They arrive at the mostly-intact crime scene early the next morning – the body having been removed to the morgue. John rubs his neck self-consciously, and turns up his collar a bit. Blast that man – Sherlock knew John hated turtlenecks because they made him feel strangled, and the only one he'd owned had mysteriously gone missing several weeks ago.

He was pleasantly sore today, in several interesting places, and more than satisfied that he'd left Sherlock in the same state. He didn't really mind when Sherlock left marks, he did enough of that himself, but at least he tried to leave them in discreet places.

"Feeling better?" Lestrade asks Sherlock smugly as they enter.

"Shut up," Sherlock snaps and sets to examining the carpet.

Lestrade chuckles and turns to John. "Good to see you, John. Surprised you didn't turn up yesterday. Finally found something better to do than trail after this bastard?"

John shakes his hand amiably. "Long story. Can you show me where the body was?"

Not much he'll be able to tell anything from whatever's left, but he's not in the mood to just stand around. Lestrade points him to the dining room, with white tape on the floor marking the spot. John kneels to examine the area. There's a little bit of blood on the floor and on the sharp corner of the table and residue of something on the hardwood that might have been saliva, but it had dried. A chair had been knocked over, but there are no other signs of a struggle.

He's so absorbed in his examination that he jumps when Sherlock materializes behind him, asking "What have you got, John?"

How can he possibly be so silent, like a cat or a shadow? He should be too tall to hide but somehow always manages to go unnoticed until he wants to be.

John stands and clears his throat. "Well, I haven't seen the body, so I can't be sure, but with this little blood I'd have to say she was either poisoned, strangled, or her neck was snapped, although I think the room would be in more disarray if she was physically attacked."

Sherlock flashes him a brief, genuine smile. "Good, John. Police are saying it was poison. I need you to go to the morgue and confirm for me – I texted Molly to expect you."

He likes it when John does something particularly smart, even outplays him a bit. Of course that's somewhat rare, but John doesn't mind.

"What have you got, then?"

"Footprints, mud, and coffee! I'll meet you back home!" He claps John on the arm and vanishes, leaving John smiling a bit stupidly at the praise and his friend's enthusiasm. Very little could be as exhilarating as Sherlock on the trail of a murderer. He notices Lestrade staring at him with a knowing grin.

Of course Greg could tell. Hell, Greg had probably known before either of them had figured it out for themselves. But that didn't mean John wants to hear an I told you so from him.

"Oh, shut up," he mutters, and feels himself blush as he makes a quick a exit and heads to Bart's.

Molly looks disappointed when he arrives. "Sherlock not coming, then?"

"No, just me, sorry."

She turns bright red. "Oh! No, I mean, I'm always glad to see you, just, you know, I thought, because he texted… anyway, I have the body ready for you."

He feels bad for Molly, and wonders if he should tell her and put her out of her misery. She'd find out eventually; there was more than enough evidence now to have tongues wagging, especially on the force, but they hadn't actually told anyone. He wasn't really sure how he'd go about it, anyway.

Hey everyone, Sherlock and I are buggering each other now, just like half of you always assumed? Dating was not quite the right word for someone you spent nearly every moment of the day and night with. Partners? Lovers? None of them seemed right. Best to just be themselves and let people draw conclusions as they might.

He isn't ashamed of anything, far from it – he's incredibly proud to be with Sherlock. But it's sort of nice having it to himself, not having to answer questions. Obviously people were going to figure it out sooner or later and, in addition to Greg, more than a few already had by the looks they'd gotten at the crime scene. He doesn't mind, but he's happy to keep it out of conversation as long as possible, which works so long he pretends he doesn't know that they know.

Truth is John doesn't like sharing any more than Sherlock does. He wants to open as little of their relationship to prying eyes and well-meaning friends as possible. It's his and Sherlock's, no one else's.

Molly is pestering him to talk about Sherlock and he decides it would be cruel to crush her now. She'll find out soon enough. He manages to turn her attention to the body.

"Oh yes, definitely poison," she says, pulling the sheet off the body. "Too bad, she was so pretty."

John examines the mouth and skin very carefully. "Cyanide," he says, and Molly nods.

"I'm running the test now, but yeah, judging by her colour…"

He finds a small wound on the back of her head. "She must have hit it on the table when she fell," he mutters to himself. "Thanks, Molly, I think I have all I need. Just text me if the test shows something other than cyanide, okay?

"Sure," she says, and opens her mouth like she's going to say something else, probably about when Sherlock might be round again, but thinks better of it.

He opens his phone while waiting for the taxi.

Acute cyanide poisoning, secondary head wound from fall. Where are you?

The reply is nearly instant.

Home. Come at once. Skull missing again. SH.

That was Sherlock's roundabout way of saying he needed to talk the case over. John gets home as fast as he can and hears Sherlock's voice already in mid-deduction as he comes up the stairs.

Sherlock talks to him when he's not there. It's one of his favourite things about Sherlock, although the fact that he doesn't always notice when John is gone can be a bit troubling.

Sherlock breaks off in mid-sentence when John opens the door. "What took you so long? It's been ages! Never mind, sit down. It was the coffee!"

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" John says patiently. "Remember, I can't actually hear what you say to me when I'm not here."

He rolls his eyes as if this is a minor detail, and begins pacing the sitting room manically as John settles himself. Sherlock begins firing rapidly in his clipped, precise way.

"So, what do we know to start? The victim was single, lots of friends and no known enemies. String of short term lovers, but nothing serious and lived alone. Footprints up the back walk show a man with very large feet in boots, wellies. They were muddy but no prints inside the house, which means he took them off. No sign of forced entry but a friend says she left the garden door unlocked often."

"So he must have known her well enough to know that?"

Sherlock is just getting warmed up now, running his fingers through his tangled hair, fidgeting with random object he's picked up and then discarding them. John knows well how this goes, but never gets tired of the show.

"Hmm. Or been watching. Or he could have gotten lucky, been ready to break in but then not had to. No way to tell. But what does tell is that no one reported a car or taxi anywhere near the house, which means he either walked from somewhere close or parked several streets away. Walked is more likely, since if you have a getaway car you want it close. At some point in the day before our victim died, the murderer snuck into the house, planted the cyanide in something he knew she would consume, and left before he was detected. Which bring us to…"

"The coffee," John finishes. "The cyanide was in the coffee."

"Of course it was the coffee! What's more she drank flavoured coffee, roasted almond to be exact."

"So she wouldn't have noticed the smell of the cyanide because she was already expecting to smell almonds, and the bitterness would have been hidden by the bitterness of the coffee," John concludes "So he must have been watching her, to know her habits so well. But I didn't see a cup or coffee stain."

"It was in the sink in the kitchen. She put it down there when she started feeling ill and then stumbled into the dining room. You saw how neat that house was, even as she was dying she was worried about making a mess. Plus I found traces of cyanide in the hopper of the coffee maker."

John prays he didn't touch it with his bare hands, and disposed of it once he was done verifying its identity, but is by no means sure that Sherlock considered either of these things.

"Okay, that takes care of the means," John says, making a mental note to rewash all the dishes and scour the kitchen before either of them eat anything. "What about the man?"

"Ah ha! No witness noticed a strange man in the neighbourhood, and in a posh one like that people notice strangers, especially dirty ones. So he must have done it when it was dark out, probably late the night before she died. Furthermore I analysed the dirt from the footprints and aside from the local clay one would expect, there's also a mix of peat moss, perlite, and vermiculite. Also known as potting mix."

"So, someone who spends a lot of time gardening. Maybe a groundskeeper, from one of the nearby houses? Had a grudge…or…or an obsession of some kind?" John can tell the answer is close, he feels it and Sherlock has that expression he gets when he's just on the edge of a solution, groping for it through the fog.

God, he's sexy when he's working things out, the intelligence mixed with a tiny hint of uncertainty, just for a moment. John doesn't even mind when he can't follow. The electricity crackling around him now is enough of a reward.

"I thought of that, but none of the local homes employ anyone who could fit those boots. He could have been a temporary worker, but then he wouldn't have been there long enough to learn her habits. And everything about this fits a local crime." Sherlock makes a noise of frustration.

"Wait," John says, an idea growing. "What about someone who worked in a shop or garden centre? Are there any of those nearby?"

"Oh, yes! A garden centre, brilliant. That would explain why the cyanide was industrial grade not pharmaceutical grade. He didn't buy it, he already had it! Probably for pests." Sherlock begins typing furiously on his computer.

"Is that legal?" John asks in mild horror.

"Not any more. But it's effective. I'm sure he's not the only nursery owner or farmer who keeps an old tin around to kill rats with. Oh…fantastic! Only one garden centre that is within walking distance – Gentle Billy's Plants and Garden Supply, a cheerfully ironic name. Text Lestrade right now, hurry up… ready? '157 Bridge Rd, St. John's Woods. Garden shop. Look for something missing from the pesticide shed and a man with size 12 wellies.' Got it?"

"Yes, hold on." John was used to this by now, but he could by no means text as quickly as Sherlock could talk. "Okay, sent."

Sherlock is standing again, but no longer pacing and twitching. He lets out a long breath. "Oh, that was too simple, but at least it was interesting for a few minutes." He turns to John and John feels that familiar warm sensation creeping up from his toes that he always gets when Sherlock's full attention is on him. Thrilling and reassuring and unsettling all at once.

"You like to watch me work," Sherlock observes, approaching John's chair purposefully.

"I like to work with you," John corrects, trying avoid inflating Sherlock's ego any further.

But of course he likes to watch him – it's like watching a well-bred racehorse run or a prima ballerina on stage. The incomparable sight of a thing of great beauty doing exactly what it was created for, and doing it superbly.

Sherlock is right in front of him now, with a glint in his grey eyes. John knows that look, and all that comes with it.

"You like watching me," he repeats. "Look at you, breathing and pulse elevated, cheeks flushed…you're aroused. Don't try to lie to me."

"Maybe I'm just pleased with my 'brilliant' deduction," John counters, toying with him. "You didn't get this one all on your own."

"I would have," Sherlock dismisses. "And that's not what's turning you on right now." He leans over John slowly, and John can smell his breath, his cologne, the tang of chemicals from his analyses.

"No, it's not," John admits. They lock eyes for a long second and then Sherlock pounces, straddling his lap and kissing him forcefully and deeply, like he is trying to possess John with his mouth. John gives as good as he gets, and the kiss lasts at least a full minute – long enough for John to contemplate any number of filthy things he could do to his detective, right here in this chair – before Sherlock breaks it off and jumps to his feet abruptly.

"But no time for that," he declares. "We have about twenty minutes to get something to eat before Lestrade has us come down to the Yard and look at the suspect."

John gets up with bad grace, thwarted. "I can think of better uses for twenty minutes than lunch," he points out.

Sherlock gives a little smile, flushed as well, but shakes his head. "You haven't eaten since last night – I don't want you passing out in front of the police. It would be terribly embarrassing for me."

John snorts. "What about you, you haven't eaten in at least two days."

Sherlock waves him off. "We're talking about you. We'll go to that café with the pastry…things… you like near the Yard." He throws John's jacket at him and all but drags him through the door. John lets himself be manhandled out of the house.

He always finds it touching when Sherlock tries to remember to make sure he eats in the middle of a case, even if Sherlock himself refuses to. He may beg Sherlock for days to eat, without result, but his friend nearly always remembers to stop and let John get something at not entirely barbaric intervals. It shows a level of awareness about his needs which, for Sherlock, is practically doting.

When they reach the street, the taller man leans down and purrs in John's ear, "After we wrap this up, I plan to finish what I started." John manages to keep his knees from going weak, but it's a close thing.

They have time for John to get soup and bread, while Sherlock gulps his coffee like he's in a competition and then taps his fingers on the table, anxious, waiting for news. Finally his phone buzzes.

"Thirty-five minutes, he's getting slow," Sherlock mutters, annoyed, throwing cash down on the table on their way out.

Scotland Yard is only a five minute walk, but at Sherlock's pace they make it in four, with John nearly having to trot to keep up. Lestrade meets them in the lobby.

"You called this one," he admits. "William Sterling, owner of the nursery at the address you provided. Size 12 wellies, traces of cyanide in the pesticide storage area, claims he was alone on the premises, sleeping, during the window we established, but no one to confirm. Everything, just like you said. And the fingerprints on the coffee maker match. You have five minutes, but you won't need it – everything points to him."

"Mmm. Well, you know me, like to be thorough. Come on, John."

It does seem too easy, feels like something is off here. Sherlock's face is unreadable, but John senses a spring in his step that means he thinks he's going to do more than confirm what he already knows.

They follow Lestrade to an interrogation room, where sits a huge, rather grubby and sullen man, surrounded by several officers.

"Oh, no, no, all wrong!" Sherlock exclaims angrily as soon as they walk in. "You, Goliath, stand up. Now!"

The man stands warily and the officers tense. Sherlock looks him up and down, circling around and inspecting him careful. "This is the wrong man, it can't be him! What are you playing at, Lestrade? Let this poor sod go and go get the right one, before he makes a run for it! He'll know you've been sniffing around the shop, you'll be lucky if he isn't halfway to Bristol already."

"Sherlock, all the evidence fits and neither of his employees match the description. And don't forget the fingerprints. According to all we found and everything you told us, this is our man!"

"It most certainly is not! Idiots."

"So, are you saying you were wrong this time?" Anderson asks nastily, his nasal voice grating on John, who unconsciously moves closer to Sherlock.

That man brings out all John's basest protective instincts, the ones he couldn't quite let loose even in the army. He's used to people misunderstanding and disliking Sherlock, but he can't tolerate the blatant vileness Anderson displays towards him.

"No, I'm saying you were. All the facts I gave you were perfectly in order, it's hardly my fault you lot didn't bother to pay attention. Look at him, there is no way he made those footprints, they were far too close together, couldn't have been made by a man over five foot eight!"

"The prints match his boots exactly. Maybe he changed his stride to hide his identity," Lestrade offers.

"Oh yes, a man smart enough to plot a complicated murder and fake a different height couldn't remember to clean the mud off his boots beforehand or wear gloves in his victim's house. Not a chance this clot managed to pull it off."

"Oi!" says the man angrily.

"Oh, do shut up, I am actually trying to get you out of this, you magnificent oaf." He turns to the DI. "Those prints may have been from his boots but he certainly wasn't in them at the time. And look at his hands. Dirty. Old dirt too, haven't been scrubbed properly in at least a week, but you found only clean fingerprints on the coffee maker, not a trace of dirt, yes? Not our man."

Lestrade looks doubtful and Anderson outright scornful. John wants to punch his little ratty face, but restrains himself.

Sometimes he is alarmed by the violence and anger that lives within him, not even very far below the surface. But he knows Sherlock adores it when he lets it out at useful moments and some of those times have saved their lives, so he doesn't regret it too much.

"Sherlock… you have some good points there, but there's so much other evidence," Lestrade says evenly. "Is it possible you're seeing things that just aren't there?"

"It's not like you've never been wrong before," Anderson adds. "Maybe you just need to get used to it."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something that will doubtless get him in trouble, but John beats him to it, stepping between Sherlock and the two officers.

"He's wrong much less often than any of us," John says furiously. "So just this once, why don't you listen to him the first time and save all of us the headache of you jailing an innocent man while a murderer, apparently a very clever murderer who you might just need Sherlock to track down, goes free!"

His blood is boiling. After all these years they still don't trust Sherlock. And maybe they shouldn't completely, but if there was one thing the man knew, it was criminals.

All three stare at him in varying degrees of shock, and John steps back next to his friend and falls silent, still glaring, daring anyone to contradict him. Finally Lestrade says, "All right, Sherlock, if he didn't do it, who did?"

"No idea. But it was someone who went to a lot of trouble to frame our friend here – planting fingerprints, using his chemicals, stealing and returning his boots. He was trying to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Suspect and victim didn't know each other, but I'll bet there's someone who knows, and hates, both of them. Now if you're wise, you'll release this incredibly unlucky man and start looking for a mutual connexion!"

The Detective Inspector sighs heavily. "You better be right about this."

"I am."

"All right, let him go. But don't you leave town, right?"

"Actually, it might be better if you sent him away for a bit," Sherlock tells Lestrade. "If the killer realises he's failed in his set up, he might try and finish him off. Best if it seems like it worked.

"Whatever you say," Lestrade says, a hint of resentment in his tone.

The man nods gratefully. "Thank you, you won't regret it. And thank you…sir… I owe you my life!"

Sherlock focuses on him briefly. "What? Oh yes, probably. John, let's go. Text me when you have something!"

He sweeps out and John follows, pausing for a quick thank you to Greg and avoiding looking at Anderson at all. John is unprepared when instead of heading for the exits, Sherlock makes a sharp right turn and pushes him into the loo, jamming the door behind them.

"You," he says rounding fiercely on John, "look like the asteroid that killed the fucking dinosaurs."

If this is what he gets for standing up for his friend, he's not going to complain. Sherlock is focused and hungry and that only makes John want him more, even if he can't think of a less desirable locale than the New Scotland Yard toilets.

"Is that good?"

"Very," Sherlock growls, slamming him up against the outside of the nearest stall, working his hands under John's shirt and chewing on John's lower lip, not quite kissing, but breathing in his breath. John bucks his hips into Sherlock almost automatically, instantly hard, and can't help a soft moan as Sherlock works a leg between his thighs and starts unbuckling his belt with one hand.

"No, Sherlock, not now," John manages with difficulty. "People will hear!"

Sherlock puts his mouth to John's ear while continuing his progress southward. "I want them to hear. I want to make you scream until every last person in this building knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that you belong to me."

John's insides turn to jelly at that, but he says, "I think they already know, Sherlock."

Sherlock freezes, shocked briefly into stillness. "Did you tell them?"

"I don't need to. Between the feel you copped last week at that bank case when you thought no one was looking, but at least three officers were, and this –" John points to the livid bruise just below his left ear, showing clear teeth marks, "I think they may have worked it out."

"Mmm," rumbles Sherlock, pleased, resuming his attentions, "Then let's drive the point home, shall we?" He thrusts sharply into John's hip, and John can feel the point, as it were, very well.

Oh, fuck it. If Sherlock wants him this badly, why on earth would he say no?

"All right," he says at last, body on fire and thoughts rapidly dissolving in his head. "But there will be no screaming."

"I'll take that bet," Sherlock tells him, finally getting a hand inside John's trousers and biting at his collarbone.

John pushes him away playfully. "Well, if you're so eager then better get on your knees, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock grins and obliges with enthusiasm. John doesn't scream, but only because he bites the sleeve of his jacket hard enough to make a permanent imprint. Sherlock is bringing all his considerable skill to the table in the blatant attempt to get John to cry out, but John isn't going to let him win today. It's bad for his megalomania.

How incredibly delightful it had been to learn that Sherlock's mouth was talented at more than snappy comebacks and elaborate insults. Quite a lot more, actually.

When John's finished, trembling with the aftershocks, he hauls Sherlock to his feet by his lapels and kisses the still-sloppy mouth. "You are a very bad man," he informs Sherlock, as he puts himself back together. "A right wanker. You're going to pay for that when we get home."

"Oh? How exactly?" Sherlock asks in his most insufferably arrogant tone.

John tells him in his ear. The speed with which Sherlock manages to get them out of the building and procure them a taxi is nothing short of miraculous.