Thanks for the reviews and all the attention - it makes me want to write more, I admit :).

Chapter Three – Matches

"Well, any luck?" John asked Mrs Wilcox, the matchmaker he had found online.

In all that thinking, John had decided that waiting for everything to really sink in was not the route to go. If he sat and analysed too long, one of two things would have happened: he would have either locked himself in his room forever, or he would have confessed everything to Sherlock and watched as the man shut down and picked up his violin, never to speak to John again.

Neither struck him as a good idea.

So, he threw himself into the dating scene. He briefly thought about using one of those relationship websites, but he quickly determined that even if he only listed his name as John, Sherlock would find it. Plus there was the fact that he had been in the papers recently. The world's only consulting detective had been the main focus, but he had been there, in the background. He thought actually going to a matchmaker would really be his best bet, having another human screen his dates and all. Eliminate the loonies. One loony in his life was enough.

"Of course dear," Mrs Wilcox replied with a smile. "Doctor looking for a steady relationship – there's plenty of nice young men who would queue up to meet you. I've narrowed it down to five possibilities, with two who are your best matches. I just have a question or two and we can set up the meetings."

"Alright, ready whenever you are," he smiled, feeling more than a bit awkward.

Mrs Wilcox leaned across the desk, her motherly look becoming a bit more intense. Before she had reminded him of a chubby Mrs Hudson, but now she had a look that reminded him a bit more of Mycroft Holmes. Disturbing.

"I, of course, have seen the papers and the news. I know who you are, though I give you credit that you really haven't tried to hide anything. My concern isn't so much with your line of work, but with who you work with. I was given to understand that you and this Mr Holmes are already in a relationship, and that you're living together."

"Oh! No, no, you misunderstand, like everyone else I'm afraid," he chuckled a little self-consciously. "We're best friends, roomies, colleagues, but nothing romantic or anything like it. Sherlock, well, he just doesn't *do* that sort of thing. He's all about the next case. And he's really not my type, anyhow."

"Really?" She picked up the application and adjusted her reading glasses. "You're looking for someone who is 'intelligent, opinionated, strong willed and passionate about the things that matter to him.' I took the opportunity to read your blog. These are some of the words you used to describe your flatmate."

"Yes, I also used words like sarcastic, disdainful, rude, self-centred and I could have easily used the words asexual and uninterested in human contact of any kind if I didn't have some respect for the man's privacy."

"Yes, I understand. I'm sorry if I have upset you, but I just wanted to be sure that we weren't going to end up with a jealous boyfriend. It wouldn't do my reputation any good to have a genius detective stalking any of my clients."

"It won't come to that, I assure you."

"Good! Let's talk about the man I think is the best match for you… Jeremy."

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Sherlock had managed to keep off of him for three days. The first two days had obviously been hell for him. John could tell by first the screeching of the violin, followed by the screeching of the tube and then finally the screeching of the Holmes as he got into a rather heated argument with the new microwave. Luckily, for everyone, Sherlock had won. The next day was much better, thanks to a timely text from Lestrade with details of a new case.

It took thirty minutes to get to the country house just outside of London proper and Sherlock spent the entire time peering out the window of the police car that had picked them up. John didn't know what to make of the silence except that he was sure the detective was watching him through the reflection. He was trying to be discreet, John was sure, in order to keep his promise, but that was a hard promise to keep for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

When they arrived, it was to a manor house, richly appointed in furnishings and a young woman of about twenty four, richly appointed in a fur coat, lying dead in the vestibule. John watched in his usual fascination as Sherlock prowled around the body, leaning in close to inspect her hands, her jewellery, the bruising around her neck, the state of her shoes and stockings – John suspected that the dark haired man even sniffed her. He was sure he did as he watched Sherlock make a circuit around her, spiralling outwards, no longer looking at the victim but sniffing the air around her.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, noting the odd behaviour.

"There's an odour," Sherlock drew out, not looking at anyone but at everything around them. He had a pensive look on his face as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his long coat. "I see you have the murder weapon, Anderson."

"Yeah, right here," the pale investigator answered brusquely, showing Sherlock an evidence bag with a multi-coloured scarf inside. "Sorry, already bagged."

John felt like hitting the snarky face, but Sherlock simply sneered and shook his head.

"Would have been better if you hadn't disturbed the crime scene," he bit out sarcastically, "but I've got all I need from that, bagged or no. Crime of passion, I dare say," he continued in a more conversational tone as he turned to the DI. "Where's the husband?"

John followed as they were led into a sitting room where they found a slightly overweight middle aged man sitting in a chair sobbing into a handkerchief. It seemed that Mr Devlin, from what John could make out between the sobs, had just arrived home from a business meeting to find his young wife, Bernadette, dead on the floor. He was sure it was her boyfriend, Greg Winston, whom had killed her. She had been having an affair, which she often did in their mostly sham of a marriage, but Mr Winston had been more of a problem than most. He had started demanding money. Martin Devlin had insisted that she break it off with him before the wrong people found out, namely the board members at his company. Mr Winston hadn't realized that the husband knew all about the girl's philandering and certainly assumed he could black mail her. He must have killed her in his shock.

"Yes," Sherlock drawled in the tone that let John know he wasn't buying it for one minute. Suddenly, he about faced and whipped out of the room, past the body, and out of the house, John rushing to keep up. "I need to speak to the boyfriend!"

They climbed into the patrol car that was their escort and headed back to London.

"Was it the husband?" John asked, sure that's what Sherlock was thinking.

"More likely than the boyfriend. Despite what he said, Mr Devlin had no idea about Mr Winston, Mrs Devlin was not breaking up with Mr Winston and I'm certain that neither Mr nor Mrs Devlin bought that horrid scarf. It was too cheap, everything else she was wearing was costly, but she wore that scarf. No. It was not, I think, the boyfriend. The final clue was right there on the floor."

"The scarf?"

"No. Didn't you see? The matches, John, the matches!"

John winced; he briefly thought he had been caught out, his mind on a different type of match. Then he remembered – there had been two spent matches on the floor a few feet from the body.

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The boyfriend had been an even bigger mess than the husband. He hadn't known Bernadette had been murdered and he sat at the table in his small apartment smoking cigarette after cigarette, making John's head swim from all the smoke. He was thankful he specified a non-smoker on his dating profile. At least Sherlock only smoked when the patches just weren't enough - and he thought he could get away with it.

"We were supposed to meet up today, this morning, but she didn't show. I thought she lost her nerve, was going to call her later, but she's dead?"

"Yes. Why were you going to meet?"

"What? She was leaving her husband, taking the money he keeps in the safe, her jewellery, was going to empty her account, she wanted to move to France. Start over."

The boyfriend paused to light up again, flicking his lighter and inhaling as he introduced the flame to the end of the cigarette. His hands shook and the tears had never stopped flowing, though he wasn't vocalizing his pain.

"Thank you, that's all I need," Sherlock said curtly as he rose from the table and headed out of the flat.

"Sorry for your loss," John hurriedly added as he followed Sherlock out.

He barely made it in time to crawl into the cab beside him. Sherlock was busy texting. John leaned in close to see what he was sending, and to whom. He nearly pulled back when he felt the other man's dark curls brush against his face. He quickly stifled that urge, knowing that reaction would attract more attention than just being close enough to smell his shampoo. It was a text to Lestrade, instructing him to arrest the husband. Sherlock turned to the doctor, entirely too close now that they were facing, but neither pulled back.

"The husband smokes cigars, expensive cigars," Sherlock explained, a gleam in his eyes as he gripped John's upper arm, keeping him close so he could keep his voice low. "The body smelled of cigars, not cigarettes, and she was dressed to leave, not coming in, her shoes were clean, she hadn't recently been outside, she hadn't met her boyfriend and brought him back, why would she do that? No, she was leaving, the husband – the husband! – he came home early, caught her in the act and she had to admit what was going on! She was wearing that cheap scarf, the one the boyfriend had bought her and in a fit of rage the husband strangled her with it. The most important clue, however, was the matches on the floor. The same as the matches in the sitting room by the humidor. He didn't call the police right away, he took the time to smoke two cigars waiting for the right time, waiting for when he *should* have gotten home. Oh, he thought he had a scapegoat in the boyfriend, but he didn't plan it out! It was all done in the heat of the moment! He was sloppy! It was so obvious!"

All John could do was bask in his friend's excited gaze, the grey eyes filled with the triumph of having figured out something far faster than Scotland Yard ever could. And it was so simple for him. John loved these moments. He loved Sherlock's excitement. He loved *Sherlock*. He pulled back before he did something entirely too stupid.

"That was brilliant."

Sherlock just grinned in reply.

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It hadn't been hard to get out of 221B. Sherlock was still answering Lestrade's questions and getting steadily more annoyed, so he wasn't really interested in what John was up to.

John sat nervously at the table of the outdoor café he and Jeremy had agreed to meet up at. The doctor had made sure that it was several blocks from his place. No sense in running into Sherlock if the other man got the urge to go for a walk. He really wasn't ready to explain this.

"Dr Watson, I presume?" a humour filled voice behind him asked.

John stood up with a smile, turning around to shake hands with a very blonde, very green eyed, slightly younger man – and felt a little thrill go up his spine. He was really doing this. And as the date progressed, he decided that while Jeremy could never hold a candle to his moody flatmate, he was very nice, and John thought that he might actually like him.

TBC

A/N: Yeah, I didn't really feel like going into detail on the date. At least not the first one. I was going to put that in the next chapter, but I have other ideas that take precedence over that one. I'm not sure how long I'm going to drag out this dating thing, either, but I have started the next chapter and I promise you, it's going to be – interesting lol. Oh, and just to point out because I do point out the obvious sometimes, this chapter was hard and I apologize if the crime scene was too mundane. I'm not a deductive genius lol.