Chapter Twelve

And Life Goes On

A text from Detective Inspector Lestrade could turn a day around; take it from sour to invigorating an instant. Upon receiving the message: There's been a unusual murder. Come down to the Yard ASAP—GL, Sherlock closed his laptop with a snap, dove into his coat, whipped his navy scarf round his neck, and bellowed up the stairs to John's room, "John! Hurry, we're going down to Scotland Yard to get information on a new murder case!"

There was a crash from above, and John swore at the top of his lungs.

"Slammed your finger in the drawer again?" asked Sherlock, wryly.

"Yes," said John, appearing at the top of the stairs in his jacket, mobile in hand. "We really should have that fixed."

Since their fight on New Year's Eve, things had gone surprisingly well. They'd gone out for dinner several times, ordered take-away a few times more, and Sherlock had bravely attempted to make John coffee, while John had just as bravely attempted to drink it. Sherlock was coming to the conclusion that the more mundane people act, the more is going on under the surface, and that the alleged normalcy is simply an effort to counteract possible awkwardness. He and John did a lot of that; watching telly and arguing over cross-contamination of severed ears in the fridge, and poking fun at the ever-irritating Anderson. But there were moments when Sherlock was settled innocently at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope, that John would walk in and Sherlock's hands would inexplicably begin to tremble. And other times when the pair of them would be stalking a savage killer through the back-allies of London, and Sherlock would lower his voice to a hushed baritone, telling John Not. To. Make. A. Sound. John's pupils would unquestionably dilate, and he would blush, meeting Sherlock's silver stare with defiance. It was pathetically irresistible to Sherlock, as though John was saying, "That's right, you made me blush. So what? Going to make something of it?"

During these heated occurrences, one man would clear his throat, look away, leave the area, or possibly all three. Usually it was John, but occasionally it was Sherlock, suddenly overwhelmed by John's fantastic John-ness, that he had to exit just to control his rapidly beating heart.

John's voice asking Sherlock if they were going to catch a cab yanked Sherlock from his reverie, and he returned to the present with a snap.

"Yes, of course, we'll go right now."

John grinned at Sherlock. Genuinely. "Feels good, doesn't it? Having a new case?"

"It does," Sherlock mused, striding out into the clatter of Baker Street, John beside him. "Nothing like a nice murder to turn things around."

"God, we're so messed up," giggled John. "We actually enjoy this!"

"I don't enjoy the dead bodies," Sherlock remarked, "I mean, what could be more boring than a body, it's a body—but the observation, deduction, thinking, analyzing and reasoning that comes with a murder makes it interesting."

"And the running around?" asked John, lightly punching Sherlock's arm.

"That, too," Sherlock agreed with some reluctance. He was suddenly distracted by the exquisite sensation of John's hand making contact with his arm. One could only imagine what it would feel like without the sturdy layer of tweed separating them. The kinetic energy might cause him to spontaneously combust. It was an interesting idea for an experiment, Sherlock decided with a rather devilish smile. He saved it in his Mind Palace for further analysis.

"Come on," he said, wrapping his long fingers round John's wrist and pulling toward the waiting cab. He was trying to work on number five, physical contact.

John responded with a small frown; he stared at Sherlock's hand. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you in the cab," Sherlock replied, sliding in beside John and closing the door. "Scotland Yard," he called to the cabbie. They were off.

It was quiet for a while, then John said, "It's getting a bit hard to date Mary with me being involved in murder cases."

"For God's sakes," Sherlock snorted. "It's not like you're a murderer!"

"No, but with her being in the oncology department and all… Listen, Sherlock, she's trying to save lives, while you and I get a thrill when there's a dead person around. We're on different planets!"

"Maybe you're not right for each other."

"God, Sherlock, don't play psychologist. Of course we're right for each other!" John shot Sherlock a thoroughly mistrustful look, like a little boy whose friend had nicked the last cookie.

"It's a possibility."

"No, it's something you made up."

"I don't make things up!"

"Need I remind you of Cluedo?"

"Oh, not that again." Sherlock stared out the window, his heart making a sure descent from his chest to somewhere down around his toes. How could John be so blind as to pick Mary over him? They would never work, that was obvious to Sherlock. He gritted his teeth against a rush of criticism.

"You alright, Sherlock? You look like you're about to pop a vein."

"Fine," muttered Sherlock.

Quiet again.

Yet again, John broke the silence. "We should get you a girlfriend, Sherlock. The four of us would have a lovely time together."

"The four of us being me, a girlfriend, you, and Mary, I presume?"

"Er, yeah."

"I told you before, John. That's not really my area."

"Oh." John looked at Sherlock with unfathomable expression. Sherlock detected traces of curiosity there. "Have you ever—had a…?" He trailed away, going a bit pink.

"No," said Sherlock, coolly as ever. "I have not."

"Ever wanted one?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and looked John square in the eyes.

Fortunately, the innuendo went over John's head, though he went inexplicably redder. "Well, who?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's private," he said at last.

"God, sorry," blurted John, looking down at his knees. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Don't," Sherlock admonished. "It's a perfectly normal question to ask, I'd just rather not answer it."

"It's completely understandable," said John, still addressing his knees.

Sherlock shot John a private, fond look.

…Irresistible.


Wow, chapter twelve already! Time flies. If you haven't already figured it out, John was alluding to Sherlock having/wanting a boyfriend. Ha, the irony...xD

~Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the lovely reviews! People keep asking why I'm always walking around in such a good mood. All I can say is that I owe it to you, dear people of fanfiction!

-Spark Writer-