Watson shrugged off his coat and had his breakfast. It was nearing ten in the morning and the fog had cleared slightly. His melancholic mood didn't improve in the slightest as he resigned himself to moodily reading newspapers, scrounging for scrapes of information, possible leads, anything at all.

This made him ask himself, "What would have Holmes done in this case?"

He stared at the wallpaper in front of him, imagining the gaunt man walking to and fro, his violin tucked under his chin, a faint smell of tobacco surrounding him, and a very Holmes-ish look on his face, indicating that he was thinking. It felt so real and tangible that he wouldn't be surprised if the man happened to appear out of thin air. The delusion lasted for a single moment before the sensation of a despairing loneliness set in. He got up, shaking his head, heading to his flatement's room to conduct the millionth detour, as if a new clue would unveil itself before his eyes this time, a clue he had missed the last times.

At the back of his mind he knew that it was wistful thinking, yet sure enough, he stood in the room, door closed behind him. His eyes immediately went to the empty violin case whose cover was still lying on the bed. And that was when he did a double take.

The cover had been replaced and the case was resting on the bed. His first thought was that it had been Mrs. Hudson's doing which he immediately banished for she would never ever step in this room or his own without his consent. However, there it was, the case lying innocently on the bed as if it had walked there by itself. He imagined the expression on Holmes's face if he had said that. It just left him with a sense of aching loss in its wake, however.

His fingers brushed it, as if revering some ancient relic. He opened it, only to be greeted by another shock. The case wasn't empty. The violin lay there, as if it had never disappeared. It was as if the events of last night had never happened. He might as well have been dreaming. He shook his head, he was pretty sure that they had occurred. He took the instrument out of the case, taking it upon himself to examine it entirely and look for signs of tampering or something of the like. He wasn't Holmes, and felt the fact heavily after turning it over and over for the better part of an hour and discovering absolutely nothing.

Disappointed, he put it back in its case, lying on his back in the perpetually messy bed. The sheets were lying askew and while it had been made, Holmes had been in a hurry when he had left and Watson hadn't been there either. Now it was collecting dust like an old forgotten relic. Watson felt like he was residing in a tomb, breathing dead air. The thought startled him off said bed, making him glare at this brain in dismay.

Where there is no imagination, there is no horror.

Shaking his head, he headed towards the living room, deciding to do some semblance of work there, heedless of the sudden heavy mist in the room he left behind. Little details like that are easily and always missed.

I don't see more than you Watson, I simply observe more.

It was late into the evening that a harried Tobias Gregson called. Watson jumped up, as he always did, even if his spark of hope was slowly fading. Doubt and time ate away at it, having reduced it to a few small embers, which were gradually but surely about to flicker out any day.

"Another murder," the man gasped out, "Same type as that of Sussex and Lauriston."

Watson felt sick. This kind of murder was terrifying, especially considering that the cause was "Extreme Blood Loss" to the point where blood in the body was non-existent. No visible marks were found, except for two small puncture marks at the neck. He really wasn't that eager to find out which organization required and for what.

The moment he got into his coat that a very white looking Lestrade burst into the room, trembling all over. He seemed to not have noticed his long-time rival yet, he was looking too horrified to take proper note of his surroundings at the moment.

"Dr. Watson," the rat-faced man squeaked, "The corpse has disappeared."

He nearly tripped over his coat. Gregson was looking at him in a look of utter incredulity, which bordered on amused.

"Lestrade, you are spending too much time awake, get some sleep," he said with the straightest face that he could muster, but he failed, having to turn away to stifle a laugh.

Lestrade wasn't even listening. He looked like he had seen a ghost and it was all he could do to not drag Watson by the collar to the morgue.

"I hadn't believed it at first either," he began, never once losing the terrified look in his eyes, "But then I saw it for myself. The corpse wasn't on the autopsy table where it had been kept for further examination. It wasn't anywhere in the morgue, nor any imaginable place in the entire station. I swear, doctor, I remember leaving it right there, crystal clear, what could have happened—."

He was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Gregson looked at Lestrade, amusement vanishing and being replaced by the beginnings of a worried frown.

"Lestrade, here, Lestrade," Watson began, putting his hand gently on the man's shoulders, "Breathe."

He shakily gulped some air before plopping down on the nearest chair. He sent a pleading look at the both of them, and Gregson sighed.

"I suggest that we accompany him to the morgue to settle his fears. Even so, Lestrade, you must be seeing things. There is no way a dead woman could have walked out by herself just like that. Besides, when was the last time you slept?"

Lestrade's face coloured ever so slightly at the taunt.

"You will believe it when you come with me," he insisted, getting up, purpose stopping the tremors.

"Fine," Gregson said skeptically. Watson wasn't really given a choice as he soon found himself sitting between two of the Inspectors, long-time rivals which he had met thanks to Holmes.

They alighted at the morgue where a man dressed in a labcoat came rushing out, his glasses askew.

"What is it, Landsteiner?" Lestrade asked.

"The woman," he began faintly, "The woman is back. The corpse is there as if it had never been touched."

"What?"

Watson could have sworn that Lestrade's jaw touched the ground when he uttered that single word and sunk down with a shocked look on his face before getting up on wobbly legs and running into the autopsy room. Sure enough, it lay there, pristine as corpses ever get, no semblance of mischief in its unyielding form.

Gregson snorted.

"This insomnia fever is probably causing hallucinations in the entire team," he tried before Dr. Landsteiner turned to him with a death glare.

"I saw it missing, all the workers can lay claim to the fact that they saw the corpse missing and unless you want to charge us with mass hallucination, which I assure you isn't possible."

Watson would have to admit that he was impressed at how he shut Gregson down and actually made him believe in the fact that the corpse had indeed disappeared and reappeared. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, looking put off at being proved wrong.

"Maybe someone is causing mischief," he grumbled as he followed the rest to the table, "A really sick kind of joke."

"Sure, and someone found it hilarious to move Holmes's violin around as well," Watson spoke under his breath, frowning at the sudden inflow of information.

Gregson's "What?" and Lestrade's "Wow, it has returned then?" sounded at the same time. Watson shrugged and turned to face them.

"I saw a shadow last night, sneaking into Holmes's room. When I entered the room, which was heavy with fog for some reason, the violin case was lying open on the floor, violin missing. I assure both of you, it wasn't there in the room. However when I returned from the morning's excursion, it was there, as if it had never been taken away. It appears that the same thing has happened here, however, it takes more work to move a body than a wooden instrument."

The Inspectors exchanged a look. Lestrade believed it easily, as it laid credence to his story, and Gregson continued to look skeptic. Dr. Landsteiner who had overheard this exchange came up, and looked at Watson as if seeing him for the first time. His surprise could be excused due to the strange nature of the circumstances concerned.

He pushed his glasses up as if to scrutinize him properly and Watson oddly felt as if he was on the table instead of the woman.

"Would you happen to be the celebrated Dr. Watson, friend of the illustrious missing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Considering his words, his tone was rather flat, and his hawklike gaze reminded him uncomfortably of Holmes when it was nothing like him. Something was totally wrong, it felt like he was viewed as a particularly delicious treat on a platter. He was frozen, and all he could see were red eyes before the paralysis lifted. He blinked and found himself staring at the perfectly normal black irises of the man in front of him. His disheveled black hair fell to his shoulders, which looked slightly blurred for some reason. The man himself was lanky and towered over the rest of them. However he looked strangely flushed, like someone had decided to inject some colour into his otherwise deathly pale complexion.

"The one and only," Watson answered in a dry voice.

"Ah, it's a pleasure to meet you. I assume you will be a regular in these sudden murders?"

An unsettling smile had settled on the man's face and despite all his years of military experience, Watson found himself taking a step back. It was nothing like the utter terror he had felt at the Baskerville estate, but it wasn't something very nice either.

"Yes."

The smile widened before disappearing. Gregson cleared his throat and Watson jumped. He had almost forgotten about the presence of him and Lestrade.

"I suppose if there is nothing else to be discovered here, then might I suggest that Dr. Watson accompany me?"

"Doctor?" Lestrade's enquiring voice attracted his attention to his figure by the corpse. The fog had thickened in the room, which made Dr. Landsteiner stiffen and lick his dry lips.

"Is this corpse supposed to look like it has undergone a blood transfusion? Because it is suddenly looking very healthy to me."

"Huh?"

They went to stand by the man's side, and indeed, the body was looking flushed and the broken skin seemed to have repaired by itself. It might as well have been alive, had it been breathing.

"Curiouser and curioser," Landsteiner murmured, bending over it with a frown. The body seemed to spasm, before it went back to what it was. Watson frowned but dismissed it as a trick of light. He felt slightly light-headed, but he supposed that he owed it to not have gone without sleep for so long. Distractedly he looked at the bandaged right index finger of the man, which looked like someone had cut off half of.

The fog had thickened too fast and too much. A thick layer of cover covered them to the waists, hiding the ground. It felt strange, like it was something done deliberately. But who could and would deliberately thicken fog? It was too stupid of a thought, Holmes would have laughed. There was nothing called supernatural, now was there?