John climbed the steps leisurely. He didn't really know what to expect. He'd become slightly desensitised after the last year and a half of living with a psychopath. Correction, highly functional sociopath.
"Why are you on the floor?"
"Thinking," he replied curtly. He looked over the lean figure of his friend, hands pressed together with fingertips brushing his chin.
"About?"
"Lampropeltis."
John paused, thinking it would be better not to ask for elaboration. "Right."
"If you're going to insist on talking please do so somewhere I can't hear you," Sherlock said softly, eyes closed and body still.
"I do live here you know," he replied with a touch of sourness.
"Ah, yes. I forgot for a moment there," Sherlock mumbled vacantly, although he knew that wasn't really the case. He was the most non-vacant person he knew. "You live . . . here."
"Well I'm going to make some tea," he muttered then called from the kitchen: "Do you want any?"
"No," he heard him answer, the agitation evident.
"Fine then," John said pleasantly, putting the kettle on and taking out a mug.
The ceramic shattered against the floor.
"Bored," Sherlock drawled out after his sudden yell of frustration. John sighed with exasperation and began to pick up the jagged pieces scattered around on the ground.
"John," he summoned from the living room. He ignored him, continuing with the mess he had made at the shock of Sherlock's outburst.
"John," he repeated. Shaking his head he pressed on with the task.
"John!"
"Dammit!" John hissed when a sharp edge sliced into his thumb.
"John," he called again.
"What is it Sherlock?" he queried through clenched teeth as he entered the main room to glare down at him; one hand full of broken mug and the other hanging in misery at his side, a thin trail of blood trickling mournfully down.
"There are bandages in the top left cabinet, above the furthermost section of the kitchen work surface," he told him blandly, his eyes barely glancing at his hand. "Oh, do be careful not to alter the positioning of the glass jar in there. An ongoing experiment."
"Is that it?"
Sherlock contemplated for a moment more then jumped up with alarming speed, pulling his jacket straight and brushing off his arms.
"A bit dramatic," he noted.
"I'm bored, John. Drama is the one thing I crave right now."
"Murder you mean," he corrected.
"You know me so well," Sherlock grinned. "You seem agitated. Would you like me to kiss it better?"
"I beg your pardon!"
"A joke. Yes, something's on your mind," he fell silent, the gears working behind his eyes. "What though? That's the question."
"Nothing's on my mind, Sherlock. Honestly. Go back to your mind palace and let me clear this up," he started to head back but halted when his rather questionable friend scoffed.
"I was not in my mind palace. Its only use is for retrieval of relevant information. I wasn't remembering, John. I was thinking," he finished. "Something's on your mind."
"I already told you there's nothing."
"You dropped a mug when I yelled. You were a trained army doctor with vast field experience. Surely you had to work through gun fire and the pandemonium of battle, so my outburst shouldn't have elicited such a reaction. That and the third button on your jacket is in the fourth's hole, not to mention your hair is parted differently today, altering from the kept parting of the last several months. Then I've noticed you're favouring your left leg, reminiscent of the time you spent with a completely unnecessary crutch due to your psychosomatic limp," he drew a breath in. "Something's on your mind, John."
"Really, I don't feel like anything is. So, as much as I appreciate the deduction which will always baffle me, I think I'll just go to bed now."
"Your thumb," Sherlock reminded him.
"Oh, right," he started for the kitchen again but was cut off.
"Let me."
Sherlock brushed by effortlessly and fetched the cardboard box, pulling a plaster from it. Returning he gestured for John to hold out his hand.
"This is silly. I'm a grown man and I can put on a plaster."
"I do not question your capability, I'm simply taking it into my own hands," Sherlock explained while his long, elegant fingers wrapped the plaster over the cut. The antiseptic on the plaster stang momentarily. "There. Now stop brooding and come have dinner with me."
"What? Married to your work weren't you?"
"Come now, John. I simply want to get to know you better," he smiled again and nudged his arm.
"Something's not right with you now, Sherlock."
"Hm. A bad attempt at colloquial social interaction," he muttered, his tone of voice returned to that rich, deep and slightly guttural resonance John was more accustomed to. "I don't see why I bother. Anyway, time to go."
"To dinner?"
"Yes, John. Please do keep up," Sherlock said with an air of condescension. "Oh, you haven't eaten have you?"
"No, but-"
"Well then," he interrupted and left down the stairwell, grabbing his coat which hung on the banister. "Time is of the essence, John!"
He grumbled to himself sullenly before following his colleague. "We're going to dinner, I think it can wait for us."
"Quite the contrary. If we're too late we'll be having supper, and the connotations of that are even more misleading," he clarified.
"What do you mean?"
"Our last outing left you . . . uncomfortable, in how the public perceived us, John. Dinner is one thing, supper? Well, supper is the meal consumed before retiring to bed," he continued, wrapping the scarf expertly around his neck, It sunk in and John nodded slowly.
"Ah," was all he could say.
"Ah indeed," Sherlock smiled lightly before pulling open the door to Baker Street and stepping onto the wet pavement.
"Do take care of Sherlock, will you? He's been acting odder than usual lately," Mrs Hudson said to John before he left.
"I'm sure he can take care of himself," he replied reassuringly with a smile. Her apprehensive expression softened the ounce of annoyance he harboured towards Sherlock. "I'll take care of him."
"Good, and don't forget to have fun," she with a grin and John closed the door. Sherlock had hailed a cab and was climbing in, John hastily joining him.
"What did she ask you?"
"Just to pick up some milk if I have the time," he answered, clearing his throat afterwards.
"Hm," Sherlock stared at him, pondering.
"What?"
Sherlock turned to look out of the rain speckled window. "Nothing."
The taxi began to roll down the street, the soft thrum of the engine and the traffic of London all John could listen to.
"Where are we going?"
"Soho."
"Can I know why?"
"Dinner, John," Sherlock responded, obviously fighting to keep the vexation out of his voice.
"Right. I just thought we might be going somewhere a little closer," he said truthfully. "That's all."
Sherlock faced him, eyebrows raised. "Would you prefer if we turned back?"
"No," he said quickly. "No, Soho's great. Soho's fine."
He met the gaze of two narrowed eyes and smiled to smooth out any suspicion Sherlock had. He could never tell him how odd he always found it. Going to dinner with him, eating food while he just sat there watching the world, offering to pay since he was the only one who ate to have Sherlock hush him and pay for the food himself.
After a long, drawled out ride of occasional conversation they arrived, stepping out into the throngs of people on the street. Sherlock handed a wad of bills to the taxi driver through the window and turned up his collar against the wind. The dark world was lit up by flashing shops and glowing red lanterns, the night world having come to life. London certainly had its charm.
"This way, John," Sherlock alerted him as he began walking down the street. He caught up and fell in step with him.
"Do you feel like Chinese then?"
"Oh, sometimes you really do say such unintelligible things. Obviously, John."
He gritted his teeth at the insult. "Could have ordered takeaway you know."
"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Then he made a sharp turn into a restaurant, a waiter leading them to a quiet corner. The air was thick was heavy aromas and the walls were plastered with a rich red and gold pattern, matching the expensive scarlet fabric draped over the round table. Sherlock sat down on one of the two dark oak wood chairs and began to undo his scarf, draping it on the back of the chair; it was shortly followed by his coat.
"Menus," the waiter announced, his accent eastern.
"Thank you," John reciprocated, having taken his seat on the opposite side to Sherlock. "This isn't like you."
"What isn't?"
"Normally you sit near the window. So you can watch everything and everyone."
"Then tonight I'll be watching you," he remarked calmly, reviewing the lists of meals and dishes with mild boredom. "What will you be having?"
"Hang on, I haven't had a chance to even look yet," John said, removing his jacket and pouring over the selections. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and bristled slightly, but continued regardless. "Hm, the Pecking Duck sounds good."
"Waiter!" his consulting detective friend suddenly hailed. The man came quickly, a genuine smile on his face. "Two Pecking Ducks and some Baijiu please."
"Ah, celebrating?" the Asian man inquired.
"No-"
"Yes, we are," Sherlock interjected. The man nodded respectively, having noted down the order, and left.
"What the hell is Bayju?"
"Baijiu," he asserted.
"What is it?" John snapped.
"A white liquor, John."
"You drink?"
"Sometimes." John fell silent, watching as Sherlock watched him.
"I didn't know you drank," he commented, his voice having softened.
"I'm not an alcoholic," his friend informed sternly.
"Yes, I know. I wasn't saying you were. So, um, what's your poison as they say?"
"A crude term, but I'll go along. Nothing specific, whatever's there and looks interesting. I never try the same thing twice though."
"Why not?"
"It's dull."
"Of course it is," he mumbled.
"John, have I upset you?" There was an agitated undertone to his words.
"No, Sherlock. I just . . . I'm tired. The shifts at the hospital, then working with you and the cases. I get barely any sleep and I think it's getting to me, that's all," he muddled out of his confused mind, then sighed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to spoil your mood."
"Not at all. You can sleep now if you like," he suggested, his face void of mockery.
"In the middle of a restaurant?"
"I'm sure they won't mind," Sherlock added, his voice sounding entirely convinced of it.
An honest grin broke out on John's face and he chuckled, Sherlock joining him. The rest of the evening progressed well enough, they ate and spoke about menial things: how his job was going, what Sherlock did in his spare time - the details of which were disconcerting to say the least - and touched precariously upon the issue of John's relationships.
"None at the moment. I end up scaring most of them away," his brows knitted together for a moment. "How about you? Still consider yourself married to your work?"
"Always, John," Sherlock answered with a small smile. "You haven't had any of the Baijiu. It really is delightful."
"Now that you mention it, why did you tell the waiter we're celebrating?"
"Because we are."
"I think I'd know if there was anything to celebrate," John said confidently.
"On the contrary. We're celebrating the day we moved into 221B Baker Street together," he enlightened him, an odd glitter in his eyes.
Realisation set in. "I can't believe I forgot. Wait, how did you remember?"
"Mind palace. I thought the Baijiu would be a nice touch; we would have gone out anyway of course," Sherlock informed him, taking a sip of the clear liquid. The wet sheen clung to his top lip. He'd never really notice Sherlock eat anything, at least not a sat down meal in a restaurant. It was interesting to see, or observe as Sherlock would have it. "Are you going to have any at all?"
John shook his head. "No, probably not."
"More for my enjoyment then," Sherlock declared and threw back the rest of the liquor before pouring more.
"Aren't you going to get drunk?"
"Never," he said in assumed astonishment. "I handle my alcohol exceptionally well."
"Mhm, of course you do," John said with little meaning, eyeing Sherlock with worry.
"To a long lasting partnership in crime, then?" Sherlock offered a toast and John smiled complacently.
"A long lasting partnership indeed."

John unlocked the door to the flat as quietly as was possible. He looked back to see Sherlock stumbling around, apparently in great confusion as to where to go. The occasional way his knees buckled made John smile to himself at how ridiculous the man looked. Sherlock Holmes drunk, not unlike his drugged state.
"Sherlock," he whispered, with equal parts pity and amusement. "Come on."
He lead the man to the doorway and thankfully he managed to make it up the stairs on his own. Only slightly disoriented then.
Getting into the main living area himself, John shrugged off his jacket and slung it onto the sofa. He listened to the sounds of footsteps and an occasional bang to know Sherlock had made his way to his bedroom.
A load groan erupted. "John!"
Concern coursed through him and he charged to Sherlock's aid to find him lying draped over his bed on his stomach.
"I thought you had hurt yourself, for god's sake!"
"Don't be ridiculous. I do need your help though,"
"I cannot believe you got drunk," John said honestly, letting the irritation drip off his words.
"The alcoholic percentage was considerably higher than I had anticipated. I'd estimate around fifty percent alcohol by volume," he drawled out, the vibrations of his voice in the air still distinct and soothing.
"And you drank the entire bottle."
"I wasn't going to let it go to waste now, was I?"
John puffed out all the things he felt like ranting about and instead opted for the safer option. "You said you need my help?"
"I find my motion is rather inhibited, and I'd prefer not to sleep in my suit. It's more expensive than your entire wardrobe and then some," Sherlock insulted him, even in his addled state.
"So?" John asked bluntly.
"So, help me change. Really, even with my mind functioning at half its average capacity you're still phenomenally dim."
"Fine. I'll help you if you apologise."
Sherlock's moan of objection was like the pluck of a cello string. "Very well. I extend to you my sincerest apology for any offence I may have caused."
"That's hardly sincere, now is it?"
"Bloody hell, John, just help me!" he yelled, rolling on his back and sitting up, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead. "Please?"
"Okay, okay. I suppose that thanks is the most I'll get out of you," he mumbled in defeat and moved forwards. Sherlock lifted his chin.
"Buttons."
"You can really do that yourself."
"But-tons," he stressed. John let out a breath and leaned forwards, undoing the fine buttons of his jacket one by one. His hands tingled slightly as they moved lower but he pushed past the slight embarrassment. Once that layer was done he reached up for Sherlock's shirt's buttons. The fabric was silky, obviously expensive.
As each popped out, another inch of his ivory skin was revealed, until finally the shirt was undone. His eyes quickly skimmed over the exposed chest to look at Sherlock. His eyes were closed and he hummed softly.
"Sherlock?" His voice sounded tentative.
"Yes?" The word floated out of his parted lips at a lethargic rate.
"Your buttons; they're done."
"Good, now continue."
John bit the inside of cheek, shaking his head. "Okay."
He carefully sat on the edge of the bed besides Sherlock and began removing the jacket, shifting Sherlock's arms precisely to succeed. Then following his shirt. Heat radiated from his cool looking skin, and it caressed John's own warm fingers. The dim light of his table lamp cast an amber hue about the room; one which threw shadows to accentuate every curve of muscle of Sherlock's torso. John's breath hitched.
"Wow," he breathed, barely registering what he'd just said.
"You flatter my talents and body. I'm touched." Sherlock's eyes flashed open and he looked into John's. "Are you going to remove my trousers, or will you leave that up to me?"
"You don't sound drunk," John commented with mild surprise, but predominantly confusion.
"That's because I'm not, John."
"You tricked me," he rephrased Sherlock's meaning, the hurt in his voice obvious.
"No, I tested you. I need to know you'll help me. Even when I'm drunk and rude. You passed by the way. With flying colours." Sherlock was suddenly only two inches away from him, his intoxicated breath enough to make his mind swirl. "As I was saying, trousers?"
"I'm not gay."
"I'm not saying you are. Trousers?"
"Really, Sherlock, I'm not."
"Again, I'm not calling you as such. Remove. My. Trousers. Please?" It was almost like a plead. Almost.
"Why?"
Sherlock groaned and fell back onto his back. "It's so much hassle to do it myself."
"You lazy sod," John scoffed.
"C'est la vie, John," Sherlock said with a heady french accent and threw John a penetrating glare. "I don't have all night."
John's eyes travelled down, resting upon the belt and going no further. His hands reached for it slowly, undoing the buckle and being careful not to brush the bare abdomen of his . . . whatever Sherlock was. Then he snaked the belt out of its loops with a slight prompt to Sherlock to lift his hips. The motion made his heart thump heavily.
"I, um, I," John stuttered for what to say. 'Please lift your hips so that I may pull down your trousers.' was what he knew he should say, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Look, Sherlock. I don't know what this is, but I'm not comfortable with it, so please stop."
He glanced to his face, and saw Sherlock's eyes closed, head tipped to the side and lips parted. His chest rose steadily and dropped much the same, his breathing deep and long.
"You're asleep. You've actually fallen asleep. I bet that drink did get to you, liar," he insinuated, the silence he received giving him a hollow feeling. "Well, I'll tuck you in, shall I?"
He meant it as a joke but the thought occurred to be a good one. Moving further along the bed, John slipped his arms beneath Sherlock's back and hoisted him up into a sitting position. His head rolled to the side and rested against John's chest, his entire body loose like a rag-doll's.
"You're one hell of a heavy sleeper." John was talking mainly to centre his thoughts. The sensation of his hand moving along Sherlock's naked skin was abstract and oddly exiting, something his mind couldn't be allowed to linger upon.
"I love you, John," Sherlock slurred out in his unconscious state.
"Yup. The drink did get to you, even if only a little. Fifty percent is one hell of a lot after all."
John started to awkwardly thrust Sherlock further up the bed, laying his head down onto a pillow. Lifting his legs he swung them round to run in conjunction with the rest of his slender body. Slender, but shockingly muscled. Soft brunette curls rested against Sherlock's forehead, almost giving his sleeping state a mirage of innocence.
"Good night, Sherlock," he whispered, making to leave but flicking the lamp light off. The darkness swarmed in with no moment to spare but John could still make out the darker yet figure of the drowsing man on the bed. "Sleep tight."

"Freak," Sergeant Donovan began, "Lestrade says you've seen this before. He's hoping you can help him make sense of it."
"Make sense of what?" Sherlock inquired, his words rolling off his tongue in laziness. The yellow police tape cut off the alley from the public, alongside the three police cars that surrounded the mouth and the guards, keeping the people's eyes away from anything of importance. John shook himself awake, pulling his jacket closed in the early morning chill.
She gestured behind herself and stepped out of the way, handing over notes to another police officer. Sherlock ambled forwards, head at an angle as he examined the back of a hanging body. As he rounded to the front his expression hardened, his body turning stiff.
"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked as he came to stand next to the other man. "My god . . ."
He covered his mouth and spun around, the wrenching of his stomach almost too much to bear. The image flashed into his mind and his blood grew cold with horror.
"Sher-" he started but couldn't finish as the nausea returned. "I've seen some bad things in my day, bad things, but this?"
Lestrade walked over from a consultation with a witness, seemingly an occupant of a flat that overlooked the alley.
Sherlock didn't even look at him when he queried, "When was he found?"
"About an hour ago. A call from a passer by, who apparently came here for a smoke and damn near walked into the dead man," Lestrade informed him, his face pinched in slight disgust at the body.
"It was still dark then. I can see why you requested me at such an ungodly hour," he said, his eyes studying and analysing every inch of the victim. "It's just like-"
"The infamous Tortor cases five years ago, yes," Lestrade noted. "Same . . . style, same display. It can't be him, can it?"
"It's not."
The detective's face grew graver, if it were even possible. "Don't tell me we have a copy cat?"
"Oh no. There are hundreds, thousands even, of ways a human being can be tortured, Detective Inspector. Just because one sadist in the past favoured it as a killing method doesn't mean it's patent."
"I'm sorry, Tortor?" John interrupted, still recovering from the sight.
"Latin for tormentor, torturer. Rather unimaginative, but the word was found burned onto the victims' upper back, in all thirteen cases."
"Bloody hell, thirteen? Like this?" John exclaimed, shutting his eyes and calming his breathing. His eyes brows pushed together. "A mark?"
"Of belonging. He wanted to show the world what he'd done. Treated it like art," Sherlock recalled, stepping closer to the body. John dared another look. Hung with wrought iron chains tight around his ankles and attached to the fire escape. The light brown suit was dirty, roughened, and in most places torn or blackened - fire the most likely cause. The lower body wasn't what immediately caused the jolt of sickness however. The intestines, thick goo of innards and internal organs that hung loosely from his sliced open gut were what caused his mind to spin. That and the expression the man held. Mouth agape, stained red with blood that had run down his face as he hung, and the puffy, swollen holes. Where his eyes should be. Brain matter had seeped through the orbitals, creating an image so gruesome his own brain could barely comprehend it.
He took note with a sour disposition the proximal and distal phalanges, which had been snapped. He could tell by the bruising of the skin and odd jutting in the man's hanging hands.
"So," Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'll leave you to it then shall I?"
"Hm," Sherlock sounded in reply, circling the body.
"You've seen this sort of thing before," John muttered, more as a statement than a question. His eyes remained transfixed on the nightmarish scene. "Sadist you said?"
"Enjoys the pain of others. Perfect if you're a torturer. Makes it fun."
"Must've been hard."
"Not really."
John became quiet, having almost forgotten Sherlock's nature. A part of him throbbed with pain as a result of his sudden revelation. It was a dull, continuous ache. "This Tortor, in prison is he?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied, now having taken out his magnifying glass and proceeding to examine the man's shoes.
"A completely new killer then?"
Sherlock continued to study various areas of the man, mainly his clothing, legs and arms. The rest of him was in no state to be under a scrutinising eye. "Don't state the obvious, it really doesn't help - in any capacity."
John watched him as his entrancing eyes darted from thread to thread, crease to crease. His mind was no doubt speeding away with explanations, reasons, deductions. The previous evening's events flashed into his mind.
"Are you all right, Doctor Watson? You seem deathly pale."
"Cold, that's all."
"Nasty weather, I must say. The smell isn't too pleasant either," Lestrade remarked, nose crinkling. John had barely noticed, but there was an odd stench about the place. A stagnant foulness in the air, emanating from a dumpster a few meters away. "Sherlock, what do you have?"
"Recently visited a warehouse, southwest London - most likely the murder site-"
"He wasn't killed here?"
"Obviously," Sherlock sighed. "The lack of blood is a give away, Detective Inspector. Not one drop beneath him, which means the blood had already coagulate by the time he was moved here. As for the warehouse, I'd say an icon of the Industrial Revolution with the coal staining his shoes," he continued, rolling his eyes at the baffled expressions of John and Lestrade. "The coal would be gasified in furnaces, impurities removed and then stored and shipped out where needed. Some such warehouses, or factories, never found another use and remain today. Cleared out yes, but it's quite a feat to clean the whole place and be sure nothing was left behind - for instance soot."
"Coal can be found anywhere, Sherlock. That's hardly a lead,"
"Ah, but if you look closely: wedged in the ridges of his shoe's soles are these granules; grey, hard and seemingly porous. Coke, Detective Inspector, and when placed besides coal tar - which you can see smudged on his socks and hands, there are only a limited number of places left. The Gas Light and Coke Company, given a grant by the Royal Society in the Industrial Revolution to produce coal gas and coke. Several locations, a few left unrenovated, just one preserved."
"How do you know all that?" John asked, biting back the exclamation of praise that wanted to leap out.
"I read."
"So where is this place?" Lestrade pressed, putting pen to paper.
"Fulham, Sands End. North bank of the Thames."
Lestrade flicked out his phone in a manner of seconds, reporting the information and requesting a squad to be sent there at once.
"If it's preserved, how did the killer get there and well . . . do this?"
"The security is hardly Fort Nox, John."
"I know, I just-"
"This world is remarkably unsafe. Locking doors, gates and fences are just mental comforts to ourselves. The reality is that nothing can really stop intruders, short of death that is," Sherlock said wearily. Then his eyes widened for a split second. "Is that why you sleep with your Sig Sauer P226R?"
"Sh," John shot him down quickly, perfectly aware it wasn't entirely legal for him to have it. "How did you? When, what!?"
"I observe, John," Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Now, how about we go and pay a visit to his work?"
"Where does he work?"
"Figure it out," Sherlock ordered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You've watched me make my deductions, now it's your turn."
"Um," John began, brows knitted together as he looked over the body - the pressure of Sherlock pressing down his sickness of the man's physical state.
"Not the best of starts."
John took a deep breath. "Well, his shoes are smart. Judging by the style and fabric, expensive. His suit is much the same, really top notch. Oh, and these cuff links, sterling silver by the looks of it. So, definitely rich."
"Very good," Sherlock encouraged him.
"Then, his ring," he paused, leaning in closer. "It has an insignia, a 'CC'. A name?"
"Perhaps."
"Oh, for goodness sake, you know what it means don't you?"
"Of course, but I want you to deduce it."
"Rich, smart, I don't know, a banker?"
The hiss of objection from Sherlock put that theory in the bin.
"Lawyer then? CC, could be the name of the firm. I know some members show their support by commissioning things like it. Given how well off he is, a successful law firm. I don't have them memorised though, so that's as far as I go."
"Charles Cane. Upper Bank Street if I remember correctly. No time to waste, come along."
"That's the name of a person."
"Yes, a very obnoxious person who's named their firm after their own name. How preposterous, wouldn't you agree?" he said with superficial offence, heading back onto the street and ducking under the tape.
"Taxi!" he beckoned, opening the door swiftly. "After you, John."
Still trying to catch up with what was happening he stopped into the back and took his seat.
"Oi! Where are you going?" Lestrade called, noticing their rushed departure.
"Research, Detective Inspector," Sherlock replied before he entered as well. "Upper Bank Street, please."