lestrade... DI?? What was Sherlock, then, if that other man was a DI?

After a few brief words with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock was off, jogging down the stairs, his heart pumping and raring to go. It was only when he got to the bottom of the steps that a sudden thought struck him. Or rather, an entire thought process.

1. He needed and valued medical advice on a crime scene.
2. He didn't particularly get on with any of the Scotland Yard Forensics team, particularly Anderson.
3. Anderson was on duty that night.
4. If only he could have someone else to work with him. If only he knew someone with a more in depth knowledge of medical matters.

Then it hit him. Like a light bulb turning on.
1. He'd just met John.
2. John was a doctor.
3. An army doctor from Afghanistan.
4. Used to trouble and violent deaths.

Within seconds he had appeared back in the doorway of the living room and was staring at her curiously.
"You're a doctor," he stated. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

((Catch me at an interesting moment and now you're staring curiously at me. One might wonder what you're really up to, Sherlock)) I about jumped up when I heard a voice. I looked up from the paper to see Sherlock standing by the doorway. STARING at me. Why's he doing that for? Payed no attention to me earlier, and it took him a while to do it yesterday. He also seemed eager to leave, it wasn't the riding crop. I think he was making that up. But yet... Why wasn't any of this making any sense? It took me a minute to take in what he was saying, that he was actually addressing me. I put the paper down and got up. "Yes." I said straightforward, because honestly I didn't know what else to say.

"Seen a lot of injuries then?" Sherlock asked, stepping a little further into the room and walking towards her as she stood up to meet him.

"Violent deaths," he continued. "Bit of trouble too I would imagine?"

My heartbeat seemed to quicken as he came closer to me. God. Now I KNOW that alcohol's back to get me. No way my heartbeat was doing that. "Yes." I said, my words getting lost. What the hell is wrong with you? You're a soldier. Control. "A lot, yes. Enough for a lifetime. In fact, far too much."

He took another step closer until he and I were a dangerous distance to each other. Both of us looking straight at the other. And I saw his eyes, hadn't really looked at them yesterday. They were...I don't even know what they were. Striking? Fierce? Ama- No. No. Control. And now my heart was racing, in anticipation of what he was going to say next.

Sherlock took yet another step closer, staring down into her eyes, so close they were almost touching, and he could almost hear her hearbeat.

He knew his words were having an effect, and that was what he had expected. He could see it in her. That sense of danger, that love of danger, and he was already expecting a positive answer even before he asked the question.
"Care to see some more?"

That just about took my breath away, I could have died right then. There he was, giving me the chance to see the one thing I loved that I had been deprived of. And there was no way that I was going to pass that up. "Oh, god, yes." I said excited. He went downstairs again and I followed. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll be skipping the tea, you can have it if you like." I said loudly as I was going down. "What?! Both of you are going?!" Mrs. Hudson said surprised. I'd reached the bottom of the steps and Sherlock was practically out the door. Then Mrs. Hudson came down as well, looking at Sherlock with disappointment on her face.

Sherlock gave his new companion a brief grin before swiftly turning and pounding back down the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest at the thought of what potentially lay ahead, and now he had someone to share it with. This was perfect.

As Mrs Hudson stopped them in the hallway, the detective spun back round and approached her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
"There's no point staying at home when there's finally something fun, going on," he explained. "The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

And with that, he turned and dashed out of the front door to hail a taxi, fully expecting John to follow him.

I caught his slight grin to me and returned it. I almost laughed at his turning around, trenchcoat swirling with him. He seemed to be warm towards the landlady, which seemed odd. He then went out the door and hailed a taxi. I did follow him, there was no way I wasn't going to. The cab pulled up and we got inside. I still had a lot I wanted to ask him, but I felt like it would be awkward to ask. So I kept silent.

Sherlock allowed himself a quick look behind him as he opened the taxi door and saw that John was indeed following as he expected.

He smirked and clambered in, leaving a space for her to get in next to him as he did up his belt and gave the address to the driver. Then he sat back in his seat and stared out the window.

After a while, he could sense the palpable tension in the cab and turned to her slightly.
"Alright, you've got questions," he smirked.

I was a little surprised that he knew I had questions, but relieved that I could get them out. "Yes, where exactly are we going?" I asked.

Sherlock sighed at the question, thinking that would be perfectly obvious, and a little disappointed in her lack of deduction skills but he supposed that was to be expected. She was, after all, just an ordinary person.

"Crime scene," he muttered in a bored tone, hoping her further questions were a little more interesting. "Next."

Oh, duh. Suppose I look like a bloody idiot now... I noticed the bored tone in his voice, god damn it John! Why can't you ask decent questions? "Who are you really? What do you do?" I ask.

Ah, now they were getting to the interesting questions.
"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock replied with a quick glance to John.

"Only one in the world. I invented the job," he explained. "When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

I was very interested in how he described his job. He's a bit arrogant, though. I smiled a little. Oh. Shh. Don't say it. Don't say it. "The police don't consult amateurs." I said. You said it! God damn it, John. I wanted to shoot myself now that I'd said it.

Sherlock felt a moment of hurt pride and he shuffled in his seat a little, but said nothing of it, at least not immediately. He merely smirked to himself, knowing he could prove her wrong by explaining his deductions.

"When I met you yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you seemed surprised..."