"Is this really necessary, Sherlock?" I asked, crossing my arms and looking reproachfully at my flatmate.

He did respond at first. He had just come walking out of his bedroom, purple silk shirt in hand. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and I watched, curious as always, as he buttoned up said shirt. Sherlock was undoubtedly beautiful. His chiseled, angular face, milky white skin, and perfectly coiffed curls were the envy of any woman. I had developed a certain appreciation for the shirt Sherlock was currently buttoning. It was a lovely, dark shade of purple, the silk shiny and soft looking. Sherlock usually wore dark colors, but that shirt in particular was my favorite. The silk always stretched tight over his chest, as though the shirt itself was almost too small, purchased during a time when Sherlock was less muscular. The lovely dark purple rippled over his skin like water, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. I had commented once, absentmindedly, that his purple silk shirt was my favorite one, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but I was sure that he was wearing it more often than usual.

Seeing Sherlock half naked was nothing new, after all. He frequently walked around the flat in nothing but a bedsheet. I had seen him without a shirt on plenty of times, though he always had the courtesy to wear pants or at least partly cover himself while in my presence. I had certainly not grown bored of the revealed skin - don't mistake my indifference at seeing it to be from boredom. Rather, I had grown to accept that Sherlock would never respond romantically to my feelings for him, and once I had accepted that, it was much easier to simply make comments about how attractive he was or simply stare at him and not care that he caught me.

"Because we know that this killer targets couples," Sherlock responded, finishing with the buttons. "We're not having any luck catching her, so we need to lure her out into the open. Lestrade and Donovan will be following behind us the whole time."

"And what exactly are we supposed to be doing on this fake date?" I asked hesitantly, shifting uncomfortably in the dress I was wearing.

"The couples have all been found in public and in compromising positions. We'll simply walk through the park and appear to slip off. That should get her to follow us."

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Sherlock, you do realize that she could very well kill us? She's killed all the couples before... you know... sleeping with them."

"Really, Anna," Sherlock admonished. "We've been in more danger than this before. This shouldn't be any different than when you following me and shooting that cabbie when we first met."

"Yeah, but now I won't have anywhere I can hide a gun," I complained. "Not in this outfit at least." Sherlock had insisted that we look 'appealing, drunk, and provocative', as though we had just left a club. To prepare, I'd asked Megan, my friends from Bart's, to take me shopping. She'd gotten me to buy a pair of black stiletto heels with the heel painted red and a dress that was more revealing than my bikini in my opinion. It was a short black dress with a halter neck. That in itself wouldn't be so bad if the front of it wasn't cut out in an oval shape, showing off the curve of my breasts and the skin just below. The hem of the dress hugged my legs, stopping a little above the top half of my thighs.

Megan had left minutes ago after styling my hair into a low chignon with a few curls left out for style, the hair on the side of my head braided back into the chignon. Then, proceeding to blare music while we jump around my room, we messed it up until the blonde tresses looked appropriately disheveled, even more pieces hanging out than originally. I was currently standing in the flat, heels in one hand while I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorway into the kitchen.

"Yes, but that's the whole point," Sherlock pointed out, grabbing his coat off the coat rack. "Now come on, we need to be leaving."

"Ah-ah!" I exclaimed, pressing a hand against his shoulder and stopping his movements, grabbing his coat and tossing it over the back of the sofa. He looked at me curiously. "Have you ever been clubbing, Sherlock?"

"I haven't made a habit of it," he replied.

I rolled my eyes and reached out, plucking randomly at the silky shirt, ignoring the trill of my heart and the tingling in my fingers. "You're messy when you finish clubbing," I muttered quietly, picking at parts of his shirt to make him look more rumpled. "You've been dancing and drinking. You're not going to look perfect like you usually do."

"Perfect?" Sherlock questioned. I looked up at him and grinned for a moment before reaching up for the collar of his shirt, fisting it in sections to crinkle the silk.

"Yeah. Y'know, all polished and steamed and pressed. Like you're about to go to work at an office somewhere or something."

Sherlock made a humming noise. "You said once you liked it when I looked that way."

My fingers paused in their movements, sliding across his collarbone in my surprise. Recovering, I slipped my fingers to the buttons of his shirt and undid them until an attractive amount of pale skin was showing. "I-I do. I mean, it looks nice on you. When did I say that?"

"Doesn't really matter," Sherlock replied, looking over my head, dropping the subject. I pursed my lips but let it go. We'd lived together for so long that I learned when to pick my battles. I reached up, tousling Sherlock's curls between my fingers. The feeling of the strands sliding across my fingers was enough appease me, any annoyance I'd felt gone. Fast at first, I shook out his curls, then slowly, until I was absentmindedly playing with them, rubbing the strands between my fingers. I looked into his eyes, his beautiful eyes (really, how could someone's eyes be green and blue and grey and gold all at once?) met mine, soft, looking like they sometimes did when he looked at me. The look that got my pulse racing and my lungs not taking in the air fast enough. I suddenly realized what I was doing and flushed, stepping away.

"Well, you look appropriately rumpled," I said, laughing awkwardly and sitting down on the sofa to put on my heels. When I was done, I turned to see Sherlock standing with his coat on, ready to go. I was heading towards the door when I felt cold, long fingers wrap around my wrist and stop me, turning me.

Sherlock looked down at me intently, eyes sweeping over my face. I felt a flush hit my cheeks as I focused on the corner of his lips, not brave enough to meet his eyes. "You look a little too put together as well," Sherlock said quietly, reaching out and ghosting his fingers over my eyebrows. My eyes closed naturally and I felt his cold fingertips slip over the dark powder Megan had applied, smudging it around my eyes. Swallowing hard, I felt his fingers slip down to my lips, his thumb ghosting over my lower lip, smearing the dark lipstick just so slightly that I could feel it at the right corner of my mouth. I quickly looked up at Sherlock, but as soon as my eyes met his, he dropped his hand and stepped around me, walking out the door. "Come on, Anna, Lestrade will be waiting for us."

Feeling as though I was hyperventilating, I stared straight ahead for a moment, trying to wrap my mind around what had just happened. I suddenly growled, stamping down the fluttering butterflies in my chest and swiftly closing the door to the flat. "Sodding bastard..."

Arriving at the park, I became painfully aware of how exposed we would be. We knew that the woman would be in the park that night. She had developed a routine - she took a pair victims from the park, then the library, and then the park again. She'd already claimed eight lives and was showing no signs of stopping. The problem was that the woman was obviously very strong, able to knock out the couples swiftly. Besides, the police officers could only cover so many parks and libraries. There were quite a few in London after all, and she'd hit a different one every time. Since Sherlock was so sure that the woman would be in the park that night, several police officers were hiding out blocks away, waiting for Lestrade to call them in if he needed them.

"And you're sure she'll be in this park tonight?" I asked quietly as Sherlock and I sat in the back of Lestrade's car, his own personal one so as not to distract a lot of attention so close to the park.

"Definitely," Sherlock replied, eyes sweeping across the sidewalks. "She's sentimental."

"It's the anniversary of the first victims today," I said, nodding in understanding. Exactly one month after the first victims had been found.

"Right, you two get out there and act like you fancy one another," Lestrade said, turning to face us in his seat while Donovan remained staring straight ahead, almost refusing to acknowledge our presence. "Donovan and I will be right behind you the whole time."

"Remember, act drunk," Sherlock said quietly as I unbuckled my seat belt, staring at me intently. "And as though you're in love with me."

I frowned. "Why am I in love with you?"

Sherlock looked surprised. "What do you mean why?"

"I mean, why am I in love with you? Why can't I just be having a drunken one night stand with some hot guy from the club?"

"Well, that could also work, but acting out the emotion of love just seems like it would be easier for you than that of lust," Sherlock replied. I raised an eyebrow.

"You think I'm incapable of lust?"

Lestrade groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake! Get out of my car, get out!"

Sherlock opened the door to the car and made a show of righting his balance once he'd found his footing. Waiting for me to get out as well, we pretended to be waving goodbye to some friends as Lestrade pulled off the curb. I giggled, turning to Sherlock and smiling up at him with hooded eyes. "Ready, babe?"

Not missing a beat, Sherlock looped his arm over my shoulders and drew me close to his side, beginning to walk through the park. It was easy for me to be drunk - all I had to do was giggle occasionally at the errant, random things Sherlock said, let my hands wander over his back and chest, and wobble around on my heels, which wasn't hard at all since I hardly ever wore heels, and definitely having never worn six inch heels.

It was my job to scope out suitable areas for Sherlock and I to fool around in while he kept a look out for anyone following us. Our signal was him twirling a loose curl of mine. We walked for about five minutes through the dark, dimly lit park, laughing and mumbling about random things like peanut butter or what movie had the best actor in it. I'm fairly certain Sherlock just spouted off a bunch of bullshit, since he didn't really ever keep up to date with modern entertainment.

Finally, I felt Sherlock's fingers slip into my hair and pull at a curl, twisting it around his finger slowly. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I wasn't entirely sure if it was because Sherlock was playing with my hair or because I knew that a killer had her sights set on us.

My eyes doing one final sweep, I found a cluster of trees, the glow from the lamps not reaching their shadows. I stopped walking and stood in front of Sherlock, sliding my hands from his shoulders to his elbows, leaning in and raising myself onto my toes, placing slow, languid kisses along the pale column of his neck, whispering in his ear, just loud enough that someone several feet away could hear me. "I want you now," I let loose a shivering breath against his skin as my hands ghosted over his sides, my fingers caressing his chest, slipping under his coat.

The skin on Sherlock's neck shuddered, and suddenly goosebumps covered the pale flesh. Mildly surprised, I wound my fingers into his hair, tugging gently. Sherlock suddenly grasped the back of my head, securing my lips to his in a kiss.

The sudden contact had me moaning involuntarily as he pulled me flush against him, his free hand at the small of my back, pressing me closer. My surprised moan allowed Sherlock to sweep his tongue across my lips. I gasped, allowing him to deepen the kiss. I shivered, my knees growing weak, and twisted my fingers into the silk on his shoulders. When his lips descended on my throat, I tilted my head back, giving him better access. At the sound of my own breathing, loud in my ears, I opened my eyes open just enough to see her, the killer, out of the corner of my eye, hesitating, hiding behind a tree a few meters away from Sherlock and I.

Sherlock suddenly lifted me up against him and I wrapped my legs around his waist. My neck in line with his mouth, Sherlock fastened his lips to my collarbone and I let out a trembling sigh, my fingers shaking as I ran them through his hair. When we reached the pocket of shadowed trees, Sherlock laid me down in the grass on my back, hovering over me as he slipped kisses from my collarbone up my neck, to my chin, my jaw, my lips, my eyes.

"Sherlock," I whispered breathlessly in his ear, tugging at his curls, pulling him up from my neck. His eyes met mine and I gasped - they were dark, his pupils almost blown completely wide. I realized suddenly that I'd forgotten we weren't supposed to say names just in case the killer heard us. Sherlock didn't seem to care, because he leaned down and kissed me hard, his lips hungry, his hands pulling me closer. He drank me in, desperate and fierce and fast, as though frightened he'd never drink again, filling himself with me and grasping at the skin on my waist. I suddenly felt one of his hands ghost over my stomach and all the muscles there tensed, constricting as I curved my body against his. His fingers, suddenly so very hot, too hot, trailed over the bones at my hips, then inwards, into the hollows beside the bones, and then down and -

I gasped, my eyes flying open, his name spilling from my lips without warning. "Sherlock!"

I was so caught up in the feeling of his long, muscular body pressed to mine that I nearly forgot where we were and what we were doing. If I hadn't opened my eyes when I did, I don't know what might've happened.

All I distinctly remember was a flash of glinting light and my body acted on its own. Grabbing Sherlock by the elbows, I quickly rolled him onto his side next to me, putting him out of the way. I pushed him too hard, though, and Sherlock, in his surprise, had started to roll me on top of him, unaware that the woman with the knife was there, thinking my actions were just me playing along. The knife slit across the skin of my arm, stinging pain flaring up as I yelped.

Suddenly, flashlights were beaming down on us and I threw my arm up to shield my eyes. "You're under arrest!" Lestrade's voice filled the silence and I sighed in relief, flopping back in the grass as Donovan and Lestrade cuffed the dark haired woman, dropping her bloody knife in the process. Laying back, I didn't care a wit about the arrest. I didn't care that almost half of my cleavage was pouring out of the front of my dress. I just started laughing to myself, relief and a whole lot of pent up sexual frustration suddenly leaving my body all at once while at the same time building up so very quickly. The sudden halt of all the touching, kissing, feelings was like a bucket of cold water being thrown over me, and I found it so funny the only thing I could do was laugh.

I'd just made out with Sherlock Holmes in front of police officers and a serial killer.

"Anna, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, sitting up and looking down at me with concern.

I giggled and nodded, covering my mouth. He saw my bloodied arm and quickly grasped me by my wrists, pulling me up. "Let me see that," he said quietly. The actual wound wasn't too deep, maybe a couple inches long on my right arm just below my shoulder. When he poked at it I yelped and swatted his hand away indignantly. "Oh, stand up," Sherlock muttered, helping me to my feet and steadying me when I wobbled on my heels in the grass.

"Lestrade," Sherlock called, pulling me behind him as we caught up to him leading a restrained woman ahead of himself with Donovan. "Have you got a first aid kit in your car?"

"What for?" Lestrade asked, turning to look at us. He saw the blood dripping down my arm and swore. "What the hell, Anna?"

I frowned. "Don't 'Anna!' me! I just saved his life and that's what I get it?"

"Sorry, sorry," Lestrade muttered, relief etched onto his face when he saw the police cars parked up the street. When we met them, Lestrade passed the woman off to them. "Here, you two wait here and I'll call for an ambulance."

"It's not that bad," I assured the detective. "I think if any of the officers have a first aid kit in their car, I could take care of it myself."

After asking around, Lestrade came back with the small first aid kit. I was opening it when Sherlock suddenly lifted me up and set me down on the trunk of Lestrade's car, making us almost eye level. "What?" I asked curiously. Sherlock's long fingers plucked the roll of gauze from my hand and began wiping up the blood that slid down my arm. "Really, Sherlock, I could do this myself." When he didn't say anything I frowned, sticking my heeled foot out and gently kicking him in the shin. He looked up at me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock replied. "You're in shock. People in shock shouldn't deal with their own wounds." I smiled and nodded.

"Well alright then," I said, looking across the street to see the curious people passing by, stopping to point and try to see over the police blockade.

When my arm was as clean as it was going to get, Sherlock rubbed some triple antibiotic cream over the wound and then set a gauze pad over that, wrapping an ace bandage around the whole thing and smiling triumphantly once finished. "Thanks, Sherlock," I said, smiling happily. "Feels much better now."

"Good," Sherlock said quickly, stepping back so I could slide carefully off Lestrade's car. "You even managed to avoid getting blood on your dress."

"Oh, that's good," I said, peering at the dress from different angles. "I was hoping to try and return it after tonight." I was about to show Sherlock the tag still in the dress when he suddenly draped his coat over my shoulders. I blinked, suddenly overcome by the fresh, clean smell that enveloped me. It smelled just like him, but I also caught the faint scent of cigarette smoke underneath it all and smiled, wrapping myself tighter in the coat, nevermind that it was almost a dress on me. I decided that I'd ask him about the smell of the smoke later. Even that had become a very 'Sherlock' scent to me.

"Lestrade, we'll be heading back to Baker Street now," Sherlock said, nodding to the detective.

Thanking us for our help, Lestrade turned back to the reporters questioning him as we walked away.

Sherlock and I walked in complete silence the whole way back to Baker Street. I kept glancing up at him, unsure of if I should say anything. Was I supposed to say anything? We'd done all that to catch a killer, which we did. It wasn't supposed to have come with so... much, honestly. We were only supposed to look like we were going to have sex, which was why I kissed Sherlock's neck first, to make it less awkward for the both of us. When he suddenly kissed me, all of that just flew out the window and it was like I was a teenager again, hormonal all the time. It was like I couldn't get enough of him, every time our lips separating brought them to some area of skin moment later. He wasn't supposed to kiss me. We had agreed not to, actually. Did that mean something for him? Or had it really all just been in the heat of the moment?

So caught up in my thoughts I hadn't noticed we'd arrived at our flat, or that Sherlock had held the door open for me or that I'd walked up the stairs to our flat. I didn't regain any sense of my surroundings until Sherlock closed the door, locked it, and shoved me up against it in one motion.

I'd barely gotten his name past my lips when his lips met mine in a fierce, passionate kiss, scattering any rational thoughts I might have been able to come up with and practically forcing me into immediate physical reaction as I twined my arms around his neck, pressing myself closer.

It wasn't until he was sweeping kisses across my neck that I managed to form a semi-coherent sentence. "Sherlock -gasp- what're you - ?"

"Stop talking," Sherlock growled against my skin, his voice so deep that I could almost feel it vibrate in his chest pressed against mine. He bit into my collarbone and I gasped. "Just stop talking."

I didn't talk again for the next hour at least, though I admit that I did let slip several choice words.