Chapter 10: Investigation and Intimacy

It is such a relief to have spoken with John and clarified our feelings toward one another. The part of my mind that has been fixating on it and worrying about it for the past several days is finally quiet, and I'm able to put my full attention on the burned building in front of me.

The police and fire brigade have finally agreed that there is someone malicious at work, and this building is the first I am allowed to fully examine. I step through the ash, sniffing the air as I try to collect more evidence. It's late in the day, so the sun is setting, but I can still make out many details.

I examine the fireplace, determining it is not, in fact, the cause of the destruction, no matter what they may want to tell the press.

I make my way back to the front door. I initially dismissed its importance, assuming the killer would find a less conspicuous entrance, but I realize that to this point all the fires have happened during specific times of the day, when either the sun would be restricting the view of the door or the darkness was great enough to cause partial blindness. Perhaps he is stealthier than I credited him.

After that I inspect the tile of the kitchen floor, which has remained relatively untouched although the rest of the room burned around it. I say relatively; there are scorch marks here and there, where evidently more of the flammable material was placed. I scrutinize them, following their patterns. It seems familiar to me, though I cannot place why.

I finish my examination and return to where John, Lestrade, and the husband are standing.

"Did you see anything?" the husband asks anxiously. I nod at him.

"I saw quite a lot. I have a few questions for you, though, so I can put it all together."

"Anything." Finally, a witness worth having.

"Why were you away from home?"

"I was at work. I stopped at a little restaurant on the way back. It's our favorite, it's where we had our first date."

"What restaurant is this?"

"St. Stevens," he replies. "We either go there or bring something home once a week."

"How nice," I say, feeling slightly ill. "Can you think of any reason why someone would want your wife dead?"

"Not at all! She's a wonderful woman. I'm more surprised that she would put up with me, you know?" his shoulders curve inward slightly. "I wasn't exactly the best husband, but I tried. Before her I was a little wild, dated a lot of girls. But she was the one. We didn't have to date long for me to know I never wanted to be with anyone else."

My smile is a little more natural this time, though still mostly forced. "I see. So no enemies? No strained relationships?"

He shakes his head. "Most of her family is dead, and she doesn't talk to her sister much. It was really just the two of us. After my background…well, we were both loners. Just looking, until we weren't anymore."

I purse my lips, trying to fit this love story into the frame of the other murders. "And she was unemployed?"

"Basically. She liked to knit, so she would knit little dolls on request. But other than that, yeah. We were thinking of having a baby soon."

I see John wince and I repress the urge to roll my eyes. How cliché, this tragic romance. "Her customers were all okay?"

"Yes, they loved her. She was brilliant, her mother taught her to knit when she was young."

"But her mother is dead, you said."

"Yes."

"Hmmm…" Yes, this is all very interesting. I need to figure out what is tying these women together, why they're being targeted for the murders.

"Do you have a picture of your wife?"

The man reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. "Yeah, here. This one's from our wedding."

I reach out and take the picture, examining it closely. Nothing out of ordinary, just a simple ceremony. The bride wore white, her long red hair vivid against the silk. The husband wore a plain but sharp black tux. They have their arms wrapped around one another, exchanging a loving glance.

"May I keep this? Temporarily."

"Yeah, of course, if you think it will help."

"It might. Thank you." I hand the picture to John, who tucks it safely away. "I think that's all I'll need from you right now, but I will be in touch."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I'll do anything I can to help."

I nod at him and turn to face John as Lestrade leads him away.

John cocks his head at me. "Is any of this helping?"

I flash him a smile. "Oh, yes, things are certainly looking up. If I can get similar details from the second boyfriend, and a picture of the girl from the first, then I think I will have enough to work with."

"Are you trying to flesh out the type of target this guy is looking for?" John asks.

"Indeed. We already know he's looking for women in relationships. Apparently they don't have to be married, just committed. If these women look alike, that can be another criterion. Possibly searching for a particular one, and not minding if he kills those who aren't correct? Still too many variables. But I no longer feel like I am drowning in my own head."

"Good, because I don't know how I could save you from that." John winks, teasing.

I open my mouth to say something embarrassingly sentimental – along the line of you have already saved me – but luckily Lestrade arrives at that moment.

"How do you think the criminal is entering, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks.

"Through the front door." Both of them look at me in surprise. "I don't know if he acquires a key, but there doesn't seem to be any other point of entry and I realized that during each attack either the sun was situated to the building so looking toward their front door would result in haze or it was too dark to be able to clearly identify any intruder."

Lestrade whistles. "We had a guy on the force once who was really good at lock-picking. Would be useful now, to have him take a look."

"I hardly think he would see more than I," I sniff. Just then John's phone starts to ring.

"Sorry, I'll take this over there, you two continue." John pulls his phone out of his pocket and steps several paces away, speaking quietly.

"Did you find anything else?" Lestrade asks, continuing as if there hadn't been an interruption.

"I've seen those flame patterns before, in an experiment, I think. If they match at all crime scenes, I'll know he used the same ingredient to ignite each fire."

"Ingredient?" Lestrade questions my choice of words.

"Yes, ingredient. I believe it is a liquid but there is a possibility for several other materials, so I'm not eliminating anything yet. However, as a gas would be more difficult, and I don't think it would leave the marks I'm seeing, I'm putting that at the bottom of my list."

"Anything else?"

"Ask me again once I've interviewed the other boyfriend and obtained pictures of all the victims." I put my hands in my pockets and tilt back on my heels, ready to head home.

"Yes, alright. Do you think you'll have anything for us tomorrow?"

"So long as I get the information I require, I would say that is a certainty."

"Well, thank God you're confident," Lestrade laughs without humor. "It would be great if we could get this solved before he strikes again."

"I understand your desire to keep the body count to a minimum, Detective Inspector. I will speak with you soon."

He just nods as I turn and leave.

I approach John as he puts his phone in his pocket, having heard the tail-end of his conversation.

"Has he agreed to meet with us?" I ask, nodding toward his phone. To his credit, John doesn't even bother to ask how I knew he was talking with the second fire's boyfriend.

"Yes, he said he would meet us in the morning. There's a coffee shop he suggested, so I told him we would go there." We start walking toward the main road together, searching for a taxi.

"Why did you do that? What's wrong with our flat?"

John gives me a look. "I think he prefers a more public place after you lashed out on him over his message machine."

I blow it off. "The sooner he talks to us, the sooner we can find his girlfriend's killer. It's in his best interest, really."

"I understand that's how you see it, but not very many people would agree with you, Sherlock." John sighs, and I glance at him curiously. He smiles at me.

"You see the world differently. I don't expect you to change, but you can't expect everyone to accept your reasoning, either."

I frown. "Their lives would be better, more quickly, if they did."

John nudges me with his shoulder. "I'm sure you think so."

I bite back a sarcastic response, realizing that John is purposefully teasing me so we don't get in a fight.

We don't say anything more as we get into a taxi and I give the driver our address. I've restrained myself at the crime scene because one, I was moving around so much it was inconvenient to keep John close to me and two, I don't know how he expects us to act in public and I assume it is something we must agree on before we let others know. If we let others know.

However, we are in a taxi now and no one we know will see us, so I pull off my glove and stuff it into my pocket. Then I lay my exposed hand palm-up on the seat between us. An offering.

John sees what I'm doing and, after a short pause and a small smile, reaches over and places his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation, feeling my blood thrum through my veins.

We're both quiet during the rest of the ride. I think we know there's more to talk about when we get home, but right now we're in the moment, connected, and that's what matters.

We separate when we pull up to Baker Street, and after John pays I lead the way upstairs, shedding my coat as soon as we reach the landing. Then I pause in the middle of the room, not quite sure where to go from here.

John sees my hesitancy and smiles as he hangs his coat over a chair.

"Everything alright?" he asks, coming to stand closer. I don't know how to respond. The desire I've been suppressing while working on the case is surging back up again and I want to grab him, hold him and kiss him and… I'm not sure what else. I've never felt this needy, at least not in the physical sense.

I can't find the words to describe what I'm thinking, so I just look down and examine his face, reading every line and searching for acceptance. I find it immediately.

"Fine," I smile, because I'm still not sure how I can act, and even though we wanted to before and I know I am certain, I don't think now is the right time to kiss him.

We stand there for a few more moments, and to an outside viewer we must seem quite ridiculous. There are several of inches of space between us, and we're not moving, not speaking, just standing and looking. But I'm reading emotions in his face that have never been directed to me before, and I wonder what he's seeing in mine, and it's one of those sappy moments that make annoying teenage girls squeal in theatres and neither of us move.

I blink then, because I have to, and John's mouth twitches into a smile.

"Fancy a cup of tea?" he asks, reaching out and giving my hand a slight squeeze before heading to the kitchen.

"Please," I take this as a cue to go to the couch and I pull my case notes toward me, adding what we've learned tonight. There is a lot to put together. My mind slowly starts to take over, repressing the urges of my body once again. It's natural, instinct, but for once I'm not quite sure I'm happy about that fact.

I'm still writing when John is done with the tea, and he brings it over and sits next to me. I accept my cup willingly and take a small sip before setting it down and pushing the papers over a bit so he can look at them.

"What do you think?" I ask, watching his face as he sets down his cup as well and starts to look at my additions. He shifts so that the lengths of our legs are touching, and I smile slightly before returning my thoughts to the case.

"Well, this time it was a husband instead of a boyfriend. That might mean something."

"Maybe. They were recently married, though, and didn't date for very long before that. Probably irrelevant."

"Right. Oh, here's something – that restaurant he mentioned, that's where Jennifer and I had our date."

"Really? An odd similarity, don't you think?"

"I dunno. It could just be a coincidence." John looks at me, and he sees something in my expression that makes him add, "You don't think it's a coincidence, do you?"

"No. I think we need to ask him more about his dating habits in regard to that restaurant."

"I've got his number. I'll give him a ring after we meet with the second boyfriend in the morning."

I write a note next to the husband's name – St. Stevens – and shuffle the papers slightly. "Okay, now the girls." I list all the similarities we've discovered.

"I can't figure out a motive," John says, his eyebrows pinching together.

"Nor I. But give me time, I need to think about it."

"Of course. You think you'll get something from what we have here?"

"Yes." I wave my hand at my head. "I just need to let it…percolate."

John grins at the use of the word, then yawns. I glance at a clock and realize it's later than I thought.

John leans back and stretches his arms over his head. I lift my hands and press them together, placing them against my lips. I tap my mouth a couple of times before I say,

"You can go to bed, if you want." I dart my eyes to the side without turning my head. "I just need to think now, anyway."

"That's," John pauses to yawn again, "probably a good idea."

"Good," I reply, standing up. "Just give me a moment to change."

"Sure – wait, what? Sherlock, what are you saying?"

I glance down at the casual suit I'm wearing. "Well, I don't want to lay down in this, now do I?"

"Are you planning on joining me in bed?" I don't quite understand John's tone, and that bothers me.

"Problem? We're not going to have sex, if that's what you're worried about."

John's face turns red. Interesting.

"No – I'm not – " he splutters, trying to get his bearings. He takes a breath. "You just caught me off-guard, is all. I thought you said you needed to think?"

"Yes, and you need your rest. I won't be sleeping, I assure you."

John blinks a couple of times, clenches his hands once, relaxes them, and then smiles slightly.

"Alright, yes," he nods, looking around the room. "You go, uh, change, and I guess I'll… meet you there?"

I find his attitude amusing. "Brilliant. Just a moment."

I make my way to my room and change into my silky blue pyjama pants. I hold the matching top in front of me, deliberating. I prefer to sleep with as little clothing as possible, but I won't actually be sleeping in this situation. Also, I need to be able to think. Skin to skin contact may not be the best path to encourage the correct line of thought.

With that in mind I put on my shirt, looking forward to the time when I can leave it off. Then I head to John's room, smiling at the darkened living room that indicates he turned off the lights when he left.

His room is also dark when I enter, but I can make out John sitting on the side of the bed, his hands clasped in his lap. He looks up and our eyes meet.

I go and sit next to him, our shoulders touching. We sit like that for a minute, neither of us quite sure what we should do next.

"This might feel a little different, since you prefer to sleep on your back," I say.

John chuckles softly. "Of course that's what you'd say. Alright, then. You first." He motions toward the bed.

I raise my eyebrow at him, but he's right. We both stand so I can throw back the covers and then I climb into his bed, lying on my back with my arms at my side.

"Coming?" I ask when he doesn't immediately follow.

He grins, moving to join me. "Yeah, sorry, just had to convince myself this is reality."

I roll my eyes but smile as he clambers onto the bed, adjusting so his head is on my chest. It's slightly awkward for a moment, until John says,

"Sherlock, you can put your arms around me."

"Right." I reach down and pull the comforter over us and then wrap my arms around his torso, moving slightly to accommodate this new position. That feels much better.

Then John exhales, relaxing his body, and everything is right. I breathe deeply, trying to regulate my heart rate so John has something steady to listen to. It's rather difficult, but given our current proximity, I shouldn't be surprised.

I take stock of our position. I'm lying on my back, more or less in the middle of the bed. John is to my left, his head turned to face inward so his right ear is against my chest. His right leg is between mine, the heel of his foot lightly resting against my calf. His right arm is mostly pressed under his body, although I feel the tips of his fingers brushing my side.

I contemplate that for a moment. It's probably not the most comfortable position. He'll have to adjust at some point.

His other hand is resting along my torso, his bottom finger just above my navel. In turn, my left arm is wrapped comfortably around his shoulders and my right is across his side, settling about halfway down his back. Overall, we're much closer than I have ever been to another person for any extended period of time.

We're silent for several more minutes, but I can tell John hasn't gone to sleep yet. I want to start thinking about the case, but I know I won't get very far until John is unconscious, so I let my mind wander.

My head is clear. I never realized just how pervasive the discomfort was until this moment. I suppose I became accustomed to it, assumed the pressure was just a result of my constantly racing mind. I wasn't aware of how much it truly hurt until this moment, with John, in the cool darkness of the room and his steady heat half sprawled over me, his head resting over my heart.

It is so peaceful and quiet and instead of being hateful it is a blessing because it has done something that I didn't even know I needed; it has removed my pain. I feel better than I have in, well, years.

I grip John closer, my fingers travelling up to tangle in his hair. He shifts, but he's shifting closer, not away, and I am momentarily dazed by the measure of emotion this man must have for me. Can I be trusted with his heart?

"Sherlock?" John says quietly, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric of my shirt. Yes, removing tops as soon as possible is a good idea.

"Hmm?" I reply, looking down at the top of his head. I smile, knowing he can't see me and feeling incredibly ridiculous at my sentimental thoughts.

"Earlier," my mind flashes through several different options as to where this could lead, "I thought you were going to tell me about whether you've kissed anyone before. If it's okay, I'd like to know."

I consider how to phrase my answer. It should be an easy yes-or-no, but it's not quite so simple.

"When we kiss for the first time," I begin, my voice steady despite my anticipation, "it will be the first kiss with someone who really cares about me. Who cares about who I am, not just what I have to offer, in whatever fashion."

I pause. "It will be the first kiss where I will actually try, and the first kiss that I won't delete. Will it be the first time my lips have touched another person's? No. But," my fingers start stroking through John's hair, "for all intents and purposes, yes, it will be my first kiss."

John is quiet while he processes this. "Do you remember the others?" I can tell he's trying to hide the jealousy in his voice, but he doesn't quite manage it.

"No – as I said, I deleted them – but honestly, John, if anyone should be jealous it would be me. You've done much more than kiss with many more people than I." I ignore the images of all the women I've seen John with in the years I've known him flash before my eyes. They don't matter now.

"More women, perhaps," John muses. Then he seems to realize something, an aspect of myself never addressed between the two of us. "Er," he shifts slightly, and I can tell he's uncomfortable asking this next question.

"I have only ever been sexually attracted to men." I tell him, saving him the embarrassment of voicing the words. "But, for the most part, I have chosen an asexual lifestyle, ignoring the desires of my flesh in favor of my mind."

"Right." John clears his throat slightly. "But…Irene?"

Yes, Irene. The Woman. The epitome of her sex, whose only fault was to allow her attraction to me get the better of her.

"Irene fascinated me, I admit." I start, searching for the words. "But it was her intelligence that interested me, and not her body. She would never be an appropriate partner for me, even if I was sexually attracted to her. Since I wasn't, it made her easier to let go." It is my turn to clear my throat. "I do view her as the greatest of women. She certainly knew how to play the game."

John nods against my chest, and I can sense he's almost asleep.

"May I ask a question, now, since I've answered yours?" I request. John nods again, and I feel his chin drop as he yawns.

"Why do you want to be with me?"

John twists in my arms, turning his head so he can look in my eyes. I watch him curiously, waiting for an answer.

"Because I love you." He says simply.

I smile a little, but that didn't exactly answer my question. "Yes, but why?"

A crease appears between his eyebrows, indicating his confusion. "Do you want me to repeat what I said earlier? Make a list?"

Now I frown in confusion. "No, that's not what I mean." I wave one hand around vaguely. "Why did you, what's the term, change teams? Why do you want to be with me instead of a woman?"

John smiles, understanding what I'm asking. He turns his head away, reclaiming his place on my chest. "I've been with women all my life. I've been happy with some of them. But I joined the war for a reason. A family has never been my ultimate goal, and I will not consider myself unfulfilled if I never have children. After all the women I've been with, none of them have been ones I want to spend the rest of my life with. And I may not have been interested in men before you," I can hear the grin in his voice, "but then again, there are no other men like you, are there?"

My eyes close as I listen to John's words. "You fascinate me, Sherlock. You have since the first time we met, and since then I've become more and more entranced by who you are. And I realized, as I was dating these women and living with you, that more and more I wanted to be with you, doing whatever it was you were doing. Even if that meant sipping tea while you ranted and raved; I want to be with you, Sherlock. We've connected far more deeply than I've ever experienced with a woman before."

"The anatomy is a little different." I point out.

"Perhaps." One of his hands comes up to start tracing patterns over the cloth on my belly. I'm truly beginning to hate shirts. "I still find you attractive, though."

"And I you," I respond. I feel John's silent laughter.

"Good," he replies softly, his hand coming to a rest along my side. He's about to fall asleep, nearly there.

I remain quiet, letting him drift. Moments later I hear him mumble,

"Thank you."

"For what?" I ask quietly.

"You," it sounds like he says. Then he's asleep, his breathing deep and even.

I think about that for a little while, fingers still playing with his hair as I consider his words. But the case is pressing on my conscience, so I eventually turn my thoughts in that direction. John will be here, I've got him safe in my arms.

Now I have a delicious case to solve.

Story Note: I made up St. Stevens. If it is a restaurant in London, that's a happy coincidence.