It was only when Sherlock lead him to an active crime scene complete with the 'police line do not cross' tape that John realised that he really had no clue what he was getting into. He knew nothing about crime solving or what he was even getting into. He had followed Sherlock on a whim and it seemed like the whim was going to possibly get him killed. He couldn't really see the crime scene except for the yellow tape sealing it off and the officers guarding it. He guessed that it had to be inside.
One of the officers, a woman with long curly brown hair and dark skin came up to them with a very unamused look on her face. John prepared himself to have to apologize for himself and his friend before running away with his tail between his legs, instead, she just stopped and glared at Sherlock, completely ignoring John's presence.
"What are you doing here," she spat out. Part of John expected Sherlock to come up with some long grand deduction of her life story that would likely end with him getting punched in the face, instead he just lifted the crime scene tape for him and smiled at the woman.
"I was invited," he said no charted as John hesitantly stepped under the police tape.
"Why," she growled out.
"I think they want me to take a look," he answered his voice sounding like he knew he already had the argument won.
"Well you know what I think," She said as he slipped under the rope. He smirked back at her as he turned to leave.
"Always Sally."
He turned around and walked off in the direction that John assumed the crime was. John followed after him, feeling sort of like a lost child. Everything seemed bigger and he was on high alert given his unfamiliar surroundings. Sherlock began to lead him into a building when a police officer stopped them. He looked at John and Sherlock with piercing green eyes. Sherlock let out a very audible sigh upon encountering the man, John guessed by his reaction that he wasn't particularly fond of the man.
"Who is this," he asked as he glared at John with a look that could kill.
"What does it matter to you Anderson," Sherlock snapped back. He matched Anderson's piercing glare with one of his own. John shifted from foot to foot as he found himself caught in between the two men's staring match.
"I'm his boyfriend," he answered the question. Both of their eyes widened and he could've sworn that he could've heard a pin drop. He looked at Sherlock helplessly wondering what he had said wrong. Suddenly it clicked and his face turned bright red in seconds. If he wasn't in a public place he would've crawled into a hole and died from the embarrassment of his slip up. "I meant friend, buddy, pal, mate, comrade," John exclaimed in a rush to fix his mistake.
Instead of thanking him for fixing his mistake like he thought Sherlock should've done, instead, he just glared at John, "John, stop talking." He immediately shut his mouth before he could make it worse. He knew that he probably already had due to the smug grin on Anderson's face as well as his obvious attempts not to burst out laughing. Despite not knowing a thing about the man John decided that he already didn't like him. Anderson seemed like a dick, yet a lot of people that day seemed to be having that impression on him. Perhaps London was just filled with a lot of dicks.
Sherlock stepped past Anderson without saying another word and walked inside. John quickly followed after him. The first thing he was met with upon entering the building was the wretched smell of blood. It was so strong that he was almost sure he was swimming in a sea of it. He forced himself to take another step, and then another. He couldn't be afraid of the smell if he wanted to be a doctor or join the army he rationalised. The next thing he noticed was overturned furniture and broken tables. It didn't take a genius, or even a proper detective to work out that some kind of struggle had taken place between the victim and the attacker.
Sherlock stopped abruptly and much to John's surprise walked over to the wall and straightened one of the pictures on it. He wondered what was so important about the picture. A new voice behind him almost caused John to jump right out of his skin, "Sherlock, what are you doing, I asked you to look at the body, not her art," he exclaimed. Sherlock turned around, instead of wearing a pissed off expression, he instead lit up like a Christmas tree and followed after the man who John assumed to be another detective.
John followed after him as he didn't really have much else to do. He found himself met with a scene that looked straight out of a horror movie. There were bloodstains all over the walls and the carpet surrounding the dead body who appeared to be a teenage girl. Her blonde hair had been torn and matted, likely during with her fight with the attacker. Not only was her hair messed up but her clothes and skin were covered in rips, large chunks had been ripped out of her skin and it was lifeless. If he didn't know any better he would've assumed that she had been mauled by a wild animal.
He had to fight the urge to retch while Sherlock animatedly began inspecting the body like it was a new toy. While most of John wanted to retch and lose his lunch another part of him was excited to see what Sherlock would make of the scene with his practical superpower. Sherlock was eerily quiet as he inspected the body carefully without even laying a finger on it. He didn't disappoint as he began to speak yet again at top speed as he sprouted off seemingly random facts about the girl who lay on the ground before them.
"She's in her first year of high school and doesn't have that many friends, this I know due to the single photo on the wall of her with a friend, while she could have more photos in her room to have only one hanging in the middle of the living space, it is obvious that they must've been close and why have the photo hanging when you have plenty of ones of others, conclusion, social outcast. Next, her killer was not somebody she knew, that is obvious by the amount of destruction around the flat, if it was a person she knew then she wouldn't have tried to get away and they would've taken the element of surprise and likely killed her much more effectively. While it is possible that she did know them, the balance of probability suggests that she didn't. Also look at her hair, despite the state it's in, she clearly would never have had somebody she knew over with her hair in that state, her clothes are perfectly coordinated as well as her makeup, she clearly would never have let anybody see her with such messy hair that couldn't have only been caused by the tussle. Despite the fact she didn't know her attacker she or somebody else let them in, there is no sign of a forced entry so that also rules out the possibility of an animal attack despite the obvious precautions that the killer made to make it look like one."
John starred on in amazement at Sherlock's speech. "Incredible," he whispered. Sherlock beamed at him upon hearing his response, "you really think so?"
"Of course."
"What do you think," he asked surprising the crap out of him. He was honestly surprised that he could still be surprised by anything Sherlock did at this point. It seemed like every 10 minutes there was a new trick up his sleeve.
"The attacker liked horror movies," he said in response. It was all he could think of as he stared at the scene. Sherlock and the detective both stared at him with a look that he couldn't decipher. "I may not be a detective like you two, but I know my movies. The girl is a stereotypical horror movie victim and the scene fits exactly what you would expect from a monster killing," he answered as he trailed off awkwardly.
"So we're looking for a fan of horror movies, wow that really narrows it down," the detective said sarcastically.
Sherlock glared at the detective angrily. "I'm sorry, I forgot that before we showed up you knew exactly who the killer was and their motives for killing this innocent woman, right Lestrade," Sherlock said with his voice dripping in sarcasm. The detective, who John now knew to be called Lestrade, rolled his eyes at his comment as if he was merely dissing his shoes. John really began to wonder how often Sherlock made comments like that towards the London police force.
A part of John was surprised at how Sherlock had defended his rather pitiful attempt at a deduction, in truth Lestrade had been right to be sarcastic about it, it wasn't anything like Sherlock's incredible analysis of the body that could rival an English teacher's analysis of a film. In comparison, John would be the kid who failed the essay while Sherlock got top marks, yet John had a feeling that he would actually be incredibly bad at English and spectacularly fail at it.
Lestrade suddenly seemed more interested in Sherlock and John than the dead body in front of them. John wondered if he was just now realising that he was, in fact, not supposed to be at the crime scene. He began to shift nervously as he shot Sherlock a look of please help. However, Sherlock completely failed to catch John's desperate look as he had taken to looking at the murder scene in front of them yet again.
"Sherlock," Lestrade began to catch the man's attention. Sherlock whirled around with the speed of a bullet to face Lestrade. He looked at him expectantly as if he had something very important to say about the case. If John was being honest he was also interested in what the man had to say. "I didn't know you had a boyfriend," he said with a hint of a smile.
John fought the urge to take a step back in shock at hearing the statement. He knew that he had accidentally introduced himself as Sherlock's boyfriend, but that had just been a slip of the tongue, which to be frank he had no clue where it had even come from. Now that he had heard it come out of Lestrade's mouth the words felt that much more real, it felt like they meant something other than being meaningless words floating through space. He looked at Sherlock to try and gauge how he had reacted to hearing the words, however, his face was blank as he stared at Lestrade with a look as if he was trying to decide if he was joking.
"He's not my boyfriend," Sherlock answered sounding confused. Part of John wondered if he even knew what the word boyfriend meant given how confused he looked as he said it. John found himself nodding along with Sherlock's words. However, something about the confirmation of the truth made him feel like something was amiss. Despite the truth of the words part of him wanted to believe that they weren't. He couldn't understand where the feeling was coming from, let alone why he was having it. "He's just my," Sherlock trailed off as he tried to think of the right word.
"Friend," John finished. "We're just friends," he said again as he tried to silence the part of himself that wanted to cry upon hearing the words coming out of his mouth. They felt wrong and foreign on his lips. "I'm not gay," he said to back up his point. He meant the words, he was sure that he wasn't gay, he had never had feelings for another man before in his life. There was no way he even could be gay, he told himself. However, that did nothing to silence the part of him, no matter how small, that was upset at the dismissal of them as boyfriends, no matter how untrue it was.
Suddenly, as if a lightbulb had been flicked on in his head Sherlock jumped up and down like a spring. John was shocked at how quickly his personality changed from the serious aloof man to a toddler on a sugar high. At an almost dizzying speed, Sherlock raced out of the room without a word leaving Lestrade and John in confusion. John couldn't help but stare dumbstruck at his friend. He looked to Lestrade in case he had some kind of idea as to why Sherlock had just suddenly left.
Lestrade just sighed as he looked at the space where Sherlock had been standing seconds ago. "He does that," he said as if it explained everything. That was the second time that day John had been told that every single person just seemed to be fine with Sherlock just up and leaving without even a word as to why it was strange. John sighed and moved to leave but Lestrade grabbed his wrist before he could.
"Who are you to him," he asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"What do you mean, I'm his friend," John answered awkwardly. There was that word again, friend. Despite the fact he hadn't even known Sherlock a full 24 hours the word friend to describe their relationship didn't feel right at all. It just felt wrong, they weren't just friends, were they? He knew that they were but he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming feeling of it being wrong as he heard the word repeated from his own mouth yet again. When Lestrade had called them boyfriends, something in him had felt like that was right and he couldn't explain why. He barely knew Sherlock so there was no way that he could possibly have a crush on him, was there?
"He doesn't have friends," Lestrade responded.
"He does now," John answered firmly as he turned to leave. Lestrade didn't even try to stop him, in fact, none of the officers did. As he made his way home he couldn't help but mull over Lestrade's words, what had he meant that Sherlock didn't have friends. He thought to himself, that no matter how wrong the word felt to describe their relationship that barely even existed, that he would do everything in his power to make sure that Sherlock had friends, even if it was only him. They were friends, just friends.
