Disclaimer: I own nothing; characters etc. belong to producers/writers, people who hold any legal rights in regards to BBC Sherlock.

A/N: Main PoV is John, but some things needs to bee seen from other angles to get the shadows and contrasts just right (okay that was bullshit, but you get the point - hopefully). And I will tell you when the PoV changes.

WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE? Good question: This fic will contain various spoilers for (probably, but not definitely) the entire show. It is not a 'return' fic, it's probably best to say that it's situated sometime after Sherlock's return, when everything has gone 'back to normal'.

Warning for this chapter: Homophobia, assault, a dead body (well okay that one should be a dead give-away considering this is a Sherlock fic).


The cab-ride
John's PoV

The case had been… Interesting, John thought. Not that he had really known what was going on though, because he had stopped listening at some point. Sherlock's deductions had been brilliant as always, and John had told him so (getting the timing right had been a little hard, given that he had stopped listening).

What John knew of the case was that it involved a gas oven, a syringe full of adrenaline (technically it was empty, laying next to the victim) and the victim, a middle-aged man dressed in women's clothes – clothes that had been put on post mortem. How on earth Sherlock had managed to find the case boring was beyond John, but perhaps it had had something to do with the fact that it appeared to be solved when they left the crime scene.

The reason John had stopped listening was, of course, Sherlock. The thing about their relationship was that no one knew about it yet. John knew that Sherlock liked having secrets, or rather: He liked having information that no one else had, and that he could tell at just the right time. At the crime scene Sherlock had been standing closer to John than usual, sometimes even breathing down his neck. Once, when John had been hunched over the body on the floor, Sherlock had let his soft lips ghost over the skin on his neck, somehow a thing that went unnoticed by everyone else present. Presumably that had been around the same time at which John had stopped listening to anything going on around him.

It was one thing to giggle at a crime scene, it was quite another, in John's book, to have a hard on while staring down at a very dead body.

The rest of the time they were there, Sherlock had made little touches, accidentally brushing their hands together, touching John's thigh. And when Lestrade had come to talk to John just when he and Sherlock were taking off, Sherlock had put his hand on the small of John's back, refusing to leave his side, even though the DI clearly wanted to talk to John alone. Sherlock's presence had left the DI a bit flustered and he had ended up asking if John had time for a pint the next evening. At that point Sherlock's face had clouded over, and John had quickly agreed to go for a pint before guiding Sherlock out of the house and onto the street to get a cab.

John found himself in a strange limbo between being indecently aroused and being annoyed at Sherlock's obvious display of jealousy. So John had decided to use the time before they could hail a cab to confront Sherlock with it, now that they were out of earshot from the yarders. He had told Sherlock that Lestrade was only asking him out on a pint as a friend, and if, if, Sherlock were frightened about someone trying to steal John away from him, then they should make their relationship official. Sherlock had snorted that he wasn't afraid of that and had mumbled something incomprehensible.

Then a cab had pulled up and the two of them had crawled into the backseat. And here they were now, sitting side by side, not speaking.

Sherlock's hand snaked its way across the seat and found John's, intertwining their fingers. He still didn't turn his head to look at John, but kept looking out on the darkly lit London streets.

"Sherlock what's wrong?" John finally managed to get the question out, while his racing heart did a very nice job of distracting him from anything that wasn't Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's long pale neck all the way up to the jaw line and those soft lips…

"I have to repeat myself, I suppose, since your focus is anywhere but you hearing," Sherlock cut through John's thoughts with a sharp voice, "As I said before on the sidewalk, I don't want them to know, because no-one is going to believe us, or they are going to give it their best shot at chasing you away from me."

The pale man next to John looked even paler when the words had left his lips.

"Sherlock, nothing anyone says is going to chase me away from you, you dimwit – otherwise it already would have." John shot a reassuring smile to the back of Sherlock's head, knowing that the detective would be able to see it vaguely in the window of the cab.

Sherlock turned to look at him, and John could feel himself being stripped by those grey, sparkling eyes,

"You know, I know it's all just chemistry, but I…" Sherlock strolled off, and John's heart made a jump, he knew where that sentence was going, and even though the man next to him probably never would be able to finish it, the beginning of it was just as amazing, and said just as much.

John moved closer to Sherlock and reached a hand up to cradle his face, by God he wanted that man next to him, the cab couldn't reach Baker Street soon enough. The sad fact was, however, that they had at least twenty minutes left in the damn thing. Sherlock bend down and carefully kissed John, his lips searching to confirm that John knew the end of the sentence he had begun. Instead of saying anything, John pulled Sherlock closer and intensified the kiss, pushing his tongue into the other mans mouth and felt more than heard a soft moan escape Sherlock's lips.

And that was when John really began wishing for two things: That teleportation had already been invented, and that he were able to control his blood flow (without the use of rather disturbing images). Sherlock had moved his other hand to John's thigh and his fingers were now carefully making their way to his crotch. John could feel himself trembling with need, and it was only by the very strongest of efforts that he remembered they were still in a cab.

"Oi, you two!" The cabbie almost yelled at them, "fucking buggers! Ya has got nothin' to do in my cab!" and with that exclamation, the cab came to an abrupt halt in the middle of a street.

John had by the mere surprise of the cabbie's words extracted himself from Sherlock, and felt somewhat ashamed. Not that he minded being in a relationship with a man, to be honest he had a hard time comprehending why on earth gay couples bothered anyone, and he was, because of Harry not unused to peoples narrow-mindedness. What made him ashamed though was that he was a grown man acting like a teenager in the back of a cab, and the fact that he should have known better than forgetting about the cabdriver after the first case he had helped Sherlock with.

"It's 'have'," Sherlock cut through the air.

"Wha'?" said the cabbie and looked angrily back at Sherlock. John could have sworn that those were the looks of someone whishing they had an aluminium bat with them. Maybe he had?

"It's: You have got nothing to do in my cab." Sherlock stated coolly, "And if you insist on letting us out here, we are not going to pay for the ride."

Sherlock turned his attention back to John, who really didn't want this to escalate into something immensely stupid,

"Out!" Sherlock simply said to John, who almost jumped like a coiled spring and hurried out the car door. Under any other circumstances John would have done or said something, maybe even try to make the cabbie come to some sort of understanding of it all (at least come to an understanding of the fact that the calendar now read the 21st century AD, not 21st century BC). But right now he had too many confusing, and contradicting, emotions going on inside of him to really do anything but what Sherlock told him to do.

They could hear the cabbie yelling at them as he drove off, but apparently he had wanted to get them out of his cab more than he had wanted to get paid.

"Well that was somewhat unexpected." Sherlock said as he looked down at John, "I don't quit comprehend why that would have bothered him."

John sighed. Off course Sherlock wouldn't understand something like that,

"Just… Some people are more idiots than others you know, and they can't really accept that others are… different," John began.

"I'm not that stupid John, off course I'm aware that some peoples brains are smaller than others – I've met Anderson remember. But as a cabbie he must have seen worse than that. He gets paid for ignoring things like that."

"I'm not saying what he did was okay, but to be fair, he doesn't get paid to look at people getting it off on the backseat of his car." John didn't really understand why he had a sudden urge to defend the cabbie, because the more he thought about it, the angrier he got – especially by the words the man had used.

John rather expected Sherlock to retort on that, perhaps to say something about animal programs and voyeurism. But he was met by silence.

As he turned around to look at Sherlock, the man was gone, nowhere to be seen; only some people from a nearby pub were standing out on the street.

Suddenly he felt a strong grip on his arm and another, glove clad hand closed itself over his mouth. With quite some force he was being dragged into a dark, quiet alleyway and out of sight from the people outside of the pub, out of sight from the street or any random passerby.


A/N: Reviews makes me happy and constructive criticisms makes me better. And both makes me glad that you took your time to write them :-)