AN: Eurgh, I'm sorry for taking so long with this. I was planning on getting at least a few more chapters done and posted before the end of the holiday, but that was made impossible due to… real life… Yeah.

I actually wrote the majority of this at around four in the morning full of sugar and coffee so… I have no idea what the hell I have written. I wasn't even planning on starting like this. I just have.

But enough of my meaningless rambles, go and read what I have created. And remember, reviews are like cookies. Boy, do I love cookies… Mmm… Cookies…..

Just in case none of this makes sense, this starts the day before the prologue was set but covers the time which it lasted. That really didn't make any sense either. Sorry.

Read it and you'll understand. I hope…

John watched the dense lull of London life through the window of the cab as it trundled through the hazy streets. He felt his phone vibrate against his leg from the pocket of his jeans, but didn't move to check who was contacting him. There was no point.

One hundred and forty nine messages, all in all. Each from the same source: Sherlock.

He badly needed a case. Something, anything, to satisfy the man's insatiable need for activity. The past few days had consisted of non-stop sulking, endless demands that went forgotten within mere seconds of their utterance. John had decided, after being informed few times that the wall wasn't the only thing that had it coming, that enough was enough. He'd fought in the war, watched his comrades fall to death before him and gotten shot trying to help his friends. Surely entertaining a grown up toddler would be less demanding? At least, that's what the good doctor tried to convince himself of.

Settling back into the less than comfortable leather seats, John sighed, waiting as he got closer and closer to their home.

The cab pulled up around ten minutes later and he thanked the driver, paying the fare and clambering out with a determined expression pulling at his slightly rounded features. Slowly, he made his way to the front door, unlocking it and stepping inside before starting the ascent to their flat. "Sherlock get dressed. We're going out." John commanded, padding into the sitting room. Silence was all that greeted him. "..Sherlock?"

Still nothing. With a growl of annoyance bordering on predatory, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through to the new message waiting for him. He let out a low breath and tossed his phone down on the sofa, moving into his bedroom and collapsing onto his bed.

His phone lay forgotten in the other room, its bright screen displaying a simple message:

Got a case. Don't wait up. SH

Sherlock was in the process of conducting an experiment most likely to result in the final destruction of John's rather extensive collection of jumpers, when he got the call.

Finally, something to do.

With just enough reluctance to prevent him from seeming too eager, Sherlock left the flat. He hopped straight into a cab and was well on his way to the Yard.

When he got there he was met with a rather serious faced Lestrade. The man nodded upon catching sight of Sherlock, gesturing silently towards his office before stepping inside, clearly expecting the detective to follow. Which he did. Once the door had closed, Greg plucked a manila folder from his desk and held it out to Sherlock, all the while keeping his eyes fixed through the window where a rather annoyed looking Donovan was watching them. Sherlock followed his gaze before looking back at the information before him.

"I think," he began. "I'll take this back to Baker Street. I dislike working here." Sherlock turned on his heel, disappearing from the room.

Lestrade sighed in a mixture of gratitude and annoyance before heading after the man.

John stayed in his room even when he heard the front door open, lying back on his bed with his gaze trained on the shadows splayed across his ceiling. He didn't go to say 'hi' when he heard Lestrade's voice along with Sherlock's. Instead, he waited until he heard Greg leave and he was summoned by The Consulting Detective himself. With an audible sigh, John padded out of his bedroom, moving to stand beside Sherlock. "What do you want me to do this time?"

"Look at this," Sherlock gestured to the mirror, not yet answering the man's question. "Six people were murdered, two at a time, always in the so called 'safety' of their own homes. What is the common link?"

"I don't know. Am I right in a assuming that you're about to tell me?"

Sherlock bowed his head briefly, waving his hand at the evidence before him. "Two people who die together, often in each other's arms – physical contact of some sort. But the link? They're of the same gender. It's a modern tale of forbidden love, to say the least. But oh, no, the murderer was cleverer than your average homophobe. He left next to no evidence for us to go on. So, we need to make him come back."

The doctor cleared his throat, a frown causing his eyebrows to knit together. "You're saying that he's targeting gay people? But how the hell are you planning to bring him back? Take two hostages from a gay bar and parade them where he will see?!"

"Not what I had in mind, John. I need your help, remember?" Sherlock turned to look at him expectantly, his left brow raised above the other.

"You're expecting me to kidnap two people from a- Oh.. I see." John let out a low breath, even as the detective smirked.

"Now he's got it," he drawled, rolling his shoulders back. "We'll need to do something fairly public. Kissing is necessary but we need something more… noticeable. A proposal, even. After that, the press can take care of the rest, thought doubtless whoever's doing this already has their eyes on us. We're hardly unknown in the criminal circles."

John shook his head slowly at the seemingly excited man. "There's one small thing that you're forgetting, Sherlock. I'm not ga-"

"Oh, I know you're not," Sherlock interrupted. "It's all an act. It's pretend – make believe." He frowned as he paused before the mirror again, plucking off a picture of two sixteen year old girls, their hands clasped together. "They were only children, John," he said softly, widening his eyes as he blinked at the other. It wasn't as though he particularly cared about that fact, but it was easier to pretend in order to appeal to John's emotions, which often worked.

Visibly, John appeared to deflate, an almost mournful gaze locked onto the photograph. "Sherlock, I…" He swallowed, mind racing as he turned his attention back to his flat mate. "Fine. I'll do it."

AN: I did want to write a bit more than this and actually make it a bit more interesting but decided this morning that I just needed to get it out and prove to myself more than anything that I wasn't just going to give up on it.

I'm a bit annoyed with the middle sections but I don't really have the motivation to go back and sort it out. Ah well, it's there now…

I hope that this was not too awful and hopefully you'll stick around to see the next chapter, whenever that appears. But it seems that being in the Jazz Band, Reed band, Choir and the Netball team isn't going to do anything in my favour this year.

Thanks for reading anyway.

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