Author's Note: My first contribution to the Sherlock fandom, yay! I gotta say, slash or no slash, this series has completely captured my heart! The painfully obvious John/Sherlock hints are just bonus 3 haha, anyway, enjoy my sweet, sweet, word vomit.
"Got your text. What is it this time Detective Inspector?" Sherlock announced with a bit of annoyance as he walked through the doors of the station, John close on his heels.
"Take a look for yourself." Lastrade countered, shoving a handful of documents and stained parchment papers towards the consulting detective.
Sherlock's eyes briefly scanned the crime scene photographs before passing them to John, chosing to focus his attention on the wrinkled sheets of of paper.
The good doctor regarded the photographs with interest and a slight sick feeling in his gut as the reality of the pictures loomed on him.
They were bodies. Dead bodies, of course. Hung upside down with their throats slit like one might hang livestock. It was like something straight out of a horror film, one he certainly wouldn't be too keen on watching.
"'The Butcher'?" John read the title.
"Yes, that is what they've decided to call him. For his...unique style." Both Lastrade and John made a face of discontent at the comment.
"Yes, it is rather interesting." Sherlock spoke, eyes still lingering on the letters. "Now I assume you've called for my help because a fifth body has been discovered and you have yet to find any lead?"
Sherlock's tone was a little icier than usual and this caused the detective to do a double take.
"Why are you so cross? Was I interrupting something?" Lastrade asked carefully, eyeing the two.
"No, of course-" John started quickly but was abruptely cut off.
"Yes!" Sherlock hissed.
Lastrade was taken back by the sharp ring in the consulting detective's voice, his confusion growing.
"Come now detective, I know you lack deductionary prowess but can you honestly not see?" Sherlock practically growled. When Lastrade's brows knotted in further confusion Sherlock let out a long sigh.
"Elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, clothing and hair dishevelled?" Sherlock hinted sarcastically. "The fact that John forgot to zip up his trouser's in his haste should have been a dead give away." The high functioning sociopath spat, fighting the grin as he saw a rather flustered doctor trying to discreetly do up his trousers.
Realization seemed to be dawning on the detective inspector, Sherlock noted, a slight redness blooming onto his cheeks in embarassement.
"Er...right." He said, coughing awkwardly into his fist. "Well uh, if you could help us identify the killer then you could go back to-"
"Killers."
"Beg pardon?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, thrusting the letters towards the officer.
"See this?" He said, pointing at a word written on the paper. "The way the writer curves his 'e' is different than in the other letters. A different handwriting, therefore a different person. The eraser scuffs suggest that this man erased often. Obviously he was trying to imitate the handwriting, wanting to make it seem like the letter's were all coming from the same person, so that when one was suspected of murder, his alibi would prove that it couldn't possibly be him since all of the letters couldn't correspond to him."
Sherlock said, all in one breath, as if it was painfully obvious.
"That was fantastic." John breathed out, as he usually did after one of Sherlock's deductive masterpieces.
A smug grin played on the detective's lips as he remembered the good doctor saying something similar just a few hours ago. John noticed his lover's complacent smirk and couldn't help but offer him a shy smile in return.
"Of course..." Lastrade exhaled, looking at his feet in shame as he and his team seemed to have overlooked another 'obvious' detail.
Sherlock broke his and John's eye contact and returned his attention to the detective inspector.
"While I'm here I may as well take a look at the bodies." Sherlock said, straightening his coat lappels. "Molly, I am sure you can escort me to them?"
"Of course." Molly said in her squeaky voice, smiling cutely at the detective.
Sherlock turned his body slightly towards John and grasped his hand gently, giving the stocky fingers a squeeze.
"I won't be long." He promised before he was galloping towards the morgue.
John watched the detective's back dissapear with a stupid grin, eyes bright and cheeks slightly flustered. He was brought back to reality by the sound of someone clearing their throat.
It was then John noticed that a crowd had begun to form around him, consisting of Lastrade, Donovan, Anderson, and a few other members of the yard.
"So," Lestrade began with a chesire grin. "you and him?"
John chuckled nervously, another blush creeping onto his cheeks. "Erm, yes, I suppose."
"Who knew the freak had a heart." Sally said tauntingly, though the insult came out more of a tease.
Anderson only scoffed, looking as if he was going to be sick.
After a few moments of silence, Lastrade cut in once more.
"Alright, I know this is none of my business but the curiosity is killing me."
John nodded cautiously, curious himself as to what the detective inspector seemed to be dying to know.
Lestrade's voice lowered to a slight whisper, yet still loud enough for the others to hear him clearly.
"What is he like in bed?"
John nearly choked as the word's left the older man's lips, the blush returning to his cheeks for the umpteenth time that evening.
Sally crossed her arms and clicked her heels together, straightening her composure. "I have to admit, I am rather curious too."
Anderson...well, Anderson definitley looked like he was going to be sick but the fact that he was sticking around showed that he too harbored his own curiosity to the supposed sociopath's behavior behind closed doors. Bedroom door's to be exact.
"You two have...you know..." Asked Lastrade suddenly, and John was starting to become convinced that it was infact possible to die of embarassement.
"Yes...uh, yes we have." John stated rather awkwardly, the redness of his cheeks intesifying.
When John was silent again it was Sally's turn to intervene.
"So?" She pressured, a grin plastered on her face at her womanly interest in gossip. "What is it like to sleep with 'The Great Sherlock Holmes'?"
"Does he enjoys tying you up?" Anderson spat scornfully.
"I'll bet he uses his riding crop." Sally added, sharing a mocking glance with Anderson.
"Does he bring severed body parts into the bedroom?" Another one of the yard workers, a pudgy gentleman, asked.
"Or the back alley. Heaven knows what that man is into." Came another remark, this time from a short blond woman.
Lastrade looked a little shocked by their suggestions, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't expect something of the sort from a man like Sherlock Holmes.
All of them stared at John, eager eyes seeming to bore into his very soul as they waited for a the doctor to confirm or deny their suspiscions.
John on the other hand, was searching the deepest trenches of his mind, trying to find the right words to describe Sherlock's behavior towards him in a romantic sense.
Upon first glance, one would find that Sherlock Holmes seemed like a rather cold man, void of anything even remotely resembling human emotion but John knew that was far from the truth.
He'd had many partner's before- granted they were all woman, but he and Sherlock shared something that others just couldn't compare to. Not only was the man his boyrfriend; his lover; dare he say, his soulmate, but he was also his friend. His best friend. That greatly added to their relationship.
Now for the question;
What was Sherlock like in bed?
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock was quite vanilla when it came to sex.
There were no drugs involved, no toys, no complicated positions that could only be attained by years of contortionism. It was simple, something that the detective wasn't exactly known for.
When Sherlock and John did have sex, which wasn't as often as one might think, it was slow, romantic, passionate. Bodies pressed so closely that they could melt as one while Sherlock whispered how important the doctor was to him in his ear.
Of course Sherlock had his rough, needy nights but for the most part it was always gentle and sweet. As if John were something priceless and fragile that needed to be handled with utmost care, which, I guess if you were Sherlock Holmes was absolutely true.
Behind that hard, deductive shell, the man had loving side.
It was a side well hidden by the consulting detective's harsh exterior, a side that only John had the privilege to experiance, and a big smile couldn't help but creep its way onto his features at the thought.
"Um...John?"
John snapped out of his daze and looked up at Lastrade. The rest of the yard were still waiting for his answer.
"Good." John replied with a nod. "The sex is good."
[X]
Back at 221B Baker street, after Sherlock had stated that whoever was behind the murders was the man and wife who worked at that deli down in central london, he and John had taken where they left off before Lastrade's call and were now lying snuggled up in eachother's arms in Sherlock's bed, warm and content.
Sherlock had his arm wrapped around John's middle, the fingers of his other hand entwined with the doctor's as his lips were pressed against the back of the former army doctor's neck.
The hot moistness of Sherlock breathing rythmicaly on the back of John's neck was lulling him to sleep, but before he could succomb to the blissful unconsciousness he felt a stirr behind him as his lover adjusted his position, curling his body around John's.
"I love you." Came the detective's gruff, sleepy barritone, barely above a whisper. John smiled, stroking the man's fingers in response.
Their relationship was definitely better than good, but the rest of the world didn't need to know that.