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Okie dokie! Chappie 2 here! And soo soooon! Exclamation points are stupid! Now, on with the chapTER!!

Don't own SH22, but wish I did. Don't we all just wish that we owned something that we know we never will? It's like that's some part of the human psyche. Maybe it's why we all write fanfiction; so that we can "have" something that we don't have. But enough of that. Read the story.

Chapter 2: In which Holmes is the protagonist

Grinning, I made my way up the stairs to his apartment. The door swung open silently and I stood in the doorway. Neither of the struggling men noticed me. I watched them struggle for a few minutes, then stepped closer. Within moments, both were sleeping soundly on the floor. I lifted the man in the dark robes and tossed him out the window. He landed with a meaty thud. I knelt by his victim's side and swiftly examined him for injuries. Luckily, the man had emerged with only a few bruises on his face. My grin widened.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the ever so famous Mister Sherlock Holmes. Oh, how much I have heard about you, sir. So much, yet so little." I traced his sharp features with my eyes. "You're more handsome than I had previously thought, even with those nasty bruises. Her description does you no justice, Mister Holmes. But enough talk, for I am here for business."

I lifted his head slightly with one hand and placed the other over his face. "Forget," I murmured. "Now remember this: A brick was thrown through your window, and you were attacked by a man wearing black who jumped in through your window. You did not see his face. You wrestled for a bit on the ground, then he managed to knock you out. After you fell unconscious, you can remember nothing. That is all." With that, I gently laid his head on the ground and turned to the glassy mess on the floor. They glinted almost unnaturally for a moment, their shapes almost seeming to shift in the bright light of the apartment. Once more, I grinned, then turned and left the apartment, satisfied with my work.

Mister Holmes would be left out of this matter and I would make sure of it.

---

A tall man stopped outside of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes' apartment. He was tall, and his sandy brown hair hung messily in his face and touched the tips of his broad shoulders. His face showed youth, but also intelligence beyond his years. His stance was tall, proud, determined. He lifted a large fist to knock on the door. It opened before he had the opportunity to announce his presence.

Sherlock Holmes opened the door and quickly looked over his visitor. He smiled politely and stepped aside to let his guest through. Holmes took careful note of his visitor's stride and posture. He gestured for his guest to sit, which he did, and rather heavily at that, as though he was exhausted but trying to hide it. "Might I get anything for you? Water?" he asked, still smiling politely.

"Ah, water, thanks," his young guest replied. He looked about his surroundings nervously, as though expecting something or someone to jump out at him from the woodwork. Holmes took careful mental note of all this.

When he returned with a glass of water, he found the young man looking nervously out the recently repaired bay windows. He cleared his throat politely. The young man jumped, obviously startled. He took his water and returned to where he had been sitting and stared into the glass. Holmes sat across from him and leaned back, carefully watching the young man's body language.

"May I ask your name?" he questioned. The young man jumped slightly, startled by his voice.

"Oh, um, yeah. 'S Kurtis. Kurtis Correl." He said, rather hesitantly.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Holmes asked, in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

Kurtis looked back down into his glass of water. He began slowly, speeding up as he gained confidence. "I think- I think someone's after me. I keep gettin' this feeling that someone's watchin' me, ya know? And these... things...keep happenin' to me. For a while I thought it was just, like, coincidence, ya know? But they kept happenin', and they're makin' me nervous. I think someone's following me, too. I'll be walkin' round campus at night and I'll get this kinda feeling that someone's following my every move, and then I turn around, but there's nobody there, but then I turn around again and keep walking and I get that feeling again and it's driving me nuts and makin' me really nervous-like." The young man paused to take a deep breath. "And then I gets these notes. They're weird, ya know? Like, really bizarre. They say weird things and they're always, like, everywhere. Sometimes they're in my dorm, sometimes in my mail, sometimes I even find them in my backpack, and sometimes my roommate finds them. When he first started finding them, he didn't think it was serious, or anything, but then they kept coming and I started getting real freaked so my roommate started takin' them seriously, too. My roommate's the one who suggested you to me, Mister Holmes. He said that you could help. You can help, right?" Kurtis looked back up at Holmes imploringly. "Right?" he whispered.

Holmes leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll help you. Now, what else can you tell me? Do you have any of the notes with you?"

"Uh, yeah." Kurtis fished through the pocket of his worn jeans and pulled out a wad of wrinkled papers. A neatly folded piece of paper was tucked into the messy stack. Kurtis' eyes widened in shock at the sight of the folded piece. He shoved the entire stack into Holmes' waiting hands, stood quickly, and began pacing, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Holmes smoothed the papers out with graceful fingers, looking quickly over each piece. Mr. Correl was correct in describing the contents of each note. The words were written in an almost script-like hand and were certainly bizarre enough to frighten any ordinary person. Finally, he came to the still-folded piece. He looked up at Kurtis to find the young man watching him, his face ashen. His eyes returned to the paper. It was very crisply folded and all the edges matched up perfectly. He unfolded it with careful movements, holding it steady so as not to disturb any trace of DNA on the paper.

It was blank.

---

Elizabeth Lestrade was having the worst day ever.

First, she woke up completely rested, the sun shining through her window. There were a few clouds that offered the occasional shade and a brisk breeze that kept the day nice and cool.

Second, when she got to work, she found a stack of petty cases that had been taken care of by lunch, which pretty much gave her the afternoon off to do with as she pleased.

Third, she met up with several of her friends from college and they had a most pleasant lunch together, catching up on gossip.

Fourth, her day decided to take the express highway to hell. [1]

Fifth, Holmes had decided to let her rot down there.

...

That bastard.

Oh, how he would get it. Yes, he would, nice and painful-like. Just what he deserved, yes, that bastard. Oh yes. He would pay so dearly, that bastard, leaving her there to rot like that, in the pits of hell.

Damn.

"Shit!"

Literally.

"Goddamn...shit. Who knew people used the bathroom so frickin’ much."

"Damn. It’s already 4 pm."

"Oh, how he will suffer, that nauseous man." [2]

---

*ring*

*ring*

*ring*

"You’ve reached the Lestrade residence. I’m sorry, but I’m not home at the moment. Please leave a messa-"

Holmes sighed and leaned back in his chair. There was something prickling at his senses. Something just out reach of his senses and his intellect. It was 9 pm and Lestrade was not at home. In fact, she had not been seen since she had taken on a new case yesterday afternoon after lunch. From what he had been told, she had left the office to look up some leads that she had apparently come up with and had not been seen since. It was rather distressing for her to have gone missing so long.

Holmes stood and walked to the bay window, watching the street before him with unfocused eyes. Usually the obstinate woman would’ve contacted him by now, but... He had not heard from her in some time. In fact, they hadn’t shared a word of conversation for an entire two weeks. Not that it bothered him, of course. But usually she would be over to speak with him at least several times a week, and for her not to do so was rather disquieting.

Holmes walked across to his kitchen, rather hoping that his Irregulars had left some food for him to eat.

And his bay windows exploded.

---

He rubbed his shoulder, trying to work out the knots that had wormed their way in. The rooftop was rather uncomfortable, but Master had said that this was of utmost importance. From his position, he could see the nasty meddler standing idle. The nasty meddler stood there for some time, looking out at the street in front of his warm and cozy home.

A freezing wind blew over him and seeped through his clothes and skin down into his bones. He checked the equipment next to him, making sure that it was still recording what was happening (or not happening) on the street below. And it was.

The meddler turned away from the street and walked further into his warm home. And suddenly there was a dark figure standing in the middle of the street.

The freezing man’s eyes widened, all thoughts of the chill forgotten. Just a moment ago the man had not been there.

Could it be that....?

NO!

NO.

No!

No. That was ridiculous. Of course it couldn’t be that. It was impossible. Simply impossible.

The dark person did not move.

And the bay windows exploded.

---

He watched the screen, a frown marring his features.

So it had begun. Finally. They had taken long enough.

He turned to another screen, watching with mild interest. The screen showed a French telecast from the day before. His sharp mind automatically translated the drone from French to English.

"At midnight this morning, a blackout covered the entire city of Paris. During this blackout, the Louvre Museum was broken into. However, nothing was reported as stolen. Investigations are being conducted and the museum has been closed indefinitely. Also during the blackout sever-"

His finger gently caressed the now raised ‘power’ button. The screen was silent, but he continued to watch it, his frown growing deeper.

There was no more time for games. He would have to tread carefully from now on.

---

[1] I was listening to ACDC’s "Highway to Hell" and was thus inspired.
[2] For someone to be ‘nauseous’ is not for them to be sick, but to be sickening.

There're gonna be a lot of short chapters at the rate I'm going at.