A/N: A reviewer made me notice that I'd slipped out of writing one-shots- easy to get carried away because I'm enjoying myself! Anyway, enjoy!
A phone beeped at five-thirty am, waking John up just as the first rays of sunlight slid in through the gap in Sherlock's curtains, bathing the room in gentle light.
'Mmmf, Sherlock.' John mumbled, his face pressed into the pillow.
Sherlock turned away from John and reached out a long, pale arm to retrieve his phone. It took him three attempts to enter his password as he was fuzzy-eyed and the screen was too bright.
'It's Lestrade. Case. 28 Arden Place.'
John groaned, but tossed back the covers and rolled himself out of the warmth of their shared bed. He'd slept well last night- peacefully. No demons of the past penetrated his mind, no bloody images fogged his vision. It was down to Sherlock. It wasIt was his desiscion to share his bed. They hadn't done anything, mind. No, they weren't ready for anything like that. They just slept, slipped in next to eachother and relished in eachother's comfort. John had slid up close to Sherlock, resting his tired head on his companion's warm chest. It was odd, John never expected Sherlock to be as warm as he was. He knew it was unfair to think of him as a cold person, but he was. Not to John though, never to John.
Sherlock watched John leave their bed and yank off his pyjama t-shirt. In lieu of his sleepwear he pulled on the navy jumper that Mycroft has bought him and a pair of jeans. Sherlock liked the way that John dressed, it was homely and comorting. John reminded Sherlock of baking. Warm bread and cakes. It was nice.
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The cab pulled up outside a three story house in a very expensive location in south London, all white houses and fences. Sherlock watched in disgust as over-dressed women walked their tiny dogs and babbled meaninglessly to someone on the other end of a phone.
He noted Detective Inspector Lestrade was also on the phone, and surpressed the childish image of him walking a chihuaha. Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement as the two men left the taxi, holding up a finger which said one minute.
Sherlock rubbed his hands together, rocking back and forth on his feet.
'Ah, I've been wanting a case for ages, John! Just what I needed.' By this time, Lestrade had finished his conversation. 'What've we got? Serial killer? Serial suicides again? Oooh I loved that case, very interesting.'
'Just your standard murder, Sherlock.'
The detective sighed in disappointment, adjusting his scarf.
'Except, Sherlock, we don't have a body.'
Sherlock looked up, just a little interested. 'No body?' he asked, a small smirk playing on his lips.
'Yep.' Lestrade nodded grimly. 'Come and take a look.'
Sherlock and John nodded in unison, the former following Lestrade into the taped-off house and the latter following behind. John was impressed with the house, it was a little ostentacious, but it was impressive none the less. The hall was monchrome, spotless white walls and thick black carpet. The walls were decorated with Picasso, housed in expensive looking black frames.
The pair were led to the first floor, where John was less impressive. For such a nice looking house it's rooms were tiny. He guessed it was more of a show home rather than a comfort home.
'Here we are.'
John stared blankly while Sherlock strode across the room and bent down in the corner, running his finger across the floor.
'Chalk.'
'Hmm?' John headed in the working detective's direction.
'Instead of a body, we have a chalk outline.'
'If you don't mind me asking, how do you know there even is a body?'
Lestrade was the last to join Sherlock. 'We had a call, a confession. We traced the call but it was from the phone on the windowsill.' He gestured to a white iPhone. 'We are none the wiser.'
'Well then Doctor Watson, let's get to work!'
