The entire ride to the scene of the murder was dreadfully long. Sherlock couldn't stop fidgeting. He tapped his fingers on the armrest. His right leg bounced relentlessly.
Alistair gripped the wheel tightly as he drove, his knuckles turning white and his veins protruding on the backs of his hands. What had Sherlock gotten himself into? He was supposed to be dead to the world. No one was to know he was alive or his whereabouts. He glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. He seemed giddy – not worried. That only concerned him more.
Alistair pulled into the driveway of a rundown looking house with three police cars parked in the mud around the house. A "For Sale" sign leaned against the front fence, caked with dirt and grime to the point where the words were almost incomprehensible. The paint on the outside of the house was faded and peeling. The yard was almost entirely mud, the only foliage being that of weeds.
They walked down a barely visible cement path toward the front door already hanging open. Elise seemed to be having a heated conversation with one of the officers about Sherlock. All eyes fell on him as he entered. The little town so seldomly had something so exciting as a murder, so the whole police force had shown up. Sherlock paid them no mind as he walked purposefully to the body. Alistair joined Elise with the male officer.
A woman's body lay sprawled on the landing halfway up the stairs. She had short sandy blonde hair and lightly tanned skin. Her head was thrown back and a long cut ran around the front of her neck, dried blood had pooled beneath her. A gold chain hung just above the gash, two gold rings hanging from it. She had on dark blue jeans and white trainers. Her pink blouse was pulled below pale breasts, exposing two letters carved just above her breasts. Sherlock stared at the SH big and bright on her chest.
"What the hell is he doing here?" One of the police officers sneered, looking at John.
Sherlock didn't look up. "He's my partner." He crouched beside the body, his eyes fixated on her face.
"Well, obviously," the man said scornfully. "Doesn't mean you have to bring him everywhere with you." He sounded disgusted.
Sherlock glared at the man as with more ferocity than a wild beast. He stood and stepped over the body, walking down the stairs toward him.
"He is my romantic partner as well as my work partner," Sherlock stepped so close to the man he was almost touching him. "If that's a problem, I suggest you step outside, because he stays."
The man gulped and nodded at Sherlock.
"Good." Sherlock turned on his heel and returned to the body, the officer all but forgotten.
The other officers stared at him, their mouths agape. Elise smirked smugly to herself. Alistair struggled not to laugh aloud.
John looked at one of the other officers. "We'll be in need of some gloves, if you'd be so kind."
He handed John two pairs of latex gloves. John nodded in thanks and climbed the stairs to Sherlock.
"You're gonna need these," he gave a couple gloves to Sherlock and stood back to watch him work.
Sherlock turned the woman's head, examining the back of her neck. He held up both her arms, comparing them. He lifted the chain on her neck and held the rings close to his face, rubbing the inside and out with his finger. Something on the woman's neck caught Sherlock's eye. He leaned closer to the slash across her throat.
"Give me your pen," Sherlock held his hand out to the rude officer, who had been playing with his pen for the last five minutes.
The man reluctantly handed it over. Sherlock took it and immediately began to probe the slash on her neck.
"Interesting." He muttered and motioned for John to come to him. "John."
John bent over to check where Sherlock had been looking. He handed over the pen to John, who poked and prodded the woman's neck.
Elise watched the two men work. It was amazing, really. The two complemented each other perfectly. They worked together so harmoniously, almost as though they completed one another. She smiled at how they seemed to know what the other wanted by just gestures. They whispered back and forth as they examined the woman's body.
The officer they'd had problems with earlier scoffed under his breath. "Who the hell do they think they are anyway?"
Elise turned to him, "I'm sorry. Didn't catch your name, officer?"
"David McConnell, at your service, ma'am." He held out a hand to her.
She raised her eyebrows at him and he let his hand fall. Elise turned back to Sherlock and John, still inspecting the body.
"You listen well, Officer McConnell," she said with enough venom in her voice to down an elephant, "because I'm only going to say this once, you close-minded, pigheaded son of a bitch." She kept her voice low so the others couldn't hear. "These men are the best of the best. Better than you, better than me. They have the most talented minds I have ever seen in my life. And you would do well to stand there, shut the hell up, and listen to every goddamn word they have to say. Because chances are, he figured out everything you know within five minutes of being in here."
"Alistair, control your wife," the man reproved.
"Even if I could, I stand by her on this one," Alistair remarked as he wrapped an arm around his wife and glowered down at the man.
McConnell apparently didn't like that because he stormed out of the hallway into another room, muttering something about collecting evidence. One of the other officers snickered as he left.
Sherlock stood abruptly. "She was an American nurse – from a southern state. She died from asphyxiation, not the gigantic gash on her neck – though she was indeed killed here. All assumptions you previously made about this woman are incorrect," he announced.
He trotted down the stairs, John trailing behind him, and headed for the door.
"Wait!" A female officer called. "How did you figure that out?"
Sherlock sighed. They were new to his tactics. They couldn't just accept his facts and move on.
"It's so painstakingly obvious." He said begrudgingly.
"Sherlock." John warned. He was already in enough trouble as it was with his initials carved into the victim's chest.
Sherlock scowled but answered the woman without too much condescension in his voice, "The brands on her clothes – American. The tone of her skin suggests she tans easily, but not naturally from the pallor of her breasts. Her left arm is darker than the other, suggesting it tanned while she drove, likely in a sunny area – southern state. Her extremely clean trainers and the fact that she wears her wedding ring on a necklace indicate the medical field. Manicured nails – nurse. Do keep up."
"Oh… but asphyxiation?" She continued to question him.
"Clearly the tendons in her neck were crushed – John has confirmed that for me. And I think it is safe to assume that if you measured the amount of blood pooling underneath her it would total the exact amount of a blood bag found at the local hospital," he said smugly and walked out the door.
The woman took notes then they all flocked up the stairs like sheep to collectively inspect Sherlock's theories.
Sherlock wandered about the yard, studying the mud closely. He frowned at the amount of footprints on the ground. These novices might have ruined their best hopes of finding out the murderer's appearance.
But wait. There! Just beside the wall – a full footprint. He examined the shape and length of the impression, comparing it with what he recalled the others to be wearing.
Perfect. A full imprint of the assailant's foot in pristine condition. He scanned the area for another – all he needed was the heel. Got it! Being thoroughly familiar with the measurements of his own hand he went to work, scrutinizing every centimeter of the tracks.
"It's so exciting to watch him work, finally!" Elise grinned as she strolled out of the house, with Alistair following closely behind.
"Elise!" Alistair chided.
She pouted at him but toned down her enthusiasm.
Sherlock stood abruptly and walked toward the group that had half-formed near the door.
"Sherlock, what have you got?" Elise cried.
He didn't wait for the officers to flip open their notebooks, but jumped right in. "A man killed her. Left-handed. About 170 to 180 centimeters tall weighing 250 pounds. He walked with a limp in his right leg. And he smokes a pipe."
He turned back toward their vehicles as a signal he was ready to leave.
"But, how?" One of them had asked. Why, oh, why did they have to ask?
He let out a tortured sigh and rattled off complex mathematical equations that left them all staring at him blankly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed but proceeded to clamber into the truck. Well, that was that. A few moments later John climbed into the driver's seat next to him.
Sherlock was being uncharacteristically quiet, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
John pulled to the side of the road. "What's wrong?" John asked against his better judgment.
"Nothing." One word. That was promising.
"Liar."
Sherlock frowned, reaching into his pocket. He paused, looking much like a stubborn toddler determining whether or not he would share his favorite toy. He huffed a sigh and retrieved an envelope and handkerchief, handing the latter to John. He carefully unfolded the fabric to "reveal a few strands of long brown hair.
"The woman's hair was cut post mortem," Sherlock told him, "I'm still not sure why."
John raised his eyebrows. "You're sure this isn't from the killer?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Of course. The skin on the back of her neck was far lighter than the rest of her. She'd recently had long hair."
John nodded. "And the envelope?"
"I haven't opened it yet." He ran his fingers over the smooth paper. He tore the side of the envelope and shook out a small, folded piece of paper.
Sherlock stared cryptically at the creased paper in his hands.
"John. Keep driving," he said as he crumpled the paper and dropped it to the floorboard.
"What did it say?" John reached toward Sherlock's feet to recover the crumpled mass.
"Wrong." Sherlock's face was blank. "Wrong!" he repeated incredulously.
"What do you think it means?" John inquired, but it was too late. Sherlock had already retreated back into his shell. He wouldn't be speaking again anytime soon, John knew.
He pulled back onto the main road and drove back to Elise's. The moment they arrived he'd gone up to their room and shut the door. Apparently he didn't want interruptions. There was really no contacting him once he digressed back to this almost catatonic state.
John and Elise took the opportunity of Sherlock's oblivious state to take a small trip. They told no one where they were headed or why they'd gone. They had been gone two full days before Sherlock noticed.
He stalked down the hall toward the master bedroom and knocked.
A small pause before, "Yes? Come in," from Alistair on the other side.
Sherlock pushed the door open.
"In here," Alistair called from the bathroom. He was shaving, the whiskers a startling red in comparison to his brunette hair.
Sherlock started in for Alistair. "Where's John?" he demanded.
Alistair laughed, rinsing the razor and setting it on the edge of the sink, "Did you really just notice they were gone? They said you were oblivious, but really!"
Sherlock scowled at the man, "Don't mock me. Where has he gone?"
"He left with Elise more than a day ago. I don't know where they've gone. They didn't tell me, they were certain you'd figure it out just by looking at me – those powers of deduction and whatnot."
He cursed to himself, he knew Alistair was telling the truth. But he could have sworn he was just talking to John not a moment ago. He left without a word and paced for a good part of the day.
They returned that evening, toting multiple large cases Sherlock was quite aware even Elise wouldn't have needed for just a couple days gone. Sherlock waited at the door for them. John came in carrying the largest case.
"Go sit in there," John told him as he gestured to the front sitting room with his head.
Sherlock sat on the nearest couch and pulled his feet underneath him. John set the case next to Sherlock and Elise brought one more in and set it on the coffee table in front of him.
Sherlock stared at it before John finally looked at him and said, "Just open it already!"
He carefully opened the luggage next to him, peering cautiously inside. Sitting on top was his dear skull, the best conversationalist he'd ever known. He set the skull on the table and dug further. His trench coat, blue scarf, gloves – everything he needed for his work. Even his favorite purple shirt was tucked away in there. A soft smile played on his lips at the sentiment attached to these objects. He turned to the other suitcase on the table.
"Go on then," Elise urged.
Sherlock flipped open the top and there, sitting atop all the notebooks he used for composing, was his violin. He lifted it out and set it on his lap. He undid the buckles of the case and tossed open the lid. Gingerly he raised the violin and set the case aside. He ran his fingers over the soft wood up to the knobs. Sherlock pulled the violin to his chin and ran the bow slowly over the strings. He missed the familiar sound of his instrument.
He quickly tuned the thing and set into playing them a melody, it was low and sweet. Playing again came back to Sherlock so quickly and naturally, it was almost as though he'd never stopped. John didn't recognize what he played but he suspected there were a lot of songs Sherlock knew that John had never heard.
Sherlock beamed at the other two, he'd so missed his violin. It was like a piece of him – a musical extension of himself.
"Thank you," he bent to kiss John, "both of you."
Sherlock didn't sleep or eat that night either, but he laid in bed with John anyway, wrapping his arms tightly around him. He hardly noticed as the hours passed and the first rays of dawn peaked through the window. His thought process had come to a halt long ago, though he hardly wanted to move from that position to perhaps gain a new perspective. The warmth of John's body radiated around him pleasantly like his own little space heater.
The morning grew brighter and he could smell Elise cooking breakfast as its scent radiated throughout the house. He cautiously extricated himself from the bed and flipped open his violin case. John would enjoy this.
He drew his bow upon the violin. Morning has Broken, he'd decided on.
Sherlock settled on his side of the bed and began playing, slow and soft. He watched John's face as he slowly came out of his deep sleep. There was a sharp intake of breath as he woke, his eyes fluttered awake. He smiled lazily at the violin next to his head.
"That's lovely," John yawned as he stretched out. He scooted over and rested his head in Sherlock's lap.
When Sherlock finished he bent to kiss John's forehead. "How'd you sleep?"
"Well," he smiled, staring up at Sherlock's eyes that seemed to change their color daily. Now they were seafoam green. "But I am beginning to miss my own bed, you know."
Sherlock was silent.
"Sherlock… You know we're going to have to go home sometime…"
"I don't see why," he said indignantly.
Of course the idea of two grown men living with another family for the rest of their lives didn't strike Sherlock as odd in the slightest.
John sighed. "Because," he rubbed Sherlock's hand where it rested on his chest, "we can't just let all my friends think I've dropped off the face of the planet. I haven't talked to any of them in, oh, a month now?"
When Sherlock didn't look convinced he decided to go about a different angle. "And wouldn't it be nice to be home, in our own flat, in your own bed?" John said as he "absentmindedly" stroked the inside of Sherlock's thigh. "We could get Mrs. Hudson a white noise machine. Then we could be so much louder. I could scream your name to the whole of Baker Street as you fucked me against your own sheets…"
He stared up at Sherlock who had a glazed over look on his face. He quickly broke from his reverie and his expression immediately changed.
"Oh, don't give me that look!" John glared at him.
"What look? This is my normal face."
"No, that's your 'Not 'til I'm done with my case' look."
Sherlock simply smirked at him. John supposed that was the best he could ask from Sherlock. He sighed, still stroking Sherlock's leg.
Sherlock stilled John's hand. "It wouldn't do for you to give me an erection before breakfast, and you're already halfway there."
"Oh, come now." John grinned up at him. "Don't tell me you aren't up for a little fooling around?"
"I'm on a case, John. I don't need a distraction."
"It might clear your head, actually." John tried to convince him.
Sherlock paused and John took the opportunity to roll onto his stomach, his face mere centimeters from Sherlock's already half-stiff cock. He ran his hands up Sherlock's thighs, kissing one of his hipbones. Sherlock took a deep breath, leaning back slightly to allow John easier access to his cock.
"Really, I do find it helps to clear one's head," John whispered against his skin, "I could suck you off," he nibbled up Sherlock's thigh, "maybe even finger you a little, just cause." And just as he leaned in to take Sherlock's dick in his mouth he sighed, "But you have a case to do, don't you?"
When John moved to get up Sherlock wrapped his legs around him. "Finish what you start," Sherlock growled at him.
John smirked, pushing Sherlock onto his back as he crawled between Sherlock's legs up to his mouth. He kissed the downturned corners of Sherlock's frowning mouth.
"Do you really think I'd leave you to fend for yourself?" John asked.
"Yes."
John laughed. He might have, if he thought he'd get to watch.
He pushed Sherlock's legs wide apart and went to work on his dick. Sherlock moaned as John licked his up his shaft and sucked on the head of his cock, all the while fondling Sherlock's balls. He massaged the slit with his tongue, loving the salty taste of Sherlock's precum. John swallowed Sherlock's cock in as far as his throat would allow and wrapped his free hand around his cock to get where his mouth couldn't reach.
John pumped Sherlock with his hand when he moved down to suck his balls. He reached underneath himself to work his own cock with his other hand.
"No, no, no," Sherlock chided. "I want your full attention on me. Here, turn this way."
John moved so he straddled Sherlock's face while he sucked Sherlock off. Sherlock arched his back to help relieve the height difference. He wrapped his arms around John's hips and raised himself up and teasingly licked the tip of John's cock. Sherlock took John's cock in his mouth, letting gravity aid it as it slid down his throat. He'd long ago rid himself of his natural gag reflex, having to tolerate many unnatural smells and sights in his studies. He copied John's movements at first but easily adapted what he was doing to what made John squirm the most.
Sherlock was a quick learner, John would give him that. Sherlock had already pinpointed all of his tender spots. John moaned and thrusted hard into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock showed his distaste with that by biting him slightly – not hard enough to hurt him but enough to get his point across. John flinched back, but continued sucking Sherlock's penis, contemplating how Sherlock would feel if he did a little biting of his own.
Sherlock wet his fingers in his mouth then reached back around John and lightly ran a finger over John's arse making him shudder. He slowly pressed a finger in, feeling around for John's prostate. When he found it he carefully massaged it.
"Fascinating," he mumbled at the deep moan he'd earned from John.
Sherlock came first, thrusting hard into John's mouth. He let his head fall from John's dick and lay on the bed breathing hard.
"Sherlock," John pleaded. "Sherlock you have to keep going."
He traced his patterns down John's hips with his fingertips.
"Dammit, Sherlock," he sighed. "Please."
Sherlock smiled to himself and finished John off. John grunted as he came in the back of Sherlock's throat, warm and salty as it slid down his throat. John rolled onto his back next to him. His hand rested on Sherlock's chest moving with the slow rise and fall of his every breath.
"You prick," John said as he scowled at Sherlock.
Sherlock laughed.
Breakfast was probably over with by now. If John was lucky there might be leftovers for him somewhere. He dressed and kissed Sherlock before turning to the door.
"Sherlock, aren't you coming to breakfast?" John asked as he stood in the doorframe.
"Of course not, John. You know I don't eat when I'm on a case," he said, staring at the ceiling. "I can't afford any other digesting distractions like I'm about to have to do with your-"
"Right, then. Never mind." John shuffled out of the room.
As he was shutting the door Sherlock called, "Make sure to get the door on your way down. It's for me."
