AN: Right! So here it is! Chapter 2 and it didn't even take me all that long to write! Woo! I'm not promising such fast updates all the time, but I just can't wait to get this story really moving. Thanks to everyone who subscribed to this story, it gives me warm fuzzies every time I get an email saying there are those out there actually interested in my fic! I love to hear thoughts and opinions on this, so please don't hesitate to comment or speculate, as I'm sure I will write faster with more interest.

Oh yes! A big shout-out to my new Beta jesicahazel for being awesome and going over this with me, I hope I don't disappoint.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, nor am I profiting from this work of fiction.

Chapter 2

Recently he'd discovered that once he started kissing John he couldn't seem to stop. The simple euphoric kiss of triumph had somehow led to another, and another, and another. It was addicting. Sherlock needed more of his doctor, always more. He had pulled the still toned body of John Watson tight against him, deepening those kisses, fire igniting in his blood and causing the strange sensation of foggy thoughts to enter his mind as they fumbled back toward the couch. Unable to stop now that things had started, Sherlock made certain they came to a very satisfying temporary conclusion. After all, John needed some respite – or at least that is what he had been informed – after the activities the kisses led to.

"Are you wearing my boxers?"

Sherlock blinked, looking up at John, a completely satiated smirk on his face as he kissed John's already kiss-swollen lips once. "Very astute observation Dr. Watson," he practically purred. Pulling back, he cupped John's face, stroking his cheek with a thumb as he released a soft sigh.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock..." there was a sigh in John's voice, sadness lingering in his eyes. "You can't continue on like this..."

"On like what?" he asked softly, frowning as the change in his Watson's attitude. He had been so willing, so happy mere moments ago, why was he suddenly saying they couldn't continue?

"Sherlock."

A muffled, and decidedly annoyed, voice made its way to the consulting detective's ear, disturbing the moment he had created with his John. Frowning, Sherlock shook his head, as if the voice were just an annoying buzz in his ear that could be easily dislodged; his eyes never left John's face. "What is it John? What can't I continue? Is the sex inadequate?" Though he searched John's eyes, his body language, Sherlock could not for the life of him deduce what the man was upset about.

"Sherlock!"

Again, that annoyed voice was buzzing in his ear, this time though, there seemed to be a note of panic. The man shook his head again, feeling the euphoria beginning to diminish, the clarity that came with the drugs beginning to turn fuzziness once more. His arms tightened desperately around John as he looked up at him. There was resignation in his doctor's brown eyes; resignation, and understanding. Sherlock shook his head desperately. Despite this, John sat up, slowly pulling out of the circle of his arms, a hand caressing his cheek gently as he pulled away and turned his attention elsewhere.

"I say Sherlock! Did you hear me?"

"Can you not see that I am rather otherwise occupied," the man snapped, his eyes turning to Lestrade who was currently standing in amongst the precarious piles of manila folders. Once again it seemed the man had let himself in, disturbing things he would rather have had left alone. So he was the one that had caused John to withdraw from him, leaving his arms cold and empty.

A sense of loss and disappointment filled Sherlock, replacing the warmth John had taken with him. Frowning, he hurried to bring his attention to his doctor, but it was too late, for he was now retreating down the hall. Returning to his room no doubt, and probably to get redressed, a pity, he did so love to see John's body exposed before him. Sherlock would have gladly displayed their relationship openly so that everyone could see that John was indeed his. He would have taken great delight in small public displays of affection to ensure that everyone knew that John Watson belonged to Sherlock Holmes, and that he was never going to let go of his precious Watson. Apparently John had other ideas as he seemed incredibly shy when it came to exposing their new relationship, though Sherlock had no idea why.

"Bloody hell! Are...are you not wearing any trousers?" Lestrade demanded his eyes widening in shock, and then shrinking again. Strain was weighing on the detective inspector; it was obvious in the subtle tensing of his shoulder muscles as well as in the way his mouth tightened – though that could also be disapproval Sherlock noted. "Sherlock...you can't continue on like this," he said softly, taking in the state of the man. He was running haggard, his dark brown curls greasy and limp due to lack of showering, his usually sharp cheek bones standing out even more gauntly than before, and the state of his ribs...it was impossible not to notice how starkly they stood out with him sitting there so exposed. Not to mention the extremely obvious used needle lying discarded on top of his mantle. Things were getting worse.

"Can," the man said contrarily, sitting up, his features pinching as the stitches stretched once again. Those weren't looking good either. He was pushing himself too hard. Everyone seemed to know it except the man in question.

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade focused his eyes on Sherlock's face again. He knew he should be more concerned about that needle, he was a police officer after all, and he had his duty. Fortunately, he had not come here to do that particular duty today; there was something else, something that required the attention of Sherlock Holmes.

"I am perfectly capable of 'continuing on like this'," he said simply. "In fact, I am even inclined to. It is working quite well for me. Although I can tell that you would obviously prefer if I did not, and if that is the case you would say that I 'shouldn't' continue on, not that I 'can't'. And I really don't see that whether or not I'm wearing trousers is any of your business, as you just let yourself into my flat."

"I obviously came to tell you something," the man said exasperated. "There's a case I think you should see but...Sherlock. Have you seen the state of this place? Of yourself?"

"Oh yes, sorry about the mess, John and I have been a little preoccupied with the case. I'm sure it will all get cleared up once this is sorted."

"John and..." a small sigh escaped the man. "Sherlock! This has got to stop!" Lestrade's eyes were desperate as he turned them to the other male. "And for God's sake what case? You can't possibly know about-"

"Moriarty of course," Sherlock interrupted testily, standing in one swift movement. He had to support himself with the arm of the couch however, as the room swayed alarmingly with the quick movement. A quick glance at Lestrade, then the wall calendar, proved to him that it was probably time to eat. It was Friday after all, judging by the state of Lestrade's afternoon shadow, the dirt on his shoes, and the way his shoulders sagged (and a rough week too by the look of things), and Sherlock knew he hadn't eaten since...oh, probably Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday...he supposed a few more hours couldn't harm him though, so he carefully straightened, dismissing the concern from his mind. "I've got a lead."

"A lead?" Lestrade watched the consulting detective carefully, ready to catch him if he did indeed fall over as he was threatening to do. "How could you possibly have a lead? You haven't left your flat for weeks! And look about that, I've been calling there is a matter-"

"That's precisely the reason Detective Inspector," Sherlock cut across him again, an almost...excited look about him. It had been quite some time since Lestrade had seen that look, and it was certainly an improvement - although a worrying improvement. "Nothing to bother me, nothing to cloud the senses or distract the mind, just these," he motioned to his collection of folders, "and John. That was all I needed," there was a slightly manic light to his eye as he let go of the support of the couch.

"Holmes..." he said, eyeing him. "What in the blazes are you going on about?"

"All in good time," he assured the man, a slight smirk playing across his lips. "All in good time," and for a moment, he seemed to be transported somewhere else. Sherlock's eyes became unfocused as he looked at something that only he could see, triumph slowly steeling over his features.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade leaned in; this was seriously getting out of hand. "This is all well and good, but you really should know about the case I came to talk to you about."

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock's eyes snapped back into focus as he turned his gaze on Lestrade. "Right! No time to waste, I shall collect John and meet you at New Scotland Yard. The game is afoot Detective Inspector, and I don't mean to let him get any more ahead of me."

Passing a hand over his face, Lestrade sighed. "Holmes," he said carefully. "There is a reason I came here as I've been trying to tell you, and it can't really wait but, look, I know you haven't left here in weeks, but society hasn't changed all that much. Put on some ruddy trousers before you go anywhere."

"Ah," Sherlock glanced down at himself. "Right you are," he nodded absently.

Lestrade shook his head. Honestly, Sherlock was even more difficult than ever, and he hadn't even paused a moment to hear the reason he was here. Well, once again he seemed to have gotten caught up in the pace of Sherlock Holmes and the man wasn't letting him go until his own agenda was satisfied.

"You can't tell me you haven't noticed," Sally Donovan accused her superior, an incredulous look in her eyes. "He's gone completely mad! The freak is gone and I don't know what's been left in his place. Seems hard to believe, but I would rather have him back than...whatever that is now. Who knew there could be something worse than him."

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade said a note of warning in his voice, "I haven't failed to notice anything, but he is still Sherlock Holmes, and we need his help on this case."

"You haven't even told him about the case," she hissed back.

"I haven't had the chance now have I? What with his going on about a lead...If helping him with whatever lead he thinks he has found on Moriarty is what it takes, we're going to bloody well do it!"

Sally's eyes tightened as she crossed her arms over her chest, displeasure evident in her features. She had hardly been able to stand the man when he was mostly sane, let alone now that he was slowly, but inevitably, losing his mind. "He shouldn't have been allowed to help before Detective Inspector," she responded miffed. "Now he's more likely to hinder us. Especially if you consider who the victim is this time. What he needs is another drugs bust. Maybe then he'll go back to his normal freak self."

"Sergeant Donovan..."

"Yes Sergeant Donovan, it is most rude to talk about people as if they are not there. You know, the fact that Anderson's wife is back in town does not mean you should take your sexual frustrations out on me."

Sally swore, turning around to see the consulting detective standing calmly behind her. His curls were dishevelled, eyes dark with lack of sleep and while normally he at least looked presentable, he was now anything but. His wool coat only barely managed to cover his rumpled shirt and un-pressed blazer. His trousers, on the other hand, were unfortunately not covered and looked as if they had been sitting in a corner unwashed for weeks. All of his clothing hung off him in an alarming fashion and it rather looked as if Sherlock had become nothing more than a skeleton that was able to move on will alone.

"How long have you been standing there freak?" she snarled, stepping back, putting some much needed distance between them. The way he pointed such things out, not even bothering to try and keep his damned voice down, put her more on edge than she normally was around him.

"Not long, I was just about to interrupt as there are more important things to be discussing. Although, to be perfectly frank, I am still baffled as to why you still deny my obvious competence, as I am sure I've caught quite a few criminals that you would have otherwise lost," he gave her a slightly condescending look before sweeping to the front of the precinct and toward Lestrade.

"Sherlock," he coughed slightly, watching as Sergeant Donovan spun away in disgust. "Speaking of your expertise, there is a case I need you to look at."

"That can wait," the man said waving his hand in a dismissive manner. "I've found him: Moriarty," the manic light to Sherlock's eyes appeared again. "And I won't let him get away this time."

"That's just it Sherlock," Lestrade said softly, urgently, steering the other man into his office. "This case, we're fairly certain it's a message for you."

"A message for me?" Sherlock looked at the detective inspector curiously. "From whom?"

Lestrade's face tightened again as he took out a manila folder and laid it on the desk. It only took a quick glance and Sherlock knew immediately why the detective inspector thought it was a message for him – even the idiots here couldn't miss it – the name on the folder said it all: Dr. Sarah Sawyer.