He could hear his heart beating hard in his ears. Feel the stinging in his lungs. His veins were pumping battery acid as he once again found himself racing through the streets of London at 100mph, on foot no less. But he couldn't complain, didn't want to, he loved it. Being able to run like this felt like a gift. He had been given part of his life back and he owed it all to the tall dark blur who was racing alongside him. He'd had enough danger and excitement to last him a lifetime over the years but this; this was in a completely different league, and he bloody loved it, of course he did.

It was fast approaching midnight and the alleyways they were racing through were deserted and dark. It never ceased to amaze John quite how Sherlock managed to navigate his way around London so well; night or day. He didn't need sight to be able to see when he was in London. It was his home and he knew every single inch of it perfectly.

Sherlock swooped sharply down a fresh path to the left, so suddenly that John carried on running straight ahead until that familiar baritone echoed along the bricks, "This way, John!" guiding him the right way, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, this sudden left turn...

He skidded on the dirty alley floor beneath his feet, catching himself with a hand on the ground before sprinting like an athlete off the starting blocks back in the opposite direction, even faster now in order to catch back up, "A little warning would be nice in future," he breathed, feeling his lungs sting a little at having to breath rapidly AND talk. His having to slow down messed up his rhythm and his endurance was wearing thin but he pushed onward regardless, he was still a soldier at heart after all.

He didn't even know where he was going, definitely didn't know where he was, so it was imperative he keep Sherlock in his line of sight at all times, he knew all too well that there was no way the detective would slow down for him to catch up. It was hard to believe that it was only 2 hours ago that he was sitting quite comfortably at home, blogging about the dead end in their case. Sherlock had been lying on the sofa, fingers steepled staring at the ceiling. This wasn't unusual for him. As much as he loathed the lack of direction when case leads dried up, he loved the puzzle that this new conundrum would produce.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock suddenly sat bolt upright, his eyes flickering with the beginning threads of what was likely to be an ingenious idea. "Give me your phone," he said suddenly. John had come to learn that it was better not to protest, it wasted time, so instead he pulled his phone out of his pocket, with a begrudging sigh, and threw it to Sherlock. His fingers moved like lighting over the keys and before you could say 'Hold on, your phone is right there' he was up, coat on and out the door. There was a swift throwing-John's-phone-back in there too somewhere but John couldn't quite figure out where...

After scrambling up and sending laptop clattering to the ground, John was out of the door and into the crisp London night air following his companion at break neck speeds once more. In such a short amount of time, they'd trailed a new suspect, antagonised new suspect, gotten into a scuffle with new suspect and lost new suspect within the alleys of London, bringing us just about up to speed. John still hadn't had chance to actually ask Sherlock who this guy even was and how the hell he had suddenly decided he was the one they were after.

Up ahead, he could just see a dark blur turn sharply to the right, only just illuminated by distant streetlights. He swerved the corner quickly and stopped abruptly upon there being no Sherlock to be found. No sounds of running, no scrambling over a fence or up a wall, no voice guiding him. Bugger. Now he was lost in an alley somewhere in London he had never been before completely and utterly...

"Bloody hell!" A pale hand grabbed at Johns elbow, pulling him into the shadows, "What the f..."

"Shh," that voice, it was familiar.

"But.."

"John, quiet," of course. Sherlock. He'd been lurking in the shadows, back against the wall, waiting. Now John was next to him, back against the wall, one freakishly strong forearm pressed over his chest holding him in place. He held his breath. He could feel the heat radiating through Sherlock's jacket, through his jacket and into him and it stirred something up within John that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was confusing but not all together unpleasant. His head gave an involuntary jolt as he inwardly shook the thoughts from his head. Now wasn't the time. Instead he remembered he needed to breath to live, so he should really start doing that again...

Nothing happened for the next two minutes until finally he felt Sherlock's arm tremble and loosen its hold ever so slightly, John decided now might be a good time to do some interrogating of him own. He opened his mouth to speak but was rudely cut off.

"No John, now most definitely is not the right time to talk, so please. be. quiet." John huffed slightly but immediately felt the burning heat of Sherlock's glare at his continuing attempts to break the deathly silence.

Suddenly a figure rounded the corner and began walking tentatively down the alley they were in. Before John could take another breath, Sherlock had shifted his position from next to him to in front of him, opening his coat and covering him completely. A small squeak was about to escape from John's lips, but Sherlock had obviously anticipated it; clamping a hand over his mouth and pressing his entire body flush against him, firmly against the wall.

'Oh bloody fuck' John thought to himself, 'what have you got yourself into this time, John Watson'.

The figure passed them quietly, having no idea they were even there. John could just about see the man and recognised him as the same one from earlier, who they'd gotten into a rather out-of-the-blue brawl with.

In a typically Sherlock fashion, he removed his hand from John's mouth and leapt onto the man, sending him crashing to the ground with a painful face plant to the concrete. John stood frozen in the spot watching him struggle with the man until Sherlock finally broke the silence with a strangled "Bloody hell, John, a little help would very nice right now," finally he shook his head, got the feeling back in his legs and came back down to earth after such unexpected close contact. He cleared his throat quietly before running over to help.

After some minutes struggling, Sherlock finally had the man subdued just as Lestrade rounded the corner with a team of his officers.

"Who's this?" he said, motioning his phone in the direction of the man on the ground, being carefully sat on by Sherlock.

John shrugged and waved his arms around a bit. Honestly? He had no idea. Everything that had happened was just another one of those random adventures Sherlock dragged him on.

Sherlock looked up at John, then at Lestrade, then back to John, "Really? Neither of you have any idea? Not one single, solitary inkling as to this man's identity?"

John and Lestrade exchanged a sheepish glance, a look most commonly used whenever something was astoundingly clear to Sherlock, yet positively unfathomable to everybody else.

Sherlock sighed angrily before getting up off the man so that Lestrade's officers could take him away. "That man, is Robert Creber, our vic's brother and our vic's murderer"

"Sherlock, our Vic doesn't have a brother,"

"Yes..." Sherlock straightened out and brushed the dirt from his knees, "She does, and that is him,"

Another bewildered sideways glance took place between Lestrade and John.

At this, Sherlock threw his arms up and stalked off, whirling around at the last possible moment to explain himself, the urge to look exceedingly intelligent too strong to pass up, "Honestly, I could not even begin to imagine what it must be like to have brains that function so slowly. Check the pockets, check the shoes, search his home. You'll find the murder weapon stashed in a black bin bag buried in the Garden next to a dead Hydrangea. Run a DNA test if you must, but if you simply looked into his eyes you would see that that man is her brother and he killed her for the wealth her Father left her in his will, a will he was not a part of because of his Mother's adultery and..."

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake, how can we even place him at..."

"Check. The. Shoes. Come on, I've told you where you need to look, now look," and with that, he was off again, pulling his coat tightly around him, hands in pockets, stalking back home.

Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh before walking in the opposite direction, leaving John stood completely alone in the middle of an alleyway. He stood perfectly still for a few long seconds, watching Sherlock leave and thinking carefully about the past 10 minutes. It was then it dawned on him that he couldn't very well stand here all night, so quickly jogged after him until they were walking in line with each other in complete silence.

"I can hear you thinking, John, what is it?"

"What are they going to find? When they look for what you told them to?"

"On the shoes they will find traces of the vic's garden from where he climbed through the flowerbed to get to her window. In his pocket – her necklace that was missing from her neck, her murder wasn't..."

"Necklace?"

"Yes John, there was a distinct mark around her neck, often caused by excessive wear of jewellery without taking it off or cleaning it. It was obvious a family heirloom or something of the like so it wasn't likely that she'd left it at home, she'd always worn it, 24/7"

"And why did he take it?"

Sherlock continued to stare forward, flinching slightly at John's persistent questioning, "As I was saying before you interrupted, her murder wasn't deliberate it was impulse, he hadn't planned it and was therefore a mistake. He didn't take it as a trophy, he took it because he regretted it, because he wanted to keep a part of her, because he wanted a part of the family he always wanted to be a part of,"

"And the murder weapon in the garden? How did you know it was there?"

"His fingernails of course, how else?"

John decided not to question further, despite the fact he still had many unanswered questions. He could see Sherlock was getting frustrated, so instead they walked together in complete silence back to 221B Baker Street.

It was approaching 3am when they finally got home. Sherlock strolled in, peeling off the spent nicotine patches he'd plastered his forearm with hours earlier and flopped down in his usual chair, legs long and outstretched in front of him, arms lying limply out to the sides and his head titled back, eyes shut. John stood carefully studied him like this. He felt a small shiver run through him as he followed the lines of his neck over his shoulders and down his arms. He was perfectly structured; everything about him was a work of art.

"You're staring at me, John," his voice was deep and sleepy as it rumbled through him. John averted his eyes to the mantle and instead focussed his attentions on the knife holding a stack of letters in place.

John decided not to respond. Instead he slipped into the Kitchen and popped the Kettle on. He placed his palms flat on the grungy countertop (an unusual shade of brown following a week long experiment by the detective) and tried not to think. It wasn't working; however, as his mind quite rudely forced him back to the scene in the alleyway. He wondered why he'd done it, why he suddenly found himself pressed flat against a dirty alley wall with one Sherlock Holmes pressed quite firmly up against him. Why had he done it? Why could he have possibly decided...

"You're wearing a white shirt," came that voice again. John turned slowly to find Sherlock leaning up against the arch way, his piercing gaze penetrating his head and reading his mind. It was always very unnerving when he did that.

"Come again?"

"You're wearing a white shirt. My clothes are dark. We were in the shadows but your white shirt would have given you away so I covered you before Creber saw you,"

Silence. John couldn't help feel the tiniest bit disappointed at such a practical excuse, but mentally slapped himself before cutting that confusing trail of thought. Surely he should be feeling relieved not disappointed?

"Oh, OK, that's fine, completely fine, I wasn't wondering, I knew that, it's OK," John met Sherlock's eyes. He could feel heat rising upward from his feet and he cursed inwardly at himself. Why on earth was he nervous? But more importantly, why on earth was he acting like an awkward school girl? John broke away from his flat mate's intense stare and instead busied himself with tea making.

He heard Sherlock return to his seat, where he would likely fall asleep that evening, and only relaxed completely when he'd escaped to his room to be alone to think.

"John Watson," he whispered to himself in the dark, "What the bloody hell are you thinking,"

To be Continued...