Hello,

Usual disclaimers apply.

I would very very very much appreciate if you had time to review - am extremely discouraged lately by the lack of any kind of feedback, and even though I personally like the idea I have for this story it doesn´t make much sense to continue it if no one finds it interesting. So please, any comments are highly appreciated.

ML

EDIT: The chapter has been now betaed by the lovely emma de los nardos, my deepest and most sincere gratitude for fixing my grammatical mistakes and suggesting some other improvements!

It was the end of a sweltering hot July. The city had seldom in its long history experienced such a heat wave, one which lasted and lasted and lasted ,not giving even the slightest promise of any kind of relief. At first it had been wonderful and extremely welcomed, then it got slightly tiring and annoying, and right about the time when the death rates of the old and the ill started to rise, people yearned for rain. The heat made everything muffled and heavy, and those who were fortunate enough to have some vacation had quickly escaped, leaving the streets of London if not empty, at least significantly more spacious than the inhabitants were used to.

Inside 221b Baker Street things were, however, much like normal. Sherlock seemed to have an uncanny ability to adapt himself to extreme thermal circumstances, and was little bothered by the continuously elevated temperature, very much as he had been oblivious to the inhumane coldness during the previous winter when their heaters had broken down. This could have been partly due to the fact that he didn't leave the flat all that often, and if he did it was during the hours when the sun didn't shine.

In the beginning of the hot period, when it had been still new and wonderful, John had - foolishly enough - inquired whether Sherlock didn't want to go out and enjoy the weather, now that it for once was worth enjoying. Sherlock's response had been a simple "no", accompanied by an expression which conveyed utter astonishment over the fact that John somehow assumed it would have been more enjoyable to him to waste time outside with obnoxious heat, brightness and an overload of people intoxicated with the sudden appearance of the shiny object on the sky than to succumb to whatever more or less scientific experiment he had going on. This had made it clear to John that Sherlock was not the type to pack up a basket and head to a picnic, and he had not asked any more.

He had himself, however, indulged for a while and spent a good deal of his time outside. During this time they didn't cross paths that often , and once the heat started to finally get to John he realised that he hadn't had a proper conversation with his eccentric flatmate for a good while. To his surprise almost, he found it slightly sad.

So it was with the intention of catching up with Sherlock that John went home that evening after an enjoyable dinner with a few of his old friends. When he arrived home he saw from the street that the light in the living room was on; also, atall, thin figure - that could have been no other than Sherlock - passed the window every now and then. Pleased that he had caught Sherlock at home, John went into the house.

When John entered he saw the detective sitting down, his back to him, hovering over something spread on the table. Sherlock was, as it had become customary to him during the hot season, dressed very lightly; he was wearing loose pants made out of some thin, light fabric with a somehow oriental touch to them and a pale grey t-shirt which accentuated his equally pale skin -– lafter all, he hadn't bothered spending too much time outdoors. One of the windows was slightly ajar, and the weak breeze had barely enough strength to move the curtains.

Without turning to him, Sherlock spoke with a quiet, husky voice - he sounded as if he hadn't been talking in days, which was probably true. "John. Nice dinner, I trust? How was the new Banana Tree?"

John knew better than to be surprised with the fact that Sherlock knew where he had been, but still couldn't help himself. "How did you know that? Do I smell of a spice only this new location uses?"

Sherlock straightened up, turned to John and gave a quick grin. "No, you circled the ad in the newspaper."

Now John saw what Sherlock had been so intently studying – the morning's paper, in the appendix of which John had indeed scribbled something over the ad s section. Sherlock turned back to the paper and said, this time with a voice more audible, "And yes, you do reek of satay."

John walked over to the couch and slouched down. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Sherlock, who was still staring at the paper his jaw resting on his cllenched fists. He looked like a schoolboy concentrating on a particularly interesting subject.

"You seem to be on a good mood?" John ventured. It was always somehow difficult to spark up a conversation with Sherlock. He was not keen on any kind of small talk, and more often than not this had resulted in an odd sort of a conversation where John threw openings and questions and Sherlock replied with one-syllable answers and grunts that killed the interaction before it had really even seen the light of the day. This time, however, Holmes appeared to be open for a verbal exchange. He turned his clear, intense stare to John and chuckled a bit. "Why yes, John, yes I am in a good mood."

"May I inquire as to the reason why? I thought you would be rather... bored." There had been little going on lately, minus of course Sherlock's experiments and the other means he had of amusing himself - not all of which John was aware of, and probably it was better that way.

"Bored?" Sherlock erected himself and threw the paper at John. "How could I be bored when there is a serial killer roaming the streets?" He sounded almost gleeful.

John didn't have to look at the paper to know what he was talking about. There had been two dead bodies in two weeks, both young gay men around their thirties, found during the early hours of the day by passers-by. The first body had been found the previous week in front of Tate Modern and the other one on Leicester Square, two days ago. The official cause of death given in the papers had been a drug overdose; both men had disappeared from a club where they had been with their friends and had been reported to be under influence of alcohol, if not for something harder.

"Serial killer?" John sounded doubtful. "You think it's a serial killer?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course it's a serial killer."

"I thought they had OD'ed."

Sherlock waved his hand as if to dismiss a stupid comment. "No, serial killer." He sprung up from the chair and started pacing the room. "They were both in their thirties, young, successful in their professional life - therefore had money on them but their wallets were untouched - so not murdered because of that, disappeared from the same gay club during a night out with their friends, died of a drug they didn't normally take, according to those friends - you see, there already a lot of similarities and I haven't even seen the bodies yet or talked with Lestrade."

John tilted his head a bit. "Yes, why haven't you talked with Lestrade? If it is a serial killer as you say?" John sounded a bit confused as if he had just realized this fact.

Sherlock stopped and folded his long arms over his chest. "Oh, I think he is angry with me..." He shook his head, slightly disapprovingly. "So petty of him, and what a waste of time."

John frowned. "Angry with you? What did you do?"

Sherlock looked almost offended. "Why do you automatically assume it's something I did?"

John didn't bother to reply but his raised eyebrow made it clear that the words "yeah, right" were on the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock shrugged. "I might have taken some liberties concerning replacement of certain evidence."

"So you stole something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever, he will come around." He glanced at the clock on the wall and realising it was approaching midnight, suddenly perked up. "In the meanwhile, I will start my own investigations concerning the matter." He glanced at John. "Busy?"

Watson shook his head, slowly. He had no idea what the consulting detective had in mind but he had a vague feeling it was something he wouldn't necessarily like at all ."No, I guess not. What is it?"

Sherlock grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the upcoming events. "Get your party shoes on, John - we're going clubbing!"

And with that he made his exit and headed to his bedroom, leaving Watson sitting on the couch, dumbfounded and with no other option than to get up and head to his own room to change.

Fifteen minutes later Watson was back in the living room, wearing a pair of jeans and a black shirt - he really had very little idea how he should have been dressed, but was relatively comfortable with the choice he had made. The shirt was one of his better ones, a designer piece of clothing he had gotten from Harriet last Christmas. The jeans were, well, jeans, but they fit him well and the overall impression was actually far better than the ex-soldier would have thought, or would have given himself credit for. Simple but elegant.

John browsed through the paper to pass the time, his back facing Sherlock's room. When he heard Sherlock come out he turned around, the paper still in his hand and his eyes fixed on the story about the dead men. "Sherlock, which club-" The words died on his lips as he looked up and saw Sherlock.

Standing not five feet in front of him, his flatmate was in the kind of attire that John had not seen outside the pages of fashion magazines. His sark blue t-shirt, with a sharp v-nech, showed off past of his upper chest and suggestively hugged the rest of his lean frame; Watson was able to see the lines of his muscles and joints and the curve of his shoulders. Sherlock's legs were covered in a pair of the skinniest jeans John had seen a while, and it had to be said that Sherlock sported them well; his long legs seemed to be made for that kind of parading. On his feet he had a pair of black leather shoes, and even though not a man of fashion John was able to tell that they were extremely stylish.

The dark clothes accentuated the paleness of his skin, but not in an awkward way; it appeared as if he had a glow about him. The mess of black hair had had some kind of finishing touch, but John couldn't say what - it seemed to be both controlled and ruffled at the same time, and the result was very.. Well, it looked good on him. His eyes were bright but intense and the expression on his face conveyed both excitement about the investigation ahead and determination to solve whatever it was that was to be solved.

When he raised his arms to his shoulders in a sort of "so-what-do-you-think?" gesture, John saw that the waistline of his underwear was visible. The brand was most likely very specific.

"Wow." John said, the bit his tongue. He realized in an instant that what he just said sounded bit odd.

Sherlock grinned, grabbed the shorter man from the shoulders and spun him around, pushing him to the door. "The night awaits us, John Watson!"

With that the duo was out of the door.

What did you think? Interested in reading more?