John felt extraneous, since there was no body at the crime scene, but he knew Sherlock really did work better when he was around. He'd never bothered to point that out though, because he knew Sherlock would fuss over it, deny it, and then try to prove a point by working harder when John wasn't around, only to end up sabotaging the whole operation. He could do his job a far sight better than most people even without John's presence, but it helped stabilize him around the others with whom he had to work. John knew how important that was, at least to the Metro police.

There was no getting around Anderson, though.

Sherlock showed him the crime scene, which was really not all that impressive – a bit of blood and some gun shot residue, nothing more. Sherlock was excited about this, though, and kept chewing on his lower lip then cursing, which made John hard pressed not to laugh. He kept his mirth to himself, because he knew Sherlock's bruises were discomfiting to Lestrade, who kept staring at the younger man when Sherlock wasn't looking. John wasn't so sure why the inspector was put off – he was the one who had been grateful that Sherlock had a settling influence in his life.

John wondered who this Roland Sandford was that he merited the attentions of a hit man.

"Do you remember what I said about serial killers on our first case?" Sherlock murmured to him in a low voice. They were standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor of the Sandford's home, watching while the forensics team combed the livingroom. John knew Sherlock was consenting to stand back because he'd seen everything he thought he was going to see.

He was unusually subdued for Sherlock on a case – meaning he wasn't running about with joy at the prospect of a puzzle to solve, rather he was standing in one spot, hands in his pockets, but he was absently tapping his hands against his thighs through the fabric of his coat and following the events with a sharp eye.

"Something about wanting attention, wasn't it?" John asked.

"No, they always desperately want to be caught," Sherlock said, eyeing a policewoman as she moved about the livingroom. "This one's going to be a problem. By definition, a hit man doesn't want to be caught. Can't make a living from prison."

This explained the lack of over-enthusiastic running about on Sherlock's part, at least.

"To be sure," John murmured, wondering where he'd gone wrong that day. He was standing next to his husband, whose lips and neck were covered in bruises of John's doing, ruminating about the habits and livelihoods of murderers. It was Friday. He should be in a pub with a pint. Or at least at home with a good book.

"What was Sandford doing that got him killed anyway?" John asked.

"Still working on that one," Sherlock replied. "He was a life insurance investigator."

"Well, I can see that being a contentious field," John commented. "Though not one I'd associate with being professionally done in."

"Depends on whom he was investigating," Sherlock said, still jiggling his hands in his pockets. An impatient look crossed his face.

"Why are we still here?" John asked, reading the expression expertly. There were things Sherlock wanted to be chasing down by now, and John was certain he'd scented something, but couldn't tell what.

"We're missing something," Sherlock murmured, eyes still on the CSU people in the livingroom. One of them moved past them onto the stairs and John and Sherlock stepped forward in unison, letting her past. Sherlock's eyes darted to her momentarily, narrowing and darkening, but he looked back to the livingroom after a second, and John wondered if he'd actually seen what he thought he'd seen there. Perhaps Sherlock just had an animosity towards this woman as well. Or it was spilling over from Anderson.

"Other than who killed him?" John enquired. "At least we know it wasn't a random murder."

"No, something else," Sherlock said, then looked up abruptly again, eyes widening. He turned his gaze to John for a moment, then to the stairs. "Clara."

John started at the mention of his former sister-in-law's name. He hadn't thought much of Clara recently – it had been over three years since she and Harry had split, and although he felt badly about it, because Clara hadn't deserved how Harry had treated her, he'd never been particularly close to her.

"What's Clara got to do with this?" he asked.

"Harry is your sister," Sherlock said.

"Um, yes," John replied. "This isn't news."

Sherlock drew his gloved hands from his pockets, eyes suddenly bright.

"Don't you see?" he exclaimed, laughing. "What do we know about the killer?"

John tried to get back on mental track here.

"Hit man, seasoned professional because he shot Sandford without hesitation after drugging him quite expertly and cleaning up all traces of the himself, but not the murder, because he wanted Sandford to be found."

"All very good, but wrong," Sherlock said.

"What? This it what you told me!"

"I remember that quite clearly, since it was ten minutes ago. But still wrong."

"Wrong how?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned.

"Clara!" he called, looking up the stairs. John frowned, but a moment later, the CSU tech he'd seen go upstairs leaned over the banister, careful not to touch it, even with gloves and a suit on. She gave him a questioning look, but didn't say anything. "Come down a moment," Sherlock said and with a small sigh, the woman obeyed.

"John, Clara; Clara, John," Sherlock introduced them. She nodded at John, giving him a knowing look, correctly deducing where Sherlock had gotten his bruises and John felt himself redden somewhat under her gaze.

Without warning her, Sherlock steered the policewoman into the livingroom, hands firmly on her shoulders, and stopped her on the carpet where the shooter would have stood when he fired. He turned back to John expectantly, but the doctor only shook his head. Some of the activity had stopped, and Lestrade was watching with crossed arms.

"Think!" Sherlock said. "You're the one who told me today I ought to try it! Anyone?" He cast a glance around, but received no replies. John did think, furiously, running through everything that Sherlock had rambled off about the hit man after John had arrived.

"No?" Sherlock asked. "Don't you see? John, who would you let into your house?"

"Um," John said, caught off guard again. "I don't know, friends, family, the police if they identified themselves and had good reason, I suppose."

"But who that you don't know?" Sherlock pressed. "If you didn't know me, would you let me in?"

"No, you're a lunatic," John replied, which Sherlock ignored.

"What about Lestrade? Anderson?"

"Sorry, I'm not following – why would they come into my flat if I didn't know them?"

"That isn't important," Sherlock said. "Would you let them in?"

"Probably not," John admitted.

"What about Clara?" he asked, tapping the tech's shoulder.

"Well," John said. "I suppose, maybe, if-" he cut himself off, comprehension finally dawning. Sherlock laughed, crossing the room and kissing him, unbothered by the room of police personnel watching them.

"Yes!" Sherlock said triumphantly, then turned back to Lestrade, who was still watching, baffled, although John was less certain this was because he hadn't caught up, or because he was not used to seeing Sherlock snogging John.

"Not a hit man, don't you see?" Sherlock pressed. "A hit woman. Oh, I was wrong, this is going to be terribly fun. I've never had a female serial killer before."

He grinned what John considered a very inappropriate grin at the prospect of a woman who made her living shooting people in the head and clapped his hands together, then grabbed John's wrist.

"Let's go!" he said, dragging the doctor out of the house before John or Lestrade had a chance to protest.

"Sorry, why did we leave?" John asked once they'd settled into a cab and were on their way back to Baker Street.

"Nothing more there," Sherlock said. "She'd have made sure of that." John cast Sherlock a look that told his husband quite clearly he knew something else was up. "Also, I stole Sandford's external hard drive."

He pulled a small drive out of his coat pocket and John dropped his head against the headrest, groaning.

"How did the police not take that already?" he demanded.

"They didn't look for it," Sherlock replied. "Oh, yes, they'd taken his computer and laptop and whatnot, but this," he shook the drive very gently for emphasis, "This was not something Sandford wanted anyone to find. What do you think I was doing while waiting for you?"

John rolled his eyes.

"I didn't really think about that," he commented. He had been too angry to think of much of anything.

"Not a bloody useless bloody idiot, then, am I?" Sherlock enquired, raising an eyebrow. John sighed. It was impossible to stay angry at Sherlock, even when he tried. The other man just moved too fast for anything to keep up.

"Bloody thief is what you are," John said. Sherlock grinned and was about to reply when they were both distracted by the buzzing of their phones.

"Blast Lestrade," Sherlock said, fishing his out, juggling it with the hard drive. John pulled up the text message, which was not, in fact, from Lestrade, but from Tricia.

You're both going to be uncles! We just found out! Wanted to tell you in person, but am too excited!

John blinked, then broke into a grin, looking up. Sherlock was staring at his phone with an expression John had never seen before – utter shock at being presented with an idea that he had not even remotely entertained. That was saying something. Quickly, John raised his phone and snapped a photo. He attached it to a text reading:

Sherlock's expression at that. Congratulations! We're v. excited, too!

"Don't send that!" Sherlock hissed but John laughed and disobeyed. Privately, he had been wondering if something like this was in the offing – although Tricia and Henry had been uncertainly dating when Tricia had first introduced him to John, the doctor had suspected that they were both what the other was looking for. He had been proven right when they'd found a place together in early December. John understood the quick pace – he and Sherlock had gone from flatmates and friends to partners in the space of one night. Something about the war made the desire to act on these possibilities so much more present.

We'll meet up tomorrow, Tricia texted back, to both of them again. Details then.

John texted back an affirmative answer, chuckling at Sherlock's continued reaction. He wondered if Mycroft had ever considered having children, but even then, it wasn't as though the brothers were particularly close. Whenever John thought about it, he hoped to hell Harry didn't have kids, because there were already too many screwed up people in the world. He had generally assumed he would have children himself, before becoming involved with Sherlock, which had changed that, but John had no strong feelings about it anyway. Sherlock would certainly not make a good father – John had tried to picture what this might look like and had utterly failed. Babies and crime scenes did not mix well. Nor did Sherlock's habits towards life, schedules, other people, or keeping toxic substances in the flat.

"Well," Sherlock said. "A card from Bess, unclehood, and a female hit man. A good day all around, then."

John just laughed.

When they arrived home, Sherlock installed himself in front of his computer and John made himself scarce, not wanting to know what was going on. He reasoned he could at least claim ignorance that way, if Lestrade sent anyone round for another fake drugs bust. And this time, it would hopefully actually be fake. John kept a tight eye on that, but if Sherlock ever used hard drugs, it was either before he'd met John, or he was very, very good at hiding the symptoms. Since John was a doctor, he suspected the former.

John read for awhile in their bedroom, then took a short nap, mercifully dream free, although he could hear Sherlock moving about, even through his sleep. When he woke up, he was glad to find himself still in his bed, and wondered how often he'd been sleep walking, if it had just been the one time.

The smell of something cooking made him raise his head in alarm, but another whiff told him it wasn't toxic or hallucinogenic. In fact, it smelled good. Like pancakes. John's stomach gave a greedy rumble and he pushed himself out of bed, padding into the livingroom. Sherlock had turned on some music – Beethoven, which was about the only thing they could agree on – and was moving about the kitchen in his bunny slippers, the sight of which made John roll his eyes wryly.

"Hope you're hungry," Sherlock said, without looking up or so much as indicating that he'd heard John emerge from the bedroom.

"Starved," John replied. Sherlock whirled and presented him with a plate full of blueberry pancakes drizzled in syrup and bacon.

"You made this?" John asked.

"Brilliant deduction, as always, John. I did. It's quite simple, really. Very scientific in its preparation, if one only follows the steps."

John sat down at the table, pushing some equipment out of the way, hoping he wasn't disturbing anything volatile.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, picking up his fork and tucking in. Sherlock snorted, waving a spatula vaguely at him without looking round from the frying pan. "Shouldn't you be working on Sandford's hard drive – not that I'm sure I want to know."

"I'm running a decryption program," Sherlock said. "I think he may have been trained by the ESA or NASA, because I've never rarely seen anything quite so gifted."

"Better than you?" John asked, mouth full of pancakes. They were really quite delicious. He wondered about the possibility of making Sherlock cook everything from now on.

"Better than me for now," Sherlock stressed. "Not, I suspect, in the long term. Nor even the short term. Whatever's on there, he went to great lengths to protect it."

"And probably died for it," John noted.

"Yes, and that," Sherlock said, finishing his cooking and plunking himself down at the table opposite John. He began eating but, as usual, John suspected his husband was less focused on the taste and more on the case at hand. Sherlock enjoyed food when it occurred to him to do so, and when he had nothing better to do. Privately, John thought there was very little better than good food – a few things that topped the list, but a good meal came close.

But Sherlock's grey eyes were glinting in the way that John recognized as his mind buzzing at its highest speed. It was no wonder he'd set himself to cooking something, John thought, if he was temporarily stalled by Sandford's encryptions. He would need something to do, to keep himself from going mad. It was a good sign that he wasn't hacking into the Metro police's files again, but then, John realized, it had been about two hours since they gotten home. And pancakes did not take very long to make.

They finished eating quickly, then Sherlock dashed off to check on Sandford's hard drive. John gathered the dishes and began piling them in the sink, vaguely surprised when Sherlock came back into the kitchen. He was more surprised when the detective's hands rested on his shoulders – John had a momentary twinge in his left shoulder that was part pain, part instinctive reaction against the possibility of pain, but it was forgotten when Sherlock began to knead the muscles that John hadn't realized were sore and tired. He dropped his head forward, giving a satisfied groan, then chuckled.

"Now I know you've kidnapped and replaced my husband," he said.

Sherlock kissed the back of his neck lightly and went back to massaging it, his long fingers working out the knots in John's shoulders and neck.

"Don't be daft," Sherlock said. "You're wound tighter than a spring. You need to relax."

John laughed.

"Sorry, you're telling me this?" he asked.

"I can relax quite well," Sherlock said, contrary to all of the evidence John had ever seen. "I just do it very quickly, and for short periods of time."

"Right," John said, then, "Mmm," when Sherlock hit a particularly difficult knot in his right shoulder. "And you're not just doing this because you're bored and want to get me into bed?"

"I'm not at all bored," Sherlock said. "I have a perfectly delectable case in front of me that I'm giving the full attention it requires at the moment. And I always want to get you into bed. Why would I not?"

John shifted so he could turn around and face Sherlock, who adjusted the position on his arms and kept working at the knots on the back of John's shoulders, taking care with his left shoulder, not to press to deeply and to avoid the old wound and its scar tissue.

"I've never understood what it is about me," John said.

Sherlock gave him an odd look, his hands pausing for a moment.

"Pick one street in London to describe the whole city," he said.

John blinked, puzzled.

"What?" he asked.

"Pick a single street in London that you think would describe the entire city," Sherlock repeated. "One street that encompasses everything you like about it, everything that makes London London."

John frowned, chewing on his lower lip for a moment, turning his eyes away to consider the problem for a moment.

"I couldn't," he said. "There isn't one. Why?"

"So why would you ask me to tell you one thing about you as if it were an answer?" Sherlock replied. "That's nonsense. It can't be done. It isn't something about you, John. It is you."

John blinked, somewhat stunned. He had never thought of it quite like that before – he had a mental list of everything he loved most about Sherlock, but when he considered it, it was the man's whole presence in his life, the good, the annoying, the utterly insane, that he would miss if it were gone. Seeing this on his face, Sherlock nodded.

"Remember what you said to me about friends the first day we met?"

"This is the second time you've asked me about that day today," John replied.

"That's not an answer. Do you?"

"Mmm, something about how normal people have friends, not arch enemies, wasn't it?" John asked, closing his eyes and tilting his head slightly to the left so Sherlock could better knead his right shoulder.

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. "You're turning me into a normal person. I have a husband and friends. I make breakfast. I occasionally remember to bring in and sort the mail. I didn't realize it could be so enjoyable."

John chuckled, keeping his eyes closed as the muscles in his shoulder unwound.

"Sherlock, you will never be a normal person," he said. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock leaned down and John felt his warm breath on his own lips a moment before Sherlock kissed him.

"Come," Sherlock murmured. "Let's go upstairs."

"Why upstairs?" They kept Sherlock's old bed up there, having moved John's down to their bedroom, since it was better and newer, but John needed a place to escape Sherlock's nocturnal activities sometimes, particularly when he was engrossed in a case and working all hours. They also kept it for company, although it was less used for that, but Tricia had availed herself of it once or twice after a particularly long and gin-filled evening with John.

"I'm feeling sentimental," Sherlock murmured against John's lips.

"The sheets will be dusty," John said.

"Then we shall give them a good airing," Sherlock replied and John smiled into their kiss. "And if we time it right, the encryption should be broken by the time we're done."

John laughed, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and tugging gently on his curls.

"You charmer," he said and Sherlock chuckled, grasping John's wrists and pulling him out of the kitchen.