I own nothing, as always.
Sherlock was bouncing around the apartment thinking. He had two nicotine patches on each arm and he was buzzing. John was out doing the shopping, hopefully he did not get into a fight with an inanimate object. They had talked to the man that the girl's mother had been told was her boyfriend, but when they interviewed him, Sherlock was sure this was a lie. He was muscular enough to cause the damage that killed her, and he had the tight, aggressive, withdrawn persona of someone who could be killed at the first sign on weakness. He tried to act sad, but did not convince anyone; even Lestrade knew he was lying. His apartment was that of a batcheloer, but there was evidence of multiple women having passed through. Sherlock saw two bras of different sizes, compressed powder for three different skin tones, and a pair of high heeled shoes, far too small for the man, Bob, to wear himself. The signs of other women were so obvious that Sherlock doubted that even the most besotted and love sick girl would not notice them. Lestrade agreed that this man was probably the one who had killed her, but said that they needed concrete evidence. Sherlock pointed out that the way the man was walking showed that someone had tried very hard to get away from him recently, kicking him repeatedly in the shins. Lestrade said that this was merely circumstantial. Why couldn't everyone just accept he was right, it would save so much time?
They had stopped off at the bank to see if the girl had had an account there. She had, it had been a joint account with Bob. Bob, as it turned out, had joint accounts with many different woman. Harry printed them out a list of all of Bob's accounts and the girl's account activity for the past month. Sherlock and John had thanked her and John had promised to go out with her for a drink sometime. Sherlock did not tell Lestrade about the account. Lestrade had annoyed him by insisting on physical evidence when Sherlock knew he was right.
John returned in good spirits loaded down with groceries and shivering a little from the cold, there had been a hard frost that morning and it was only just above freezing. It was scarf weather, the kind of weather Sherlock liked. Though he liked it a little less when he saw that John had borrowed his scarf. He should have been furious, but he found that he was only slightly annoyed. Of course if they went out together later, he would wear his warm scarf and John could find something else.
"It is absolutely freezing outside so I borrowed your scarf," John said taking it off and putting on the table. Sherlock wondered why John always felt the need to state the obvious.
"I noticed," replied Sherlock in his usual deadpan. "I hope you didn't get it dirty."
John took off his coat and gloves before starting to put food away into the fridge and cupboards. "It is still as clean as when I took it this morning."
Sherlock knew this wasn't true as he had undoubtedly left some skin cells and oil on it, but did not correct him. John did not think of these things, and considering what they usually spent their nights doing, it few skins cells weren't going to hurt Sherlock. He walked over to the window and looked out of it and down to the street, when he had a problem that was causing him difficulty he liked to remind himself that at least he wasn't stuck in the head of a normal person like the rest of humanity. That would make his current life impossible.
John walked over to the window to stand next to him and lean into him ever so slightly. Sherlock put an arm around the smaller man. The one thing that surprised Sherlock about this relationship was how cuddly John was. He had only expected sex to be the only thing that was added, but John seemed to want to touch and hold him all the time. Sherlock did not mind lying on the couch together in the mornings while he read the paper and John tried to wake up or in the evenings when they both watched the television or read. John seemed to need to be touched and held a lot, something Sherlock did not understand. Strangely, he found he didn't mind spending hours in each other's arms as long as he could still hold a book or a laptop, and it made John happy so he said nothing.
It was when John tried to hold Sherlock's hand when they were on their way to the morgue that he drew a line. Sherlock had always despised public displays of affection. "It's unprofessional," he snapped.
John looked hurt but did not say anything. Sherlock took him out to dinner later that week. He was not sure if it counted as a date, but while they were sitting next to each other in a booth in the corner of the restaurant and John put his hand on his thigh, Sherlock did not complain. The meal was nice, they talked about what John was putting in his blog about Sherlock these days, and Sherlock noted how the candle light made them both look younger and healthier. So that it why candle light is considered romantic, he thought.
It was only when John had tried to kiss him that he leaned away. "We are in public," he hissed, "it's indecent."
John pointed at a couple a few tables away who alternating between kissing and giggling as they ate their spaghetti together. It looked like they were trying to reenact the famous dinner scene from The Lady and the Tramp. "I don't think anyone here will mind," said John quietly, a little disappointed.
Sherlock snorted derisively. He obviously thought the happy spaghetti couple had no class. John looked down and saw that Sherlock had only eaten a quarter of what was on his plate, John had cleared his plate and then downed four breadsticks. Sherlock never seemed to eat, and whenever he was around Mycroft the subject of Mycroft's diet came up. Not for the first time, John wondered what upbringing could have created Sherlock and Mycroft. And what kind of parent would pick those names.
And John had never tried to touch Sherlock romantically on a case again and did not go past hand holding when they went out in public together. He had at first thought that Sherlock was ashamed of him, for some reason, but then realized that Sherlock did not feel the need to constantly reaffirm his affection in front of other people. His business was his business. When they were alone in their flat, as they were now, Sherlock did not express any objections to anything John wanted to do, except when it interfered directly with his work, and even went out of his way to hug John. John felt extremely privileged to be voluntarily hugged so often by Sherlock as he noticed Sherlock did not generally like to be touched by anyone; he made handshakes awkward and never some much as patted anyone on the back. So it was moments like this, when Sherlock put his arm around him spontaneously, that John treasured the most.
Sherlock had never been the instigator of their nightly adventures in the sheets, though he always responded with enthusiasm. John often wondered if Sherlock only agreed to sleep with him to make him happy. He knew that Sherlock preferred him to other people, but he would like to see fire burn in his eyes as he pinned him to the mattress and made him moan with ecstasy. John had accepted that that was probably not going to happen. Fire only blazed in Sherlock's eyes when he had a particularly intriguing case. John knew that he was not the most important thing in Sherlock's life, but he liked being a close second. He hadn't felt this alive since he was actively serving. He leaned is head against Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes. John was happy for the first time in a long time.
"That Bob is guilty, but I can't prove it yet," Sherlock said grumpily.
"You will, you always do," John replied, relaxed and care free. He was enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's hand moving up and down on his arm. "Not even Moriarty could outsmart you."
Sherlock, quite unexpectedly kissed the top of John's head. Spontaneous displays of affection were not his thing. John moved out of Sherlock's hug to look at him for a moment. Sherlock was surprised by this and raised an eyebrow questioningly. John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels and pulled him on top of him and on to the couch. His hands were running through Sherlock's hair as Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt. They kissed franticly, John's jumper was pulled off and over his head at some point, and Sherlock was just doing something obscenely delightful to John's left nipple when Sherlock's phone rang. Sherlock's head was instantly up.
"I'm expecting a call."
The phone rang again. Sherlock got up, John groaned in disappointment. "Can't you leave it?"
"No." Sherlock picked up the phone. "Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock was still standing close to the couch. John grabbed around the waist and pulled him down so he was sitting on top of him. He was so thin and light that his weight barely impeded John's breathing.
"It's Lestrade, I got the results back from the lab."
"And?" Sherlock asked breathlessly. John slowly slipped his hand into Sherlock's trousers and tried something that Sherlock had done to him once. Sherlock lurched forward and let an indecent groan pass his lips.
"Is this a good time?"
"Yes, yes, it's fine," Sherlock replied shortly. He placed the phone to his chest. "Stop that," he snapped, grabbing John's hand and forcibly putting it on John's chest. John tried to look innocent, but Sherlock glared at him and walked to the other side of the room. He heard someone giggle on the other end of the phone line.
"Are you with someone?"
"What were the results?"
"She was dying of syphilis, which is odd as that is not longer fatal is treated on time. Also, we found another body."
"Where?"
"Blackfriars Rd, by Doggets Coat and Badge."
"I'm on my way." Sherlock hung up the phone and went to the coat stand to grab his long black coat.
"Do you really have to go now?" John asked, still lying on the couch, shirtless and looking hopeful.
He turned to John as he put on his scarf with the glint in his eyes. "They found another body."
John jumped off the couch and grabbed his jumper and undershirt. "Where are we going?"
"You're not coming with me; you have an appointment with your psychiatrist in half an hour." Sherlock was annoyed, usually he made John cancel his appointments.
"Shit!" John got dressed with less enthusiasm now. "I forgot."
"I know you did, your mind was on other things." Sherlock slipped on his gloves and put his phone in his pocket. "Call me when you've finished your session."
Sherlock walked along the river bank, the cold wind whipping at his coat and hair, trying to pull it off. He saw the police gathered around another body wrapped in plastic and noticed a couple of them stare at him and then whisper to each other. What could they be on about now? When he got closer one of the officers called to him. "Had a good afternoon, eh there, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked at him like he was mad. Since when did anyone care about what kind of afternoon he had? He went straight to DI Lestrade. "How long ago was the body found?" he asked without pretext.
Lestrade turned to him. "About an hour ago." Lestrade looked awkwardly at his officers for a moment and then leaned in close to Sherlock and spoke in a low voice. "I know you value your privacy so I am very sorry, but Anderson was next to me when I made the call and told everyone how you we otherwise engaged, so sorry about any comments." Sherlock's face darkened slightly. Lestrade knew Sherlock would be unhappy about this and to make up for it he was being extra accommodating today. It was clear no one had touched the body yet and he was holding out a pair of rubber gloves.
Sherlock took the gloves without comment, and another one of Lestrade's badges in his pocket, and went over to the body. The victim had been severely beaten, but some of the bruises were faded and old, another girl who had an abusive companion. The septum was damaged and there were signs of a recent nose bleed, probably from cocaine use. The nails were not ragged, but there could be skin cells under there, they would check at the morgue. There were strange bruises on her arms suggesting she had been tried up to something and her arms were bent painfully backwards in some way. Her knees were calloused and a bit worn, suggesting she spent a lot of time on them, but her hands were soft and her nails were well maintained so she did not scrub floors. Prostitute?
Sherlock straitened up. Did she also have a joint account with Bob? Lestrade walked over to him. "Any thoughts?"
Sherlock debated leaving without telling him anything, but as he had let him examine the body first he was not going to be too mean. "I would test her for cocaine and any other recreational drugs she might have been on and check all her wounds for trace fibers. She was tied up with something, and if you are lucky it will have left traces. Get a doctor to catalog all the bruises and try and figure out how old they are exactly."
Lestrade motioned to Anderson to come over. He was surprised to get so much out of the usually cryptic Sherlock. Sherlock turned to look out over the river and thought hard. Bob did not seem like a pimp, but did he work for one? He had to find out if she had a pimp or who she was working for.
" . . .and screen for all toxins, especially recreational drugs like cocaine." Lestrade had just finished giving instructions to Anderson who was scribbling them down on a note pad. "And when Holmes gives you the okay, let forensics to sweep the whole area and examine the body."
Anderson looked resentful at being ordered to wait for Sherlock's orders. Sherlock was listening but still looking out across the river at the cars going past. "It's strange of you to be here without your faithful spaniel," Anderson said too causally. He was prying.
"At a psychiatrist appointment," Sherlock answered shortly, not sure where this was going.
"So you had the flat to yourself today. Who was she then? This woman who made you make a rather indecent noise over the telephone. I could hear it standing next to the Detective Inspector." He was grinning unpleasantly. Anderson was as subtle as a brick to the face. Sherlock did not understand why men were intently interested in their colleague's sexual exploits, if he could even call Anderson a colleague.
He gave Anderson a withering look. "Why on earth would I tell you?" It made no sense for Anderson to try and be prying into his personal life, they hated each other. He turned around to see Donovan quickly look away. Anderson didn't really want to know. Sherlock turned to walk away from him.
"I was just curious as to who you could find to sleep with a freak like you," Anderson called after him. Sherlock ignored him and continued toward Donovan.
He walked up behind her. "Why do suddenly have the need to pry into my personal life?"
Sally turned around and glared at him. "I thought you gave up sex because it distracted from your work, at least that's what you told me." She was angry at him.
"It did distract from my work, or more accurately, you distracted from my work." Sally looked like he had just slapped her. Sherlock colored slightly. "For God's sake let it go, Woman!" He took a moment to collect himself. "I mean, you still tell everyone I am a murdering psychopath! When will you move on or transfer to a different department?"
"Only a heartless bastard like you would think anyone could move on from something like that!" Sally spat, then smirking at him. "You're touchy today. Are you afraid if I find out who it is I'll tell them nasty things about you?"
Sherlock shut his mouth and glared at her, obviously he was not going to be saying any more about the subject. Sally looked behind him. "I'll just ask Watson who she is, I bet he knows."
Sherlock whipped around to see John strolling towards them. Sherlock hurried to meet him before the others could talk to them. "Tell them nothing, Anderson heard the call and now Donovan has an unhealthy interest in my love life," Sherlock whispered urgently.
"What?" asked John confused.
"Nothing," Sherlock repeated.
Sally walked up to them, still smiling. "Hello John," she said pleasantly, "do you think you could enlighten us on who our favorite detective's new girlfriend is?"
"Who?" John looked from Sally's charming smile to Sherlock who, was staring at him intently with what could almost be described as a glare. "Wha - ? Oh! No, I can't, no idea really." He knew he was unconvincing but it was too late.
Sherlock looked satisfied, he turned to Donovan. "See, he can't help you. Go tell Anderson he can send forensics in to look at the body. Come John, we are going to visit a brothel." Sherlock started down the road at a brisk pace, quickly distancing himself from Sally and the other police officers.
"What?" John asked, surprised. Sally smiled and shrugged at him. He had a feeling it was not over. "I better . . . ." He turned and followed Sherlock up the road.
"Why are we going to a brothel?" he called.
It was evening a few days later and they were both sitting in the flat. Sherlock was reading a book and John was lying on Sherlock's lap and watching a quiz show on the television. Rain gently beat against the window, and the light drumming combined with Sherlock's rhythmic breathing and the flip of the book pages was lulling John into a relaxed, almost sleepy stupor. Sherlock threw the book aside and let out a huff of frustration.
"What's wrong," mumbled John.
"Bored." Sherlock huffed again. This case had gotten so dull. We know who is doing it, and how, and we are just trying to prove it, there is no puzzle to solve. I need a new case. This one was barely worth my time."
John patted his knee reassuringly. "Well, something is bound to come up. Maybe a piece of art will be stolen by a master thief or something."
Sherlock sighed. "I suppose. I almost wish that Moriarty would turn up again."
John was no longer relaxed. "As much fun as I have solving cases with you, I would rather not end up with a bomb strapped to my chest again."
Sherlock looked down at him and seemed to think for a moment. "It would be rather unfortunate if you were to get blown up." He stroked John's hair out of his eyes and then turned his eyes back to the television, but he was not actually watching it, his mind was somewhere else.
Sherlock persisted on the Cooper case, they found a witness who had seen the murdered prostitute, know as Allie, with a man matching the old F.B.I. agent's description and he had been prevented from leaving the United Kingdom so they could keep him for questioning. The evidence was slowly staking up, but Sherlock was still bored. He needed something fresh, something to challenge him. It arrived in the form of a letter addressed to him. No return address on the envelope and inside was a single piece of paper with the name "Gavin Newton" written on it in red ink.
It took Sherlock ten minutes to find out that Gavin had been found in a shopping mall dressing room with a large gash in his head, when they took him to the hospital they found out he had extensive brain damage and was essentially a vegetable. No one knew how he had ended up in the dressing room bleeding to death. He had been removed from life support the previous day. Sherlock was ecstatic.
"John!" He got up and paced about the room impatiently, wanting John to be there s he could share the news. He heard the flush of a toilet, running water from the tap, and a moment later John walked in.
"What's all the excitement about?"
Sherlock could not keep still as he explained. "So we are going to figure out how he died! Someone thinks there was foul play and sent us his name to try and get us to solve it!"
"But who sent the tip and why?" John asked. He had a bad feeling about this.
"That is part of the mystery!" Sherlock was still dancing around the room until he saw John's face. He stopped. "I don't think it is Moriarty, this is not his style."
John felt a little better but not much. "So where are we going to start."
"You are going to get the police report of the case from Lestrade and I am going to pay a visit to his family, maybe they were too grief stricken to clear out his room." Sherlock was already putting on his coat.
John paused. He still felt uneasy about the whole thing. "Why wait two years before asking for help? Why wait until there is no hope for him and he is dead?"
Sherlock paused putting on his scarf. John had a point; the timing was a bit strange. "Maybe his death sparked someone to seek revenge for his murder. As you said, there is no longer any hope of him coming back."
