His phone vibrated in his pocket as he struggled not to blush, already knowing who the text must be from. His fingers twitched; oh how he wished he could just call him… or better yet, share a bed with him once more. Anderson grumbled as he realised the DI wasn't listening to him (again).

"Lestrade, I-" he started grumpily.

"Shut up, Anderson. We get it – the blood work, the traces of mud, yeah. We know she was murdered."

He cast a casual and disdainful look at the mutilated body. No one could have possibly killed themselves like that – she didn't even have any hands anymore. How could one commit suicide and then have time to cut their hands off, even though they'd clearly already shot "themselves" 4 times in the chest? Sherlock might try to make him out as an idiot, but he wasn't that stupid.

"But why would he cut off her hands?" Anderson probed.

"Probably to threaten someone else," Sherlock cut in, appearing from nowhere and snapping the latex gloves over his slender fingers. John followed him loyally, smiling until he saw the body.

"Good God," he mumbled, covering his nose with his jumper sleeve.

Sherlock bent down and studied what was left of her carefully. The grass swayed delicately, almost sorrowfully, that the girl had to be shot and violated, so alone in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock already craved the activity of London; standing in the middle of a field was so… dull.

But not since she was here. He sighed. Too obvious. He looked up at Lestrade, unimpressed. "Drugged?"

Anderson glowered. "No."

"Oh shut up Anderson, of course she was. Look at her tongue!"

"Her mouth isn't even open!"

"The cheeks are protruding. No normal sane person would clamp their teeth on their tongue unless they were having some sort of spasm, most likely brought on by some kind of drug.

"Now, what was she doing here? There are no blood stains anywhere near the body, suggesting she was brought her after being shot but the hands were cut off here, as you can see the bleeding out on the mud here – carefully disguised but the killer also wiped his blade on the grass over there and there are drops of blood leading back to the gate if any of you were observant enough, which I doubt.

"But why? Well clearly the killer was able to get away with murder elsewhere and then had to take her somewhere else to get the hands he wanted – either by some ritual to do with this particular field or just because it would have looked odd. But if we look at the discolouration of her skin she was already dead when he cut the hands off; so where could he get a dead body and cut the hands off? A morgue?

"He'd have to work there. You can't exactly steal a body bag without first killing the hospital staff. It wouldn't have come from the funeral home as the corpse isn't that old, but why would he want the hands?"

"Jealous lover?" John suggested, half serious, half bashful.

Sherlock's cheeks reddened slightly, and Lestrade wondered if it was the cold of the word 'lover' spoken by John's lips (which Sherlock was clearly staring at).

"Why would he want his mistress' hands?" Lestrade puzzled.

"Unless he was the husband," Sherlock explained with a smug smirk. "Look here-" he pulled back the jagged sleeves, tore parts of the material off and ran his finger along the vein "-and you'll see that the killer has also scraped a mark along her vein, and this vein would have led from her ring finger-" he ripped the dead woman's shirt open, causing John to cringe a little "-to her heart. And that is where she was shot." He smoothed over the four clean bullet holes, mesmerised and fascinated by what love could make people do.

"Wait, wait, wait," Greg scoffed, "you're trying to tell me that a husband killed his own wife and then kidnapped her body to cut the hands off of it?"

"No. He didn't kill her."

John nodded quickly, finally catching on. "The lover did."

Sherlock's eyes met his, sparkling bright blue in the early evening, his beautiful face glowing. "Precisely."

Lestrade felt his phone buzz in his pocket again and gulped, desperate to talk to him but knowing he couldn't just drop everything for him.

"Come, John, there should be coffee in the tent…" Sherlock muttered, still proud but bored as he turned and headed for the scene-of-the-crime tent just a few feet away. John hurried to follow.

Anderson growled in annoyance. "I'm going home," he hissed, and he didn't wait around another moment.

The DI didn't wait another second; he seized his phone and flicked through the texts, grinning and giggling as he read.

Sherlock took a sip of the weak coffee and looked at it in disgust before downing the whole thing in one. "Lover?" he asked John suddenly.

John fidgeted with his hands. "Lucky guess."

"Of course," Sherlock said, stepping slowly towards him. John raised his eyebrows in understand, put his shoulders back and drew himself taller. Sherlock's hands wrapped around his waist and he kissed him strong on the lips, feeling John's twitches and hums of agreement.

Lestrade frowned towards the tent. Everything was oddly quiet, and he knew Sherlock liked the sound of his own voice, or much more the sound of John's praises of his vast intellect. He stepped towards the tarpaulin door and peered through…

His eyes widened.

Sherlock was pressed tightly against John who held his neck and Sherlock grasped his hips, tongues feverishly meeting with closed eyes and soft moans of enjoyment, their legs intertwined and breathing already becoming laboured. They were both tense with arousal.

But the consulting detective knew the useless detective was watching like a nose-bleeding fangirl, watching like a startled rabbit in the middle of the road with a death wish. He opened one eye slowly and glared at Lestrade as if to say "back off, he's mine". Lestrade felt a little weak at the knees, in truth, but then Sherlock pulled away, stroking his fingertips through John's sandy hair and beaming.

"We should get home," he whispered, but just loud enough that the peeking Tom would hear.

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "Not this time, Holmes."

He grabbed his scarf and pulled Sherlock closer, locking lips and tongues and teeth together, wrapping his leg around the back of his lover's and pushing him backwards with his strong military chest until the taller man stumbled back onto a table. The soldier pinned down Sherlock's wrists firmly, leaning across him, only breaking the kiss for a desperate gasp of air as his partner moaned, feeling John hard against him.

Trembling, Lestrade took a step back, shut his eyes as if to seal the memory into his mind while beaming like mad when his mobile rang out, and he remembered with an embarrassed laugh what he had set his ringtone as.

"Oh! Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do? 'Cause it's about to get rough for you; I'm here for your entertainment!"

"H-hello?" Lestrade answered, his voice much too high-pitched for a fully-grown man. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hello?"

"Greggy," he was greeted. He instantly gasped at the melodious tones of the older man's voice. "Are we still on for tonight?"

Lestrade rubbed his neck, glancing for a split second back into the tent and then squealing softly as the sight. "My God yes," he replied, once again struggling to keep his voice manly enough for a detective of his stature. "Mycroft… I might have to make our date a bit earlier. Meet me at the Yard in an hour."

"Will we be going back to my place after?"

"If we make it out of the building."