A/N: We're starting to get closer to why I decided to rate this M. There's a bit of a beat down in this chapter, though not graphic. Thought I'd warn, though.

Chapter Six – Crazed Killer

"It's the second murder just like this."

"Yes, I know. Seems we have a serial killer. Oh, those are truly fun."

Lestrade just shrugged at Sherlock's inappropriate glee. He was used to it. He stood off to the side in the alley way with John, watching as Sherlock circled the body, inspecting every square inch in that way he had. After a few minutes, he looked up at John with a wide grin.

"Fancy a pint?"

"Um, sure," John smiled. "For the case?"

"Nooo," Sherlock drawled. "The pints are for us. Though I suppose a person who will be showing up in the pub is part of the case."

"Alright then."

With that, Sherlock took John by the elbow and led him off, out of the alley. Lestrade was used to that, too. What he wasn't really used to was seeing Sherlock's hand trail down John's arm, releasing his grip of his elbow to grasp his hand, instead.

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"Aren't you having one?"

Sherlock just shot John a disdainful look. As if the man didn't know any better.

"Oh, right, nothing while on a case, and certainly not a beer," John took a drink of his, feeling a bit awkward on what actually felt almost like a date. "So. What are we looking for?"

"Man in a ragged blue jumper. I'm only speculating on the level of wear based on fibres from the same jumper being at both scenes. He wears it most of the time, there must be some attachment there, and he's in the habit of snagging it. Ah, there he is."

John looked up at the man who had just entered the pub. He was fairly nondescript, but that was not unexpected. Most killers looked like your average citizen. He jumped a little and looked over at Sherlock as he felt the other man put an arm around his shoulders. The detective grinned and leaned in to whisper into his ear.

"Smile, John, I'm supposed to be saying something you like. Ah, good, a little redness around the ears is perfect. Just go along with me. Both men killed were homosexual. They were beaten savagely – no, don't let the information I'm giving you show on your face. I love you, you know. Better. He's noticed us, and you smiling is exactly what I want him to see. Both men had been drinking before they died, not much, but they had been in a pub somewhere in this area and this is the closest one to both crime scenes. Now, I'm going to leave. You stay right here. Give me five minutes to let him corner me. Don't look at me like that, you know I can take care of myself. Five minutes, John. Then text Lestrade and bring yourself and your pistol to the alleyway behind the pub. Now, one last thing to make sure he follows me out."

Sherlock pulled back and, smiling warmly at John, cupped his face and gave him a lingering kiss. When they broke apart, John was breathless and Sherlock was heading out the door, coat swirling behind him. John watched in apprehension as the man in the blue jumper followed the other man out.

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"Sherlock, you idiot!"

"I really don't see how this is the time for name calling."

"With you, it's always the time for name calling. Now, be still. The ambulance is coming."

Sherlock lay on the cold, hard ground of the alley, his head in John's lap. The smaller man had followed his instructions exactly. Thank goodness, or the detective would assuredly be dead. He mused that he should have not underestimated the killer's speed or fury – he should have told John three minutes. Now, Sherlock had a bloody nose, a split lip, a swelling eye and what he was fairly sure was a broken arm. He wasn't sure if the three ribs on his right side were bruised or cracked. Either way, it was torture just breathing. He wasn't going to tell John that.

As it was, John was clearly beside himself. He had come into the alley just in time to see the murderer pull out a pistol of his own and aim it at Sherlock. The dark haired detective had clearly put up a much bigger fight than the other victims – he knew he had broken his arm – so he was going to end it before Sherlock could do him any more damage. John had shot the man dead without hesitation.

Now, John was sitting in the alley, waiting for the ambulance that would take Sherlock to hospital, cursing the other man's foolhardiness, but not looking down at him. After a moment, Sherlock realized there were unshed tears in the doctor's eyes. He reached up and touched his cheek, making him look down.

"None of that," he ordered, but just barely above a whisper. "I'm fine."

"And you have no idea how close you came to not being fine."

"Yes, I do. But you were there."

"Shut up, Sherlock. You're an ass."

Sherlock smirked, but did as he was told.

TBC