Author Notes: As promised, this story is longer than the last one and I have planned for it to have three chapters in total. I will only be able to post the next chapter in about three weeks, though (and that's the earliest possible date), because I'm going on weeklong trip to London, starting next Monday.^^
Appreciation: The story was inspired by my conversations with Caycen! Thank you, for bribing my muse with this idea! =)
And now, all of you, enjoy the first chapter! :)
The Definition of Perfection
"Of course! Obviously, that's why... fascinating!"
All eyes turned to Sherlock, who was busy painting a complicated looking diagram on the black board, where all the murders had been listed by Greg. John sat up straighter in his chair as he watched how Sherlock practically vibrated with excitement, while the case of their newest serial killer unraveled itself before his eyes. Not that John - or any of the police officers in the room - were any the wiser, but judging from Sherlock's mumbled words, John was certain that the case would be solved soon.
He sighed in relief and took a sip from the lukewarm, brownish brew - that was supposed to be coffee - as he allowed himself to hope for an successful end to the last couple of horrible days. Not that John hadn't enjoyed the chase all around London - interviewing witnesses and meeting shady acquaintances of his best friend, but... John had envisioned the last couple of days to go differently, on the morning Greg had brought the case to their attention.
"Sherlock!" John knocked at the door of the bathroom for the countless time and sighed in frustration, when he didn't get a reply. It was all right for Sherlock to use the bathroom as he saw fit... but not for over an hour. "Sherlock, I would like to get showered and dressed as well... Preferably today!"
"Don't be overly dramatic, John." The door was opened with a click and a wall of hot steam enfolded John, as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. "It's not even noon yet. You don't have to go to work today and I made sure that you got a chance to use the bathroom, after you had gotten up, so unless you have consumed vast amounts of tea, you should be fine."
A faint blush rose in John's cheeks at Sherlock's remark about his toilet habits, but he refrained from telling his friend off for cataloging every single part of John's life. At least, John hadn't needed to use the toilets at Speedy's, like the one time, when Sherlock had studied the decay rate of livers in the bathtub. The memory gave John pause as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen and gestured helplessly to the bathroom. "You didn't do... anything in there, did you?"
An eloquent eyebrow was raised at John's question, while Sherlock helped himself to a cup of coffee. "No, John, I spent sixty-three minutes in the bathroom just staring at the wall and counting the tiles."
John rolled his eyes at the sarcastic reply and cursed himself for his ill formulated question. "I mean, you didn't experiment in the bathroom... again."
If possible the eyebrow climbed even higher, as blue eyes regarded John like he was an especially dumb species. "Do I look like I did anything besides showering, washing my hair and grooming myself?"
The question probably wasn't meant as an invitation, but John couldn't stop his gaze from wandering at Sherlock's words. The dark curls were a mess of silky, wet gleaming strands and John longed to bury his nose in them and inhale Sherlock's unique scent, even as his eyes followed the trail of a drop of water as it ran down his friend's clavicle. For a second, it looked like the drop would just fall down, before it changed its path and headed for Sherlock's left nipple instead.
God, Watson, get a grip, John ordered himself as a new wave of heat washed over his cheeks, you are a grown man, it's stupid to be jealous of a drop of water.
Still, John couldn't stop himself from imagining what would happen, if he was allowed to lick the moisture from the pink bud of flesh. Would Sherlock's nipple harden under John's lips? Would his friend enjoy the sensation? Or would his skin be numb to John's touch? The last thought gave John pause for a second, before he pushed it away with an inward sigh. No need to speculate about Sherlock's reactions, when Sherlock hadn't even given any indication that he was interested in this sort of thing with him.
"John." There was an uncertain quality to Sherlock's voice and John's eyes shot up to meet troubled blue eyes. "I'm... I know what you think... Or rather, I can deduce what you imagine and I..."
John had to lean against the doorframe as Sherlock's words registered in his mind and made his heart jump with fear and hope at the same time. Was it too much to hope that Sherlock understood how John felt about him and returned his feelings? Or should he better prepare himself for a gentle - or not so gentle, knowing his friend - turn down? It was impossible to make a decision with his heart hammering away in his chest and his head drowning in a maelstrom of feelings and possibilities - and hormones - especially when Sherlock stepped up next to him with only a towel around his hips.
"What I'm trying to say is," Blue eyes flickered to John's lips, before jumping back up to meet John's gaze. A blush colored Sherlock's usually pale cheeks. "I'm not averse to the idea of Us, but..."
John didn't give Sherlock a chance to voice his concerns as he stood up on his tiptoes and claimed his friend's lips with his own. They were soft and responsive as John moved his mouth against them and he all but melted into the kiss as he felt Sherlock's tentative hand at the base of his neck. John's whole body screamed for him to deepen the kiss and to snog Sherlock to within an inch of his life, but he refrained from any such actions and instead pecked Sherlock's lips one last time, before drawing back a little. John didn't know what his friend was comfortable with and he didn't want to spoil the moment by pushing Sherlock too far too fast... or worse, give his friend the impression that John was merely looking for a quickie, when he was interested in much more.
"John." Long fingers stroked the hair at the base of his neck, while blue eyes gazed down at him with a mixture of awe and... trepidation. John frowned slightly as he noted the worried lines on Sherlock's forehead. "I think you should be made aware that I..."
"Boys, you have a visitor! The nice Inspector from Scotland Yard!" With a quiet curse, Sherlock stepped away from John, just when Mrs. Hudson huddled into the flat, with Greg on his heels.
"Oh Sherlock," Their landlady tsked as she laid eyes on him. "You shouldn't run around like this. You will catch a cold if you aren't more careful and then John will have to look after you. The poor dear, as if he doesn't already do anything else. Apropos anything else, Sherlock have you cleaned the fridge yet, after..."
"Mrs. Hudson, if you could shut up for a few minutes, Lestrade could finally tell us what boring case, he isn't able to solve this time." Their landlady closed her mouth with an audible click and a hurt expression as Sherlock gestured for Greg to take a seat.
Usually, John would reprimand his friend for his rude words, but as it was, he was a little miffed at Mrs. Hudson as well. If she hadn't interrupted at the worst possible moment, John wouldn't have to wonder what Sherlock had been about to tell him. It had to be something important, judging from Sherlock's nervousness, just before he had been about to speak. John frowned slightly as he tried to solve this puzzle while listening halfheartedly to Greg's report about the Yard's latest case. John could only imagine one topic, Sherlock would be nervous about discussing with him and he was itching to assure his friend that it was fine. That it was all fine and... Damned, John should have thought of it much sooner and now...
"Brilliant!" John's head jerked up at Sherlock's excited exclamation.
"What?" He managed, when Sherlock hurried of in the direction of his bedroom. "Serial killer. Five bodies so far. Each of them missing a different part of their bodies. The single parts weren't found anywhere. No connection between the victims. No clues as to the motivation of the killer. It's fantastic," Sherlock called over his shoulder and John couldn't stop his lips from curling up in response to his friend's obvious joy.
"I'll be ready in ten," John informed Sherlock as he hurried to the bathroom. There was no use trying to talk with Sherlock, when he was so excited about a case. Besides... John couldn't deny that he was thrilled as well. A serial killer... his blood was already singing with the promise of a chase through London. Still, John sighed as he went through his morning routine in new record time, he hoped that Sherlock would solve this case fast, so that they could go back to where they had left off, when Mrs. Hudson had interrupted them.
"John, you are brilliant!"
The unexpected compliment tore John from his daydreams as he met Sherlock's bright eyes across the room. "Thanks, but why..."
"Don't you see it?!"
John shook his head, even while his brain tried to make sense of Sherlock's drawing on the black board. It appeared familiar, but after living on a short nap of two hours, twelve cups of coffee and three bagels for the last forty-three hours, John couldn't pinpoint where he had seen it before. Apparently, the police officers were as clueless as John was, as Sherlock's exasperated sigh proved, when he pointed at the black board.
"The killer didn't know his victims. It wasn't anything personal. It's not even about the killing for him, he wants to create the perfect human being and with perfect I mean," Sherlock added a few lines to his diagram. "He wants to create a human being with the exact proportions of Leonardo da Vinci's drawing. He wants a human, which corresponds with the golden mean." John blinked slowly at the onslaught of information, while he tried to figure out how Sherlock had come to this conclusion and what John had to do with it. He remembered the drawing from his school days - something to do with the proportions of a circle - but he didn't understand how...
"And again, the Freak proves just how sick he is," Sally's mocking voice sounded from the back of the room and John had to bite his tongue to hold back a scathing remark. Sherlock had proven often enough that he was more than capable of taking Sally on alone. This time, his friend didn't even deem her remark worth a reply as he carried on with his explanation. "It was your remark about puzzles, in combination with this utter rubbish of English literature - which you forced me to read a couple of months ago - that brought me to this conclusion, John." A brilliant smile was bestowed open John, who shook his head in astonishment as he tried to catch up with Sherlock's brilliant mind. "You mean Frankenstein?" It was the only book - which wasn't scientific - that Sherlock had read in the last few months.
His friend nodded eagerly and ignored the skeptical looks of the police officers and Greg. "Our murderer takes the body parts of his victims to handicraft his own creature. He must have created some mathematical equitation to determine which proportions the single body parts have to have to create his perfect human being. Of course, it's impossible to create a working body from single parts, but... I would love to see how he thought it would be possible to awaken his creature."
"Alright," Greg interrupted Sherlock's deductions. "Assuming you are right, how do you explain that our murderer killed women and men alike? Does he want to create a couple?"
Sherlock's sigh echoed from the walls of the room as he rolled his eyes in exasperation at the DI. "No, it just means that the arms of two women had the perfect proportions and that the victims he harvested the legs and torso from, just happened to be men with the desired proportions."
"So, the creature of our serial killer will be a hybrid," one of the officers snickered and John mourned the fact that the man wouldn't be punished by having to clean the lavatories for the next couple of weeks. Sometimes, he really missed the army.
"And do you also know who will be the next victim of the killer, Freak?" Sally managed to glare at the officer and insult Sherlock at the same time as she turned her attention to the diagram on the black board.
"Even better," Sherlock flashed her a toothy grin. "I know where he handicrafts his creature."
All eyes were on Sherlock as he marked a spot on the map with a red X. It took John a few seconds to catch on, but when he did, a gasp escaped past his lips. "If you connect the places of all the murders you get a circle and he has his... lab exactly in the center of it." Sherlock nodded in approval at John's conclusion and then turned to challenge Greg with a glare. "Shall we wait until he murders someone else or are you going to search this building?"
The DI sighed, but John could tell from his sagged posture and the lines in his face that he would follow Sherlock's lead, as crazy as the deductions sounded. The serial killer had played the police for weeks and everyone wanted to solve the case and end the madness. "Fine, I will send my men to the address. It can't be worse than some of the other tips we have received so far."
"Good, let me know, when you have arrested him, Lestrade. Come, John!"
Greg raised an eyebrow at John, when he followed Sherlock out of the room. Usually, Sherlock loved to be present for the arrest of a serial killer, so it was almost unheard of that he went home without complaint. John merely shrugged at Greg's silent inquiry, while he checked that his gun was in the pocket of his jacket at the same time. One never knew with Sherlock and John's suspicion was proven correct, when the brilliant genius hailed them a taxi and gave the driver the address of their suspect.
"You're mad," John muttered as he sat down next to Sherlock.
"And you love every second of this madness." Sherlock winked at him and John couldn't contain a small giggle as the driver brought them to the doorstep of yet another serial killer.
OOO
It was perfect.
Sherlock examined the house- a five storey building - with unconcealed glee. Of course, he had been certain - to a degree of 99% - that his deductions had been correct, but now he was absolutely sure that their killer was only just a few steps away from them.
"Look at the name plates, John," he whispered in excitement as his friend came to stand next to him. "Only two people still live in this building - a company wants to knock it down and build an underground car park here. One is an old woman - Mrs. Reader - and the other one is..."
"Our killer," John finished for him and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from beaming down at his friend. Solving cases was much more fun, when John was with him. Not only did his friend provide a perfect audience, but he was also a conductor of light, a strong fighter and he always watched his back, when Sherlock was too busy to worry about his own safety. The Work wouldn't be the same without John.
The thought sent a cold shiver down Sherlock's spine as it reminded him of the incident - the Kiss - a couple of days ago. This kiss, John's feelings for him and Sherlock's feelings for his best friend could change everything... to the better or the worse. And experience had taught Sherlock that while the former outcome was desired, the latter was far more likely to occur. It wasn't even his fault - as he had thought at first - but mostly a clash of expectations and reality, which had left Sherlock without a friend - or a partner - more often than not.
"Sherlock?" John's worried eyes looked up at him and Sherlock forced himself to focus on the present. There would be enough time later to worry about their relationship. For now, they had to catch a serial killer.
"We will ring Mrs. Reader's doorbell and she will open the front door. I'll check the apartment of our suspect and you'll search the cellar." John stiffened and Sherlock didn't have to be a genius to gather that his friend didn't like the idea of splitting up one bit. Before John could complain, though, Sherlock had already pressed Mrs. Reader's doorbell and was through the door a second later, when the release buzzer was activated.
"Sherlock," he heard John's angry hiss as he hurried up the stairs and was already on his way to the second storey. He didn't turn back. No matter how angry John would be with him later, he wouldn't endanger Sherlock's plan by disobeying his orders. The army had taught him as much. Besides, John shouldn't be in any real danger. Sherlock had only told him to search the cellar, because he wanted to cover all possibilities, but he was certain that the killer was working on his little project in his own flat.
Sherlock smirked as he picked the lock of the door and opened it as quietly as possible. He expected to be greeted by the smells of formaldehyde and/or decay, but... the air was clean. Sherlock sniffed in confusion as he ventured farther into the flat, even while a cold fist clenched around his chest.
He had been wrong!
The flat was perfectly clean. The carpets were hovered. The windows were cleaned. The furniture was polished. No one had experimented with body parts in this flat, which meant... A crashing noise from downstairs and Sherlock was flying down the stairs as fast as possible. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as it sent adrenalin and oxygen through his veins, while Sherlock could only think of John.
John, his best friend, who was loyal to a fault. John, who had followed Sherlock's orders and was now in the lab of a mad serial killer. John... who might get killed, before Sherlock got the chance to tell him how much he meant to him. The last thought cleared his mind and made Sherlock stop in his tracks at the door to the cellar, which was kept ajar. He couldn't allow his panic to control his actions if he wanted to save John.
Slowly and as quietly as possible, Sherlock moved down the narrow staircase. It ended in a hallway, which opened up in three directions, to various rooms in the cellar. Sherlock didn't even need to figure out where he had to go as John's strained voice led him in the right direction.
"That's some interesting scientific work, you have done, here."
Sherlock peeked around the corner of an open door and then crept into the room to hide behind an old bookshelf. This time the smell of formaldehyde and rotting human flesh was unmistakable. Sherlock bit down on the knuckles of his right hand to stop himself from retching. He couldn't even imagine how bad it had to be for John, who stood directly in front of the work place - a dissecting table - with the killer behind him. The man had an arm slung around John's chest and his right hand held a scalpel to John's vulnerable throat.
Sherlock forced back the panic that threatened to choke him as he tried to come up with a way to rescue his best friend. Both men had their backs to him, but Sherlock didn't have a weapon to attack the killer. The gun was in John's jacket pocket and even if he had it, Sherlock wouldn't dare shooting, out of fear that the killer would slice his friend's throat, before the bullet hit its target.
"My creature is almost perfect," the killer - Thomas Lang, if the name plate was to be believed - boasted. "Almost, but," Sherlock couldn't see what the man did, but it was enough to make John flinch minutely in his grip. "Yes, your head is perfect. It has the exact proportions, I was looking for. You'll be part of my creature. You'll give him, your face."
Sherlock didn't think. There was no time to plan his next actions carefully - not when John's life was flickering in the grip of a mad man - Sherlock could merely act and hope for the best. He stepped out from behind the bookshelf and threw the first book, he got his hands on, in the direction of the killer. Thomas Lang flinched momentarily and screamed a second later, when John elbowed him in the guts and disarmed him with a blow to his shoulder at the same time.
Sherlock crossed the space between them with a few steps and buried his fist in the face of the killer.
"You fucking bastard!" Sherlock grabbed the collar of Thomas Lang and pressed him against the dissecting table, without sparing a glance at the pathetic arrangement of body parts on it. "How dare you think of John as a part of your sick fantasy?! I should behead you and place your head on top of your monstrous creation."
The killer blanched in his grip and Sherlock contemplated going through with his threat for a second, when John's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "He isn't worth it. It will be worse for him to be in prison, instead of dying in his own... lab." A quiet sigh escaped Sherlock's lips. John was right, although his friend was only trying to prevent Sherlock from becoming a murderer himself, he was still right.
"Today is your lucky day," Sherlock snarled in Thomas' face and waited until he sagged in relief, before he drove his knee in the killer's stomach. A pained gasp echoed through the cellar and the bastard would have fallen to the ground, if Sherlock hadn't gripped his right arm and shoulder with both hands. Mere seconds passed, before two sickening cracks announced a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder.
"Please," Thomas had the guts to sob, when he hadn't shown any mercy for any of his victims and would have slit John's throat open without a second thought. Sherlock ignored his begging completely as he aimed for the killer's kidneys and he would have gone after his spleen and liver as well, if a quiet cough from John hadn't stopped him in his rage. "Not even Anderson will believe that he fell out of the cellar's window, if you keep this up." Sherlock snorted at the remark and winked at John, before he grabbed one of the nails on the table and drove it through the wrist of their killer - effectively nailing him to his own sick creation.
"Right, ambulance," John muttered behind him and Sherlock turned around to face his friend. An apology was on his lips - although he didn't feel sorry for impaling the killer on his own nail and rendering him immobile - but was never voiced as he met John's bright eyes. Now was not the time for insincere words, Sherlock realised as his friend crossed the space between them and he suddenly had an armful of John pressed against his chest.
Sherlock released a shuddering breath and closed his arms around his best friend. Warmth seeped from John's body into his and proved to Sherlock that his friend was alive. Alive and unharmed and nothing else mattered in this moment as they held onto each other - ignoring the screams of the killer - until the police stormed the building and they were forced to explain the whole situation to a pissed off Lestrade.