(I Love it When You) Call Me Names – Joan Armatrading, 4:20

"You could at least try"

"I am trying. Um…you love this, don't you, you whore."

"Really, John, if you can't do it with feeling, don't do it at all."

"Not at all then. I just feel stupid. You're not my whore. I can't think of you that way."

"Fine, we'll continue in silence."

They continued, not so much in silence but certainly not in words, dirty or otherwise.

It wasn't until two weeks later at a crime scene that inspiration struck. Suddenly John wanted to try it very much.

Watching Sherlock bent over the corpse, little magnifying glass in his hands, his white skin seeming illuminated from within, eyes feverish bright, mouth pursed in a pleasured smirk.

"You love this, don't you, you whore?"

Why Do I Keep Counting – The Killers, 4:23

Shan and her minions

The Golem

Moriarty

That unnamed American assassin they sent when Sherlock exposed their arms running

Boris, the really stereotypical Russian ex-con

Jasmine, the honey-trap (also kind of stereotypical if you thought about it—he wasn't James Bond, for heaven's sake)

Steve - really, just Steve

Some random guy who was just pissed that Sherlock was a smug bastard—that one hurt

Mycroft's minions (by accident)

Anderson

Really, was there any point in keeping track of the times someone had tried to kill him?

State Street Residential – Death Cab for Cutie, 5:33

Madness can be found behind the most ordinary of facades. The white faced row house in Mayfair that looked as if nothing more than a broken tea cup would ever ruffle its austere serenity. The crime scene made even Sherlock blanch, and John, who had seen bloody battlefields and bodies in tatters, had to take a deep breath before he went on.

Even Anderson was quietly respectful.

Because of the amount of blood. Because of the way the faces, what was left of them, looked as if they might have died of terror. Because three of the bodies had been children.

There were no taunts and banter; there was only the serious business of finding the answer.

Sherlock, for once deigning to wear the coveralls and booties, had to search each room before he found it. The diary that told of an unstable and possessive boyfriend. The signs of someone living in the attic for several days, watching and waiting. The variety of weapons used: some brought in for the purpose and some found to hand. The man was hiding in a tenement near Blackfriars. For once Sherlock wanted to be there at the arrest, to look into the face of madness.

The Still of the Night, Cole Porter as sung by Kevin Kline and Ashley Judd in De-Lovely, 2:24

Even before they became lovers, Sherlock would watch John sleep. He would watch as John would twitch, head thrashing from side to side. It made him ache deep inside that there was nothing that he could do. His low opinion of psychology was only strengthened. But still, he wished that something could be done to help and he knew that cold reason—John was no longer in danger—

meant nothing in the face of the mind's ability to keep us imprisoned.

Why Do You Love Me? – Garbage, 3:52

I wouldn't love me. In fact, I pride myself on my unlovability. Yet, you look at me and say amazing, extraordinary and other ridiculous and extravagant adjectives. And somehow it thrills me almost as much as a good puzzle each time you say it. I have tried to examine it as I might any unknown quantity. To hypothesize:

My looks, perhaps, but you are not gay

My wit, caustic as it is, but that would make you a sadist or a masochist and I know you aren't that

My intelligence, well, obviously, but is that enough to keep you by my side?

Thank God I'm Pretty – Emilie Autumn, 3:58

Really, it had started with being pretty. Or that's what he told himself, when he was inclined to examine it, which was seldom. Being pretty at school meant that you got unwanted attention. Bullies (repressed homosexuals) wanted to beat the snot out of you. Carl Powers, for instance. Drowning is never pretty. Showed him.

Or you received attention from hangers-on, wanting to get vicarious pleasure from being around you as if it would rub off on their own pathetic lives. Throwing themselves at you. Which could be pleasant on occasion, but they were quickly used up. And after some time with him, they weren't pretty any more.

Was it any wonder that he needed an audience? Only to be expected when you're pretty.