Author's note: Thank you for your messages and reviews to 'A Study in Shapeshifting', telling me to write another Sherlock & SPN fic. It took a while, but I managed it. This is all for you, you reading readers who read! You do not have to read 'A Study in Shapeshifting' at all - this story is not a sequel in any way.

.

ONE

One For The Weekend

.

She shuffled into the kitchen, breaking the silence of early morning. The black rubber end to her walking stick made exiguous thump-thump noises as she padded her way up to the stove. She left her walking stick to lean against the drawers and counter top before picking up the kettle. Her hand swished it around, feeling the agreeable weight that meant tea would soon be in order. She set it down again and turned on the electric hob beneath.

"Sheils, love? You're still gettin' up too early," said a voice from the doorway.

She looked over to find a man standing there, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, his arms folded, and a smile on his face. "Old habits," she said, smiling back. "Plus a few painkillers wouldn't hurt. Sorry if I woke you - again."

"You know I'm just lucky you came back at all," he said seriously. He rubbed at his eye, yawning.

"Decaf tea?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He smiled and then disappeared.

Sheila looked back at the countertop and reached for the mug tree. Taking two dark blue cups and placing them on the counter, she heard another noise behind her. "Give me a minute, Mark," she said. She opened the teabag caddy to her right, fishing out two bags and dropping one in each cup. "What am I saying - you'll be asleep before I get back up there anyway."

A voice surprised her: "Private Sheila Winters?"

She froze but her brain galloped on: That's not Mark.

She spun. And gaped.

A woman, resplendent in polished metal, was standing right in front of her. Covered from neck to toe in dull silver armour, a black tabard hung over the top to show off strange, large markings. Her head was protected by a magnificently-wrought silver helmet. A single, short red feather adorned each side, a suggestion of blonde hair poking out from under the ear shield. The brow defended her forehead and the bridge of her nose; her bright blue, piercing eyes held Sheila's effortlessly. Her expression spoke volumes on professional sternness. "Private Sheila Winters?" she asked again.

Sheila snatched up her walking stick without a second thought. "How did you get in my house? Who are you!" she demanded.

"Do not fear me, Sheila Winters," the woman said. Her face changed; all at once she was kind, warm, serene. "You are the soldier I seek. I can see it in your heart, in your eyes."

"Get out of my house! I'll call the police!" Sheila shouted angrily.

"There is no need for violence. You have seen enough of that."

"Then get out of my house!"

"Private Sheila Winters. My name is Skalmöld. It is my privilege to collect you."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Yes," Skalmöld said quietly, "you are. I have come for you - again. I was late; you were gone. But here we both are. Please, come with me."

"I'm warning you," Sheila growled, lifting the stick to an attack position. "I'll defend myself."

Skalmöld lifted her right hand, showing it to be empty. She reached out. Her fingers landed on Sheila's shoulder.

There was a single blinding flash of light.

.

ooOoo

.

The morning sunshine watched the grudge match through the window at 221B Baker Street. The two combatants at the table beneath were locked in a life and death struggle, all to do with whose eyebrows of anger would beat whose. Finding the match rather boring, the sunshine edged round a cloud to discard all of its outer layers and streak across their playing field, kicking up its heals in glee.

The resulting blinding ray of sun caught John Watson right in the eye. Suffice to say, he was forced to stop staring at his flatmate and go back to his bowl of muesli. He was not happy about this, but he was forced to accept that it was that or pick up the TV remote and brain his fellow homo sapien with it.

Sherlock Holmes, in a blue dressing gown that covered a rather odd assortment of pyjamas, simply glared at John. He flicked his newspaper to straighten the pages before transferring his hardened gaze to the headlines contained on page two.

John's spoon went into his muesli. "It's still cheating."

"Read the rules," Sherlock said mildly, albeit under his breath. "It's allowed."

"It's not sporting." John ladled more breakfast into his mouth.

"And that's why you lost," Sherlock muttered.

"Why would you even want to cheat at Risk?"

"Sore you lost?"

"Git," John accused. Sherlock said nothing - which was more infuriating than any answer he could have come out with. John huffed. John studied his bowl before sending his spoon into it again. "And Mrs Hudson wants her carving knife back."

"She can have it back when I've finished with it."

"Why don't you just buy her a new one?" John asked. "Then it wouldn't matter. Better yet - try buying your own equipment, instead of stealing everyone else's."

Sherlock didn't answer. John glared at him. Then he gave up and spooned more muesli into his mouth.

"Coo-ee!" came a familiar lilt. "Morning fellas!"

John twisted in his chair to find Mrs Hudson coming through their open door. She had rollers in her hair and her favourite pink dressing gown on - the one that matched her fluffy slippers.

"Morning," John said. "Alright?"

"Me? Yes," she said, but her face appeared troubled. "Just noticed this in the paper - thought you'd want to see it too."

Sherlock tipped the corner of his newspaper down immediately, to enable him to see over the top. "Is it a murder?" he demanded.

"It's not for you, dear," she said dismissively. She went up to John's side, putting a folded-up newspaper on the table by his unused, right hand. "I'm sorry, John," she said, as if she had found two of his favourite puppies had just died. "It's just… well. I thought it might be important to you."

He put down his spoon, reaching across to pick up the newspaper. "Private Sheila Winters, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, was found dead yesterday morning in her kitchen in South East London," he read. He continued to read silently, but Sherlock's eyes still followed his movements like a bur on a cat's paw. John frowned. "Found dead," he breathed.

"Someone had a bad Saturday morning then," Sherlock commented.

"Hush you," Mrs Hudson hissed.

"Well?" Sherlock asked. "Was it murder?"

"Stop, Sherlock," John all but snapped.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson said wretchedly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Did you know her?"

"We went out to Afghanistan together," John said quietly. "Sheila - 'Sheils' - was… great. Funny, clever - she was fast, too. I've never seen anyone strip a rifle as fast as her."

"Ngaw," she said, patting him gently. "Did you two ever… you know, get friendly?"

John looked up at her. "Me? And her? God, no. She had a bloke back home. —I mean here." He paused to look back at the paper. "Poor Mark. She told me - said he was supportive. Proud of her." He fell silent, looking back at the picture alongside the article.

"I expect they'll contact you, eh? For an army funeral?" she prompted.

"Yeah," he said faintly.

She patted his shoulder. "Well I'll leave you to it. Sorry to ruin your morning."

"No, it's… Thanks. For letting me know," he said, pre-occupied.

Mrs Hudson patted once more. Then she turned and walked off, disappearing down the stairs.

Sherlock immediately folded his newspaper and tossed it aside. He leant over and snatched the paper from John's hand.

"Oi!" John said angrily.

"Let me see that." Sherlock turned it round to read.

"You've already got the Sunday Times!"

"But the Mail has the story."

John snatched the paper back again. He got up abruptly. "Google it." He turned and stormed out of the door, presumably to his bedroom.

Sherlock watched him go, his face a study in mystification. Then he pushed his chair back and went straight to the sofa across the room. Plonking himself down, he scooped up the laptop on the surface and opened it up, turning it on and waiting completely impatiently for it to start up. He began to hammer at the keys. Then he sat back, bringing it with him to read it. "5th Northumberland Fusiliers… invalided back to England after injuries sustained in Afghanistan… decorated private… liked by her company and those she served…" He snapped the laptop shut and dropped it to the coffee table. "Well this is pathetic," he snapped with the utmost vitriol. "No facts. Who writes an obituary without putting any facts in about the death itself? Useless - useless - online newspapers." He huffed. He drummed his fingers on the sofa cushions either side of him. His jaw stuck out in abject disappointment.

His phone beeped. He leapt up and stepped onto the coffee table - narrowly missing the laptop - to get across the room and take the phone from the other table. He tutted, typed a long text message, and pressed send. Then he looked up at the ceiling, in the rough direction of John's room. "Joooooohn!" he called, at the top of his lungs. "You will let me know if it's a murder!"

There was a long pause.

"Why don't you go do a study on the speed a taxi needs to be going before it'll flatten a grown man!" was the muffled reply.

Sherlock almost smiled as he crossed to the window and looked out. Then he sagged, the familiar, hated feel of absolute boredom arresting his every fibre. "God, I hate Sundays."

.

ooOoo

.

John went up the stairs, going into the front room of 221B Baker Street. He carried the two plastic shopping bags round to the kitchenette, finding the room suspiciously clean. He set the bags down on the wooden table and sniffed. He turned around and sniffed again.

"Bleach," he realised. "Wait - Monday isn't cleaning day. —Oh God - what's he been cutting up this time?" He dared to go to the fridge and open it - but it was empty, save three eggs in the door pocket and a carton of orange juice on the top shelf.

John shrugged and closed the fridge - but then he raced to the oven and opened it up quickly. Finding it devoid of experiments of any kind, he next checked the kettle and then the toaster.

"All clear," he said, confused. He leant on the kitchen counter, thinking. "So where is it this time? Where would you hide your latest disgusting attempt to make me wish I'd never moved into the same flat as you?"

He heard a faint ringing and paused to listen. Something immediately defined at Sherlock's voice answered, and then it all went quiet. John poked his head out of the kitchen to wait.

Sherlock flew into the front room, his black trousers and off-grey shirt protesting his endeavour to move faster than light. "John! Where are you!" he called, even as he grabbed up his phone from the table by the window.

"Not very observant for a detective, are you?" John said mildly. He folded his arms, watching. "What could you possibly want me for?"

"Lestrade's called - suspicious death."

"How nice for you. I'm going to put the shopping away and then try to follow Mrs Hudson's recipe for Shepherd's Pie."

"Oh forget the pie!" Sherlock cried, spinning on the balls of his feet to look at him. "A suspicious death!"

"I don't care," John said clearly. "Go geek out over a dead body. Impress everyone. Have a good time."

"You want to come with me," Sherlock said. He pushed his phone into his pocket and reached for the long coat currently languishing over the back of his armchair.

"No, I don't," John shrugged.

"It's another soldier."

John's face went white. "I'll get my coat."

.

Thanks for reading!