Sherlock swung out of bed, all annoyance at being woken up gone, replaced by eagerness and something akin to excitement. He was already half-dressed when he remembered John, who was currently snoring somewhere in the tangle of sheets. For a moment, he considered leaving John be - Rosie was at Molly's and this had to be the first time he was getting a good night's sleep. But he knew John would hate him for leaving him out of the loop, so he gently prodded him.
"Wake up. We have a case."
John slapped his hand away and turned over.
"John, don't be aggravating. Fine. Let's do this the boring way." He leaned down and pecked John on the cheek, but John simply swatted him away again. Huh. His kisses had never been met with that reception before.
He'd have to leave John here, then. He was just turning away to button his shirt when his phone moaned with a text from Irene Adler. John turned over, suddenly wide awake.
"What the hell was that?"
"Get dressed, there's been a break-in. The fourth one."
They both dressed quickly, left the flat and got into a cab.
"Why do you still keep the ringtone?" John asked.
"It gets you all hot and flustered."
"It does not!"
"Yes, it does. No point denying your body's natural stimuli, John."
"Where is she, anyway?"
"Trying to get her old house back. She wants to stay in London until her father's stable again, and probably after. Look, we're here."
They pulled up outside a small suburban home milling with police officers.
"Nicholas Edmund." John read off the nameplate. "So, 'you are ne' something."
"We can worry about that later." Sherlock said, striding into the house. The door was open, and they could see Lestrade and Sally Donovan in the living room, overseeing the forensics team. The French window had been smashed in, and the floor was still littered with tiny shards of glass. The small backyard beyond looked like it had recently been dug up - there were mounds of mud and bags of fertilizer everywhere.
"Nick's dead daughter broke in an hour ago." Lestrade informed them. "He's upstairs and in no state to talk to anyone, but feel free to look around the house. Mycroft got you the required permission."
"Good." Sherlock said, tearing off his scarf and handing it to John. "It's quite stuffy in here. Couldn't you tell the forensics team to clear out? They damage more than they uncover."
But Lestrade and Sally weren't even listening - instead, they were staring at Sherlock's neck.
"Is that a hickey?" Lestrade asked slowly.
Oh. Oh no, Sherlock thought desperately, looking to John for help. To his astonishment, John was smirking.
"You should see the rest of him." John said smugly.
"Are you two…?"
"Yes." said Sherlock, impatient to move on and examine the crime scene.
"How long?"
"Two weeks."
Donovan looked at Lestrade and smirked. "You owe me."
"You've been betting on this?" John asked, amused. Sherlock just sighed and dragged him away, unwilling to waste any more time. If they couldn't talk to the victim, they might as well look around the house. It was the same as all the other crime scenes - no clues, apart from a yellow 2 on the main door.
"Red, yellow, red, yellow…" Sherlock muttered. "It has to mean something. Everything means something."
"What've you got?" Lestrade asked, striding over.
"The same as ever." Sherlock said. "Somebody pretending to be Nicholas' daughter -"
"Anna."
"Somebody pretending to be Anna broke in, gave him a scare and left. What's wrong with the backyard?"
"Nick said the gardener was redesigning it. You can go up and talk to him now, by the way."
John and Sherlock went up the stairs and paused outside the door. They knocked, and a tremulous voice invited them in. It took their eyes a while to adjust to the semi-darkness inside the room, but they could make out a middle-aged man sitting on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. He took a long, shaky drink of water, and raised his eyebrows at them.
"Police?" he asked.
"Sort of." John said. "We have some questions, but if you'd rather not talk right now -"
"Better in than out." Sherlock interrupted. John huffed, but Sherlock ignored him. "Anna's mother died in childbirth and you never remarried."
Nick looked at him in disbelief. "Who are you and how do you know that?"
"The photos. There are some of you and your wife when you were younger, a few of her from when she was pregnant. But all the baby photos, and the ones after that - they only have you and Anna in them. All the frames, particularly your wife's, have been religiously cleaned - you can't bear to let go of the memory of her, and you're perfectly content with that. What happened tonight?"
"I was lying awake in this room when I heard a crash downstairs. So I just climbed halfway down the staircase and I - I saw Anna in the living room. I fainted, and when I came to, she was gone, so I called the police."
"How old was Anna when she died, and how did she die?"
"Thirteen. She had been fighting Leukemia for over two years, and it finally took her three days ago. We haven't even started organizing the funeral yet. She was - all I had left." He was sobbing a little now. "I'd really like for you to leave me alone now."
John nodded. "Of course. We're leaving now. You ought not to stay here tonight, what with the broken French window and everything."
They both turned to go, but John turned in the doorway, hesitant.
"I'm sorry." he finally said. Then he shook his head and followed Sherlock out.
On the cab ride back, neither of them spoke, too busy mulling over their own thoughts. John finally broke the silence.
"So - I thought the message would be something more elaborate. 'You are ne-' doesn't sound very promising to me. I thought it'd be some sort of code, or just - something more concrete."
"That would be too much of a coincidence." Sherlock told him. "The very people who led me to the secrets I've found also have names from which coded anagrams can be formed? Highly unlikely. The message was a side effect, so to speak. A touch of drama. Whoever's behind this probably played around with permutations and combinations for quite a while before hitting on this particular sequence of crimes."
"You're not telling the police about the message?" John asked.
"No. It's more personal."
"Sherlock." John shifted closer to him, looking slightly uneasy. "The last time you decided your war with Moriarty was too personal led to you faking your own death. Don't lock yourself away, please."
"I'm not locking myself away this time." he said.
"Then promise me that you'll tell me everything, no matter how dangerous you think it is."
"I must warn you, promises do not mean that I'm legally bound -"
"I'm serious."
"Alright, I promise."
John turned to face him, but Sherlock's expression had shifted into something inscrutable and by no means reassuring.
The next morning, at breakfast with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's phone moaned yet again. Mrs Hudson tutted and went off to fetch something from the kitchen. John raised his eyebrows, trying his best to keep a straight face.
"What does she want now?" he asked, in what he hoped was a casual voice.
"She keeps asking about her father's case."
"Do you really have to keep that ringtone?"
"Oh, relax. She wasn't the one whose tongue was in my mouth only an hour ago."
John couldn't help but crack a smile. "But she almost was."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, she wasn't. Don't you listen? It's always been you. Also, Irene and I are both gay." Before John could protest, he leaned forward and stopped his mouth with a kiss. I'll get you something for your shoulder."
"How do you know - never mind."
Sherlock left the room, and John's phone buzzed. His sister was calling him - feeling rather apprehensive, he hesitated, but then picked up.
"Harry?"
"Morning, John. Can I borrow Rosie for a few hours? I miss her."
He internally breathed a sigh of relief. Harry's calls usually meant bad news. At least she hadn't relapsed again.
"Absolutely not. She just spent two nights straight at Molly's, and I'm not letting her out of my sight for a while now."
"Fine. I'll drop by and visit, then. So - did you do it?"
"Do what?" John asked innocently, though he knew exactly what Harry was talking about.
"You know. Talk to Sherlock Holmes. Snog him senseless. Spill out the innermost desires of your heart -"
It occurred to John that Harry and Sherlock would get along spectacularly. They were both such drama queens.
"Yes."
"And?"
"Yes."
"Oh my. I didn't get the wedding invitation."
"Harry, slow down."
"You still hung up on that first boyfriend stuff?"
John craned his neck. He could see Sherlock in the kitchen, now talking to Mrs Hudson, probably trying to bully her into frying up a few eggs. It wasn't like Sherlock didn't know about Sholto, but John wasn't about to go rubbing it in his face either.
"He's not my first." he said, barely audible.
For a while, there was silence on the other end. "Are you serious? You've had a proper boyfriend before? Not one of your college flings?"
"Yes, and no, not one of my college flings."
"Then why did it take you so long to come to terms with your bisexuality?"
"You know why." John said pointedly. "I gave you away at your wedding, Harry. You know exactly why."
"Oh." There was a pause. "Well. Who was this mystery man?"
John hesitated. There were still years of bad blood between him and his sister, and he wasn't exactly up for discussing Sholto with her (or anyone else, for that matter). Fortunately, someone knocked on the door, and with a hastily muttered "Later." he hung up. He opened the door to find Molly Hooper on the doorstep, holding Rosie, who squealed and reached out for him.
"There's my baby girl - did you miss daddy? Hi, Molly, come on in."
"No, thanks. I should really get going soon." Molly said, looking rather tired and fidgety.
"I hope Rosie didn't give you a hard time. Thank you so much for looking after her for two nights in a row."
"Not a problem." she said. "It really seemed like you could use the rest."
"Well - I didn't really end up getting it. I was out on a case with Sherlock pretty much half the night. Speaking of Sherlock - we, er - we're kind of..." He felt a little awkward discussing this with Molly, considering how much time she'd spent pining after Sherlock.
"I know. Greg texted me." she said. "It's alright. I'm getting over it. And I'm happy for you two."
"Wha - Greg only found out last night."
"I know, but Sherlock's been so happy over the last two weeks. We all spent so much time puzzling over it that it was a relief to find out the reason. Better than wondering what new experiment he's thinking up now."
"Oh." John shifted uneasily. At least Molly was smiling now. "You sure you don't wanna come in for that cup of tea? You look like you could use it."
"No, I'm late." she said, smile dropping off her face again, replaced by the same worried look she'd worn earlier. Before John could say anything else, she waved goodbye and set off down the street.
He stared after her, wondering what was wrong. She wasn't immature enough to be upset about John and Sherlock...was she? He decided she was probably just stressed out about something else and closed the door.
"You Watsons have completely invaded my personal space." Sherlock complained.
They were on the couch, all three of them, Sherlock sitting with Rosie on his shoulders. John was sprawled out with his feet in Sherlock's lap, alternating between staring at the TV and Rosie and Sherlock. What a perfect way to end the day, he thought lazily.
"Do you want us to leave?" he asked playfully, then saw the horrified look on Sherlock's face and hastily backpedalled. "I'm only joking, love."
Sherlock relaxed and shot him a look. "You can call me that more often. Rosie, what are you trying to do?"
"Hair." she declared, hands bouncing through Sherlock's curls.
"Yes, I like playing with his hair too." John said, then noticed Sherlock, who had gone completely rigid. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"
"Turn up the volume." he said, staring straight ahead. John scrambled for the remote.
"- identified as Nathan, Alex and Howard Garrideb. The bodies washed up on the shore a few hours ago. Investigations have been launched to ascertain the cause of death - " the reporter said. Beside her were three blown up images of the Garrideb brothers.
"My god." John said softly. "I thought Mycroft -"
"No doubt he's taking care of it right now." Sherlock said drily. "By tomorrow, all traces of this will disappear."
There was a cold, cut-off look on his face, a look which John had come to associate with bad moods and fits of sullen. Sherlock would want to be left alone now - at least for a little while. He plucked Rosie from Sherlock's shoulders and took her to the bedroom.
"Come on, let's put you to bed." he murmured.
Rosie looked at him with her large, woebegone eyes. "Dadda?" she asked. It sometimes surprised John, how very perceptive she could be.
"Don't worry your little head about him." he said.
John rocked her to sleep, then took her back to her cot in the living room. Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, limbs curled up tight now, the same stoic expression on his face. Although the newscaster had moved on to a different story, he was still staring at the TV.
"Er - Sherlock? You alright?" John ventured.
As expected, there was no reply.
"I'll be reading in the bedroom if you need me." John said. Sherlock briefly nodded, and John left him alone.
A/N: Sorry about the delay, and thanks to everyone who wished me luck for my exams!