Disclaimer: Any who, I don't own Sherlock (only in my dreams, lol) that is the intellectual property of BBC. Please enjoy. And as always sry for any spelling just let me now if u see any.

Alright sorry it took so long, been busy, finals and all. Glad they're done. Schools over till fall :D Hooray.

Pyra Sanada: Thanks for the review :) and as for Reid showing up well as I'm following the story line of Criminal minds as well he won't be walking through London anytime soon but I'm not say he won't make some form of appearance in the chapters to come as something about him will be revealed in this chapter that could be interesting :D

Silver Eyed Slayer: Sorry it took me so long :(

hangwan000: I always assumed i wrote slow. I used to be fast but my attention span has severely diminished over the years. Hopefully I'll get that sorted someday. And thanks for the awesome complement!

Zeroko: Hopefully I can keep that standard going through out and I'm glad you find the story enjoyable. :) As for the summary part I'll be doing that from now on, but I probably won't put it up till tomorrow as I'm balls tired. I've written the same word four times now, in a row, fixed it though. :P

flaming-amber: Really!? You don't know how great that is to hear, sometimes when I'm writing I'm worried about having her become a mary sue in my quest for provoking a relationship between her and Sherlock. Thankfully they're to stubborn to let me write them like that, even though i'd really like to, as it would be realistic to their characters. AS for the sherlock interacting with the others wells...I'll let you find out what happens or doesn't happen just yet but there will be a my toy moment at some point in this case most definitely. :)

Midnight Angel414: Sup! Hows it going. And i totally agree with you on the mystery part, you have no idea how frustrated i get writing it myself as i just would love to spill all her secrets. Unfortunately that wouldn't make for a good story :P And don't worry about your story it's fine. If it really bothers you when you're feeling up to it (as it can be tedious and take a bit) you could always do a re-write. I did that to mine though it was more in an editorial capacity. And thanks for your advice. I'll probably put a quick re-cap of things (not right now as i'm about to fall asleep on my laptop), I wish i could retain information. My mind has always bee like a sieve, retaining only information deemed relevant. Unfortunately that's tv show, art, basic life survival skills, writing, my vocabulary, and the like. Math was like the first thing to disappear after high school. :P

Dragoneisha: Wait till you find out who leaked the case! Not shown in this chapter I'm afraid. :P

nadzuke eno mono: Oh there will be plenty of things like that but not necessarily in that order or all in this case, but things are bound to repeat themselves in some shape or form :D

Gwilwillith: Hope it stays interesting. Though i have a few cases that i can't wait to get to after this :D

bored411: You're about to find out :D

Recap: Victims tortured, hearts missing, and more than twenty spanning the world. It would appear that Ollie Knight may have come across quite the interesting case. But is there more to the messages left behind? And how will things proceed now that she's been reunited with past co-workers, Penelope Garcia and Derek Morgan from the BAU. Ones she hasn't seen for three years. What about the unresolved issues between them. What exactly happened all those years ago that led to her resignation?

Enjoy

Bored. Sherlock laid on his sofa, fingers steepled over his mouth, as he practically felt his grey matter beginning to decay and stagnate. Yet his thoughts raced away like a million angry hornets with nothing to apply them to. Bored, and insufferably so.

The morning had came and gone with no real excitement or productivity. Though he had, for some odd reason, maybe due to some passing fancy or the injury inflicted upon him by his brutish downstairs neighbor the previous night, visited Vancoon's secretary to inform the woman of the true value of the pin entwined in her prim tresses. He was glad John had not accompanied him on the earlier endeavor, he would have made some foolish inference that he was being kind. A quality he did not possess.

Heaving a sigh he flicked his attention over to the small telly John had insisted upon purchasing a few weeks prior at some flee market. The eyesore lay hidden under a layer of papers and files that had purposefully covered it. For a moment he considered the idea of giving in to the drivel of societal entertainment. He was about to scrap the thought, but his baser need for stimulus got the better of him. With a growl of agitation and self loathing he hefted himself from his perch and grabbed the chunky contraption, placing it on a crate of case files before plugging it into an outlet. Looking around he lumbered over towards Johns seat and callously brushed away a pile of bills on an end table to locate the remote. Grasping the device he quickly reclaimed his earlier spot, his gangly limbs hanging over the edge, and switched the screen on. The despicable thing pinged with an electric noise as it flickered and sputtered to life. The news, of all things, being the channel to automatically appear. Droll.

Readying to change it the anchorwoman, who had a coke problem that was clearly apparent from her inflamed nostrils, sheen of sweat gleaming over her leathery skin, and slight body shake she was trying to hide, said something that caught his attention. If only for a moment. "Now this is something special folks," the woman read from the prompter, "thirty-one year old Amanda Weathersby woke up this morning to find herself eight mil richer. Apparently she'd been wearing a treasured Chinese hairpin, worn by empress Wu Zetian the only female emperor to rule China, for weeks never knowing what she had. Most relics of that reign have been destroyed so as you can imagine it's quite rare a find. When asked what she would do with the piece she said she'd hold it for auction, donating a sizable portion to charity. The Chinese government has issued-."

Sherlock stopped listening to the grating voice of the shrill woman when he heard the bouncing steps of his flatmate ascending the stairwell. As he entered the parlor he flicked his eyes over the other man, scrutinizing every detail with slight disgust. "I see you're basking in the after glow of sexual intercourse. Enjoy it while it lasts John as I don't see the relationship enduring. Especially once the adrenaline and excitement wears off and reality sets in."

"Nope, sorry," the shorter man flouted, dismissing the others cynicism, "You aren't going to ruin my good mood today Sherlock. I've got a wonderful girlfriend, who I spent a wonderful evening with, who I then had a wonderful meaningful chat with this morning about our future plans. Who I will be spending a wonderful weekend with in the country."

The consulting detective snorted with derision at the sappy sentimentality. Thankful he was above such foolishness and didn't get swept up in the brain chemistry the general populace equated to the emotion love. Something that was only caused by the release of dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine as a biological response to ensure an individuals genus. Not some magical universal force the masses deemed it to be. It's why most marriages roughly lasted approximately five years as that was when early child rearing was no longer required by both parties, even if they had none. It all came down to biology.

John wandered into the kitchen choosing to ignore the other man's noise of disapproval. Opening the cabinet he pulled out the kettle and turned on the faucet, filling the container. "Would you like a cuppa Sherlock?"

The other man, who just hummed in response, didn't bother to voice an appropriate answer. Lighting the burner and setting down the kettle, John mumbled to himself as he pulled out a box of black tea from the cupboard above, "I'll take that as a yes then."

Things quieted, if only for a moment, as the drab chatter of the midday news engulfed the flat. Something John had no problem with. For a moment life felt normal for a change. No death, no assassins, no kidnappings, just his happy budding relationship and all the possibilities in the world. Except, like all things in his life, the illusion was soon shattered. Why couldn't he have a normal flatmate just for one day. Sherlock let out a loud dramatic sigh, "Bored."

"How are you bored," John asked in disbelief, "You just finished a case."

"Exactly, I just finished a case Watson! Now I no longer have anything to occupy my mind."

"Well, why don't you visit the morgue and run an experiment," he offered up as an alternative. Though he didn't know why he bothered. The other man seemed to be in one of his moods and would just shoot anything he proposed down. And right on target Sherlock scoffed, "Molly's not working today."

"Well then, I don't know what to tell you. Can't you just relish in the victory? You took down a crime syndicate, deciphered their code, beat them at their own game, enjoy the win. Or should you not be able to go on like normal people, take a walk or something and find a case. Maybe catch up on the sleep you refused to take in the past few days or eat something for god sakes! Just don't sit inside and gripe about having nothing to do all week."

The army Doctor practically felt the other man's sharp reproving glare through the wall between them. If looks could kill Sally Donavon would be telling him I told you so. Albeit to a corpse. But lucky for him, and the universe, that just wasn't so.

"I do not gripe," the consultant bitterly stated.

"Sulk then," John teased with slight amusement as he entered the parlor to claim his chair. If the man was going to be a git then he was going to find some way to overcome it, entertainment seemed to be a good option. Of course, as he should have known, you just don't poke the panther. Especially when he's bored. Sherlocks sharp blues swiveled into his direction with a cold emptiness that had the hairs on the back of the shorter mans neck standing on end. The moment he opened those cupid bowed lips the doctor instantly regretted his earlier jest. "Would you like to know why your relationship is doomed? Quite simple really. Sarah, who has an obsessive need to fit in, that must be liked by everyone, has to constantly be reassured of the love you feel for her due to witnessing the many string of failing relationships of her mother growing up. Her constant neediness, that at first you believe is a cute quirk, will metamorphose into a tiring endeavor. And as your assurances become less and less due to one, thinking you've reached that comfortable stage where they are thankfully no longer necessary and two, not having the energy to keep up the new boyfriend airs every man uses to make themselves more desirable to attract a mate, she will begin to doubt your faithfulness. However, instead of voicing her jealousies she'll turn the feelings inward. Over time they will fester and boil and one day you will be blindside by a sudden slew of accusations and hostility that will explode at the most impromptu time when everything had appeared normal. Then there's the matter about adrenaline and excitement wearing off, which wasn't in reference to Sarah. Because we both know you will be the one to end up bored and thus unconsciously sabotage you're relationship to end it. And my having said this will inevitably lead to you force yourself to make the relationship work because you know I'm right and-."

"Enough!" John tightly gripped the arms of his chair, visibly shaking as he kept himself restrained, for fear that if he got up he'd punch the wanker and never stop. He may have just been poking a little fun, but Sherlock was purposefully cruel at best. "Congratulations," he shouted throwing his hands in the air, "You've officially killed my mood you selfish arse. Just because you have nothing to do doesn't give you the right to dissect me like some experiment! I am not you're lab rat and you have no idea what I like!"

Breathing heavily he glowered, waiting for some form of apology or remorse on the consultants part. Something he should have know was not possible within the other man's small repertoire of emotions that he would vehemently denied existed. The raven haired man's electric hues sat transfixed to the same spot they had been throughout the whole of John's rant. His penetrating gaze never left the telly as he stated his mental status, most likely never hearing a word that past the angry blonde's mouth. "I'm bored."

John growled in frustration, jabbing a violent finger towards the impersonal asocial git. "And I'm going to hit you. Won't be bored then will you!"

Sherlock was about to open his mouth with a biting retort on the other man's intelligence when a breaking news report stole his attention. The previous anchorwoman he didn't much care for, who appeared to have gotten her fix from her blown out pupils, nattered on as a window graphic portraying crime tape appeared next to her. "Now earlier this morning we brought to your attention the existence of a serial killer stalking the streets of London. One Scotland Yard has dubbed the Secret Admirer due to the nature of his crime scenes, since he leaves a love poem near his victims after he's brutally murdered them with a hatchet, cutting them into tiny pieces. We have since learned the latest victim was found near Imperial college, but he wasn't the first victim to succumb to the killer. There have been two others in the span of two months but it doesn't stop there. A reliable source has told us that he's butchered twenty-two other people, men and women, over five continents in the course of seven months!"

A video taken from the entrance of Scotland Yard overtook the screen showing a group of people fighting their way through a frenzied crowd of media vultures. The scene was loud and boisterous as the storm of people shouted questions that would only go unanswered. The anchor continued to comment off screen. "Because INTERPOL and the Yard have yet failed to catch this dastardly serial killer they've called in FBI profilers from across the pond to join the inter-agency task force and consult on the case. Our source says they're Special senior agent Derek Morgan, Technical analyst Penelope Garcia, and a third unknown party member who were seen here entering the facility, escorted by the police. They were called in by a recent INTERPOL transfer and new head of the London office Emily Prentiss, who had previously worked with the other agency. Here with us now to comment on the situation is a professor of criminology from Oxford University, Geoffrey Wimbleton."

The Army Doctor, who's anger had began to subside, peered at the screen at the mention of profilers. His eyes widened in recognition as he spotted a familiar face in the sea of reporters. "Is that Ollie on the telly?"

With a low, almost inaudible, growl Sherlock shot up to a sitting position, eyes glaring a hole into the footage. Pulling out his mobile he roughly jabbed his fingers over the keys. There he sat, bored for the last few hours, when he could have been indulging his mind on a delicious new case. One of his favorite kinds, serial killers. The American profilers were encroaching upon his territory, most especially his frustrating neighbor. They had their own serial killers to deal with in the states, this one should be his, and it would. Lestrade was soon to get an earful as to why.

"What are you doing?" John asked slightly out of curiosity and slightly out of apprehension. Somewhere in the distance the tea kettle whistled for his attention, but at that moment he was to preoccupied to detect it. To concerned about his motives. Predictable. Sherlock shot the man a dirty look as he listened to the dial tone. "You said to find a case. I found a case," he stated throwing back the army doctor's previous words, "also, the water is boiling out of the kettle."

John jumped out of his seat. "Shit," he exclaimed disappearing into the kitchen. A second later the annoying whistle was removed from the ambiance as the blonde shuffled around the other room. The sound of water being poured into a cup was drowned out by the insufferable Criminology professor's baseless assertions pandering to the lowest denominator. The witless general public.

"Sherlock" John called out in a chiding tone, "you can't just steal a case from Ollie. We weren't invited if you hadn't noticed."

Briefly the obstinate consultant felt the urge to roll his eyes, but he didn't give in as such an act was beneath him. "She stole it first," Sherlock drawled, though it sounded petulant to Johns ears, "I may have invited her onto our last case, but that by no means infers that I will share any future ones."

"You didn't even know the serial killer existed till a few moments ago! So how did she steal it?!"

The taller man sniffed in offense. "Continuity doesn't matter John. It's the principal."

"And what principal is that?"

He stared at the John for what felt like a long time, almost as if in dramatic pause. Though the consultant would claim he had no such character trait. "I have first dibs."

"Veritable idiots! All of them!"

Ollie Knight paced the length of the glass conference room; shouting abuse at the news coverage as it appeared on the large flat screen nailed to the wall. This had been going on for the past hour as she had long since finished reviewing the information gathered by the team. Her agitation had grown with her discomfort, due partly from the pain of her injuries and partly from the fact that she had been waiting for over two hours to procure safe passage to the recent crime scene. She growled at the witless anchorwoman. "You're making half that stuff up you cocaine snorting troglodyte! Nowhere is there evidence of a hatchet, nor does the unsub cut them into tiny pieces, and who named him the secret admirer?! I mean really, that's the best you could come up with!"

Trailing off in frustration she sat down at the table in the middle of the room and let her head fall to the cool wood with an exasperated thud. Things had immediately started snowballing since they had arrived. With in several hours there was already a crowd of idiotic protester staked outside, upset that no one had warned the public of the blood thirsty murderer hunting the streets. Which was exactly the reason no one had said anything, as to not cause a panic till they could give an accurate profile on what to look for. Now, due to miss information and growing tension, a riot could break out at any moment and take valuable resources away from the investigation. Not to mention the overflow of "tips" clogging up the lines ranging from the surprisingly popular: I had a psychic vision of the killing three nights ago in my dreams before it happened to her more favorite he came into my room last night and ravaged me with his long thick hard-. Needless to say she had promptly disconnected that call. Then, on the bad news of things, the unsub now knew the police had connected his crimes and were actively pursuing him, which could send him underground as he obviously had access to global transportation.

"Calm down Knight. I don't think she can hear you," Emily Prentiss lightly teased as she walked in with her usual warmth. Trying to uplift the dismal mood. Ollie would have shot her a look had she not been so busy wallowing. She grumbled into her folded arms, face hidden underneath, "How am I supposed to work under these conditions with the flying news monkeys out front and this stupid fish bowl giving the leak a front row seat to my every movement."

"Well, you could always tell us your preliminary profile on the unsub," Prentiss suggested, not bothering to argue with her on the facts. The other woman was to stubborn to be removed from her current disposition. Lifting her head up with a weighty sigh Ollie shook her head, "No. Not till I've seen the recent crime scene. Then and only then will I divulge my findings."

"You know, it's called a preliminary profile for a reason. It's a first draft till more information becomes available."

"Yes, but as a consultant I don't have that luxury," the blonde stated, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "As I no longer have the backing of a large reputable governmental agency, like the FBI, I have to be extra careful of what I say. If I mess up or bungle things my reputation would be destroyed making it harder for a court of law to find me credible and thus allow killers free. So like I said, once I've seen the crime scene."

Instead of becoming upset like most people would, from what sounded to be a clipped response, Prentiss only nodded her head. She had worked with the woman long enough to know that during an investigation Ollie would close herself to emotion and retreat to a more analytical point of view that could come off as abrasive, but it was her way of coping. Though it was slightly odd to see the other woman so irritated during a case. Even Derek and Penelope had commented on the change of attitude when they were out of earshot. Neither were sure wether her new emotional freedom was a good or bad thing just yet. Seeing that the consultant wasn't about to divulge her secrets she went to leave, "I'll just go see about getting that car then."

"Much appreciated," Ollie shouted as she left, eyes shifting to the glass wall. Crime scene photo's were plastered all over it, partly for privacy and partly because that's how she worked. To be honest she had an ulterior motive for keeping things close to heart in that moment. One look at the list of dates and places the victims were killed was all it took for her to clam up. The conclusion caused her to have to review the information five times, hoping that she had misread something. But unfortunately that was impossible.

Now none, save the first victim, had been identified. Harvey Walden was only known to the police because he had a bit of a hooker addiction, so an officer had recognized him on scene, but otherwise his record was squeaky clean.

Now as for the where the victims were killed, that was the truly eery part. Exactly seven months ago Ollie was in Poza Rica, Mexico chasing down her first lead on the illegal body parts farmed from a few of her franken victims—something that didn't fit in with the killers M.O. A few days after her shake down of a "parts" supplier, and consequentially her next lead, did Harvey end up dead. The odd part, it was across the street from her sleazy motel room. Of course people died all the time, so she had thought nothing of it back then and when she had currently had the mexican police file, but her perspective began to shift as she read more reports. It started to paint a twisted picture.

The second victim, male, mid thirties, was killed on a rooftop in Rio de Janeiro. T.O.D. was approximately seven thirty p.m. on the 25th of March. On that day she too was in Rio, pacing the room of a shoddy hostel as she contemplated how to infiltrate the mansion of a drug lord connected to illegal human trafficking to gain access to his books. Now for the interesting part. The man was killed a furlong (one-eighth of a mile) from where she had stayed. Again, she had pushed the odd connection aside as she had come across it. To think it had something to do with her would be a bit pretentious.

Except then there was the third, fourth, and fifth victims; all killed in the course of four weeks in Monte Carlo. In exactly the same length of her stay there. Again, the victims were found near places she had either rented or had visited and again all T.O.D.s put her in the area. The pattern followed the whole of her investigations and so to did the implications. Paris, Cape Town Africa, Egypt, Beijing China, Tokyo Japan, Kyoto, Sydney Australia, Perth, Berlin Germany, Valencia Spain, Naples Italy, Kiev Ukraine and now London, all places she had momentarily stayed in the past seven months. Death had chased her at heels yet she had been so focused, so obsessed with her own investigation, they had past like two ships in the night. Very rarely did she feel simpleminded, unfortunately after being briefed and reading the case materials that was the outcome. And that irritated her to no end.

Even as the evidence stared at her, telling her the killer quite possibly had some sick obsession with her, what with all the love poems he left behind in plain view, she still tried to deny it. After all, she didn't think she possessed any quality worth fixating over. If you couldn't find anything you liked about yourself then how could others.

Before she could grab at her hair in frustration due to the conflicting thoughts, one being the voice of precise reason and profiling experience while the other was of a more emotional paranoid nature, Morgan knocked on the door frame interrupting the internal war. "Hey, we got a car. One of the DI's is going to give us a ride so we should head out while we can."

Letting go of a stressful exhale she tapped the table with her hands, "Thank god. Any longer and I was going to scale the rooftops to get around the news crowds. Pain be damned."

The roof on Lariston apartments rang silent as the door was propped open with a brick. A nice contrast to the smaller crowd of badgering reporters gathered on Queens Gate bellow. Ollie made it a point to refuse highly publicized case specifically because the media was a hinderance of misinformation that only added to the stupidity displayed by humans when scared. That and she distrusted anyone in general who cared more about earning recognition, awards, and ratings than doing their job dutifully without thanks. Had she known about the leak before hand she would have refused the assignment. But there would be no turning back, the case had already taken root, seeping into her grey matter like a mutated virus, and occupied all her conscious thought. There was no escaping it now.

Uncumbered by the lack of entourage, as they had insisted on the elevator, she walked the crime scene without the distraction of chit chat, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. The functional concrete smoking area had very few furnishings, only employing the bare bones for such a well off living facility. A community owned picnic table sat close to the entrance in despair, names and vulgar phrases etched into the fading wood as cigarettes disgustingly littered it with ash, indicating it was frequently used. From the left overs on the ground she could count about eleven different addicts from the tell tale lipstick marks and ways in which people snuffed out the ends. Though there was probably more, she just didn't see the point to DNA test any to find out. But it spoke of a well trafficked zone, not exactly the best place to kill someone, yet that's what the unsub had done. Murder of opportunity? No, the locale was to out of the way for that.

The only other things up there were a couple of broken lawn chairs laying haphazardly by the thick stone banister that was useless as a barrier; if anything it's bellow waist height rather promoted an accidental spill off the ledge. But it was the sight near it that attracted her consideration. From the outlying stone garden, between the concrete patio and the banister, small rocks had been thrashed about in a mess notifying her of where the unsub had first blitz attacked the victim. A thought itched at the back of her mind. Why would he be so close to the ledge? After all, he wasn't a resident of the building or knew any, the police had checked all floors. So why was he up there in the first place? Suicide? Probably not.

Scuttling over just to the right of the spot where the John Doe had been accosted, she peered down at the street, searching for something that would bring him to the roof. A few nosy photographers snapped a couple pictures upon noticing her but she paid them no mind. Instead to focused on what the victim might have found so interesting to wander into a building he didn't live in for that particular vantage point. One he was so busy with he wouldn't notice a man sneak up behind him.

There weren't really any cafes or stores for a few blocks and it was all mostly residential housing, so it begged the question what was he looking at. Pulling out a little telescope from her pocket she examined the building directly across from her, but as it was two stories down all that was viewable was the slatted roof top. Again nothing of interest. Except, as she scanned the location, peering into every window of the buildings nearby that were accessible from her position, did she notice something. The street entrance to the Huxley building of Imperial College was in perfect range. Ollie swallowed the information as she refolded the telescope. That proves nothing, her inner cynic argued, there's no way to know if he was watching the entrance as I left.

Moving away from the ledge she stopped as something made a grating noise underfoot. Taking a step back a tiny glass fragment sparkled up at her, a few more small pieces clustered beside it. Squatting near the pile she picked up a shard, examining it between her fingers. The chip was to thick to be from a pair of corrective lenses and it was slightly reflective as it let light in. Bringing it close to her eye she peered through it and found everything turned upside down. Pulling it away the consultant stared down at it, her stomach flopping around like a pancake on a skillet. There was only one thing it could have broken off of. A camera lens.

"What, did you run up the stairs?!"

Ollie turned around at the suave masculine musings of Derek Morgan and scoffed. "Of course not, I'm injured. The elevator is just that slow."

DI Lestrade, who had been just as surprised to see Ollie as she had him at the precinct, had been the one to drive them there. He gazed around the scene running a hand through his peppered hair, warm brown eyes hardening as they passed the dried pool of blood. His mouth tightened slightly as he swallowed. He must have been one of the on scene investigators that answered the call. Probably hadn't expected to roll up on such a horrifying sight, but he wasn't some greenhorn, he was to old for that, so memory wasn't about to hinder his functioning. Turning towards the blonde consultant he noted the glinting object in her hand. "What's that?"

"Shard from a camera lens," Ollie informed, traipsing over towards the group, "Did any of the CSI's find one on the victim?"

"No, why?"

"Because the victim came up here to take pictures of something and what ever that was the unsub obviously doesn't want us to know. Else you would have found a camera. Unless…," the ex-profiler trailed off, noting a void in the faded blood pool by Lestrade's feet. Squatting down she traced the outline with a hovering finger. It was oblong in shape, a rectangle of sorts, and the blood seemed to have moved underneath what ever object that had been placed there to a point. Most likely something was to heavy in the middle for it to get past. Then there was a small discoloration in the pattern, that most probably wouldn't perceive but Ollie did. It looked to be the front ends of a pair of pliers.

"Unless what?" Derek prompted with a raised eyebrow. He had forgotten how much he found it frustrating when she stopped mid explanation. Not everyone could follow her thought process like Reed. Hell, those two always seemed to finish each others sentences for the most part. Which was probably why he had taken her absence so hard. Out of the whole team they had had the strongest bond. Everyone was so sure they would end up together one day.

Totally ignoring Derek's question she moved on with her current train of thought as she regained full height, gesturing to her find, "The unsub brought his own tools with him. A duffle bag most likely from this imprint. Shows it was premeditated. And from the locale I'd say the victim wasn't random. He must have been following him, since this is quite out of the way."

Eyes unfocused with thought Ollie flashed back to the crime scene photo's. Moving over every precise injury inflicted, every cut, and body part removed as the victims remained paralyzed to the tortures. The unsub was task orientated and every thing he did was on purpose. He planned his moves. He thought about what he would do next before he did it. And everything was done for shock and awe, but for who? It wasn't for his first obsession, the woman he wrote the poems for. No, the torment and pain inflicted upon the victims were a warning to someone else. Someone who threatened to drive a wedge between him and his obsession. The blonde retreated from memory and turned to the other two men, "I'm ready to give my profile now."

"Alright, just let me get Prentiss on the line," Morgan said, dragging out his cell from his back pocket. He hit speed dial and then speaker. The dial tone rang out three times before the line picked up. "Hey Morgan. What's up?"

Not bothering to let Derek speak and explain, Ollie charged straight into her profile. She didn't see the need for pleasantries when a murderer was on the lose, especially one that may very well be focused on her. "The unsubs Ex-military. Most likely from either Russia, China, or South America as those regions favor dental torture, which was inflicted upon the victims, but I'd lean more toward Russian. His P's are looped in an odd fashion because instinctively he wants to make the russian equivalent, п. Now the reason I say he's military is because of the way in which he attacks his victims, he's controlled and precise which speaks to a certain degree of discipline. That and he's strong enough to lift a two hundred pound man from the ledge to the entrance, which is evident from the lack of drag marks. Most likely he's fit and under the age of forty. Now he's smart enough to leave no traces, to use forensic counter measures by cutting off the hands and taking them with him. That way authorities couldn't connect him through the victims personal life, because somewhere their lives intersect and he knows this. So he's careful, which speaks to his state of mind. He isn't on some psychotic break, he's mission orientated. And his mission is to remove all obstacles that drive a wedge between him and his obsession. The woman he leaves the poems for. The violence he shows his victims isn't for her, it's a message to others. One that clears states stay the hell away from her. It's why his victims range in age, gender, and race. They don't really matter to him, it's the woman who matters. Find the woman and you'll most likely find him."

"Now what about the heart removal," Prentiss questioned, "doesn't exactly lend to a sane mind frame."

Ollie shrugged and waved off the rebuttal. "I never implied he was sane. That much is sure from his obsession of the woman, but it's just another forensic counter measure. Take the heart and add in the missing limbs and everyones looking for some crazy unhinged man, not a calm controlled person. It's a purposely placed mislead. Like I said he's intelligent. He knows what he's doing. Now, the real question is, did you find the same things I did."

"For the most part. Though we didn't know he was Russian."

"Well, good thing I'm here," Ollie smiled as she walked forward and shut Morgan's phone, ending the call. Derek rolled his eyes, returning his cell to his back pocket. "That wasn't very nice."

She just shrugged nonplussed by her action and pushed past the two men, making for the staircase. Lestrade just watched her, slightly shocked, having found her display of knowledge from such small details astounding. It was like looking at a female Sherlock, that actually took the time to explain. Speaking of which, his mobile buzzed once again for attention underneath his coat. Ignoring it, since he knew it was the consulting detective, he quickly asked the question that had been bothering him before Ollie disappeared to the next floor. "But what about the camera."

She stopped and looked up at the DI, surprised he'd even spoken. It's not that she had forgotten he was there, since that's was a medical impossibility, she just had pushed him out of thought till then. The ex-profiler quirked an eye brow. "What about it?"

"Well, where is it? With the killer or something else?"

She blinked a couple of times, having sworn she had told them already. But then again she had a nasty habit of answering in her head and not speaking it out loud. Some wires were crossed in her brain that she would often perceive speaking when in fact she hadn't. "Huh? Oh, right. Yeah. The kid Kyle Dretton who found the body, yeah, he has it."

"He didn't have a camera when first responders arrived," Lestrade argued, "they would have said something. So how could you possibly know that?"

Seeing as a normal person wouldn't put two and two together she decided to explain, only if to get him off the old information and moving towards the new. "One, he probably stuffed it in his room before the cops came. And two, there was a smudge spot on the back of the John Does neck in the autopsy photo's, rectangular like a strap, from where something had been slipped off. The likely explanation was someone took it after he was dead. Then there's the small almost indiscernible spot in the blood that resembles the edge curvature of a male size eight shoe."

Yelling out the last part, she descended the steps with a cautious speed. Wary of her injured ribs throbbing underneath her coat. Though her pain was momentarily thrust from her mind, to busy going crazy with possibilities of what could be on the camera. Hell, for all she knew the Lindbergh baby could be on it.

Hopping down four flights of stairs she burst through the exit to the ninth floor. A loud clattering echoed behind her as the others attempted to keep up. Power walking down the hall she past 54, 55, and 56 with out a second glance. Her haunting yellow orbs solely focused on her destination. Raising her arms she repetitively knocked on the maroon door of 9-57 with growing speed till it was wrenched open. A large stout woman, dressed in a pale blue lady's pant suit, glared at her in the doorway. "What!?"

"Ah, hello," Ollie hastily smiled, "I'm a consultant with Scotland yard. I just need to sneak a word with your son Kyle real quick."

"Oh yeah!?" she snorted with derision, "Well where's your badge?"

The blonde pointed to the huffing DI racing up accompanied by a slightly peeved and confused expression. Although Derek reached her first. "Right over here."

She clapped and arm around his shoulder and patted it, maintaining her smile. "Show the nice lady here your badge. Please and thank you."

Not exactly sure what was going on he reached for his badge inside his light brown coat. Flipping the smooth black leather holder open to showcase his ID and glinting metal shield to the woman. Not that she even noticed it. The middle aged woman was too busy ogling the man meat standing beside the consultant. Her eyes bounce back and fourth between the silver fox and the coco adonis, not sure who to settle with. She briefly waved her hand, motioning behind her, "Yeah, he's in his room. There are posters all over his door, you can't miss it. Do whatever."

Ollie didn't have to be told twice, and like a vampire that had just been invited in, she stepped past her into the immaculate white living space as if she owned the place, stalking towards the hallway adjoining the kitchen. Morgan managed to slip past the gate keeper before she closed the bridge with her beefy arm, stopping Lestrade. The large woman gave him a once over, like he were a rabbit and she was a wolf, and smiled. "So Detective Inspector," she purred. Whatever she spoke next was out of earshot for the two profilers as they disappeared into the hall, leaving the DI to suffer the advances of a single working mom. God rest his soul.

Quickly moving towards the door at the end, death rock blasting from it, Ollie burst through without a word of warning, scaring the crap out of the punked out teen who scrambled up, wiping his shaggy black hair from his eyes. "Hey, you can't be in here," he shouted glancing towards the door, "Mom!"

"Actually you'll find we can. Your mother was nice enough to give us permission to do as we please," the consultant retorted as she walked across the room and shut the laptop to terminate the ear assaulting noise. Hurriedly she scanned the skull and pentagram covered room not wanting to be there any longer than she had to be as it smelt of weed, dirty grungy laundry, and the quiet shame of masturbation. Moving from postered wall to black dresser she found the coveted item on the shelve of a bookcase filled with cheap satanic brickabrack that any pubescent nimrod could find in a cheesy cult shop. Walking forward she grabbed the broken camera as Morgan held out an arm to stop Kyle should he move after her, but he didn't. The pierced face teen was to busy awing at her for some unknown reason. "Oh my god," he said, "you're the chick."

"Yeah kid, she's from the news." Morgan said, retracting his arm when he realized he teen wasn't about to do anything. Ollie gave the sixteen year old a quick scan before checking the SD card, making sure it was still there. Seeing that it was she switched on the SLR, waiting for the photo's to overtake the black screen. Kyle snorted and rolled his eyes, "Not that you mortal. The camera, the dead bloke seemed to fancy her."

No sooner did the words escape his lip ringed mouth did a close up image of Ollie fill the screen, a candid shot of her bitting on a straw in thought at a cafe a three weeks ago. She swallowed as she pressed forward, scrolling as fast as she could on the device. It was littered with her face, her coming and goings, her talking with her neighbors, her yelling at said raven haired neighbor, but it was the last images that held her attention. They were of her at the college, leaving. Derek immediately snatched the camera from her hands and flicked through the screen for himself, eyes widening with surprise. Before he could say a word Ollie had brushed past him, hurriedly marching out the door. "Hey, Olivia, wait!"

He called after her, but she paid him no mind, quickly moving past the two Brits at the entrance of the apartment. Lestrade watched her leave confused as Derek barreled past him with the camera. Seeing that something was happening he disentangled himself from the uncomfortable conversation and promptly said goodbye to the woman before him, hurrying after the two Americans heading for the exit. Just as Ollie made it into the privacy of the stairwell did Derek catch up with her. Grabbing her arm he spun her around. "What was that all about?"

"It's me!" She whined exasperatedly, running a hand over her face. God how could she have been so blind for seven months! It felt as if she'd just woken up, like she'd been in a coma the whole time abroad. These were the kind of things she usually noticed right off the bat, except she'd been so focus it'd narrowed her mind to other events.

Lestrade pushed through the door just as Ollie pulled her arm back and began pacing the small space. Derek watched the woman with concern as she began to appear manic. He raised an eyebrow."What?"

"It's all about me," she reiterated, "God, I didn't want to think that...I mean it's me we're talking about. I'm not anything fantastic, I've got issues, boat loads of them! So me, really!? Am I supposed to be flattered? Should I be? People are supposed to be upset in this situation right, scared even, but I find I'm just angry. How could I be this thick!"

Morgan stepped forward, interrupting her from ripping at her golden locks, and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to stop a second and look at him. "Hey gorgeous, I need you to calm down and explain."

She sighed heavily, her composure returning as she realized her loss of control, but that manic look in her eye never dissipated. "I'm the woman Derek," she stated, "The Unsubs obsession. As pretentious and self-centered as that sounds. I'm what connects everything. Every place the victims were killed I was near at the time of T.O.D. Hell, the first victim was murdered right across from my motel room! He's been following me all around the world and I hadn't even noticed! What does that make me, huh!? Simple minded? Useless? Am I losing my edge or just a washed up broken-."

Whatever she was to say next ended up muffled and died upon her tongue as Morgan pulled her into an impromptu hug. He knew she didn't particularly care for such shows of affection, even choosing so much as to avoid them if at all possible, but the profiler didn't know what else to do in that moment. He had never seen her so self doubting before, always she had been a picture of high esteem to the point of arrogance. This, this was an unsettling development. One that spoke to the volume of her fall from grace eight months prior. Just how bad had that case fucked her up?

"Hey, there is nothing wrong with you," he assured giving her a gentle squeeze, "You suffered a tragedy. It's just going to take sometime, especially with your mental...prowess."

She stiffened, more so than earlier to the unprompted affection. There it was, one of the things she'd happily and successfully avoided. Pity. Ollie managed to pull herself away with a scowl and looked up at the other man, who instantly realized his folly. "Saying one suffered a tragedy is an excuse normal people use to justify their ineptitude to adapt to a situation Derek. It's the equivalent of calling me a mental invalid."

Before anyone could get into it, and attempt to force her to acknowledge her emotions, Lestrade coughed to gain their collective attention. He could see there was some history and unresolved feelings betwixt the two, though he was fairly sure it wasn't romantic, but none the less he didn't need any domestics so close to a crime scene. It was unprofessional. That and he had questions. "So," he started, "why are you on the victims camera?"

She flipped her hands in the air slightly exasperated, "The hell if I know. I've never even met the guy. Trust me, if I had, I would remember."

"Well it is a bit suspicious," Lestrade commented, gauging the woman's reaction. He was only following years of training, every question must be asked in order to sort out the truth. Derek, hearing the underlying tone moved forward, holding up a hand in defense, slightly offended on Ollie's behalf, "Hey, what exactly are you trying to imply man."

"He thinks I've murdered them because I admitted I was near each victim at T.O.D.," Ollie supplied, folding her arms over her chest. She shrugged clearly not upset by the implied accusation, "It's a valid hypothesis from what little information available to him. I can see why he would think that. Since he's just overheard I've recently been through something. So to him it's plausible that I've gone on some psychotic break and tortured a bunch of people but I assure you, if I was to ever kill someone you'd never know. That and I have a good alibi. Right after I left the college I hailed a cab, number 4519, you can check with the local dispatcher to find the driver. A portly Indian immigrant of four years, who will corroborate this. We had talked about his wife's poor attempts at proper British cuisines. After this I made my way straight to China town where I met with Sherlock. Who would have noticed if I had recently killed the man as I would've most likely had blood on my persons. So now that we've gotten that out of the way I'd like to remind you that the real killer is still on the loose and the metadata on that camera might reveal the victim's identity and possibly a lead if we get it back to Garcia. That and there may even be finger prints on the device."

Without pause she rushed forward and stampeded down the stairs, eager to find more bread crumbs along the path of mystery. The most invigorating part of the job was the chase. Only as she made it to the last step, hovering in a state of displacement on the platform between floor nine and eight, did she realize no one was following her. Annoyed they were pussy-footing around she turned to yell some words of "encouragement" to entice them into action. Except things didn't pan out like that.

When her gazed reached the two men above she found herself on the receiving end of a plethora of looks. Lestrade's police instincts were telling him to take her off the case as rules dictated such. They also told him that he needed to protect her as she was a victim, a woman, and currently in danger; all revealed by the new information. Derek, on the other hand, was a bit more conflicted with his emotions as he had a more personal connection to her. On the one hand he felt everything the DI had circled through but, he also knew her to be capable in tough situations and a good asset to have. That she could get the job done and remain impartial.

Ollie's foot tapped restlessly, waiting for the argument she knew was about to commence betwixt the two on how to proceed from there. Her fingers itched at her sides for them to hurry up so they could move forward with the investigation, her mind becoming agitated with the interruption. Morgan's eyes flicked over to her, for only a moment, and suddenly something changed in his demeanor. No longer was there and our side and his side but a her side and their side. She felt betrayed by the action, blinking as she watched his opinion change the same way it had the day she had decided to leave the BAU. Like she were a mistreated computer that needed to be repaired, one that no longer functioned properly. And just like that she found herself back in that hospital bed in DC. To the moment where the shift had begun.

Her mind was fog and sludge weighed down by a cocktail of narcotics as she slipped in and out of existence. Even if Ollie wished to move the effort require couldn't even be comprehended let alone preformed. Her thoughts and memories toggled and shifted to no real thing in particular. One second they were calm, the next it was a bed of hot coals digging through her mind like a tornado, twisting and turning, destroying everything in its wake. But some overwhelming force prompted her fourth, urging her to fight her way out of the jumbled mess. Out of the darkness and into the light. Demanding she find her way back to clarity and escape, but from exactly what she didn't know. Only the action caused a blast of pain to burst and explode behind her eyelids, ones that felt so heavy they might as well been glued shut. A moan managed to escape from the attempt. "Liv?"

The small, almost timid, voice of Spencer Reid choked from beside her as he bespoke the monicker reserved solely for his use. Able to somewhat compute, Ollie realized he must've been crying earlier from the strain of his words. Though the reason as to why eluded her at that moment. A constant beeping that had persisted in the background sped up. Spence shifted from what she assumed was her bedside and tucked a lock from her forehead, moving a cool finger back and fourth across her skin. "Don't worry it's going to be ok."

His assurance seemed to send the earlier erratic sound away. Alleviating some of the pressure beginning to build in her chest from the annoyance it caused. Briefly she wondered what had happened, why she found herself paralyzed underneath a heavy blanket of drugs. Yet the only true thought that managed not to get swept away with the confusion and pain was that she wasn't supposed to be there. Where ever there was. If she could just gain a grasp of lucidity. Maybe then she could sort out events.

"You know you should get some rest."

The coolness that had once caressed her skin in soothing motions instantly receded at the intrusion of Aaron Hotchner. She could hear Spence shuffle away. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough know," he answered calmly, "Have you told her?"

"No. I don't think I can," Spence plainly explained, quick to find a reasonable excuse, "Besides there are rules against it."

"I think the bureau could make this one exception."

The younger man lightly scoffed. "Hotch you never break the rules and frown upon those who do."

"Yeah, but you're not me." Aaron retorted taking a few steps into the room, his feet sending up clipped polished noises from his federally issued footwear. He stopped a small distance away and a lull fell over them. Ollie could feel their collective eyes upon her, but was helpless to do anything of it. Not that there would have been much she could have done save leave were she operative.

"So have the doctors said anything?" Hotch asked, his voice distant yet near, with a small almost imperceivable underlying tone of fear in his otherwise level voice. A crack in his by-the-book-no-nonsense-straight-shooter facade. Then there was a moment of hesitation on the young doctors part.

"Yes," Reid started with a slight intake of air, "She woke up for a moment a few hours ago. She was hysterical. Screaming at the top of her lungs as she fought off the orderlies that had to come in to pin her down. She tried to rip off the IV and equipment to get away, accusing them of trying to poison her. It was like she wasn't all there. When they finally managed to sedate her the doctor said there might be some damage to her brain caused by the force of the blast, that she may have changes in thinking and memory. The whole time he was saying this the only thing I could think of was the statistical likelihood of a full recover for patients suffering extensive brain injuries. But what good are statistics when she's-when she's like this. Now they've recommended that she be put into a mental health facility for a couple of weeks for observation and its just..."

He trailed off as the emotion of the event finally overcame him. His fear of loss cropping up as didn't wish for her to end up like his mother, tucked in a facility away from society. Something he knew she couldn't live with either. Ollie and Reid had divulged many secrets over the years, ones never told to others. The most prominent that they both shared was ending up like their mothers. A slave to their own madness, helpless to stop their mind from withering till nothing was left of their former self but a physical echo.

"Spencer, the doctors won't know the full extent of any damage till she's fully awake," Hotch assured, being the ever present voice of reality to separate him form his dark thoughts, "Sometimes after being in such close proximity to an explosive going off rattles the mind a bit. She may have just had an episode of PTSD, in which case she'll be fine after she gets some help. Try not to over think things till all information is available. It'll drive you crazy if you do. Now go get some rest. I'll take watch while you're gone."

That day, when she had finally woken up, Ollie had noticed the change in herself immediately. Her eyes roamed around the room to take it in yet her mind fixated on only one thing, not even letting her wander to anything else. Like the conversation Reid had been trying to have with her. Instantly she had accused the nurse attending to her of trying to cut off her oxygen by giving her an overdose of muscle relaxant. It was straight to therapy for her after that. Admittedly grabbing a dirty needle and threatening the woman with it hadn't been her shining achievement, but she had just woken up from a medically induced coma after almost dying from a bomb blast so she deserved some slack. They had been dealing with an unsub that persuaded young adults to blow themselves up, taking whoever they deemed had wronged them as targets. She had been convincing a fourteen year old at a high school not to go through with it and kill the auditorium full of students who had mercilessly beaten and bullied him. Even though some probably deserved it. Ollie had succeeded, but the unsub had detonated it remotely. The kid didn't make it. Almost sent her over the edge when she had learned of his fate in the crazy clink. Only reason she hadn't was because she wasn't about to let the psychologist have the satisfaction of watching her fall apart. It's what they had wanted. For her to deal with her emotions publicly.

When her mandatory three weeks had been over the recommendation had been clear. While we find that the subject is extremely intelligent and has extraordinary memory capabilities her lack of cooperation and hostile proclivities towards opening up in tandem with her inability to connect with others from a general mistrust leads us to believe she is a liability to the FBI. Her constant paranoia and often at times inappropriate outbursts are most likely due to not only underlying childhood trauma but PTDS from the accident. We recommend that she have regular therapy sessions of five times a week, till otherwise noted, should she wish to resume her position. It was during that time she had racked the biggest number of screaming psychologist in her 13-O tally. Of course the whole time she was at that stupid facility the therapists had been trying to convince her that the accusations levied against the nurse were wrong, and that she should feel remorse for her actions. But she had refused, sticking to her guns. They had been persistent even after they had found out the blonde was right a week into her stay. Turned out the unsub that had put her in the hospital had disguised herself as a "nurse" laboring to finish the job. And they wondered why she had a mistrust of people when they so easily lied.

So Ollie found herself once again staring at that face; the kind that regarded her as mentally fragmented and thus not capable of rational decisions. Only this one came from someone she knew, someone she respected and had care for, and that hurt. And when hurt she tended to shut off, to drain of emotion and simulated politeness. Cocooning herself in a harden shelf of facts and reason to cushion the blow. Preemptively she answered Derek's unspoken command, "No."

"I haven't said anything yet," Morgan said scrutinizing her every move, as if he couldn't trust the new her. In retrospect her agitation must have been the underlying factor to his altered outlook. He had known a different Ollie. Quite a contrasting animal back then. A foreign thing. Closed off, analytical, emotionless, but Monroe had changed that. His influence, those bright and shining two years, had put her on a different path. He had helped heal wounds that had long since scabbed over and been ignored, awaking her from a slumber she hadn't know she had taken. But he was gone. And if she were to truly admit it, never had she felt more lost. She had become dependent upon his existence. Surprisingly he had accepted the ex-profiler with silent understanding and possessed the innate aptitude to compromise around her expecting nothing in return. A rare gift she had, to her regret, often exploited. She had been happy for the first time in a long time. But alone was what she deserved. Alone she couldn't hurt anyone. Nor could they hurt her.

The consultant flicked her eyes across Derek's jaw, watching the tick of agitation form. He had always hated it when she could so easily predict his train of thought, but he didn't make it very hard. With cold dead eyes she bore into the profiler, "You were going to and the answer is no. I refuse protection."

"Olivia, there is a serial killer with fantasy designed around you. From the profile he's most likely a big guy, you're injured and even if you weren't you couldn't fend him off," Morgan supplied, "Due to all the news coverage he's going to want to abduct you as he'll want to go underground but he can't live without his obsession. Don't make me remand you into custody."

Ollie managed to retain her calm cold exterior, even as her insides roiled at his assumption that she was weak. The consultant could defend herself despite his conjecture, she needn't use her hands to do so. That's what guns were for. "You don't have the authority."

"No," Lestrade piped in, "But I do."

With a sharp snap she leveled her glare upon the DI who pulled out a pair of hand cuffs, "So what's it going to be?"

The ex-profiler gave him a bored once over raising an eye brow and with a deep breath proceeded to open her mouth in response.

To say Olivia Knight was furious was an understatement. By order of male chauvinistic decree she had been remanded into police custody for her own safety. Though her fuck you wasn't the most intelligent response, but when dealing with idiots she saw no need to make clever conversation. Why waste her words on those who wouldn't listen. Apparently she could deal with being wired to a bomb, buried alive in a fridge, and subjected to electrical torture but she couldn't handle a serial killer with fantasies designed on her. Not to mention all the other twisted cases she'd been involved in that were much worse than the current one.

She was lucky she'd been able to argue to be sent home instead of back to the police station. That would have been humiliating, not that it already wasn't. Being escorted and guarded by seven officers was appalling. The only reason she had so many was apparently she was a flight risk. Which was true, Ollie had planned to sneak away through the small window in her bathroom, but now it would be impossible without assaulting an officer and ending up back to where she had bargained out of. But if she played her hand right, there might be a way to stay on the case in more of a silent partner capacity. Her ace in the hole only need agree to the terms and he'd get what he wanted. By then he had to know about the serial killer. He was most likely the one ringing Lestrade every five or so minutes. The call the silver haired man kept avoiding. Which told her he was eager. Something that played in her favor.

Filing out of the back of a squad car she slipped her hand out of her folded coat lying over her arms and raised her cuffed wrists to the officer holding the door open. "Gonna let me out since we're here?"

"I suppose," the officer frowned, unsure of his answer or if he could trust her not to run. She smiled before taking them off, apparently having unlocked them earlier and just waiting to ask as not to cause trouble. Ollie handed them over as she walked past the lanky man to the stoop of 221 Baker Street. "Good, these are yours then."

Climbing the stone steps she pulled out her house key incase the door happen to be locked. Twisting the slightly ornate knob she found that it was not the case and pushed through with ease, holding in an aggravated noise as the two officers hovered right behind her, almost tripping over the other as they followed. Each were under strict orders not to let her wander out of sight. She'd get around that. After all, she needed to get rid of a few sensitive things. It wouldn't be long till the others started asking why the unsub killed those people and came to her with questions. Questions she couldn't answer. Question that would create mistrust and thus the right to search her home for clues, having worked out that reason in the back of the cruiser. Anger was a fine motivator to spark deductive thought.

Already she was two steps ahead of the rest in the investigation and planning her next move, she waltzed across the foyer with an almost lethal glide. Her thoughts chaotic yet formulating moves on an invisible chessboard. However before she could make way to the descending stairs loud steps thundered down from above. From the gait and sound she could tell it was John, but it was the quieter more poised footfalls they were trailing after that held her ear. Appeared she wouldn't need to spring her strategy by eliciting a reaction on her neighbors part to catch his attention as he was coming to her. Made things a little simpler.

Stopping abruptly, almost causing the officers to slam into her, she folded her arms and patiently waited for her quarry to appear around the corner in his usual privileged stride. As predicted he quietly marched into view, his sharp eyes immediately burned across her. He was upset she could tell. Not that he'd ever describe it as such, but from the way held himself up higher, to unconsciously make himself that much taller and intimidating, to the way he controlled his breathing clued her in. Sherlock was most likely about to make a confrontation. She could already see his reasoning in her head. From all the collected data of spending time with him down to his personality and upbringing he honestly believed the case should be his. That when the force was making calls for help the first should have been to him, not her. And now that she was home he was about to chew her out and worm his way onto the investigation in a round about way, as Holmes don't ask for help. Well, not when there was pride on the line at least. What he didn't know was that Ollie was going to make sure he got his way. For a price of course. So she would skip his theatrics and move straight to the proposal.

The moment the consulting detective glided down, his eyes never leaving hers, did John fly around the corner. Exasperatedly he reprimanded his friend with a warning, most likely aware of what he was about to do. "Sherlock."

Ollie almost laughed at his attempt to dissuade the coming situation. There was only one way to stop Sherlock from doing anything and that would be to kill him, but seeing as neither party had the stomach for outright murder he would continue his way right over to the ex-profiler, till he was staring down at her with what little height difference they had, which was roughly a head and a half by the way, and berate her till he got what he wanted.

The clash of words was immediate, drowning out her preemptive yes, I'll get you on the case to his round about infiltration. Unfortunately for Ollie he started with her character, each baritoned word like the precise crack of a whip over unhealed flesh. "Do you really believe that you can preform in an investigatorial capacity when it's quite clear you're a hair breaths away from a mental break down due to the seriously lacking skills in which you executed throughout your last case that led to the deaths of several women including someone exceedingly dear to you. All due to the fact that you were so blinded by your own ego that you couldn't glimpse the larger picture that you had in fact been profiled by the serial killer himself, so he knew you enjoyed the interesting cases and pandered to that exact sentiment in order to distract you. Quite easily I'm afraid. Let's not even get into the fact that for the past seven months you have been involved in something that came to your attention right after that case. Most likely involving it in some function or other. One I will get to the bottom of later, but before we move on lets revisit the fact the you have yet to fully process the death that so catastrophically effect you, causing you to withdraw from the world for weeks after the event. One that still haunts you today and makes you a liability as any moment the drawbacks of your superior autobiographical memory could send you catatonic like you almost succumbed to at witnessing the death of Soo Lin. As it brought forth the dead body of-"

Smack! The sound vibrated throughout the foyer as Sherlocks head twisted slight to the side, his cheek already started to pinken from the contact. Ollie brought her hand back calmly and took a hefty breath."As I recall I told you never to bring that up. Now," She sniffed squaring her jaw, "you Neanderthal, I'm going to get you on the case despite your asinine behavior. Next time, before you go running your mouth, why don't you look past your own pride and take a moment to assess the situation first. Because if you had you'd see I am not here of my own volition, but by a surprisingly fast court order."

Half expecting him to continue on or smack her back, as his rigid posture lent to the idea, she was quiet fine with the glaring look she instead received. Though most would say it was his normal face. Quickly, and almost imperceivably, he snapped his eyes to the men behind her noting the empty handcuffs held in the hands of one and remembered the way in which each had assessed the room upon his entry. On closer inspection he could spot the earwigs curling wires looping out of their ears. "You've been remanded into protective custody."

Ollie clapped sarcastically at his statement, "Congratulations on finally seeing the larger picture. Funny how it can so easily be missed."

John, who had been holding his breath through most of the battle of catty intellects, snapped out of his stupor. Taking a few worried steps down he asked the question that had popped into his head, invoked by a single sentence. "Why were you remanded into custody?"

Ollie, as it was a sore subject, tried not to twitch but didn't manage to suppress the aggravated growl the question elicited. "Male biological stupidity, that's why. Also, I was voted off the island, but despite that I can still get you guys onto the case. I happen to know the new head of the London office. I only need Sherlock to do one simple thing for me, nothing major or invasive. And no, it's not to apologize nor is it groveling."

Hastily pulling out her cell she brought up her saved drafts folder and selected the only file inside. Hitting options she sent it to both her neighbors, though only Sherlocks phone pinged as he had it on him. Obviously still expecting a call back from Lestrade. Thankfully, for all parties involved, he kept all his comments to himself and pulled out his mobile to read the text before telling her he outright refused. After all, he didn't take the tit for tat arrangements his older brother continuously threw at him so he wasn't about to concede the matter for his female neighbor either. Flipping it open he raised an eyebrow at the asking price of admittance.

In return for getting you on the case all I ask is that you let me know of any major developments; as the outcome of the investigation greatly affects my well being. Something you will find out for yourself once briefed or have scanned through the crime scene photos.

Swiveling his electric blue orbs to her impassive face Sherlock took a languid blink before sending her a droll glower. "No-"

"I'll give back what I took from your apartment or I'll throw it into an incinerator and you'll never see it again," the female consultant swiftly interrupted. A poignant paused filled the room. The two officers behind her shifted awkwardly, unsure of what was transpiring before them, but knew when to keep quiet. Both had experiences with mister Holmes and neither wished to be verbally dissected by taking even the wrong breath of air. Especially as his deductive eye roved the blondes very being, piercing across her soul and unfolding every tawdry secret to the light. At least that's what the two interpreted the consulting detectives look as.

Sherlocks eyes slightly widened, for the flash of a millisecond, at the realization of what was taken. "My skull."

"Pocketed it a while back," Ollie admitted, "Just in case of an emergency."

She smiled quite sure she was to get her way on the matter. Thought her neighbors gaze promised retribution and retaliation. A possibility she had found unavoidable, but necessary if she wanted to achieve her goal. Tapping her fingers across the cell keys she began dialing a number, addressing her soon to be replacement as she went about her business. "Would you like for me to fill you in or would you prefer to deduce your own conclusions on the situation."

He was only slightly backed into a corner and still his hackles were raised, not appreciating the fact that his own goal had not been achieved by his design. He was loath to admit that she played the game well. Planning in advance and making intellectual deductions on his otherwise guarded persons. Ollie had taken something he had only a small sentimental attachment to, a lot by Sherlock standards. Something he would have to purge from his mind palace. It was a weakness he hadn't realized he'd had till then. The only good thing to come out of that whole exchange was that the issue had come to light. The feeling would be neutralized within the hour, if not sooner. Only at that present moment did she have a tiny semblance of leverage. Something he would soon eradicate. No one ever outsmarted him and if they did it wasn't celebrated for long. But, in a way that wasn't intended, he was soon to be officially on the case. So he'd play of the ruse that she had bested him by conceding to her whim, all the while formulating a plan to prove her's futile and a waste. Basically causing it to essentially blow up in her face. He sniffed with slight derision and briskly brushed past her towards the front door. "I don't need your clouded assertions. My method will be more than satisfactory."

"Alright," Ollie stated choosing to ignore his jab, "surprise it is."

As the dial tone rang in her ear the door lay open behind her as he step out onto the street. Seeing the army doctor was about to follow after the tall man she expedited her attentions to him. As the more emotional of the two, not to mention the one with an honorable moral code, he was the most likely to make sure her plan was implemented. Especially since he was sending her apologetic looks in regards to Sherlocks earlier verbal vivisection. "John," she addressed, "make sure he sticks to the agreement. I've forwarded you the text as well, just to avoid any confusion or deception predicated by his nature. So you might want to make a grab for your cell before you chase after him. Please."

"Ollie, what exactly is going on?"

She swallowed, but not from fear or any of the other silly things women in her position would consider themselves possessed by, but from a general disappointment in her own lacking skills. Because Sherlock had confirmed a notion she had long since begun to suspect. She had lost her investigative edge. "You'll find out once you've arrived at the precinct. I assure you."

Not wanting to hear anymore questions she strode towards her staircase just as the other line picked up. "Ah. Hello Emily. Seeing as you're down a member I have a suggestion…."

Sorry if there are any mistakes. I was half asleep writing the last part and wanted to get through it so i could get it up and move on to finishing a chapter of my who story then returning here as fast as i can with my throbbing fingers. Hope I'm not developing carpal tunnel, the villainous enemy of every writer. :P I'll fix things in the morn...which basically means four in the afternoon. What!? It's the beginning of vacation, i have to christen it with sleeping in to an absurd time. :)