John found Sherlock already sitting at the table, his left foot tucked neatly (because when did Sherlock do something that didn't look neat or precise) under his right thigh, and his right foot was tracing circles on the floor. He had the paper held up, and he was staring exasperatedly at it. John stretched the sleep out of his tired muscles, too exhausted to marvel at the fact that Sherlock looked so much like a normal person right then. Sherlock glanced up at John, and the illusion was gone, with his piercing blue/green/grey/whatever-the-hell-color-they-were eyes on John's brown ones. Sherlock huffed, "There's no cases, John. It's been two weeks!" John sighed, "What about that one on Tuesday?"

"She was an idiot, it didn't count. She could've solved it herself if she were to just look clo-" Sherlock was cut off by Sherlock's phone buzzing from inside his coat pocket. As he pulled it out, John could see the caller ID, DI Lestrade. As exasperated as John was that Sherlock still didn't call him Greg, he was relieved that there was a case before Sherlock started his nervous twitch again. The last time that Sherlock had gone a while without a case, it'd been three weeks since his last decent case, and Sherlock had developed some sort of twitch. He'd constantly be tapping his fingernail against whatever surface would provide itself, preferably (to John and Mrs. Hudson's dismay) a hard surface.

Sherlock's eyes lit up, gleaming with excitement. "It must be a very unusual case, he doesn't call until they haven't had a lead in a few days, and there aren't any cases in the papers that would be any cause to call me..." He trailed off and answered the phone keeping his calm and cool demeanor, though John could tell that he was excited. Sherlock put the phone down just a few seconds after he'd took the call. John figured that Lestrade had just given him an address, knowing that Sherlock would come without any coaxing due to his lack of interesting cases recently. Either that, or he was so baffled by it that he couldn't explain what it was, knowing that Sherlock would be able to deduce it from his tone of voice or whatever.

They stepped outside, and Sherlock was able to hail down a cab almost instantly. John had always wondered whether it was because he was so tall (John always had problems trying to get cabs, so it could easily have something to do with height) or just because Sherlock was Sherlock. Sherlock gave an address, and closed his eyes. Only the slightest movements could be detected in his facial muscles. John knew from being his flat mate for so long that Sherlock was deep inside his mind palace. John hoped he snapped out of it before they got there, so he didn't have snap Sherlock out of if himself. Around four minutes later, Sherlock's eyes jolted open all by themselves, his pupils retracting almost dramatically. But something was wrong. Something was very wrong. John saw something in Sherlock's eyes that he rarely associated with Sherlock. He saw just the slightest twinge, the smallest trace of emotion. And an emotion that John would've laughed if someone told him that he would be seeing on Sherlock; fear.

"Sherlock? Is everything okay?" John's voice was laced with panic now, but Sherlock just ignored him, telling the driver that he'd be paid double if he got there in less than two more minutes. His voice was just as calm as it had been this morning, but all the more urgent.

John didn't think that the driver would be able to do it, but the driver was able to get there in well under two minutes by using a side road that he thought that Sherlock only knew about. Sherlock dropped the money in the front seat and hurried out of the car. They entered the warehouse that stood at the address that Greg had told the detective to meet them at. John was following Sherlock, who apparently was also told where in the warehouse. They entered a large room, and John heard Sherlock gasp just slightly. John could see why. The body on the floor had a stab wound through her stomach, and two giant wings burnt out to her side. Anderson looked over just in time to see Sherlock abandoning just one of the flimsy plastic gloves that had been provided at the entrance.

"Hey! You can't take off the glove! How many times do I have to tell you about contaminating the crime scene- HEY! You can't touch the body without your glove! Lestrade!" Even Lestrade, who was usually much more lax then Anderson about contaminating the crime scene seemed alarmed. Sherlock bent down and placed his bare palm against the woman's forehead. He inhaled sharply, and clenched his jaw as if in pain. His eyes were closed again. When he finally took his palm away, he looked down at the body, and murmured softly. Just loud enough (but from what he said, John doubted he realized) for John and Lestrade to hear. "Goodbye Tayeal, may God light your path. You were a good sister, and I will find who did this to you." He was sitting on his feet, with drooped shoulders, and John blinked before he realized what Sherlock had just said, but Lestrade had reached it first, "Sister? You never said that you had a sister! What's going on Sherlock?"

A/N: I owe this story idea completely to the author Liontalon, and her story I'm No Angel. It's a great story, so go on and look at it right now! I really enjoy writing emotional Sherlock (I mean, seriously, it's fun!). I promise that Mycroft will be coming in later chapters! Hope you like it. I don't really know where this story is heading (I mean, I vaguely know, but I don't have details...) so if you have any ideas then please review! Like and comment, thanks!