Doctor John Watson's eyes twitched.


His forehead wrinkled.


His eyes flew open. He got up and walked unsteadily into the living room, leaning against the door frame.

"Sherlock," he mumbled, "What in heavens name are you playing at making all sorts of noise so early. I was trying to sleep."

a dark haired Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. "I'm looking for it." Watson wrinkled his forehead. "It?"

"Yes, Watson! IT! My papers! The case files! Them, those, ah.. These," he said, picking up a rather thin file from under the cluttered desk, "I found them."

Watson gave him an exasperated look. "Yes, I see that. Now try not to make so much noise. I have a headache." he turned toward the kitchen, shaking his head. "Tea?" John called over his shoulder.

"Please." replied Sherlock, sitting down in his chair and leafing through the file. He had just wrapped up a case, but had yet to finish the case report. The file was essential to this report, of course, and Lestrade threatened to not let him work on another case ever again. Not that Lestrade scared Sherlock. Sherlock was Sherlock, and that was most definitely not his division.

Sherlock through the file on the floor and heaved a sigh. It wasn't a very exciting case to begin with, and now he had to fill out an incredible amount of paperwork. Boring.

Watson came in with the tea tray, "Would you like some sugar?"

"Yeah, one cube." Sherlock replied, leaning back in his chair. "Thanks." He said.

John rubbed his bad leg and stared out the window on the opposite wall to the rainy London street. He looked at Sherlock, who was absolutely absorbed in his documents. His piercing grey-blue eyes flying across the page, reading fast as light. Sherlock looked up.

"What are you staring at?" He snapped, frowning.

"Hmm?" Replied John. "Oh, sorry. Not staring. Just thinking."

"Well stop. I'm concentrating."

"I thought you just wanted this case to be over with."

"I do. But apparently that involves reading the case files. For this one I have to file a report. Something about tampering with evidence again. I wasn't tampering. I was simply investigating. And I figured out a lot more than those rats at the office ever did." He said, before glancing at John's leg, "You should put that up, it's looking swollen."

John looked down at his leg. He was right, it was pretty swollen. Sherlock got up.

"Wait," he said, "don't get up. I'll get you a foot rest." then proceeded to get him the footrest from next to the desk.

John looked at him, surprised. "I- thank you."

"Mm." mumbled Sherlock, leaning against the kitchen counter. Promptly at the moment that his hip touched the counter side, his phone buzzed.

Text Message:

Blocked number:

The bin is with the head, and the head is with the bin. But neither came first, except the one within.

I see you, Mister Holmes. Catch me if you can.


Sherlock looked around wildly, loping to the window and peering through the curtains. He scanned the tops of the buildings parallel to him. There was nothing. Not a person, not a bird, nothing. The windows. No.. nothing there either. The street. People with umbrellas. A woman, in very bright blue heels, he quickly calculated the angle of elevation, no not possible to see anything from there. Unless she didn't actually see him and just knew where he was. Probably not. Quite unlikely. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he sensed he should be looking for something very very ordinary. But what?

"Watson." He barked. "Look. A text." He handed Watson the phone.

"Well, did you see anything?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, of course not. If I had do you think I'd be wasting time talking to you about this?"

Watson looked down. "Point made."

Sherlock turned around and started to pace. "So where did that come from? Who sent it? Why did they send it? What is a head doing in a bin, or a bin in a head? And what do they mean by which came first and who are THEY? Or them? Or him? Or her? And who is J. and why would they be so stupid as to use their initial? Unless it isn't actually their initial and it means something else. But what? Watson, where's my violin, I need to think."

Watson looked at him quizzically. "It's- uh. It's over by the fireplace. I think."

and with that, Sherlock gave way to the depths of his mind.

Watson lay awake that night, too many thoughts crowding his mind. The look on Sherlocks face as he concentrates, the way his velvety voice sounds when he's trying to make sense of something, the way his eyes flit across a page while he reads, the texture of his lovely hair, the cologne he wears...

And he fell asleep with stolen thoughts of Sherlock, whispering, caressing.. dreaming.