A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews! As per request, I believe I am going to start updating twice weekly. So, hope the pleasure is all yours. ;]

Chapter Four

It was brilliant. Sherlock felt alive again, finally. The sight of the body as they arrived on the scene; it truly felt like a present from Jim, wrapped in a blood-soaked bow. It was an easy deduction, regretfully. A bit of a let-down, but anything was better than his previous circumstances. Add to that that he knew that there were more to come. Boredom now seemed like a nightmare he had nights ago. He had this clue.

Sherlock was fairly certain he already gleaned everything he could from this one. A few hours after they left, he received a call from Lestrade telling him that it looked like he had indeed left the flat in a hurry. All of his other clocks were also two hours behind. The only extra piece of evidence that proved to be of slight interest was the fact that his bike chain was missing and did not appear to be in the flat itself. Killer needed him to be running down that alley, not taking bike routes. Logical.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrest of John's chair. Now he was back to waiting. There was too little information to try to figure out how this game was going to be played. He leaned his head back, stretched out his legs. He felt like he could sleep if his mind could stop running over the new scene and the previous game. He didn't really want it to, though. On an occasion or two after the first game, he would find himself doodling "470" when he was lost in thought, like a love-sick schoolgirl. He chuckled the first time he did it. He was then lost in the thoughts that were associated with that number. Fantasizing took up a large part of his time during the hiatus. He was fairly certain John had heard him on several nights when his orgasm took him and the moans were issued without conscious. This might have catalyzed John's current crushing behaviors.

Now with the feeling that Moriarty was close again, the fantasies were returning with fervor. Though now he knew it wouldn't be long till he no longer had to rely on his imagination. He would be able to feel those black eyes on him again, swallowing him whole. He would hear that voice ordering him to do something that would be solely for Jim's pleasure. On your knees, beg, touch, lick, suck. He could almost feel the pain Moriarty's hand conveyed when it was brought sharply against his skin. The burn of it, the high it would bring.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the erection that strained against the fabric of his trousers when he heard John enter the room. He opened his eyes, half-lidded, to look at his flatmate. John was frozen to the spot. His eyes lingered on Sherlock's groin before realizing the detective was watching him. He opened his mouth to say one thing, then a thought must have occurred to him because his stance changed, "What were you thinking about?"

Sherlock smirked. His flatmate was catching on quick. This probably was not a good thing. He considered saying "you", but something like that would require follow-up. Not that he minded, but sex with a person like John would have consequences. Though, the current predicament in his pants told him to damn the consequences. Sherlock did not move as he replied, "This is the second time you've caught me in the sitting room sporting a hard-on. What might we deduce from this?"

John fiddled with his pocket as he thought it over. His mind wanted to tell him one thing, but he knew that that was only hope, not fact. Slowly, a sickening feeling began to creep up. He also denied this option. There has to be another explanation. His answer was not desirable, but it was better than his current hypothesis. "It's like Donovan said, you get off on cases. The good ones, anyway."

Sherlock chuckled and sat upright, fantasies forgotten. "Indirectly, yes, I suppose that's a correct assumption. I'm alive when there's a preferable case. A dead man doesn't get off."

John nodded. That seemed fair. John cursed the whole situation. His attraction to his flatmate was already high enough. Now he's seen him turned on twice and then he's also felt that body pressed up against him. Hell, this is what hell feels like. The doctor shifted from one foot to the other before heading to the kitchen. "Right, tea?"

"Please," droned Sherlock as he lamented his lost fantasies.

When John returned with two steaming cups of tea, the awkwardness of the encounter before seemed to dissipate. He calmly asked, "Any news on our late man?"

"No, nothing more than what I've already told you. We're waiting now."

"For the next clue, the next murder," John said as he stared coldly at Sherlock. When he did not reply, John carried on. "You haven't told Lestrade, have you?"

"No, I haven't. But here!" he produced his mobile and waved it at John, "I'll do it now." He began texting It's Moriarty.

John shook his head wearily. It was like living with a hormonal teenager. A tall, sexy, brilliant hormonal teenager who was now pouting because he had to do something he didn't want to do. A moment after Sherlock sent the text, the phone began ringing. Blue eyes just glared at it like it ran over his puppy. "He'll show up at the flat later, might as well explain it then," Sherlock reasoned when he didn't answer it.

"Are you going to tell him about your last game with this psychopath, or start with this one?" John asked.

"This one. He won't understand why I didn't tell him about the one before," Sherlock answered, looking out of the window to avoid that scrutinizing stare.

"I don't understand why you didn't," John retorted, anger welling up again.

"It was between him and me, John. The police had no part."

"But they do now."

"I was given no other choice," he replied, looking back at John.

"Right." They spent the rest of the evening in silence until they heard Lestrade rapping on the door.

After Lestrade was sat with his own cup of tea, he looked markedly at Sherlock and asked, "So, Moriarty?"

Sherlock nodded, "He texted me just before you called me about the body."

"And you decided to just now share that information? What did he say?"

"Yes. John's doing. 'Tick tock,' was his message," Sherlock replied, making eye contact with neither of them. Lestrade gave John a sympathetic look, but pushed the matter no further.

"Okay. So, what do we do now?" asked Lestrade.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, perhaps too quickly, "You really expect to stop this man from what he plans to do? We've already dealt with this."

"We could tell your brother," suggested John cautiously.

Sherlock cast him a stare that conveyed the feeling of betrayal. "He won't have anything to do with this affair. It isn't a matter of national security."

"Could at least try, couldn't we?" Lestrade asked, looking between the two of them.

"I'd rather not. Dealing with my brother is exasperating," huffed the sleuth.

"So we're just going to sit here and wait for the next murder?" complained Lestrade.

"What do you suggest to do?"

"Your brother!"

Sherlock nearly yelled from the frustration. This game is not going nearly as well as he wanted it to go. It's caused more annoyance than anything. "Fine! You go groveling to him because I'm not about to."

John looked overly triumphant as he replied, "With pleasure." Sherlock shot him a snarky look before jumping up.

"Well, it looks like things have been handled. Shall you be on your way, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade took the hint and left a moment later after chatting with John for a bit. "Got your way," Sherlock grumbled as the door closed.

"For once," John replied, happiness still evident under the surface. Despite how much Sherlock detested this whole ordeal, Sherlock found himself enjoying that smile John was trying to hide. He couldn't help a mirthful smirk.