It was good to get his mind off of it.

When Lestrade had phoned saying he had a case, Sherlock knew immediately, per usual, that the situation was pressing. Mrs. Hudson scolded him for being so excited about a murder, but the eager gleam he usually acquired when he took a new case never left his eyes.

"An actual case, Mrs. Hudson!" the detective exclaimed, grabbing the landlady's face for emphasis. "I haven't had one in ages."

Before John could protest, he demanded they take a cab to Scotland Yard – except John wasn't exactly there to protest. During his trip in the cab, Sherlock's mind already raced with solutions to the crime based off of what information Lestrade had been able to offer him.

A young woman who had just moved to London from Salisbury by the name of Tara Donaldson came home from her daily job – a bartender – and was discovered dead by her neighbor after having heard a scream coming from Tara's flat. There was no sign of a break-in, forced entry, or struggle, but there also were no signs displaying that Tara committed suicide. She had been stabbed – three times, in the chest, stomach, and left thigh – to death, so there had to be a murderer. But who?

His thoughts were interrupted by an abrupt slam on the breaks. The cabbie briefly apologized, explaining that traffic was "generally bloody awful on this street." His apology was disregarded as Sherlock pressed his fingers back together and rested his chin on them – his standard position for thinking or retreating to his mind palace. John nudged him on the knee, reprimanding him, reminding him not to be rude.

With a quick eye roll, Sherlock uttered, "It's quite alright." It took the detective a good moment to realize that the army doctor hadn't actually been there.

Not more than five minutes after, the cab arrived at the crime scene – a small apartment building on a crowded street. The detective made a mental note: Crowded. The murderer could enter without going through much trouble.

Sally announced his arrival at the scene with the ceremonious call, "Freak's here!"

With a quick greeting from DI Lestrade, Sherlock was ushered inside. He made his way around Tara's kitchen, noting a few things. Knives are kept in a secluded drawer, none of them in the open. Island in the middle of the kitchen, rather hard to maneuver around. Uncooked lasagna left in the oven.

"So," Lestrade interjected. "What've you gotten so far?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, careful not to let the sides of his lips curl up too far. This had always been his favorite part of every case. "The weapon is here, but it isn't out in the open. There are knives kept in this drawer. To be precise, the bread knife is kept in this drawer. The stab wounds were jagged, but not unclean. What was the murder weapon? This bread knife. Cleaned in the sink and put back in the drawer after the deed was done.

"But why would the murderer use the bread knife? Tara knew the murderer, probably a flatmate, friend or a love interest. Someone who knew their way around the kitchen. There's uncooked lasagna in the oven. She was probably planning to have them over for dinner, but something came up. A domestic, maybe. The thought to murder Tara had risen quickly in the murderer's head, so they opened the drawer, took the first knife available, and stabbed her to death with it without a second thought.

"The only question is, who killed her? The possibility of a flatmate is ruled out; there's one chair in the lounge and an insufficient amount of plates and cutlery in the cupboards to supply for two people. A friend, maybe, but a love interest more likely. A love interest would visit more frequently and would know their way around the flat."

John rolled his eyes. "Quit showing off."

"It could be a housekeeper," Lestrade declared absent-mindedly in his futile attempt to keep up with Sherlock's racing train of thought. The detective's eyes scanned the kitchen – no John Watson in the vicinity. It took him a moment to register the DI's statement.

"Say that again," he muttered, spinning to meet his gaze.

"I said," Lestrade began to concede, "it could be a housekeeper."

With one swift motion, Sherlock reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. He praised and named Lestrade a genius as he typed into the search bar, "Lydia Ingram." The forty-three-year-old maid-for-hire had acquired a strange – and false – reputation of each of her clients committing suicide. Tara couldn't have known her fate if she'd hired Lydia – she'd just moved in from Salisbury. Sherlock presented his screen to Lestrade, announcing that he'd found the murderer. After reading through the article about the lovely Ms. Ingram, Lestrade ordered Sally and Anderson to get back to Scotland Yard immediately."She could be anywhere in London by now. Make sure no one else hires Lydia Ingram!"

Sherlock was the first to leave the flat and hail a cab before everyone else began to file out. He was rather disappointed the case didn't last longer than he'd expected. He hadn't been there for longer than ten minutes. Before he even realized it, the detective found himself in one of the rooms of his mind palace. He would often retreat there after a case. It gave him time to think, sort out the information and stow it away in his mind until needed again. Like Magnussen had the Appledore vaults, Sherlock kept the information he needed to know tucked away in the minds of the people he met in his mind palace. It was someone different each time, though generally Molly or his brother.

Today it was John. The retired army doctor stood in front of him with a stoicism he hadn't seen from him before, but the tired – no, exhausted – eyes were becoming something familiar to him. He wore a suit – no, the suit - the suit he wore on his wedding day.

"Good evening, Sherlock," John greeted. He sounded as tired as he looked as he stood there with an air of false attentiveness around him. His eyes stared out into space, yet he was looking directly at the detective. Something – no, everything – about the situation was bizarre.

"I don't usually see you in here," Sherlock pointed out, inspecting John up and down. "Although, I've been seeing you all day. What do you want?"

"A chat."

"We haven't talked in a while, John."

"That we haven't."

"So, what shall we chat about?"

"He's going to lose you again," John stated, his sudden cold stare resembling that of… "John? What a sorry sod he is. Says he's tired of losing you, but it turns out… Oh! You've lost him. How amusing. How does it feel, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied, keeping his calm façade about him.

"You've failed him, Sherlock. You've failed him," the doctor – his doctor – didn't sound like himself anymore. He didn't look… "You've failed him! No matter how many crimes you solve, you'll keep seeing him. You'll never be able to forget that you failed him!"

"Stop!" Sherlock screeched as the world around him spun and tilted, morphing instead into that cell he kept James Moriarty deeply hidden and locked inside of. John was gone again. Just pain in his place. He struggled to keep up his façade and stay on his feet.

Moriarty stared up at the detective like a puppy away from home. "You're drifting apart. He's losing you, Sherlock. You're losing him. Bitter, isn't it?"

"Enough," Sherlock barked through gritted teeth.

"It's okay, Sherlock. That's what people do."

He escaped the cell and woke up abruptly in the back seat of the cab he'd hailed just a few minutes earlier. Moriarty hadn't killed him; he was safe. John was safe. Nightmares like these were becoming commonplace after John moved in with Mary. There was nothing to worry about. He jumped as his phone signaled to him that he'd received a text from Mrs. Hudson.

Will be away for a while. Hired a maid, don't be surprised. – H

The detective tried to ignore the loud pounding of his heart and the hot tears threatening to leak from his eyes. He allowed the irritation for his landlady to mask it. His pain. He rolled his wet eyes and held the bridge of his nose with two fingers, rapidly typing a retort back at her.

I don't need a maid. – SH

Your flat is disastrous. Yes, you do. – H

Couldn't you do it yourself? – SH

I'm not your housekeeper. – H

John chuckled and nodded, retelling Sherlock that he mustn't bicker with Mrs. Hudson. As much as the detective despised to admit it, there was no winning a quarrel with the kindly landlady. He shook his head. John wasn't there. Damn. He continued on to more pressing matters, diverting his gaze back to his phone.

What's her name? - SH

Lydia. She's lovely. Don't give her a hard time. – H

Oh. Sherlock brought his hand down away from his face, hyper aware of the situation unfolding around him. The War at 221B was neverending, and a new battle was just beginning. He stopped the cab, paying the cabbie without bothering to retrieve the change.

Is she at the flat yet? – SH

Probably not. – H

If he could get to the flat before her, he could phone Scotland Yard and have her arrested there. The game was on. His legs transported him as fast as they could go, and he didn't pause to phone Lestrade to tell him that Lydia Ingram would be at 221B Baker Street.

As the wind blew through Sherlock's curls and his long Belstaff coat, the detective felt elated. He told himself, the case wasn't over yet. John yelled and told him to slow down, struggling to keep up with the detective. He stopped in his tracks, making sure that John could catch up. But he wouldn't. John still wasn't there. Sherlock cursed and continued on his race against time itself.

John. Help. Please. 221B. – SH