Disclaimer: Sherlock doesn't belong to me.

Warning: Contains slash - boy kissing. Nothing explicit.

Happy Place

Violins gradually increased in pace, the midday sun was kept at bay by the closed dark curtains, and the mind of Sherlock Holmes went blank as he focused on the current case in his lap, figuratively.

Mentally, Sherlock cursed himself. From the outside this case seemed simple, especially when he compared it to previous ones he'd solved before it.

Breathing deeply, Sherlock lifted both arms slowly and brought his hands together, only the fingertips touching. It was right there, in the back of his mind, shrouded in shadows, dancing, tormenting him. To say it was frustrating was putting it mildly.

There were five murders, all identical, all women of the same age, always killed at the same time of night. How it was being done wasn't the problem, it was the motive. The reasons of why the killer was doing this eluded him. They had suspects but none of them could be proven to have actually committed the crimes. He just needed the motive.

Letting go of everything he already knew about the case, Sherlock relaxed, allowing Vivaldi's Winter masterpiece to wash over him. Dwelling on it wasn't going to solve anything. A new tactic was needed. But suddenly, Sherlock's eyes shot open and he bolted upright, a triumphant smile beginning to appear. He had it. He'd had it all along. It was...

The walls shook, tyres screeched along the narrow road, horns blared and the shattering of glass filled the air.

The consulting detective shook himself right and got to his feet, instantly annoyed at the interruption and at losing what he needed.

In a few, long strides he reached the window, yanking the curtains apart from the middle almost violently. He unlatched the window and pushed it open, leaning forward slightly to observe what had happened.

One car had rear-ended another; the front one had a broken window and a child, almost out of sight, walked away, a bag of pebbles in hand.

Sherlock smirked. It was obvious who and what caused the accident but it was clear neither driver understood like he did. Both drivers emerged from their vehicles, assessed the damages before moving towards each other, harsh and accusing words already being hurled.

A crash sounded behind Sherlock, making him turn sharply on his heel. His eyes found the mantelpiece above the fireplace. There was something missing. His eyes moved down slowly. A blue vase had fallen and lay smashed in large pieces, sprinklings of china decorated the floor around and in between it.

The noise outside grew louder. A frown appeared between Sherlock's brows. His head stilled, his lips became a thin line as he pressed them together and the rest of his features tightened. The world inside his head was a mess. It was noisy and chaotic. Things were missing and some things shouldn't be there at all. The case was... the thing was...

Feeling confused, Sherlock turned back to the window as the shouting became even louder. A crowd had gathered. Almost instantly, his eyes focused on a man who approached the two that were still arguing. He was young, wearing baggy cargo shorts, a loose, open grey shirt and had a battered guitar slung against his back. His shoulder length blonde hair swayed around his face as he leaned in, injecting himself.

"Ex- Uh, excuse me?"

"What!" the other two yelled in unison.

"You should probably track down that kid that was throwing-"

"What business is this of yours, hippie?" asked the man of the rear-ended car.

"W-Well," the young man stuttered. "I s-suppose none but-"

"That's right, none! Now get lost!"

"But you should-"

The people on the street went strangely quiet, the sounds of sirens replacing them. But it was broken as the man grabbed the guitar and in one swift, fluid motion took it off him before smashing it into the hard ground. As it splintered into pieces Sherlock's knees went weak.

The violins sliced through the back of his mind and they increased in volume, seemingly to an almost painful level which hurt. The shouting outside resumed. The sirens closed in. A thud followed by a crash from Mrs. Hudson below. It was in the kitchen, had to be; a plate, or bowl or other dish of some kind.

Sherlock took a few shaky steps away from the window. The sirens raced down the street, seemingly towards him and stopped just outside. New voices added onto the ones already shouting and the crowd thickened.

As Sherlock turned, he stopped abruptly. The violins had stopped. Vivaldi's masterpiece was finished. The apartment door swung open and hit the wall behind it and Sherlock's face twisted in confusion. Sherlock's knees gave way and everything turned dark.

John Watson held Sherlock up by his arms. The detective's inquisitive blue eyes looked at the person holding him. They were glazed over and completely unfocused. The doctor frowned, worry clearly etched in each faint line of his face.

"Sherlock?"

His concern deepened. The man didn't recognise him.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, shaking the taller man firmly. "Sherlock!" he repeated, shaking him again.

Finally, a little trace of recognition shone through.

"J-John? What..."

"It's Ok, Sherlock," said John gently, moving one hand to place his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm going to take care of you."

Gently, John led Sherlock outside and into a waiting cab and slowly but surely they were driven away from the shouting, away from the car horns, away from the sirens and away from the pebbles that were mysterious flying in from nowhere.

"Where... are... going?

"Somewhere quiet," John whispered, smiling faintly as Sherlock's head slumped onto his shoulder and his cool body sagged against his.

Fifteen long minutes passed before the cab stopped and John got out, taking a disoriented looking Sherlock with him. This was one of the quietest places he could think of. And it would be private. It was perfect.

On entering the building Sherlock looked around as best he could but there wasn't much to see except for the white walls filled with medical posters. Panic filtered through Sherlock's system but his heavy legs didn't listen. Instead they disobeyed, allowing him to be led into another, smaller white room.

"Pad-ded"

The broken word went unnoticed by John who sat Sherlock in the chair beside his desk. The detective's long legs bent and flopped to an awkward angle.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes widened at the shout of his name and he quickly focused on John although he was still pale and out of it.

"Jo-John... where am I?"

"My office, at the surgery," said John slowly. In the same quiet tone he continued. "You've suffered a sensory overload. Your body sent many messages which you just couldn't keep up with. It overwhelmed you. I'm a little surprised to be honest," he added as an afterthought.

The intercom buzzed but John pressed it before anything was said. "I can't see anyone else right now," he said quietly. "I'm with an important patient and he needs to stay here for a little while."

Not waiting for a reply, John switched the machine off and took Sherlock's arm, getting him back to his feet and took him to the table and got him to lie down.

"Shh..." John hushed, running a hand through the man's dark curls. "It's alright, Sherlock. Just lie here and think of nothing. Go to your happy place if it'll help. Usually makes me feel better."

When he felt Sherlock relax John removed his hand from him and went to his desk. He sat down heavily and looked at the stack of paperwork in front of him. There was no other word for it. This was going to be tedious.

More than an hour past before there was any other sound then the rustling of paper or the scratching of a black ballpoint pen.

"So, where is your happy place, John?"

The doctor looked up from his desk, his hand stilling. A faint smile lit up his face as he saw Sherlock sitting up, a hand on either side of his legs, leaning forward, curiosity etched clearly on his face.

"Well, you look better," he declared, standing up. He approached Sherlock and took a closer look at him. "What do you remember?"

The detective swung his legs a couple of times as he sighed. "Not a lot," he replied, shrugging. "Noise, confusion, sirens. Thought I was being locked away in an asylum."

"Common mistake," said John, motioning at Sherlock to take off his coat which he did quickly. He then rolled up his sleeve and wrapped an inflatable Velcro arm strap around him. "Just gonna take your blood pressure."

"What did happen?" Sherlock asked looking down at the machine as the pressure around his arm tightened.

"Sensory overload," said John as though it explained everything.

It did.

"Ah."

A moment of silence passed.

"And you just happened to come by the apartment then?"

"Well, you were still in your pyjamas when I left and Mrs. Hudson called-"

"Of course she did."

"-and she said she was worried but couldn't explain why. To put her at ease I said I'd check on you. And yeah... good timing, I reckon."

The machine beeped and John let out the air. He ripped off the Velcro and put everything back into his desk draw. "Looks good," he said happily. "And your colour has come back nicely."

Silence came between them as John went back to his desk and made a note about everything that had happened the last couple of hours.

A few more minutes passed in silence.

"Missionary!" cried Sherlock triumphantly, jumping off the table and onto his feet. He was at a confused John's side in seconds.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, thinking he misheard.

"The case, John, the case!" he said loudly, pacing a couple of times in excitement before stopping in front of the doctor again, looking down at him. "The motive. I couldn't work out why the murders were all the same. Why he only went after a certain type of woman. The answer was right in front of us the whole time."

"Which is?" probed John.

"There was only one suspect we spoke to that has any sort of connection," answered Sherlock. At John's questioning look he continued. "His daughter was a prostitute. Not once did he speak of his daughter on his own. He only said something when we brought her up. He's a missionary killer. Through them he's killing his daughter but it's only a matter of time until he gets up the courage to actually kill her, the person he really wants to kill."

"He's angry at her for being a prostitute?"

"That's what the mother told us, remember?" said Sherlock. "She said he was angry about it, that he'd wanted her to go into the family business and cut her off after she refused. But it didn't end there. The mother sent her money every month. Of course, he found out and took out his rage on people just like his daughter."

"I see," said John sitting down at his desk again. "Time to call Lestrade then."

As the other meaning flashed through Sherlock's mind, a smile started to appear, his dimples in clear view. "You know John..." he whispered, leaning into John's personal space, placing a hand on each arm rest. "It's not all I was thinking..."

He leaned in further and pressed his lips against John's. They were just as he expected; warm, warm and smooth.

A surprised moan sounded in John's throat. Sherlock's lips were just as he expected as well; soft, incredibly soft.

Sherlock pulled away, breaking their short contact. "Yes... we must inform Lestrade of the case but first John..."

"Yes?"

"Where is your happy place?"