Hi everyone! Well, here we go with another chapter. I've listened to all your advice and I totally agree, so I'm putting more effort into this one. And a plot! *yaaay* I've also put some smut in, for those asking. The smut isn't strictly part of the plot, so you can skip it if you like.

Or not. xD

I hope you enjoy it.

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Two days after the whole yeah-I-passed-out-and-head-butted-your-dad-in-the-face-oh-the-memories-and-the-pain, John still hadn't grasped the concept.

He'd been sat down, he'd been given the condescending tone, hell – he'd even been offered a two night stay and accommodation in Paris (cold caller, but tempting), and yet this wasn't something his brain wanted to accept.

Whiskey. Whisky would work.

Whiskey and sex, if there was any on offer.

What really got on John's nub was that Sherlock and The Doctor were treating this as if it was perfectly normal.

It was early in the morning, sunlight trickling through the windows of 221b like liquid. John and Sherlock sat opposite each other on the dining table, both of them still in their pyjamas; John in his cotton shorts and comedy t-shirt (Monty Python, of course – how can you not love 'FETCHÉ LA VACHE!'), and Sherlock donned in his traditional silk attire and dressing gown. Two steaming cups of tea sat in front of them, untouched.

The Doctor was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, studying the two of them with an amused glint in his eyes. He wasn't wearing pyjamas (much to John's dismay), but his usual tweed explosion.

"John, you have to understand," Sherlock implored, probably for the fiftieth time that morning – John had lost count after they broke out the flow chart. "You remember the Cypermen?"

How could I not, John thought – the Cybermen incident was a memory burned into his mind forever. Waking up – hungover – to find Sherlock poking a human brain he'd somehow extrapolated from one of the thousands of silver robots lining Baker Street like the world's most glittery regiment.

"Yes."

"You remember Mycroft calling to ask if we had recollection of a man called Saxon?"

"Yes."

"You remember when you were Christmas shopping and those mannequins attacked you and you screamed like a woman?"

"Then saved about 40 people, yes, thanks for bringing that up."

"I didn't know a human male could achieve such a high octave. I think for a moment, only dogs could hear you screaming…"

"Er- is there a point to this?"

"Of course John, don't be dense. So. You don't deny the existence of aliens?"

"Well no, I was there when Mycroft had an Adipose crawling out of his skin. His face… Classic."

Sherlock gave a smirk at this. Oh, the Adipose incident. He only had to mention the word to Mycroft and he'd start dieting like a fat kid running for a cake.

"Now, John, do you have a stethoscope on hand?"

"Er." John spun in his chair, and reached into the cupboard under the kitchen sink where he kept his medical kit. He has about four scattered variously around the house. It's a safety precaution, of course, because no one could ever predict when Sherlock would spontaneously set himself alight, or pour sulphuric acid into his eyes.

Or having a raging hard-on that wouldn't disappear that he needed John to help with.

OK, maybe not the last one. But John was allowed to hope, right?

The John in question pivoted back round, stethoscope in hand and held it questioningly in front of him. "Got one. Why do you need it?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched at the corners and he turned to beckon the Doctor forward. He reciprocated, and sat at the head of the table, looking ever so slightly like the cat that got the cream, or any saucy alternatives to this metaphor.

Oooh, saucy.

"Listen." Sherlock said gently, taking the stethoscope from John's hands. He tucked the two earpieces into John's ears and leant across the table to place the chest piece over the left side of the Doctor's chest. A deep, bu-bum, bu-bum, bu-bum flooded into John's ears.

"Did you know you can improvise a lie detector test using just a stethoscope?" Sherlock murmured, "The heart involuntarily breaks its rhythm when a lie is told."

"And your point is…?" John asked, trying his best not to imagine leaning in and placing his head over the Doctor's heart to listen to it that way. Oh boy.

Giving John a smile, Sherlock turned to the Doctor, "Are you currently in 221b Baker Street, Westminster."

The Doctor let out a little, 'aaahha' as he caught Sherlock's drift. "Yes."

The rhythm of his heart kept its pace.

"Do you have a son, named Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

Same result.

Sherlock shot John a strange look, then looked back to the Doctor.

"Are you a human?"

John's eyes shot up and widened. W-where was this going exactly?

"No." came the reply.

The Doctor's heart didn't falter, meaning he was telling the truth. Holy shit.

"Is this some kind of joke?" John spluttered, grabbing the side of the table for support.

Oh Christ I've lusted over an alien. What does that say about my taste in men?

"If you don't believe his heart, why not double check with the other?" Sherlock crooned, moving the stethoscope to the right side of the Doctor's chest. Again, a strong, heavy heartbeat zinged to John's ears.

The Doctor was an alien with two hearts. John's medical brain suddenly went into overdrive with questions on where that extra blood flow went.

It's safe to say John really didn't have a clue what was happening anymore.

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Sherlock straightened up, assessing the area around the man. "He was a Government official, working late last night, drugged, then brought here… most likely for information, and when he wouldn't comply, or his kidnappers realised he couldn't supply them with the information they wanted they killed him."

"They?" Lestrade asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. It was cold, their breaths swirling like smoke in front of their lips when they spoke.

"Yes, they." The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down. "Footsteps, all around the body, not ours – too big, leather patent, so expensive – the kidnappers had money - but of varying sizes so it wasn't just one person but several…"

Sherlock pulled his pocket magnifying glass from the pocket of his coat and stepped closer to the body.

"Lacerations to the neck, wrists and ankles. He was bound, and struggled against his bonds causing the deeper wounds… He was gagged with masking tape; you can see where the fine hairs on his face are gone from where it was ripped off, with traces of sticky residue around the lips. The cuts here," Sherlock pointed to the dead man's chest, "were made after he died; no other wounds to the body so he wasn't tortured... His hands were bound with handcuffs, police-standard, so that narrows the field significantly – the kidnappers have police connections or are themselves police officers…"

John didn't miss the quirked eyebrow sent in Lestrade's direction.

"You're looking for a group of four men, all around 6' 9'' in height, going by the girth of the footsteps surrounding the body; with abnormally long fingernails and calluses on their hands. This was a personal attack, most likely the victim knew the kidnappers. It's not random, it's too premeditated for that; the empty warehouse-"

Sherlock broke off for a second, bending down to examine the body once more, examining the man's fingers then disappearing behind a bunch of crates. When he returned, he was carrying a large petrol canister.

"Just as I thought. They planned to burn the body after they'd finished with him; get rid of the evidence but they were interrupted somehow; something was more important than destroying the body of a murdered man…"

Lestrade nodded, taking in this information. "Right. I'll get back to the Yard and see if anyone's filed a missing persons report on a Government official. Text me if you find anything else out."

Sherlock held his head stiffly, not wanting to comply, but gave a swift nod. He turned away and back to John who was standing a bit back from the body lying on the floor, looking at it with a grim expression.

" I'll need to take a sample of his blood to see what drug they used…"

"Use your overt manly charm on Molly; I'm sure she won't mind."

I know I wouldn't.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "I'll have to check this man's records, if he's in the Government he'll have made some enemies, find out what he had access too. One of Mycroft's understudies owes me a favour – got him out of a spot of bother with the Swedish Government – can I use your phone?"

John pulled it out of his pocket and handed it across. "Where's your own phone?"

"In my pocket."

John scoffed. "And you couldn't use that because…?"

"Because it might be crossing the boundaries of our friendship if I ask you to fish my mobile from the pocket of my boxers."

John turned an attractive beetroot colour. No shit, Sherlock. "Oh."

Oh I dunno, I like to think of myself as a helpful man…

"Sent." Sherlock handed John back his phones with a chaste smile, "Now come on, John, this case isn't going to solve itself."

Before John could kindly offer up his hands for whatever sort of social experiment Sherlock deemed necessary, they were walking out of the warehouse – and down out onto the road to hail a taxi.

"It doesn't make sense John…"

"Hmm…?" John replied; he was too busy replaying the memory of Sherlock saying 'sticky residue around the lips'. Must. Resist. Urge. To. Wank.

"Why didn't they finish the job? Why leave the body where it could be found?"

"Maybe someone walked in on them?"

"No, John, think – really think. They obviously planned this. There are no traces of hair or any finger prints except the victims so the murders weren't completely incompetent, they thought it through. They would've checked the times the warehouse was in use, otherwise they would have gone elsewhere."

"It's beyond me anyway."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock said, biting back a smirk and touched his fingertips together in his typical thinking fashion. "There has to be something I'm missing. But what?"

John grunted, not knowing what to say anymore. As they walked, John kept his eyes straight ahead. When you live with a handsome a guy such as Sherlock, you quickly learn not to stare too often as it leads to pretty awkward late night sexuality discussions which neither man was particularly good at.

Bit like when they'd first met, when they'd been in Angelo's and John had practically eye-fucked the man then and there.

Thank God that hadn't been caught on camera.

They finally hailed a taxi and clamoured in; John catching a glorious glimpse of that glorious arse.

"Mayfair, please." Sherlock instructed the driver.

"May- Mayfair? Why Mayfair?" John asked, pulling his seatbelt over and locking it in.

"Oh, just a friendly family visit."

Mycroft Holmes did not want to see Sherlock. Period.

Any other time would be brilliant; he often used the excuse of, "family crisis" to extrapolate himself from UN meetings or Governmental discussions that bored him into a coma – and not even the good kind of coma (referring to, of course, the infamous sugar coma. Oh baby, that coma did things to Mycroft that wouldn't even be allowed in an M+ fic, I'll tell you)…

Anyway.

The man in question (known as 'Big Daddy M' to more people than he'll have you know), was sitting at his desk with a waist high pile of folders adorning the "IN" tray. He only had two hours to get through them all before he was taking a private charter airline (MJN Air? MJN- something anyway) to Washington DC; The President needing his assistance on a security leak at one of America's top banks.

Needless to say, he was busy. And busy meant, no Sherlock, no Jeff from downstairs, and certainly no-

Ooh, maybe a steak bake wouldn't be too bad.

He'd only taken three bites into the delicious pastry (rich, tangy, juicy meat smothered in flaky, sweet, crisp pastry; the thing wet dreams were made of. Oh good lord, if only a food boner was possible) when the door to his office was tapped tentatively.

Mycroft's hands tightened into fists around his pastry. "Come in."

It was Anthea. She didn't step in, but hovered by the open door.

"Sir," she began, looking away from her Blackberry to address him. "Your brother is here to see you. He says it's urgent."

The pastry was becoming light work in his hands, a round, bulbous drip of sauce dangled from the bottom, threatening his Spenser Hart suit with stains beyond the help of any detergent.

"Did he now?" Mycroft groaned, eying the paperwork like it was going to burst into flames at any moment. "Can't you tell him I'm busy?"

Anthea frowned ruefully. "He's very insistent, sir."

When isn't he? Mycroft thought, with a roll of his eyes.

"Send him in, then."

Anthea gave a nod, then shut the door. Mycroft presumed he had approximately twenty seconds to finish his steak bake before Sherlock arrived and proceeded to shove mouthful after mouthful between his lips, savouring the sticky goodness. He reached under his desk for a tissue and patted his mouth down, erasing the evidence of his little food orgy and settled back in his chair. This had better be important.

With all the airs and graces of a man with airs and graces, Sherlock swept into Mycroft's office and sat himself down on the opposite side of the desk.

"Do you know the quantity of butter that goes into a single pastry-based foot item, don't you, Mycroft?" He inquired, cocking an eyebrow.

"Hello, good day to you too, brother." Mycroft scoffed gently under his breath, setting about neatening his desk to give his hands something to do other than strangling. "Well? It must be important; you wouldn't come to my office otherwise. What is it that you need?"

Sherlock scowled. "Information. I got a text from your understudy, Peterson, concerning the death of a Government official, and what do you know; the man was working under cover for you."

Mycroft, master of emotions, did his best to keep his face straight. Peterson, as far has he was concerned, was as good as fired. "Did you now?"

"Yes, I did. So. You obviously know the man. I need to know why he was undercover, and any reasons why he may have been killed."

Stop prying, Sherlock, Mycroft thought, you won't like what you find.

"Richard Hardford was a freelance agent working in my department; what he was there for, is of no importance."

A loud scoff burst from the younger Holmes' lips. "No importance? Mycroft, if the man worked for you he was obviously in possession of some information that would be damaging should it escape. Why are you not bothered by that?"

End the conversation. Now.

"He didn't know anything; he was simply on an undercover operation that went wrong and ended with his dead. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for you to go, Sherlock, you've wasted enough time as it is-"

"What? You're not even going to look into the death of one of your own men?"

"Of course I'll look into it, I just don't need you sticking in your nose in places that should best be left alone."

The red Security button under the desk was being prodded at a spectacular speed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, eyes flitting over Mycroft as if his mere appearance could aid him in his deductions.

A few more seconds of awkward silence dispelled between them before two, huge security guards clad in stab vests appeared at the door, awaiting Mycroft's orders.

"Hm. I'll see myself out, then." Sherlock bit, standing and storming out of the room. Being dragged out by Mycroft's luggage men was not something he wanted. Or indeed needed.

Mycroft sat back, blowing out a violent sigh. Of course he'd look into the man's death; but that was of no importance. The only thing that was, was the fact that Sherlock had managed to find out about it.

Sitting straighter, Mycroft leaned forward and snatched up the landline on his desk; stabbing the numbers in, muttering under his breath about what he'd do to Sherlock with a cricket bat with a nail through it, and held the receiver to his ear.

"Get Bowers on the phone to me right this instant. Something's gone wrong."

John sat back in the flat, watching Jeremy Kyle. It was that or Loose Women, and strangely enough he didn't fancy watching middle-aged women talk about menopauses, or spilt ends, or whatever women talks about when they were drunk at midday.

It's safe to say, he was bored. Sherlock was out, gallivanting around London; the Doctor had brushed past him with a cheery, "Off out! All we've got in the flat is beans, and I hate beans." Leaving John to his own devices.

Brilliant.

Picking up the remote he flicked through the channels once more in vain hope, but nothing was on. He peeled himself off the sofa and walked out into the hallway and up the stairs. A nap. A nap would be brilliant.

On his way up, John caught his foot on one of the multitude of cardboard boxes adorning the sides of the landing and caught himself on a door handle before he went arse over tit down the stairs. Blinking in shock, he kicked out at the box, and was rained with old photo clippings as a wooden keepsake tipped and opened.

Whoops.

John panicked and dropped to his knees, gathering up the photographs gently and piling them back into the keepsake. They were old photos, beige, darkened, worn. He took one between his fingers to gaze at it.

Holy mother of all that's porny.

The photo was of two sailors, navy officers going by their uniforms, in the First World War, taken in some sort of photo booth. They were both smiling, embarrassed. And kissing.

John picked up another, it was similar; a black and white photo of two men in a darkened room – one pushing the other against the wall and ravishing his exposed neck.

Gathering up more of the clippings, he realised that was the continuing theme. Soldiers, men in well cut suits, images of lover's embraces, which slowly became more and more graphic the deeper John dug.

I've found Sherlock's vintage porn stash. Well shit.

John bent to reach a photo that had slid out of reach and groaned; noticing for the first time the tightness in his jeans. He sat back on his heels and tugged his zipper down to relive some of the pressure. He certainly wasn't bored anymore.

Once he'd returned all the photos to the keepsake he hauled himself to his feet, breathing heavily. He was ridiculously aroused. He eyed the box carefully, wondering for a fleeting moment how many times these pictures had gotten Sherlock off using them.

Suddenly he was bombarded with mental images of Sherlock, flat on his back, feet planted solidly on his bed, palming himself as his eyes raked over the explicit images, gasping raggedly, groaning John's nam-

No, that was it. John pulled the box into his arms and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. This was ridiculous. He wasn't going to use Sherlock's porn to wank, he wasn't-he wasn't-

Yes, he was.

John sat and swung his legs over onto the bed, settling comfortably with his back leading against the headboard. He teased himself quickly, rubbing his palm over his tented erection, feeling the pleasure from the simple touch zing straight to his brain.

He unhooked the button of his jeans, and slid them down onto his thighs, repeating the motion for his boxers, lifting them up and over, freeing himself.

Again, he gently – using the softest touch - slid his hand around the base his hard-on and gripped it in a half-fist. He gritted his teeth, knowing it wasn't enough, and with his free hand reached for the open box he'd planted on the bed next to him.

Quickly riffling through the impressive quantity of photos he pulled out one from the top. It was black and white, blurred slightly around the edges. A soldier lay, fully clothed in uniform upon a large, king-sized bed, propped up by his elbows, mouth parted slightly. On the other side of the photo was what John suspected was the man's lover, standing completely naked, leaning with a predatory gaze over the uniformed man. Good enough.

And with that, John began to pump his hand up and down, grunting, feeling his mind haze over pleasantly. He was already oozing pre-cum, and this made it easy for him to slide his hand at a slow pace, eyes roaming the photo he held in front of his eyes.

It took a few moments for his sex-addled brain to realise, but as he repeated played the image of the naked man and his partner over in his mind, he began to realise something. Perhaps it was Sherlock's influence rubbing off on him, but he realised the right side of the photo housed layer upon layer of thumb prints, as if it was well used.

Scrap that, it was well used.

John keened, throwing his head back and jerked into the circle he'd made with his fingers. Sherlock had used this photo, just like he was, probably more than once. He lifted his head to look at the photograph again, breathing from between his teeth, feeling the warm, tightening feeling moving lower from his stomach down towards his groin.

But why did Sherlock use this photo, of the hundreds he had? What was it about the two men that turned him on? John opened his legs wider, and with a final drag of his cock, he slipped his hand down to play with his balls.

The soldier. How hadn't he noticed that? The soldier, lying on his back, submitting himself to this man looked like… well, he looked a lot like…

Like him.

Fuck.

John bit back the moans threatening to rip from his lips, this was… this was painfully arousing. He drew his hand up to lick a broad stripe across his palm, returning his hand to his aching erection seconds later. He tightened his grip and stroked himself eagerly, pleasure blossoming in his head, curling his toes inward.

"John? Are you in?" came a small, baritone voice from downstairs.

Oh noooooo, leave me be.

Knowing he was well beyond the point of no return now, John pumped harder, barely able to think straight. He put the photo down and shoved his spare hand into his mouth, biting back the moans of pleasure. It wouldn't take long- just a few more seconds-

"John?" Sherlock called, the voice nearer this time. Muffled footsteps could be heard as the man hauled himself up the stairs towards bedrooms.

At the sound of Sherlock saying his name, John keened and jerked once, twice, then with a stifled bellow came violently all over his stomach in half a dozen spasms; arching into his hand. His vision whitened momentarily and endorphins blasted every nerve ending; warm ropes of come splashing over him.

There was a knock at his door. "John, are you alright in there?"

John could barely think, let alone speak. He spluttered a barely audiable, "Yeah, m'fine." And rested his head back on the pillow, reaching across his bed to retrieve an old shirt he could use to clean himself up with.

"Are you sure? I heard you moaning."

For a moment, John panicked; pulling up his jeans at a terrific pace and practically flying of the bed. Sherlock had heard him masturbating. Why was that thought so arousing?

Shut up brain, shut up, shut up, shut up.

In an attempt at acting laid back, John stepped forward and opened the door, a smile plastered on his face.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, fine. Fine." Well done John, very casual.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, obviously taking in John's blown pupils and ragged breath. If he was, he didn't mention it.

"Did you get the blood samples whilst I was visiting Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, raising a hand to lean against the doorframe.

"Yes I did. Molly practically threw them at me." John gave a weak chuckle, "…That poor girl. She really is completely smitten by you, you know."

This was met with a dry laugh. "Yes, I still don't understand that…"

Their eyes met briefly, as if they were sharing a private joke. The unsaid, "I understand." running like an electrical current between them. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"So. Did you have fun whilst I was gone?"

That bastard. He knows! He bloody well knows! The insufferabl-

"Why do you ask?"

Sherlock's eyebrow rutted further up his face.

"John, you haven't even bothered to put my photographs away, the connection wasn't hard to make."

John span on the spot, glaring back into his room, and sure enough, there – scattered across the bed – was Sherlock's pornography.

With a "trolololol, bye" all of John's witty remarks left him, and he was left standing like a goldfish; mouth bobbing open and shut, trying to come up with a perfectly innocent explanation for why he had about 200 of his flatmate's explicit collection spread across his bed.

There are no innocent explanations, of course.

"Just put them back when you're done." Sherlock smirked, leaning back and returning downstairs, leaving poor Johnny standing there like a lemon at a vegetable party.

A horny lemon at that.

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Sherlock growled, frustrated as a cat on heat and probably just as twitchy, and slid the experimental slide covered in blood across the microscope, trying to gain a better angle.

All his leads were coming up false; he'd tested for all of the regular knock out drugs, but when they'd come up false he'd moved on to more expensive, less used, governmental drugs.

Still, it wasn't working. None of them were what were used to poison the man.

This was something new. Cue girly squeal.

The thought of that gave Sherlock a cheap thrill. The man who'd been killed; Richard Hardford, 37, wife and two kids, known as "Dick Hard" to his mates; had no known drug addictions – he didn't even drink alcohol, and so there was no way those aspects were affecting the blood sample. It was simply that something new and quite frankly; impressive, had been used. Excellent.

Just as he was settling three petri dishes aside into the microwave, (he'd tell John later. Maybe.) the Doctor swept into the room.

Obviously it was a mistake teaching the man to flipping pick locks.

"Sherly! Did you miss me?" The Doctor crooned, his joyful persona reaching new heights on the, 'It's Obvious I Take Drugs' scale.

"Come to bother me again, father?" Sherlock sighed, watching the Doctor sit and bounce on the sofa with the expression of a three year old who's found an interestingly shaped turd.

"Not at all! Just thought I'd pop in to see my son. Dad's do that don't they? I'm not really up to date on this whole fathering lark."

"You don't say…" Sherlock murmured, snatching up his Stradivarius from under John's armchair and settling down into the one opposite it. He swung it around and tucked is chin onto the rest, drawing his bow gently across the A string in a high, mournful tone. "The last time to visit me, you were still in your tenth regeneration. I see your sense in adequate attire has gone down hill since then."

The Doctor peered down at himself, "I'll have you know, bowties are cool."

"Yes, and so are icebergs but you shouldn't sling one of those around your neck."

The slow dulcet tones on the violin slowly dipped and began to play out bits of Spring. Sherlock had never bothered to learn the whole thing, so he repeated what he knew; improvising slightly, his slender fingers dancing across the neck of the violin. Basically – violin porn.

Knowing better than to interrupt Sherlock when he was torturing his violin (a present from the Doctor; hand made by Antonio Stradivari himself – apparently the late 1600s were infamous for werewolf attacks and the Doctor happened to be able to help), the Doctor sprung up from the chair and began to inspect the kitchen; half expecting to breathe something in that would turn his skin inside out or something to that effect.

Something caught his eye; the petri dishes left in the open microwave. He walked towards them and with an, "eeehhwwwww…" drew them out. Two of the dishes' agar had turned a vile bright green colour, whilst the other had remained the same. The Doctor paused, then before he could properly think it through (because when did that ever achieve anything?) he pulled back the lid of one of the green petri dishes, plunged his finger in, and dapped it onto his tongue.

His mouth was instantly filled with a sickening, soapy taste. Before he could vomit over the kitchen tiles (the Doctor never vomits; he simply gives the gift of stomach acid to anyone fortunate enough to be standing in front of him), he ran to the sink and stuck his tongue under the faucet, clawing at in repetitively.

The screeching from the living room stopped suddenly, and the Doctor pulled back in time to see Sherlock – violin still in hand – glowering angrily at the open petri dishes.

"What did you do that for?" He growled, hastily reapplying the lids. "I doubt they'll be able to carry out their full reactions now-"

The Doctor bit back a smile. "It's alien, whatever is in that, just so you know of course, don't want you going the completely wrong way about things."

"Wh-?" Sherlock froze, then with lighting speed reopened the petri dish and meticulously applied a small amount onto a clean microscope slide. He turned and slid it into his microscope, bending over the eyepiece, trousers pulling ridiculously tight over his arse as he did so.

"It's certainly not human; anyhow, you taste much better than that." The Doctor joked; but it went unheard by Sherlock who was casting every test he could upon the green mould, before finally settling on-

"You're right."

"I am?"

"Yes." Sherlock breathed, taking a step back from the microscope.

Aliens. Bloody aliens.

Just as they thought this was going to be an easy case.

*fist shake* ALIENS GODDAMMIT!

As you can see this is plottier and less cracky then the first chapter so I hope you still approve. What did you think? Reviews are better than vintage gay porn stashes :').

Well, mostly xD.