"Love in the Time of Science"

The crime scene was surrounded by reams of yellow tape. Several reporters lurked in a corner drinking coffee and making note of who was coming and going. They didn't pay much notice to the cab that pulled up to the corner until they saw one of the uniforms raise the tape to allow two civilians enter the church courtyard. They squinted into the late afternoon dusk to get a better look, but the two men were moving fast and disappeared up the path and inside the large double doors before they could snap a single shot.

John Watson stopped just short of Sherlock Holmes as they entered the church. He knew that Sherlock liked room to make his observations. Sherlock was completely focused on the new case since Lestrade had called to request their presence nearly half an hour before. It was a familiar scene. Several uniforms were on the perimeter guarding the evidence. Technicians snapped pictures in rapid succession and labeled blood splatters, but he could quite see the body. It was at the altar, but surrounded by a bevy of people having a rather heated discussion.

"He wants it to look ritualistic…but it's not a ritual." Sherlock muttered. He paused beside a bloody handprint. "Victim is male. Under twenty-five."

"From a handprint?" John sighed and glanced around. "Why do it in the middle of the day? Someone had to hear him."

"No one heard anything." Inspector Lestrade joined them between the pews. He gestured towards the body. "We've waited for you before taking it away, Sherlock."

"Anderson?"

"Waiting outside." Lestrade stepped back as Sherlock dashed past him towards the body.

"Inspector."

"John. I see you're still assisting Sherlock."

John shrugged. He didn't really feel as though he was helpful to Sherlock in such moments. He watched Sherlock's progression of logic and marveled—the world's best consulting detective was in his element. He was already bent over the prostate form on one knee. "Stripped to skin…clothes most likely cut away. The symbols on his back are Egyptian hieroglyphs…random…probably lifted them from google."

"You read hieroglyphs. They were copied…not written. Someone wanted them to look ancient and sinister. The killer is right handed from the impressions. Large and strong. He staged this…everything."

"He took a souvenir?" John ignored the markings for a moment and studied the victim's hair.

"A lock of hair. Not so cleanly cut." Sherlock agreed. "It was a last minute decision."

"His name was Peter Thistlewaite. The priest just identified him. Twenty-three years old. A graduate student at university. He was home for the holidays to visit his parents. He was deaf and mute. So he didn't hear the killer coming and he couldn't scream." Lestrade commented.

"Horrible." John shuddered. "Did the killer choose him for those reasons?"

"Addresses? University and home." Sherlock demanded. "The killer was watching him. He knew his routine. The young man's pattern shifted today. He did not come here on a regular basis. He came here out of desperation."

"We have to talk to the family and take statements first, Sherlock. You can be there—"

"I don't interview with the police. Tell them to expect me tomorrow. The university address?"

"Don't question anyone." Lestrade opened his cell phone. "I'm calling the university to tell them that you're coming. You can go through his room as long as your wear gloves. I have to send a forensics escort, but they'll just observe until the team arrives. Are we clear Sherlock?"

Sherlock was preoccupied on his smart phone as his fingers tapped rapidly.

"Of course, Inspector." John accepted the paper that Lestrade tore from a well worn notepad. He steered Sherlock towards the exit of the church without any difficulty. He was confident when he touched Sherlock now—not bemused or completely floored by his behavior. The subtle shifts between them would have happened whether or not they had becomes lovers. He realized it the very same day they returned to 221B Baker Street. The forces that set them spiraling into orbit with one another were far deeper. Their compatibility was evident on every level. Even without understanding, he knew on an instinctive level just what Sherlock needed. And God help him, Sherlock knew exactly the same for John.

"The family won't be helpful. They wouldn't notice such a person. I don't know why Lestrade wastes his time."

John firmly gave the taxi driver directions before settling next to Sherlock. "He has to have something to do, Sherlock. You know everything…well almost everything."

"Not now, John." Sherlock growled. "He had to have walked to the church. The university is close enough. It wasn't his family's parish…so why did the priest know him?"

"We could—"

"Questioning the priest won't be helpful as of yet—I don't know who we're looking for. Too many extra variables…besides the police are in the way." Sherlock grinned.

"If he was deaf and mute…we need to find his interpreter…" John suggested. "And professors."

"Yes. I'll search his room and question his roommates. You find the interpreter, teachers and-"

"Lestrade won't—"

"He moves too slowly. The killer has already finished his job. We have to catch up to him. We have to move faster." Sherlock nodded decisively. He stared out of the cab window. "You know. It's never worked before."

"What?"

"We work so well together. I was afraid that it would change, but it's still the same. It's better." Sherlock didn't turn towards him. His face remained stoic. He tapped his fingers on his knee.

John let his hand rest on Sherlock's thigh, a subtle move. Relatively safe and unseen. He stared straight ahead, his fingers tightening slightly. His jaw clenched with things unsaid, but they would have to wait. Their relationship depended on a certain level of privacy. Sherlock wouldn't have Mycroft prying into his affairs. John didn't need the world to acknowledge their connection. The world had recognized their relationship even before they were ready to admit it.

"The game is on, Sherlock."

"Yes, John. The game is on."