John Watson was startled awake by the sound of Sherlock yelling, "Finally!" Blinking, John groaned as he sat up. He had passed out at some point on the couch while waiting with Sherlock for the surveillance tapes. "Mycroft must be off his game if he took that long."

Yawning, John stretched out, grimacing as he felt the tension in his neck. He glanced out of the window to see that it was still dark outside – probably early morning hours. After a moment of silence, he knew he needed a cup of coffee. John rose to his feet and headed into the kitchen. "Want a cup of coffee?" he called back to Sherlock.

He waited the appropriate amount of time needed for Sherlock to process that John had spoken to him, what he had said, and formulate an answer. About fifteen seconds later, Sherlock said, "What? Oh, yes. Yes, please."

John quickly made a pot of coffee. He quickly poured two cups and put two sugars in Sherlock's. Heading back into the living room, John handed Sherlock a cup before leaning down to see the laptop screen. Black-and-white surveillance tape played were playing on the screen. They watched as Thornton, their now dead culprit, burst into the bank. Quickly, he brandished his weapon and forced everyone on the floor. The tellers frantically filled the duffel bag before Thornton snatched it back and hurried out the door. The view abruptly changed to the street. Without hesitating for even a moment, Thornton threw the duffel bag into the car and leapt into the driver's seat. The footage followed him down the street before he turned into an alleyway. After a long moment, the camera view changed to let them see the car. A man was standing on the sidewalk. Thornton and this mysterious man had an exchange, and the man finally pulled out what John assumed was the picture. After taking it and looking at it for some time, Thornton quickly handed the man the duffel bag before tearing out of the alleyway. The entire exchange took less than twenty seconds. The man walked around the corner and disappeared into the crowd. Thornton sat there a moment, probably worrying about his daughter, and a patrol car slowed down next to the alley. After a moment's pause, the patrol car's lights turned on. It was then that Thornton tore out of the alleyway, speeding off down the street.

Sherlock stopped the video and sat back before taking a sip of coffee. "Ingenious," he murmured. "And yet completely dull."

"You would think that, wouldn't you?" John asked rhetorically.

Either Sherlock did not notice John's tone or decided to ignore it completely. "They contaminated that picture of his daughter, knowing that if he made contact with it then he would suffer an anaphylactic shock. But he was wearing gloves when he took the photo and when he crashed. So how?" he murmured, pressing his hands together and placing them against his lips.

"Did you check the photograph for prints?" John asked.

"No, but that's useless. Both of these men were wearing gloves, and this plan is thought out well enough that they wouldn't make such an amateur mistake," Sherlock chided.

John replied, "I didn't ask if you dusted for fingerprints, Sherlock. I asked if you dusted for prints." Clearly confused, Sherlock looked at John and raised an eyebrow. John realised that what he was about to say would have never crossed Sherlock's mind otherwise. "It would not be farfetched to believe that Thornton could have kissed the photo."

"Why would he do something like that?" Sherlock asked, mystified.

John informed him, "Because he loves her. Because it could be the last picture he ever sees of her. Because it's something a normal human might do in such an emotionally charged situation. And it's probably how the allergen came into contact with his skin."

Sherlock still looked confused. "And it's completely probable that he would kiss a photograph?" he clarified.

"Yes, Sherlock," John answered.

With that, Sherlock closed his laptop, unplugged it, and headed towards the door. John hurried after him, not wanting to be left behind. They popped out of the building and quickly hailed a cab. John was internally grateful that they lived in London, where taxis were on the go 24/7. Sherlock ordered him to drive to St. Bart's, and the driver took off. In due time, they wound up outside Bart's Hospital. It was John's turn to pay, so he did before getting out of the cab. Sherlock was already inside. Sprinting after him, John mentally cursed Sherlock for having such long legs. He always struggled to keep up with Sherlock, who never seemed to notice. John caught up to Sherlock just as the lift doors opened. Stepping onto the lift, John stifled a yawn. Sherlock hit the proper button, and they were in the laboratories before John knew it. Luckily, the photograph Sherlock and Molly had been testing and examining earlier was still down there. It was only then that John realised that Sherlock had not told Lestrade about the photo. Quickly, Sherlock began sifting through the different equipment, clearly looking for the items needed to dust for prints. Rubbing his eyes, John glanced over to find a bench in the back of the lab. Being as out of place as it was, it stood out to John as strange.

"You should rest," Sherlock stated.

John looked back at Sherlock and tilted his head. "What?"

"There's nothing you can do right now," Sherlock explained. "And unlike me, you need to rest whenever possible or this case is going to feel very long to you. Besides, I need for you to be able to keep up with me later. Chances are that we're going to need your keen marksmanship later."

Heading over to the bench, John inquired, "Why is this here?"

"That area used to be a waiting room and this used to be a doctor's office," Sherlock answered as he set several things onto the counter. "They busted out the wall when they decided to renovate this space into laboratories, but they kept one of the benches in order to keep a bit of the 'history' in the room."

John sat down on the hard bench. "Makes sense," he muttered to himself before pulling off his jacket.

"No, it doesn't," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly.

Rolling his eyes, John bunched up his jacket, slid an arm underneath it, brought it closer, and rested his head on it. Getting comfortable, John listened as Sherlock worked – shuffling things around, clinking different things together, typing on his laptop. The different subtle noises were soothing to John. They reminded him that he was not alone. Eventually, his breathing slowed. John relaxed completely despite the fact that he was still a bit uncomfortable on the stiff bench. Suddenly, he heard the door to the laboratories open.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Molly's quiet voice called out.

Sherlock replied, "Evening, Molly. Perfect timing. Could you hand me my coat?"

"Is Dr Watson with you?" she asked, her voice sounding slightly hopeful. John could hear her footsteps getting closer.

Sherlock said, "Over there." He then heard the rustling of material. "Thank you, Molly."

"Are you cold?" Molly inquired, clearly trying to get a conversation going.

Bluntly, Sherlock answered, "No." John could hear a pair of heavy footsteps coming closer. Just as they got right next to him, John felt something lightly cover him. He was overwhelmed by Sherlock's scent, and he smiled softly with realisation. Shifting slightly underneath Sherlock's trench coat, John brought it a bit closer to his face.

"Why did you do that?" Molly asked curiously.

John listened as Sherlock headed back. "He's less likely to have nightmares when covered by something," he answered matter-of-factly. Face flushing, John was not sure how to feel about Sherlock's observations. He felt flattered yet embarrassed.

"Oh," Molly murmured in response. "So he's sleeping?"

Sherlock corrected, "He's resting." John felt surprised, although he knew he really shouldn't. After all, Sherlock's observational skills were above and beyond everyone else's. Of course Sherlock would be able to tell when John was asleep and when he was in limbo between those two stages of consciousness.

"Isn't that the same thing?" Molly inquired.

Scoffing, Sherlock said, "No."

A hush fell over the room, and John could feel just how self-conscious Molly was. Her nervousness was practically radiating from her body. Finally, her soft-spoken voice broke the silence, "So – um – don't take this the wrong way, but – well – I was just wondering…"

"What is it?" Sherlock cut in.

Molly finally asked, "Is there something different between you two?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock queried. John could tell by the tone of his voice that Sherlock was not really paying attention to the conversation.

Hesitating, Molly clarified, "It just seems like your relationship is different." John almost stopped breathing as he heard this. "Not a bad different, mind you, but different." When Sherlock did not say anything, Molly pressed, "So is there something different? Or am I just going crazy?" She laughed a bit after her question, letting it serve as a release for her uneasiness.

"My relationship with John has evolved over the last couple of months. I do not believe anything changed recently, so I am not sure how to answer your question," Sherlock responded.

Molly replied, "Well, I guess that clears that up. I mean, it was silly to think that you two – well, you know." She laughed nervously once more.

"We are together," Sherlock suddenly stated, finally catching onto what Molly was insinuating. John stopped breathing the moment he heard that. How could Sherlock say something like that so lightly? How could he answer the question that had been burning in the back of John's mind since they had kissed? And was that actually what they were? Were they together?

"I'm sorry. What?" Molly asked, sounding a bit faint.

Sherlock answered, "You heard me. I don't like repeating myself."

"Since when?" she pressed, her voice sounding faint.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock responded, "Three months, one week, and three days. More or less." John mentally tracked that back to the day they solved the Green-Eyed Soldier case. Suppressing a smile, he felt a spike of giddiness he had not felt since Sherlock kissed him.

"And what does that mean – you two being together?" Molly asked, her voice barely audible.

This time, Sherlock hesitated before he replied, "It means that he isn't dating women anymore. I was never particularly interested in them in the first place, so nothing changes for me."

"So you're gay?" Molly inquired, her voice breaking slightly. John's heart went out to her. He had imagined the pain he would experience if Sherlock ever figured out his feelings and rejected him.

Scoffing, Sherlock answered, "Of course not. I'm only interested in John. He's the only one I could ever be with." John released a breath as he heard this, not having realised he was holding it until that moment.

Molly whispered, "Oh. Okay. Well, good night then."

"Wait, I thought you had to work on something," Sherlock said, completely clueless.

Her broken voice responded, "Oh, no. Thought I forgot something. Guess not. Good night."

She scurried out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her. "Not good?" Sherlock asked, knowing John was still awake.

"You were fine," he answered honestly, not opening his eyes. "It's just a lot of information to take in. After all, I'm sure no one was expecting for us to actually become something more than friends. Besides Mrs Hudson, I mean. So give her some time. She's strong – she'll bounce back."

Clearly confused, Sherlock asked, "Why would she need to bounce back from anything?"

John smiled and shook his head as he heard this. "Spectacularly ignorant, Sherlock," he muttered. "Sometimes so spectacularly ignorant." He could practically see Sherlock's scowl behind his closed eyes, but Sherlock did not respond.

John eventually slipped into a blissful, dreamless sleep. He felt as if he had only been sleeping for a couple minutes before he felt someone lightly shaking him. Groaning, he batted the hand away as he flipped over to sleep some more. "John, wake up," Sherlock called out. John grumbled under his breath and heard Sherlock say, "If you don't get up right now, I'm going to take your handgun and go after the suspect by myself."

"What?" John grunted as he sat up. Sherlock's trench coat fell off his upper torso, and he stared at it blankly for a moment. "Did you figure something out?"

"I had Mycroft pull more surveillance feed, and I figured out where the second suspect went," Sherlock answered, snatching his coat off John. "So are you coming with me?"

John quickly rose to his feet. "Of course I am," he replied as he checked for his handgun. Nowadays, he never left the flat without his handgun. He never knew when Sherlock would lead them into a life-or-death situation anymore.

"Let's go," Sherlock said.

Staggering to his feet, John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he followed Sherlock out of the lab. They emerged from the hospital and caught a cab. Clearly fidgety, Sherlock glanced over at John several times. Finally, John asked, "What is it?"

"Aren't you going to ask where we're going? How I deduced the exact location? How I could possibly know as much as I do?" he pressed, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.

John sighed and shook his head. "I've learned to stop questioning you every time you figure something out," he responded. When he saw Sherlock pout, he finally realised exactly what Sherlock wanted; he wanted to impress John – to give John a reason to praise him. "How were you ever able to figure it out?" he inquired, finally giving in.

Excited, Sherlock said, "I had Mycroft give me access to the surveillance videos. He's willing to do nearly anything to get that million quid back, after all. Once I got access, I found the second suspect and was able to follow him back to his flat. He was very clever; I almost lost him several times while trying to track him."

"As if anyone could outsmart Sherlock Holmes," John responded. Sherlock looked at him expectantly, and he barely managed to keep himself from sighing. Of course that would not be good enough. "And once again, you were completely brilliant. Absolutely extraordinary. What would Scotland Yard do without you?"

Sherlock smiled as he heard this before relaxing in his seat. "What would Scotland Yard do without me, John?" he asked. John knew it was a rhetorical question. After a moment's pause, he continued, "God, they would all be so lost. Think of how many people would have been falsely accused and sent to prison, or never captured, or even murdered if I hadn't been there."

Chuckling under his breath, John sarcastically replied, "It's good to know you remain humble despite all of that."

Clearly not paying attention, Sherlock continued, "You know, they probably should appreciate what I do for them more. They should be more like you, John."

"Oh, no," John answered. "Your ego gets inflated enough from my compliments. You do not need an entire division of people praising you. Just one person is enough."

Sherlock smirked as he heard this. "Oh, don't worry. Your compliments would still mean more to me than all of Scotland Yard's. They're a bunch of idiots anyway."

"You call me an idiot all the time, Sherlock," John pointed out.

Nodding, Sherlock replied, "Yes, but at least you're interesting."

"How generous of you," John remarked dryly. Even so, he could not keep the smile from spreading across his face. That was the highest form of praise he could receive from Sherlock.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock added, "I meant everything I said, you know. It could only be you."

"Be quiet or people will talk," John answered, casting a wary glance at the cab driver.

Sherlock pressed his lips together in distaste but caught John's signal. Instead of pushing the matter further anyway, he just sat back in his seat and looked out the window. It took approximately fifteen more minutes before the taxi came to a stop. As John paid for the taxi, Sherlock practically leapt out of the seat. He rushed after Sherlock, determined not to fall behind this time. They reached the flat, and John noticed a crack in the door frame by where the bolt would be. Heart sinking, he had seen this plenty of times before after entering a building behind an infantry team. Quickly, he drew out his handgun and shoved Sherlock behind him. Sherlock shot him a confused glance but said nothing. John checked the doorknob to find it unlocked.

"You do not enter until I tell you it's clear. Do you understand, Sherlock?" John hissed.

Sherlock gave a single nod and took a step back. Slowly opening the door, John slid into the room quietly. He hesitated a moment as his eyes adjusted slightly to the darkness. After checking around the entrance hall, John slipped into the first room. He blinked several times in hopes that it would make his eyes dilate faster. Suddenly, John tripped over something. Adrenaline rushed through his system as he quickly rolled out of the fall, twisting around and pointing his gun at the now visible lump on the floor. His eyes locked on the figure, and he quickly recognised the silhouette of a dead body.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock called out.

John rose to his feet and answered, "Yeah, I'm fine… but you'll want to get in here."

The door opened, lighting the hallway for a moment before Sherlock turned on the light. Wincing, John turned away and let his eyes adjust again. He then turned back to find a man sprawled out on the floor. Blood pooled around his head, and his medium length brunette hair was matted and pressed down against his skull. Squatting down, John stared at the back of the head for a moment before finally realising that part of it was concave.

"Another murder," John noted, rising to his feet. "I'm calling Lestrade."

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock answered, "Fine."

John found Lestrade's number and called it. After three rings, he heard a groggy, "'Ello?" from the other end.

"Lestrade, it's John Watson," John said. "Sherlock figured out where the second suspect was, and we arrived here to find him dead. I figured you would want to be the first one informed."

"Wait, what?" Lestrade asked, sounding more awake now. "What second suspect?"

Confused, John asked, "Didn't Sherlock tell you?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue and snatched the phone away from John. After a moment's hesitation, he said sarcastically, "Well, of course he managed to pay the blackmailers! The money did not just disappear into thin air, after all." He paused for another moment. "I managed to find one of the blackmailers, but we arrived here too late. He's been murdered as well." After another second or two, Sherlock was clearly exasperated. "Do you use that brain of yours at all? Yes, I said murdered. Anderson's an idiot if he thinks it's anything else. You're an idiot, too, if you believe that. He was killed by the blackmailers, but the reason why is still unclear." Frowning, Sherlock said, "I'll text you the address." With that, he snapped the mobile shut and quickly sent an SMS. "We've got fifteen minutes before those morons arrive."

"Alright," John said, stepping back. Sherlock would tell him when he needed him.

Squatting down, Sherlock began examining the body. He circled it twice, each time barely touching or moving different body parts or pieces of clothing. After a couple minutes, he stood up and motioned for John to do his examination. John kneeled down next to the body and leaned in closer to the head. Brain matter could be seen and bits of skull broken and stabbing into the wound. "Cause of death appears to be a blow to the back of the head. The murder weapon is flat and sturdy, going by the wound shape and depth," John stated before touching the hand and wrist. They were cold and stiff. Checking his watch, he was surprised to see it was almost five in the morning. "He's been dead since 10-12 o'clock yesterday morning."

"So he collects the money, kills the bank robber, brings it back here, and waits for his accomplice to come. He thinks that they're going to split the money, but his accomplice came here with the intentions to kill him. No doubt the money is now with the killer," he said as he looked around the flat. "And he was killed with a cricket bat. Crude, which means that this was a last minute idea, but effective, which means that this man was not going to leave this flat alive. So what changed?"

John knew it was a rhetorical question. Even if it wasn't, Sherlock would be the only one who had a chance of answering it. "I think another call to Mycroft is in order," he said. "Maybe we can track the killer as well."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured in response as he pulled out his mobile. He sent a quick text and slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Keep watch. I'm going to look through the rest of the flat. Signal me when Lestrade gets here," he ordered.

John moved over to the window and looked out it. The sky was beginning to lighten, marking the beginning of a new day. Rubbing his eyes, John shook his head as he smiled softly. Another day with Sherlock had gone by; his life seemed to be moving faster than ever with Sherlock by his side, ironic since this was when he wished everything would slow down. Suddenly, a patrol car caught his attention. "Sherlock, they're here," he called back.

Emerging from the bedroom, Sherlock said, "Let's go. If we wait until they get here, they'll keep us here all day with questions." John nodded in response and followed Sherlock out of the room. Heading down the hall, they turned the corner and heard the lift doors open. Lestrade's distinctive voice barked out orders as Sherlock opened the door to the stairs. When they made it to the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock looked back at John. "Mycroft's sending the footage now."

"And thus begins another day with Sherlock Holmes," John muttered, chuckling under his breath.