The ride home was quiet – deathly so. All that echoed in the cab were the distant, muffled sounds of London living around them: the screech of tires and the accompanying angry shouts, the peals of bells, the happy squalling of children and tourists alike as the innocent and naïve were taken in by the charms of the ancient city.
Sherlock was looking out the window, deep in thought. John could practically see the intense calculations going on beside him, but he declined to comment. The detective's moods could be mercurial, as transient and fleeting as the weather of the city they lived in, but infinitely more emotionally devastating when they took a sour turn. It was best to leave him to wander through the vast and lonely impasses of his headspace in peace; John had learned the hard way about interrupting Sherlock's thoughts.
As the cabbie's bumper brushed against the kerb at 221B, Sherlock startled out of his meditative lull, looking around him wildly. John rested a hand against his partner's thigh, managing not to flinch when the detective shot him a particularly loathsome and bewildered glare.
"Easy there. It's just me. We're home."
"I can see that," Sherlock replied sharply, gathering his coat around him and striding to their door. John remained silent, merely following his partner up the stairs.
"Lost in thought, then?"
"I've figured out the most likely motive as well as the identity of the killer, but I need more evidence on the other murders," Sherlock mumbled, heading toward the kitchen and banging the kettle down onto the burner with a little more force than necessary.
John smiled tightly. "But you don't want to go follow the lead because it means you have to talk to Mycroft."
The curly-haired Holmes whirled on his feet, a look of genuine surprise and appreciation on his features. "Excellent deduction, John. You're getting quite good at this."
His earnest tone stirred John's blood a little, and the doctor fought back the arousal swilling in his stomach. Only with Sherlock could a compliment become a source of sexual frustration, he lamented, amused. Then he remembered that he had implicitly become the Holmes brother liaison with the signing of the rent lease, and he blanched.
Sherlock, catching the microexpression, smiled triumphantly. "You won't refuse, and you know it."
"I can't refuse you, and you know it."
"Knowing something to be a fact doesn't diminish the satisfaction of its veracity being proven time and time again."
"You say things like that just to sexually frustrate me, don't you?"
"Of course. No sex during investigations – if I don't eat, I won't fuck either. All the endorphins cloud my head," Sherlock purred, waltzing over to run his hand down John's arm and press his lips against the doctor's racing pulse point. "And do try to remember that we are working on a murder investigation."
John laughed, batting Sherlock away. "Only you can turn a sentence like that into innuendo without trying."
"It's one of my more amateur talents. I'm working on it. You give me ample opportunities to do so."
John was suddenly struck by the realization that the murder victim had also had moments like these – innocent seductions with the person he loved, covert kisses and inside jokes. He paled, and Sherlock glanced quizzically at him.
"I meant what I said at the crime scene, Sherlock. Please don't go to Bart's until this over."
"Oh please, John. If he wanted me, he would have found me by now. My mastectomy was registered with the NHS, as are my testosterone treatments. I believe he might only be going after metoidioplasty patients, but I will need the evidence from my ignorant louse of a brother to be sure."
"I know, but we can't take chances. Please. Just I – "
"You can't bear the thought of losing me," Sherlock supplied, his voice a low, husky murmur. "I saw that in your eyes when we came to the crime scene. You weren't seeing that man lying dead on the ground. You were seeing me."
John nodded, looking away again, his lips tightening.
"It's fine, John. I don't mind the concern. I . . . "
At the pause, John looked up, his expression unreadable.
"I appreciate it." Sherlock mustered the barest trace of a smile, bringing his index finger to rest on the tip of John's collarbone, tracing its length before it plunged into the depths of the shorter man's jumper. John let out a deep sigh, but neglected to move the offending digit. "Sociopaths don't just get bored, John. They get lonely too," he whispered.
"Is that so?" John intoned, kissing a reverent path down Sherlock's thin neck.
"Well, I make this assumption based on an exceptionally small subject pool which consists of only myself. I would assume other sociopaths, such as Moriarty, also feel such human emotions and strive to satisfy them by sustained contact with their victims, either sexually or in a sadistic physical context. I, however, seek to fulfill these base needs by having you with me, always."
At John's nonplussed look, Sherlock quieted. "Just a fact," he pouted.
"I know," the doctor replied, threading his fingers through Sherlock's snake-pit of curls. "But sometimes you don't have to further explain yourself and ruin the romantic moment, Sherr. Sometimes just a kiss is enough."
Sherlock complied enthusiastically, giving him a passionate kiss before pulling away and reaching to wrap a scarf around his partner's neck. "Sated?"
"Yes. Off to battle with your brother, then," John rolled his eyes.
"You're quite lucky Lestrade has less brains in his head than condoms in his pocket, by the way," the detective offered, dumping half the sugar bowl in his now-lukewarm tea.
"How's that, Future Heart Disease Victim? Your arteries have to be made of granite by now," John observed, dumping the tea straight down the sink as a pout descended on Sherlock's face.
"I get plenty of exercise, I'll have you know."
"I do know. You were saying."
"Well, your unnecessary and obnoxious – though protective and, hence, rather, um, romantic – restriction on my hospital access. He assumed it was because the murderer would recognize that I was on the case and attempt to attack me while I was studying. However, anyone with even a dull intellect would make the leap that perhaps I was of the same cultural subset as the murder victim, therefore coming to the conclusion that I am transgender. Thankfully, Lestrade notices an alarmingly small amount of contextual clues, especially when his attention is devoted elsewhere – such as the fact that his hair is beginning to bald at the temples, and his son pilfered a ten-pound note from his pocket before he left for work. What an annoyingly mundane man for such an exceedingly important position."
John chuckled. "Well, thank my lucky stars, then. Though why he would care if you're transgender or not is beyond me." His tone softened as he squeezed Sherlock's hand. "You're just you. It doesn't change anything about you."
"Yes, we've had this conversation before. I believe it was before you performed your first sexual act upon me."
"Yes, let's pathologize that a bit more, can we? You know how sexy medical terms are in bed," John deadpanned. "Anyway, this has been a lovely chat, Sherr, but I need to go talk to your brother before I lose my nerve."
"Better you than me. He'd lose his head before I lost my nerve."
John smiled, reaching up for a quick peck. "Well aware."
"Take care."
"No fires."
"No fights."
"Can't guarantee anything."
"Me neither – especially not with Mycroft involved."
". . . I love you, John."
"I know. And I love you too."
"Now get out!"
John laughed, cheerily waving as he stomped down the stairs.
Sherlock waited 20 minutes before pulling a vial of the victim's blood from his pocket, grateful that the Scotland Yard medical team was too inept to notice his clumsy and quick syringe jab – he'd had hell from Lestrade the last time he had siphoned off plasma to perform his own investigation. It wouldn't take long to hand off the vial to Molly with specific instructions as to what to do: he wouldn't be in the building for more than ten minutes. But breaking John's rule did pain him; he'd promised to honor his simple requests as best he could, had made it a vital part of their relationship.
Just this once. And it doesn't count if I bring his gun, Sherlock reasoned.
Tightening his scarf about his neck, he padded up to John's room, pulling his service weapon from his desk. Then he was off, grabbing a taxi to St. Bart's with only a twinge of regret.