well, finally done! I dont like it that much, but I'm not going to edit it too much because I'm a lazy shit. I sort of slacked off at the end. sorry. (and try listening to 'smooth criminal' while reading this. I dont know, it sort of fits the mood... tell me if I'm right...)

Sherlock, john, and a small portion of the entire police force sat inside a tiny flat just outside of downtown London. The body of a petite woman lay in the centre of the room. Her clothes were stained with dark blood, and a large bruise covered a little less than half her face. However, her features were still evident. Green eyes, orange hair with drips of wet blood dotting throughout, beaten and broken nose, and lips made to look larger than possible with smeared lipstick and plastic surgery. Aside from a few stray bruises, her neck was untouched. The rest of her body was twisted in a heap on the floor, with a great number of stab wounds in her chest. She had on a silver necklace and an overly revealing dress, slightly out of place. The dress was a lovely shade of green that would have accented her eyes, had they not been so dull and lifeless, and the dress not as bloodstained.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was circling the body with great interest, taking in all the information he could. His partner, Dr. John H. Watson, sat in a foldable chair, obviously shaken up. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson sat around, watching intently, as Sherlock mumbled to himself. Finally, he spoke up.

"Anderson, would you kindly turn the woman over so I may inspect her back? Or is that too difficult of a task?"

Anderson, offended, turned to Lestrade.

"Do I-"

"Yes, you do."

He grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, and slowly prodded the body into place.

"Ugh. And I just got a manicure." he whispered under his breath, a little louder than expected. then noticing everyone staring, loudly declared

"What?! Men do it too!"

His plea was interrupted by Sherlock's thinking out loud.

"Five bruises on the left, five on the right, directly below the shoulder blades. Each the shape of fingertips, in the shape of hands. Evidence, when placed with the smeared lipstick and misplaced dress shows that she was aggressively kissing someone."

Everyone turned to look at john.

"It wasn't me! I swear! I was just coming to pick her up for our date… and I found her… like this… I she must have been cheating on me… oh god… why?"

"Yes, yes, john. You found her lying dead on the floor. She was cheating on you, bla bla. Now just sit over there, be quiet, and don't touch anything. If you prints get anywhere in the room, you will be guaranteed as a suspect. Anderson, get him a blanket."

Anderson kicked out of the room, mumbling to himself.

"I've seen enough. You can take her to the hospital now."

"Sherlock, you can't just tell us what to-"

"I am finished. You can do what you want with her. Possibly give her to Anderson. He seemed interested in her-"

"SHERLOCK!" Donavon cut in.

"I'm sorry. I was simply rephrasing the statement that Lestrade questioned. Now come along john."

He briskly strided out of the room. John stood up slowly, sniffling, and followed deliberately behind. The two stood out by the curb silently, aside from the occasional blow from John's nose.

When a taxi finally did arrive, Sherlock jumped in, and john, a couple seconds after.

"I'll just miss her, you know. This is the last time I'll be seeing the place, and I just-"

"You can cut the act, john. This would have only been your fourth date with this woman… what was her name? Oh yes, Abigail. Abigail DeVaine. And on fourth dates, no one is this attached to their significant partner. They also aren't, or shouldn't be having painful snogging sessions in the woman's living room at 10:30 at night. And distinctly before you left to pick her up, I overheard you reciting the phrase 'its not you, its me' repeatedly in your room."

John immediately stopped sniffling, and smiled.

"You got me. Hated that woman. Always going on about her looks. They weren't even that good, too plastic. We never even kissed. Every time we wanted to, I came up with some excuse. 'Have to feed my hamster.' that was the best one. And she was cheating on me, nonetheless. Horrendous woman.

Sherlock grinned. "I thought as such."

When they arrived at 221B Baker st, Mrs. Hudson was already there, holding a platter of tea and scones.

"Oh john, dear! I heard about… and I'm terribly sorry! I made you some tea and-"

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. I hated that wench. I was going to break up with her tonight. I just had to pretend to like her, or else I would be classified as a prime suspect." he smiled.

"I'll take the tea anyway, thank you." butted in Sherlock.

"No! Not you! Not until you remove that disgusting… human flesh, is it?...human flesh from the sink!"

"But Mrs. Hudson-"

"No buts! Now!"

"It's for an experiment!"

"Then no tea for you!" with that, Mrs. Hudson swooped into the kitchen, grabbing every teabag and tealeaf she could find, and swooped back out of the flat.

"I'm terribly sorry, john, but if you want any tea, just find me!"

Sherlock sat down. John, taking this as a hint to leave him alone, picked up a book and began reading. Meanwhile, Sherlock was thinking.

'John had admitted to hating Abigail. even though john wasn't the type prone to killing someone, purely out of dislike, he couldn't weigh out any options, and once you rule out the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable… perhaps john was working for Moriarty? But why? No, no, he had to focus on the case at hand. John was not a suspect yet. Yet. But he needed one spot of evidence at this point to prove john's innocence.

"Her neck, spotless, even though she had recently been 'snogging'." Sherlock mumbled. "The prints found directly beneath her shoulder blades. Whoever did this was obviously very…'kinky'. The two rolled around on the couch for a bit, based on the fabric residue left on her dress. No underwear, the man must have slipped them off. No sign of the underwear anywhere else in the flat, the man took them with him as a sick sort of souvenir. Then, he pulled out the knife. Blade,11 cm long. No blood on the couch, they must have been standing up, or on the floor." he shuddered. "She screamed at this point. john, walking along the pavement, heard and came running up to the flat to check to see if she was alright, texting me to come quickly. But he claims to not have seen anyone running in or out-john, come here please."

He said the last part a little clearer. John's eyes darted up from his book.

"W-wait, me? I'm already here…"

"No, no! Stand right in front of me! Yes, that's it… no, to the left, towards the couch. There! Perfect."

Sherlock stood up and moved, a few inches in front of john.

"John, I apolgise, but-"

His face was gradually getting closer.

"This is for the case."

His lips suddenly crashed onto johns own. He had to bend down, because of the dramatic height difference, but other than that… john's eyes were wide open with surprise. After a few second of stunned awkwardness, he began to join. Neither of them knew that they wanted this, until they had it. Sherlock seemed to know just what to do, despite his being 'Sherlock'. john reached down to grab Sherlock's waist with one arm and pulled them closer together, forcing Sherlock to stand up straight, and john to get up on tip-toes. He, in turn, wrapped his long arms around john's neck, and embraced him. John's spare right arm intertwined with Sherlock's wonderful hair, pushing them both deeper into the kiss. John started to stray from his lips, onto those cheekbones that he fetished. Then down to the neck, where he felt around for Sherlock's weak spot. He found one, surprisingly, causing Sherlock to let out a little moan. It sounded almost identical to a lion's purr. He pushed back up to his face and they began on the lips again.

"Why don't you do that more often?" john jokingly asked.

"Because no one ever gave me cause to. Until now." Sherlock smiled. John had a gentle kind touch. He wasn't rough in any way, leaving bruises on him, and he went for the waist, instead of the shoulder blades. And he made no move to push him onto the wall or the couch. He seemed perfectly content just stand-wait… he touched the butt. Oh well. Sherlock enjoyed it. John was obviously not a suspect. His finesse was too different from the killers'. Even though he had already come to his conclusion, he decided to keep it up a little longer. 'More evidence' couldn't hurt.

Case closed. -SH

What? That soon? - GL

Yes. It wasn't john. But I know who. -SH

How do you know it wasn't john? Can you prove anything? -GL

You'd rather I didn't. -SH

Then who was it? -GL

Anderson. -SH

Why Anderson? This isn't just because you hate him, is it? -GL

No. I'll explain tomorrow. -SH

Meanwhile, keep him in your sights. -SH

Anderson seemed to know his way around the apartment building, having only been in there 'once'. He was able to navigate back down to the car to get johns blanket. His inside pocket slightly bulged, with lace peeking out. A normal person would assume that it was a slightly effeminate handkerchief, but when combined with other evidence, shows that is was a pair of "panties". He was also the first one to the flat, proving that he was the closest, aside from john. And with the proof that it was certainly not john… Anderson was the most likely candidate. He changed clothes as well, or at least covered the blood stains with that jacket, going to show how daft he was as it was the middle of the summer.

"What- exactly was that for…?" asked john after Sherlock had put his phone down.

"I simply needed evidence that you weren't the culprit." picking up a pair of handcuffs and spinning them around his finger, he added, "meet me in my bedroom in five minutes. We might just need a little more 'evidence'."

"Oh god yes…" john mumbled, running to his own room to get ready.