TITLE: Wednesday

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ The Final Test

RATING: T (language, content)

A/N: Ever since first hearing this line uttered I immediately KNEW there could be a treasure of fanfics behind that one sentence! I have had numerous ideas floating around my brain as to where to take this! Who knows? Maybe I will do different versions. This is the first one at least.

Please read and review, many thanks.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

Chapter One: The Final Test

Sherlock's fingers fumbled through his hair, scratching at his scalp and ruefully ruffling the locks. His eyes never left the small beaker in front of him as all the facts of the case went swimming through his skull.

Five victims.

No connecting factors. Strangers. Random?

No.

Too precise. Too planned.

Stick to the facts. What do we know?

Five victims.

All experienced significant lapses in memory conveniently during the death of a loved one. So, technically, ten victims.

But it was the five living ones that mattered to Sherlock. There was nothing to be found from the bodies or the murders. It wasn't about the people who were killed. It was about their killers. The real victims.

Not just victims. Suspects.

The police suspect them anyway. Idiots. All their heart rates, facial expressions and word patterns indicate innocence. Yet all the physical, tangible, evidence, nail them to the wall.

Different murders.

One stabbing. Two shootings. One asphyxiation. One poisoning.

Poison. Drugs. Drugged.

The suspects/victims had been drugged. Obvious. Predictable. Boring.

But what wasn't boring was how the substance left no trace of itself in the infected person's system.

Still bit dull. Seen similar cases before.

Sherlock had been listing off and examining all known, and some unknown, chemical compounds that could elicit such desired effects.

Simple. Child's play.

The sole reason he had taken such a mundane case was due to the fact that there had been practically no intriguing illegal activity for weeks. He had taken to organizing John's clothing and books the previous day while his flatmate had been at work. The man hadn't been particularly pleased at that, but supposed it was preferred over more bullet holes in the wall.

But now that Sherlock was on the case, it was actually becoming a bit tricky. Every single victim had the same time lapse. 18 hours. Exactly.

Interesting.

There usually would be at least some degree of difference depending on individual's previous narcotic usage, food and beverage consumption, height, weight and other varying factors. Somehow someone had studied these victims and perfected the proper substance solution for each of them.

Clever.

But useless if he couldn't prove it.

If the pattern held, three more people would be dead by the end of the week alone, leaving three more innocent individuals to be framed.

His client currently was the brother of one of the convicted supposed killers. The man was from Kent. He had heard a similar story on the news of a woman accused of shooting her husband in Luton, but claiming to recall nothing.

Upon Sherlock's further investigating, he had found three others with matching alibis. His client's case and the husband's death in Luton were the closest in location. All of the incidents were spread far apart enough that the police had yet to make the connection.

Typical.

And, of course, it was only five he had found so far. Who knew how far this killer had travelled, or how far back? Sherlock approximated the murderer had already done away with at least twelve people, therefore also effectively ending the lives of the twelve suspected loved ones.

He could conduct a more thorough span of his research later. The people alive could certainly wait to be vindicated. Time was of the essence if he was to stop the next murder.

He had been awake all night constructing this specific compound. The tests were all conclusive. Well, all but one.

Sherlock glanced up at the sound of his flatmate's shuffling feet. A groggy and groaning John Watson greeted him in the doorway, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"More nightmares?"

The words had slipped from Sherlock's lips before he could censor himself. John's quick glare silenced the sleuth. Sherlock never asked about John's dreams – or the screams – and John never brought the topic up. There were several certain things the flatmates just simply did not discuss. John's night terrors. Afghanistan. Sherlock's history with drugs. The Woman.

"Any tea?"

Sherlock nodded at the kettle across the kitchen wordlessly.

"Ah, ta."

If the good doctor hadn't still been one foot through slumber's door, he might have noticed the way Sherlock's sharp gaze followed him as he moved, poured and sipped.

John had hardly set the cup down when Sherlock stood readily.

"What the –"

The blogger didn't have time to finish as his legs turned to melted butter. The detective was already beside him, coiling John's arm around his own and half leading, half dragging, the doctor to the couch.

John flopped onto the piece of furniture face down. Something Sherlock regarded as probably "Not Good". Turning the mumbling man over, Sherlock started the stop watch on his mobile. He was clicking 'start' just as John's lids slid heavily closed.

At least now he can get some sleep.