"She didn't die here."

Sherlock was hunched over the body of a woman that was lying in the foetal position on the floor of a hidden safe room within her house, with no visible signs of what had caused her death. Eyes shut and tranquil appearance making it seem as if she were merely asleep.

Sherlock moved some of her long, straight (dyed) blonde hair away from her face and peered closely at her eyelids.

"If she didn't die here then where did she die, and how did she get here?" asked Lestrade who was standing with his back to the closed door, the rest of the Yarders having been banished outside.

The only other person in the room is John Watson, who is currently completely focused on staring anywhere other than at Sherlock's upturned arse. A task that was proving to be almost impossible if he was being truly honest with himself. At least the belstaff hid most of him from sight.

Lestrade was also not looking in Sherlock's direction. He was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his head turned upwards peering curiously at what appeared to be chains hanging from the ceiling above Sherlock. He was trying to forget what he'd heard John say during their phone conversation earlier, although mostly just so that he could maintain some sort of professional attitude here. He'd like nothing more than to jump up and down in glee screaming "I knew it, I bloody well knew it!" He'd known, from that very first day that he'd met John Watson and seen the way Sherlock interacted with him (and vice versa) that something like this would come.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, taking his mobile out of his coat pocket and starting to type without answering Lestrade.

"Sherlock," huffed out Lestrade, coming to stand closer to Sherlock and the corpse, "I've told you a million times and I'll tell you again: I call you to these crime scenes so that you can help us, not the other way around! If you've figured something out, I need you to tell me."

'And then to tell me if you're shagging John, because I'm desperate to find out' thought Lestrade.

"I thought you had Anderson for that" drawled Sherlock mockingly, "or are you confirming that the man is in fact completely useless at his job?" He turned around to look at Lestrade as he said this, his face a perfect portrait of innocence. It was all in the widening of the eyes. He knows this, he did a comprehensive study on it once when he was utterly bored.

Lestrade sighed. He'd been finding himself sighing more and more, ever since the fateful day that he had met Sherlock Holmes all those years ago. He glanced back at John, and was unable to stop himself from laughing out loud as he noticed that John was blatantly ogling Sherlock's arse as he had bent over again to collect a seemingly invisible sample from the floor.

Immediately John realised he'd been caught, and Sherlock stood up and turned around to stare suspiciously at the two of them. He'd been aware that they had both been acting odd all afternoon, and he was starting to think that they were purposely trying to hide something from him. A quick glance over them did not reveal much.

Lestrade was over-worked, exhausted, frustrated (both with the case and his lack of a sex life), had skipped breakfast, and was highly amused at John.

John was a bit tired from work, but he'd only had a short shift so it wasn't as bad as usual. However he'd had a kid bite his hand today, he could see the small mark from here on the back of his hand. Other than that he was embarrassed, very easy to tell from the way his face, neck, and ears had turned a rather fetching shade of red. But what had caused him to become embarrassed?

John in the meantime is wishing nothing more than for the floor to swallow him up. He had been trying so hard to forget what he'd seen but Sherlock was not been helping matters, bending over like that and being clever. He was devastating when he was being clever. When Lestrade had started laughing he'd remembered what he had unwittingly said during the phone call earlier.

God. Lestrade is never going to let him live this down. How long had he been telling Lestrade that he was 'Not Gay'?

Well he would never believe him now.

"I'm finished here," stated Sherlock suddenly, frowning as if he was working on a puzzling experiment of his, his eyes darting between the two of them "come along John I need you to do something for me."

"Oh he'll do something for you all right" yelled Lestrade towards Sherlock's back as he headed back through the adjoining master bedroom and out into the corridor where some of the Yarders were waiting. John followed behind him, hunched over and face bright red.

John watched out of the window of his bedroom in 221B as the sun started to disappear below the horizon, leaving behind a pinkish-orange hue over the buildings of London.

Downstairs Sherlock was sitting in their living room, typing away on John's laptop. Probably snooping on his browsing history again.

John had thought that Sherlock would be moping right now. The case, showing so much promise at first, had turned out to be 'barely a two'. Sherlock had solved it within an hour of leaving the crime scene. (It would have been a lot sooner, he'd adamantly insisted, if Anderson hadn't majorly cocked up when gathering the evidence)

But Sherlock was not moping. He'd barely even complained (much) about being called on a 'two'. He seemed absolutely, perfectly, fine. John should probably be worrying more about that. A Sherlock that was neither bored nor on a case usually spelled trouble in John's immediate future.

On the other hand if Sherlock was busy with some imminent experiment then he (hopefully) wouldn't notice John's growing attraction to him, at least not for a little while yet.

What John needed was advice. He was wading perilous waters that were wholly unfamiliar to him and he was in dire need of some guidance, or at least a sympathetic ear that he could vent to.

He quickly went through a mental check-list of all of his acquaintances that he could talk to about this. He could think of one at the top of his list that knew them both well, and was already aware of John's situation. So, swallowing his pride, John picked up his mobile from the side table and dialled Lestrade's number.