You couldn't sleep. For three days, you lay awake, sat near the living room window, reclined on the couch, drank tea and warm milk, read books and did puzzles, yet nothing could bring drowsiness to your eyes. It even scared you that you were contemplating on picking up the gun and putting holes in the wall smiley yourself.

You were lost in thought when a familiar figure staggered into the room. Your eyebrows wrinkle.

"Go back to bed, Tom." Admittedly, you did like his messy hair, you wanting to smell and use it as a pillow. Maybe that was the comfort you needed and desired.

"Just make a decision and get to sleep."

"It isn't that simple."

"I already know that. We established that."

"Then why force me to?"

"Because you need to make it simple." You look up at him, for once a light-bulb flickering. Make it simple. Simplify my life. Do I need the prominence of the CIA? But then again, do I want to leave and go back to the States?

But you didn't show any signs of realization; you just stared at him, all traces of you empty. With a sigh, he picks you up, and you melt into his arms as he carries you all the way to your bed.

"Tom?"

"Shh. Think or sleep. Pick either of the two."

"Why is it always a choice between two things?"

"Isn't it?" You gave it a thought as he rubs your forehead before exiting the room.

I guess it's not.

An hour later, you found yourself picking up the phone and dialing a number using muscle memory. Your heart finally felt at peace when you hear it ringing.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Olsen?"

"Ah, Agent Watson."

"Not exactly."

You didn't know that while you were having the conversation, the walls of the living room were growing a pair of ears.

~

"Suicide," Molly says, pulling back the covers to another dead body. A teenager, scarily enough looked like you. Even Tom cringed, never wanting to have the image of you dead on the table.

"But you don't think so?" you ask, trying to keep your puke in your stomach.

"No," she says with a smile, as she grabs a folder. "I think you could figure it out." You open, Tom reading over your shoulder. OCD. Tons of journals everywhere in the house. Diaries. She even had a blog she updated daily. No troubles, was even planning on going on a safari in the savanna and in the rain-forest. Life was going great.

"She poisoned herself, yes," Molly confirms, "but I think she was pressured to."

"Like your Lady in Pink case," you say to Tom.

"Then we know to check the taxi driver."

"Impossible," Lestrade says, waltzing in. "She was in her own car. And we have a witness at the station ready to talk."

But when you and Tom went in to talk, two unexpected things happened:

1. The witness, a teen boy, looked just like Tom.

2. The teen screamed, running to the door and crying out bloody murder, "Get away from me! You're him!"