No Worries, no warnings except for silliness mixed with the usual angst and, yes, swearing. So have fun reading it; you know you love angst.

Chapter 11

As a rule, Sherlock did not like to be touched. Sometimes it was almost painful. Sometimes it made his skin crawl. It was usually just annoying. But, over the years he'd grown to tolerate or even crave the touch of a select few like Victor or Mrs. Hudson.

And Sherlock had wondered what it would be like to touch John Watson. So when John ran his fingers through his hair, Sherlock was only mildly surprised that it was not unpleasant. Indeed, he would have to admit that it was rather calming.

And then John kissed his face. And that was very pleasant. John's lips were warm and soft. Perhaps the Work could wait for just a bit.

Sherlock blinked and looked around the empty room. "John? John?" The little blond was gone.

Sherlock studied the room. The soldier's boots were still by the door, and there was no sign of a struggle. The key card was missing, so John left of his own volition and intended to return. He would return for his boots and jacket if nothing else.

No doubt, Sherlock had inadvertently irritated or insulted the soldier. It was inevitable. But then, why the kiss? It was too chaste to be the product of simple it was definitely a kiss, a physical sign of affection that was given only to the closest of companions, at least in the English culture of the 21st century. Yet John was a soldier with trust issues and unlikely to distribute tokens of affection to just anyone, especially another man.

Sherlock sighed because he could not solve the conundrum. It didn't help, that he wanted John to kiss him again, and in a less chaste fashion. Then the detective had a worrisome thought; what if the idiot stumbled into the Mor-person's clutches again.

Sherlock got up to pace. Then the consulting detective observed the post-it filled white board.

"No, No, No! My post-its are out of order! Some of these aren't even my post-its. Who is Jefferson Hope?. …What is the Batcave? Gibberish! John!" yelled the consulting detective again. "John!"

John stumped back to the room with ice but no crisps. Typically, the vending machine ate his coins and then withheld the coveted bag of crisps.

"Bloody Sherlock can just come out of his bloody trance and deduce a plan to either get me my bloody money back or get me my bloody crisps," muttered John Watson.

Tonight sucked. It was an improvement over last night in that tonight's mad man didn't kill people (so far), nor had he made graphic promises to torture, rape or kill John, sometime in the very near future.

Otherwise tonight was a bust. They were no nearer to finding Mor-whatever. Dinner was a near failure. And as for his rekindled hopes of romance, well, it was stupid to try to resurrect a corpse, now wasn't it? And lets not forget that John had apparently bored the genius into a near coma. Smooth Watson, real smooth.

It was time for plan B. Leave the hotel, grab Harry and run for…well, run really far away from London and crazy geniuses.

John fumbled at the door lock. He slid in the card and got a red light He turned the card over and tried again without success. He jammed the card in and out and rattled the handle, as he muttered about bloody new-fangled electronic keys and why the fuck can't they just use regular keys.

The door swung open and an apparently agitated apparition yanked him in. John stared at Sherlock's pale face and the waves of red hair that were scattered wantonly over his head. Sherlock must have been running his hands through his hair. John was so engrossed that he stumbled, barely preventing the ice bucket from dumping all over the handsome redhead.

"Where have you been?" demanded Sherlock, scanning the shorter man for evidence of fresh injuries.

"Getting crisps."

"I don't see any crisps," growled Sherlock, through gritted teeth; why was John so obtuse?

John sighed. No, he did not have any crisps; he was too disheartened to explain.

"And you had the key, John. Why didn't you use the key?"

"I had a disagreement with the lock and keycard. I was losing that argument when you finally opened the door. Here's the ice."

"I don't want any ice," Sherlock all but shouted. He took the ice bucket and nearly threw it at the wall, except John was scowling and making fists again. Not good. The consulting detective did not wish to argue with the little blond right now.

Sherlock banged the bucket down on the table, knocking several ice cubes out onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" sighed John. He bent to pick up the ice before it ruined the carpet. He really didn't want to ruin the carpet; something bad might happen.

"John, forget the ice," said the genius. "John!"

John stopped and looked up, "What?"

"Why did you leave? I was…worried," admitted Sherlock.

"Crisps, I wanted some crisps," he held his hand up to forestall the imminent tirade. "The vending machine ate my money and wouldn't give me my crisps. Anyway, I told you that I was stepping out, but you were in some trance or something. Weren't you?" he asked, suddenly nervous. Oh God, he shouldn't have kissed the mad berk. The doctor shoved his left hand into his pocket before it could tremble and get him into any more trouble. Stupid Hand.

"John, did you, ah…kiss me before you left?"

"No. Yes. Well, no, of course not," stammered, John looking to the side and blushing. Obviously lying, and lying badly, the detective quickly deduced.

"Well you were very quiet and actually you were sorta comatose and I was…checking you…yes, checking for a fever." John smiled, because that was an excellent explanation.

Except the consulting detective wasn't buying the excellent explanation. The ex-soldier's smile slowly faded. Change the subject.

"So, I added some notes to your board," said John, speaking rapidly, (actually you're blithering, said a small voice in his head). "And I put your map up on the wall, with the pins. You did say that your brother would foot the bill. And so I figured we'd start at the red dot and move outwards…"

"John," said Sherlock, his voice suddenly gelid. "I am accustomed to working alone, and no one ever interferes with my data. Your additions are no doubt well-meant but will only obstruct the Work. For instance, what are these doodles on the board?"

"That is a car, obviously a taxi," said John embarrassed. "That arrow led to the note saying unidentified taxi (cab-false plates). The picture is a graphic reminder that the arrow leads to the taxi notes."

"I have the information stored in my mind palace. I know exactly where each note belongs. I do not require reminders, graphic or otherwise," snapped Sherlock. "Furthermore, these are not my post-its. They do not belong in my mind palace. I cannot allow useless data to clutter my brain's hard drive. The cabbie's children? Proper geniuses? Who cares? And who is Jefferson Hope and…" Sherlock froze with parted lips, as the data coalesced.

"Oh God, are you going into a trance again? Are you subject to fits?" asked John, stepping forward to catch the taller man if he should fall.

The detective stepped forward and placed a finger on John's lips. The soldier froze at the touch.

Sherlock's mouth rounded, "Oh. Ohhh. Hope was the cab driver who brought you away from the Mor-person. John, you got the driver's name. He has children, and you feel they may be significant too. Why? Why are they significant?" Sherlock's keen eyes looked obliquely at the shorter man.

"Well, Hope said he was putting them through school and that money was tight," said John, uncertain whether to back away from the looming detective. Those elegant, tapering fingers were still just inches from John's lips. "He, um the cabbie, said something about 'our sponsor', and so I figured he was working regularly for Mor-whatever. You know making extra money for his kids. And, yeah, he drove me two times yesterday, well the day before since it's well after midnight now. Or maybe it was still yesterday since it was like 0300 hours..."

"I shall track him down and question him," interrupted Sherlock, who abruptly began pacing with his fingers tapping against his own lips.

"No," John pursed his lips and shook his head. "No. That man is a proper psychopath. That's what he is, Sherlock, a proper psychopath. He is too dangerous. You cannot meet with him alone."

"Of course I can. Tomorrow, I'll find his dispatcher and get his schedule. I'll call for a taxi. I'll be nothing more than another passenger. It's simple," said Sherlock distractedly. He was rearranging the data in his mind palace and, just to be safe, opening up a separate, new room for John. The room would naturally be furnished in shades of ultramarine, the color of John's eyes.

"It's too dangerous to go alone," said John. He stood feet apart and arms crossed. Ah, thought Sherlock, the little soldier was quite adamant.

"Fine. I'll have Lestrade or one of the Yard's finest accompany me," Sherlock lied. "And no, I do not suffer from seizures. I have a Mind Palace. It is a mental construct in which I store all my data for easy retrieval. The various rooms store different data sets, which can be retrieved, sorted, or shifted as needed. Unimportant or expired data can be deleted by removing it from my mind palace. When I am working in my mind palace, I am concentrating deeply, so I do not talk or move. I also do not wish to be disturbed when I am thinking so deeply. You will simply have to become accustomed to my habit."

"What if you get an important phone call? What if there's an emergency?" asked John. "What if you're attacked? You could be attacked by a psychotic killer, with vampiric delusions. Would you just sit there doing your mind palace thing and let the psychopathic-vampire kill you?"

"John, what is this obsession you have about vampires? I noticed it written on the post-it notes and you even drew a crude face with fangs nest to the arrow leading to the Person Whose Name Begins with MOR."

"His name is MOR-WHATEVER, not Person Whose Name blah, blah, blah," said John, his voice raised. "And Mor-whatever is mad, Sherlock. He bit me. He bit me, and then he licked my blood off his fingers, like a kid licking the icing from a bowl. What kind of a person does that? No, I'll tell you what kind of person does that, a sick, crazy, evil person. And he reminds me of a vampire, and he is certainly a psychopath and very likely a psychotic. He could easily have delusions of being a vampire."

"John, I make deductions based on facts not wild suppositions. I take all available facts and then create a theory that fits the data. You are making a hypothesis and then trying to fit the facts in backwards and so getting the wrong results. I don't expect you to understand, few people can. Suffice it to say, these are my notes and it's my mind palace. The post-its on Hope can stay; his name and his statement about his children are facts. The vampire post-its go," said Sherlock tearing up two of John's stickies, and dropping the fragments to the floor. "In fact all these notes on the Mor-person are useless. Who cares if he likes red roses or bloody steaks or silk sheets? What's this?" Sherlock stopped and looked first at the note and then down at his seething soldier, "he says he killed his old boyfriends?" Sherlock read aloud; he managed to somehow look paler than usual.

"Yeah. He said his other boyfriends were cowardly or something, so he had to kill them," said John glaring, "I'm guessing some of them freaked out when he got psycho on them, or maybe it was the physical abuse and threats. Maybe, they didn't like it when he went vampire on them. Anyway, he said I was made of sterner stuff. Like I want any of his nasty compliments. Under the circumstances, I did not press the issue."

The consulting detective worried at his lower lip. John's danger was more acute than Sherlock originally suspected. What if the Person Whose Name Begins with Mor kills all of his boyfriends, like a black widow spider. Fascinating... and entirely too dangerous for John Watson.

"No John, it was for the best, that you did not question that man on the topic of his boyfriends," said Sherlock checking the remainder of John's sticky-notes with care. Sherlock could not afford to miss any notes like the last one. John had collected lots of useless data, but there were some pearls of information mixed in with the dross.

"John, no doubt you think that you are helping, but you must let me decide which data goes up on the board. Most of these notes are pointless and distracting…"

"You already admitted that Jefferson Hope's name is useful," said John defensively. His arms were crossed again; he held his left hand under his arm, just in case.

"Yes. But the rest are not data; they are groundless opinions. You were blindfolded while you were in the parking garage, how can you know how far down…"

"Give me some credit, Sherlock. I am not actually a complete moron. I paid attention the second time I was brought into Mor-whatever's Batcave. There were five tight turns. In a regular parking garage you go down the ramp turn and then down again and that's one level. We went down five ramps. Second or third sublevel," said John, his arms folded tightly against his chest.

"Very well, John. But how could you know that you were still in London," said Sherlock, replacing the parking garage sticky-note on the board.

"Because I timed it," said John.

"John, can you measure time without the aid of a timepiece?" asked Sherlock, impressed.

"Well, no. No, I sang songs to myself," said John uncomfortably.

Sherlock flopped back onto the bed in apparent despair. He was less impressed; every person on Earth really was an idiot, except for Sherlock of course.

In spite of the consulting detectives antics, John pressed forward with his explanation. "Anyway it was about thirty minutes from the Batcave to the coffee shop which is located in central London. The Batcave can be no more than thirty minutes from that address although it could be much less if Hope drove in circles."

"John, be reasonable. Songs vary in length of course, but each song can be sung at different tempos, stanzas can be forgotten...'

"I sang the same song to myself nine times from the time we left the garage before I was allowed to remove my blindfold. I sing it regularly, and I don't forget the words," huffed John. "I took the blindfold off in front of a coffee shop called Lady Godiva's. There was a boutique with paper umbrellas named for Bree, and those two shops are located right here on the map. See I circled the address with a yellow highlighter," said John, loudly tapping his finger on the map in exasperation.

Sherlock's mouth made a perfect "O". He stared at the doctor as if he had just sprouted wings. John was not a complete idiot after all.

John had the consulting detective's full attention and, if his parted lips were any clue, John had impressed the genius. John was so pleased that he forgot his irritation.

"Look, the song's playtime is 3.33 minutes. 3.33 times 9 is just shy of thirty minutes," continued John in excitement. "So the Batcave is somewhere within a 30 minute radius of this intersection. The thing is, I can't figure out is how far away from this spot you can get by driving for thirty minutes in the middle of the night, but it certainly still places the Batcave in London."

"John Watson, that was…very resourceful. In fact, it's brilliant" Sherlock studied the map. He began making a dotted line that roughly encircled the Lady Godiva coffee shop.

"This is just an estimate of the perimeter, John. I can estimate that it will take thirty minutes to get this far on this route and here again... Tomorrow, I will have to arrange for a few drivers to actually measure the maximum distance that a car can go in thirty minutes. We also need a better estimate of the time it takes for you to sing the song. I will time it, we will need you to repeat it several times to ensure accuracy. Start singing, John." Sherlock held up his watch. "Start now, John…. Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Um, I was singing it in my head. Like I did in the taxi," said John.

"No, I need to hear it to see if you maintain the same tempo through out," his tone of voice clearly said, IDIOT. "Besides, I can hardly time it, if I cannot hear when you start and stop," said Sherlock. "Now, please start…out loud."

"I, um, I need a drink," said John, grabbing a beer. This was just too damn embarrassing. That's what I get for trying to impress him. "I don't suppose you want anything to drink? No. Of course not." John quickly downed half the can. "I could really use some crisps," he added mournfully.

"Drinking, John? And your sister an alcoholic?" chided Sherlock impatiently, as John slowly and deliberately drank down his beer. "John, you are holding up the investigation," he whined.

John quickly finished the beer and took out a second, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Right. I can't sing. I have no voice and it's just a stupid, repetitive song, that I learned in Afghanistan, OK? It's nothing special, right?"

"Well, do start, John," demanded the consulting detective.

"John."

"John!"

John stared, mesmerized, at the consulting detective as he would a snake, "I would not be so stoned, if my Mary were. And I don't think I'd have phoned you if my Mary were here"* whispered John hoarsely, only half singing.

Sherlock slowly tilted his head, as the song went on. Mary. Mary this, Mary that, if Mary were here. Of course, The Loss. John liked sad music because he lost someone. Mary could only be a girlfriend who, judging from the song, left John broken-hearted. Where is this wretched Mary, and how could she possibly do this to John?

John stared at the wall, intoning the song steadily, "I'm drunk and seeing double, but my Mary's not here. Once again be the friend that you've been and take me in. Please take me in."*

" 3 minutes and 13 seconds. You need to repeat it John," said Sherlock.

John sang it again and then again.

"Very well, John. It took you an average of 3 minutes and 10 seconds to run through the song in its entirety. You were with in ten seconds each time. So that is encouraging. We can use it to make an estimate of the maximum distance that the Mor-person's hidden lair should be from the coffee shop. We should repeat the experiment tomorrow just to be sure, and then I'll calculate the standard deviation. However, I will adjust the map, based on this preliminary data. I will find the locations that have sub basements and parking garages that are located within this perimeter. I will also have questioned Jefferson Hope. I assume that Mary was your girlfriend, perhaps your fiancée," Sherlock changed topic without warning. "I presume she left you shortly before you were invalided home from Afghanistan, and you remain in love with her to this day."

Sherlock was pleased to note that his own voice remained steady and, in fact, unemotional. He was merely interested because John was an interesting person and part of an interesting case.

The former army doctor gaped at the sudden ambush, "You... Sherlock Holmes, are very amazing and very nosy," said John who had downed both beers, rather too quickly.

"I have been endlessly informed that I push too hard. If that is the case, you must tell me, and I shall endeavor to be less nosy," said the consulting detective. "Well?" he asked, pushing.

"Well, what?" asked John.

"Did I get it right?" he asked, peering over his steepled hands at the ex-soldier slouched in the chair.

John snorted. "You don't give up, do you?" The younger man kept his brown eyes on John. Fine.

"Mary was my girlfriend. We never bothered to get engaged," said John, his chin raised belligerently. "To borrow your phrase, we were both 'married to our work'. Also she didn't leave me; she was blown up by an IED almost three years ago. It's over and done with."

Sherlock studied John, and the silence grew uncomfortable. Worse and WORSE. He could deal with an unfaithful lover. John could perhaps be enticed to forget a woman who abandoned him. But Mary was dead, a virtual martyr. Sherlock hated her with a virulence that surprised even him. Why did John have to cling to her memory so tenaciously? Sherlock could hardly compete with the ghost of a beautiful martyr.

And of course, she would have been beautiful; John deserved nothing less. This, this was why Sherlock refused to indulge in emotions. Hearts were always broken.

On top of everything else, Sherlock's deductions while close, had been off the mark. Clear evidence that Sherlock's burgeoning emotions, interfered with his ability to reason.

It would be best to just let the entire matter lie. John Watson was a case, nothing more and nothing less. It was fortunate that Sherlock had seen the pitfalls early, thus avoiding any Victor-esque debacles.

John caught himself biting a fingernail. He hated when he did that. It was an obvious sign of stress, a show of weakness that enemies could take advantage of. It looked stupid too. And John Watson really did not want to look stupid in front of the handsome genius. John shoved his hands in his pockets while the consulting detective stared at him.

Dammit, the man had completely punched through John's defenses in just a couple of days. He already knew about Mary. Almost no one knew about Mary. Bloody hell.

Mary was gone, and she had never wholly belonged to John anyway. Mary and John were friends. and they shared a deep attraction for one another.

It wasn't so much that Mary was gone that had eaten away at John for so long, it was the way she was taken. It was a waste! It was just so wrong that a good woman ended up dead for no reason. Hell there had been almost nothing left of her to bury. There was nothing left to show that she had even been alive. So what was the point of living in the first place?

John did not want to talk about Mary, especially not to Sherlock Holmes. He didn't want to talk about his old relationships to someone, well someone he fancied.

Mary would not have begrudged John a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Mary was not the problem. Christ, the problem was that Sherlock was 'married to his work'. Maybe he would allow John to be his friend? That was better than nothing, at least John could admire the man and they could be mates. Right? It was a bit ridiculous for John to be so disappointed over this whole Sherlock thing.

John hated looking ridiculous. That genius was probably making the deductive leap right now. He's probably ready to say," Well,John, you cared for Mary and that song shows you are feeling romantic and lonely and thus I can deduce you are attracted to me, but, sorry, old chap (emphasis on old), but I'm unattainable. I'm too good for you, John. I'm married to my work, John. Don't be an idiot, John." God, I am an idiot, thought John.

It looked like the redhead was going to say something. He was about to deduce John and then reject him, one more time. Nope, not doing that again. Quick, change the subject.

"So, you've got a list of what you plan to do tomorrow. What do you want me to do?" asked the ex-soldier to break the silence.

"There's nothing that you can do, John. We can meet again tomorrow; if you like," said Sherlock.

"Right," said John, thinking that he knew a dismissal when he heard one.

"Look, uh, you said your brother was the British Government. Can he? I mean, I'd like to ask a favor. Can he have Harry, my sister, put in some sort of protective custody? And maybe her wife, Clara too? The two are separated, but Mor-whatever has threatened Harry and might threaten Clara too. Your brother, um, Mycroft, said something about paying me, and I don't want the money. Not from him and certainly not from Mor-whatever. Instead of the money, I want Harry kept safe from that psycho Irishman."

"Yes," agreed Sherlock quickly, "that might be an excellent idea. You should go too…"

"Don't be daft. I will not go into hiding of any sort," said John. "But, d'you think your brother would give me back my gun? So that's two favors I'd like to ask, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded absently. Going into that mind palace trance again, guessed John. Well the man isn't interested, and it's past time for me to go. At least that disastrous kiss was forgotten.

John slid his feet into his boots. He did not want the disastrous kiss to be forgotten.

"Sherlock, you said you can tell when I'm lying?" asked John pulling his jacket on.

The consulting detective nodded. At least the berk wasn't comatose yet.

"Then you already know that I was lying," added the soldier, softly, his hand on the door handle and his eyes on his boots. "So, yeah, I did kiss you. I did it because I wanted to; I did it because…dammit, I like you. And if you don't want me to do it again, I promise I won't. I know, you told me you were married to your work. I understand. I hope, very, very much, that we can still be friends." John finished in a rush.

The ex-army doctor tried to open the door, but, of course, it seemed jammed. He struggled with the handle.

So much for not looking ridiculous, thought John.

TBC almost immediately

A/N * from 'If My Mary Were Here', by Harry Chapin

Thank you for reading my fic. I hope you will consider sending me your thoughts, criticisms, suggestions via the review button or via PM. I'd love to hear from you.

Thank you to those who follow and favorite my story. (I know, i know, favorite is not a verb.) A special thanks goes out to the reviewers from chapter 10 ruvy91, EJ12212012, Lady Allen, anyrei1, powere0girl, Wicked WInter, Kyuubigurl74, SamuelE8688, InuChimera7410 and AiloveS

Disclaimer i (the party of the first part) absolve myself of any copyright infringement by saying that I so not own the rights to SHERLOCK and I have no intention on profiting from SHERLOCK... except for the fun that I am having writing this fic and sharing it with others (the parties of the second part, because wouldn't it be fun if we all got together for a big fanfic party?). Yeah, it almost looks official...NOT. But seriously, I don't have any rights to SHERLOCK.